Chamera grit her teeth, but she couldn’t help the hiss of discomfort when the herb touched the wound. Pathetic, she berated herself. This was hardly the worst wound she’d managed over the years. But when her fingers had been painstakingly reattached and her ear sewn together, her healer had possessed the blessing of the crying god. She must have numbed the agony. Chamera could barely remember the process, only that it had taken many hours and she had been unable to grip a blade for weeks. 

He raised a valid point. She’d had a much easier time of things; most humans never even noticed the flare of her ears. Her elvish was decent, but she'd never sound properly elven. Valyriathenniel had spent many nights working on her accent by firelight, teaching her the intricacies of the language.  Her sister had refused to be married in human tongues. She had not been the sort of woman to be denied. Chamera’s lips quirked at the thought. At the time, she had found the woman’s imperious nature to be aggravating; what she wouldn’t give to be commanded once again.

“No, I’m not,” she commented evenly, flexing her arm as he released it, murmuring her thanks. He pulled away, clearly discomforted by touching her. Chamera couldn’t blame him. Only hours before he’d faced death by torture. She should have been more considerate. She began to wind her arm with crisp bandages, eyes focused on her work. “I imagine my experience has been rather easier than yours. My father, he’s your run of the mill Sun-elf; arrogant, demanding, vain, and obsessed with the tales of Myth Drannor. He’s a good man at heart, but being raised to think that he is the pinnacle of Faerȗn’s races did him no favors. I don’t think he could tolerate my mother’s abuse of his ego.”

She scoffed derisively, tossing her hair out of her face as she looked to Jeron.
“The first time I met him, he accused me of lying. I didn’t look enough like my sister, you see, and [i]his[/i] bastard ought to pass for elven. What a complete arse. Incredible warrior though; I’ve never seen anyone handle a sword like him. He recruited me into the Harpers. I’m much obliged but, still, [i]arse[/i].”

She’d been talking too much, she realized. Chamera twisted, looking to Pan. She wasn’t sure what she should do with him—but the steady rise and fall of his chest was at least an encouraging sight.