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Ahh, the Queen chastising that prick of a Prince was truly glorious. Really, what had the Dea Al Mon been taught that he believed he could chastise her so harshly? True, she’d put herself at harm’s risk, and Jandar himself certainly intended to discuss proper battlefield protocol with her at a later point in time, but that Dea Al Mon in all his supposed rationality couldn’t seem to grasp the simple fact that this was not the right time for advice, nor had he taken the correct approach (that is, one that would yield the desired results), never mind that he was a stranger. Jandar was mentally shaking his head, but on the outside, he was tranquil, ignoring everything but Fatima. After a lengthy tirade in which he proclaimed he would not serve Fatima (the hasty fool) and implying he intended to remove Xandar (mad idiot), the Prince left in what to Jandar seemed an almost childish fit, sulky and resentful.
After that little distraction, Fatima turned to him and sat herself in front of him, within his arms’ reach. “Only a shallow wound, nothing that won’t heal on its own, not to worry,” Jandar answered with a vague gesture to his left side. The Queen put her hands briefly over his, then laid a gentle hand on his cheek, and apologized. Jandar blinked at her once, then clasped her remaining hand in between two of his own, keeping a firm grasp on her. “You are doing very well,” he commented. Truthfully, he’d been expecting much worse – but perhaps, now that they were alone, she would take a turn for the worse? Those doubtful thoughts were the last thing she needed to hear, however, so the Warlord simply put on his best neutral expression – because he didn’t know how to make a properly comforting one – and raised an arm to the palm with which she was still cupping his cheek, patted it once, then coaxed her hand off his face, guiding it to his lap, with her other one. He squeezed both of her hands once, lightly, then offered her an awkward hug. “Come on,” he said, extending his arms loosely around her, not yet touching, but simply offering.
Fatima closed her eyes as Mikhail's words struck her like swords. She felt like her heart was breaking. Even more, if it were possible. Each sentence caused a flinch from her whole body. She opened her eyes and looked down at her hands wrapped in Jandar's. She was glad to hear that he was not horribly hurt. She wasn't sure she could take it if he were. He was being kind to her but she could hardly understand what was going on. Mikhail's words seeped under her skin. They crawled through her veins like a vile poison and suckered themselves into her stomach. It burned hot inside of her and spread as fire through her nerves. Another mistake in a line of many.
She resisted at first, the hug. She had to be strong and she was afraid that if she let herself be held now she would melt down into sobs. But her body could not deny the warmth of contact. When she was feeling bad, when her mother had been especially volatile, Jassen had been one of the ones to hold her when she was little. Her body was weak. Her heart was weak. She leaned against his chest, resting her face against his shirt. Her hands snaked around his middle and she hugged him tightly. She was shuddering. She would not cry. She would not cry. Something hot spilled over her cheeks and she worried it was blood. She leaned back, hands moving up to her face. Not blood. Tears. No no no no. She looked up at Jandar, the pain and horror of the situation stitched over her face. "Jandar," she said in a shaky, whispered sob.
When Fatima acquiesced to the physical contact, Jandar held her lightly, stroking her upper back. She’d held back for a moment – perhaps because she didn’t quite trust him yet. But that was alright. If his presence could stabilize her than that was fine. “It’s alright,” he told her, echoing his own thoughts. The Queen didn’t hold him for long, though. Sooner than he’d expected, she wrenched herself free of him, and looked up at him. She was terrified. She was suffering. But she was still trying to hold back. Why? Why did she seem astonished at her own tears? What was she attempting to convey to him when she called his name so?
Jandar knew that warriors like himself were trained never to show outbursts of emotions, because it was a weakness an enemy could and would exploit. Was it the same for Queens? Did Fatima want help controlling her feelings? He thought hard, laying a hand on her shoulder as a reassurance while he tried to find a solution. Well, whenever he was in pain, he converted all that wretchedness to anger, tightly controlling it and focusing it on a goal. However, mourning was different, was it not? The Queen was mourning the loss of a loved servant. She may even be pained due to that idiot of a Prince rejecting her so harshly. There was no goal here she could focus her sorrow on. So, instead of trying to hold back, failing and getting overwhelmed, possibly risking being broken more easily whenever the next tragedy hit, wasn’t it better if she just…“Let it go,” Jandar said, with a surprising amount of confidence given his own uncertainty.
“You can cry now,” he asserted in a murmur. “Cry as hard as you can now, and when you have no tears left to give, the pain will be lesser. And you will be stronger. Because if you choose a moment to be weak, you can be strong the rest of the time,” Jandar suggested, not entirely certain where this advice and assurance was coming from. No, actually, he had a fairly good guess. His mother. His experience with being comforted, years and centuries ago, when he’d been but a little boy, young enough to be allowed to cry on occasion. And it had been his mother who’d soothed him, who’d offered a small but incredibly wise piece of advice on courage and strength. It wasn’t about never feeling afraid or never being weak. No, it was about knowing how to deal with it, how to face and overcome their own shortcomings. And as far as he was concerned, it was acceptable – nay, expected – for a female to cry. “Just let it go,” he repeated, giving her shoulder a tender squeeze, then rose his hand even higher, slowly, until he was able to lay it on her head. “I will watch over you,” Jandar assured her, petting her hair lightly, and offered her a small smile.
As he spoke his words with such care and kindness, the tears continued to spill from her eyes. She made no sound just looked up at him, shock evident on her face. The hand on her hair was what undid her. "I can't," she whispered. But obviously she could. Her face contorted as a screaming sob released itself from her chest. She burried her face in her hands. The sounds of her grief echoed through the Eyrie exterior.
Fatima leaned against Jandar again, pressing against him. She moved her arms around his back and held on. Her hands fiercely gripped the back of his shirt as she let go, just as he has suggested. Her body shook with each wretched sob that broke into the air. She hardly noticed the pain from her broken nose or the blood which renewed itself. Fatima could hardly breathe and between each desperate wail was a gasping plea for air. She knew that she was being very un-Queenly right now. If her mother could see her what chastisement she would receive. She was a horrible, ugly mess in her supreme agony. A man who had been her father figure was gone and now she was alone with strangers in a strange, strange land with an even stranger destiny before them.
Jandar hugged Fatima to himself once again, though his grasp this time was firmer than it had been the first time, the gesture no longer as awkward. As the Queen cried her heart out, the Warlord remained vigilant, listening to her sorrow and waiting it out, though he slowly stroked her hair and upper back, a repetitive but calming motion. It took long, long minutes for Fatima's sobs to calm, and even then, he still felt her shudder in his arms, and his shirt was getting soaked with her tears, snot, and blood. Jandar frankly didn't care. He could stay there, kneeling at his Lady's side for another hour - or longer - if he needed to. But he didn't think he would. As time passed, Fatima eventually calmed, and Jandar could feel her breath steadying. He slowly moved away; not far, just a few inches, so he could see her face. He laid his left hand on her right arm, then used the right sleeve of his shirt to wipe her face as best he could. "You'll need to get that healed by Faeril when she's available again," he commented, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. Looking her in the eyes, concern replacing the brief moment of humour, he asked: "Do you feel any better now?"
When she was finally done being a blubbering idiot, she lay for a moment in Jandar's arms. She was catching her breath, each inhale of air a shuddering struggle. As he leaned back from her so to did she from him. Fatima was ashamed at what her face must look like. Eyes all swollen and bloodshot, making the white gold of her eyes seem paler. Her face covered in various fluids. She must have looked a might more frightening than one of the demon dead.
She expressed her outrage as Jandar wiped at her face ever so gently with his shirt, by struggling to pull away. She made little noises of derision. "No," she said in a shaking voice that was rasped at the edges due to her little meltdown. "You're going to get dirty!" And then she spied the right proper mess she had created on his shirt. She cried out in embarrassment. "Ah! No! I'm so sorry Jandar!" Her voice was becoming a croak due to her shredded vocal cords. She placed a hand against his chest and pulled backward. With her hand came the muck and fluids. It left his shirt cleaner than it had been. She dashed the ick away. "I'll give it a proper clean later. You may not know this but I am also a healer in my own right. Quite a good one too! Let me see your cut and I will tend to the brothers as well." She was feeling quite a bit better now. Calmer and much more in control of her feelings. She would give a kingdom for the raging headache to leave her though.
"Don't be silly, Fatima, this is nothing," Jandar smirked at her, but it was well-intentioned. He remembered how frantically she'd cleaned that spilled drink in the bar downstairs (how long ago that seemed!), so perhaps she really was overly sensitive about such things. "I can clean my own shirt, and believe me when I say this is a very minor stain compared to what one can suffer in combat." He shook his head lightly, still in disbelief at how worried the Queen was about such an insignificant matter. He was just glad she'd let him put her at ease and help her.
"Oh, I did not realize you had such a skill," he replied, looking at her curiously, unfastening his leather vest. The long-sleeved undershirt that had suffered the brunt of Fatima's tears and such followed. Jandar crossed his legs under him, getting into a more comfortable sitting position. "After you fix me, perhaps you could do something about that nose of yours, hm? Or would a mirror be needed for that?" he was both genuinely wondering if she could heal herself and teasing her that she should.
The Warlord then looked on at her. Though Jassen's corpse was still laying there, not yet buried, the overall mood was now much better. Jandar judged that now was the proper time to at least alert Fatima regarding their situation. She'd probably sensed the unrest, but they'd have to properly think on it and discuss it, though the latter would most likely be left until Faeril was awake and coherent enough to participate. "My Lady, I don't intend to be impertinent, but I feel I should caution you on our situation nonetheless. We will likely discus this in depth with Faeril, however, I do suspect we may travel or otherwise co-operate with each other for at least a short amount of time. Personally, I more than welcome the Black Widow, however the Dea Al Mon Prince is...Well. You've heard him; he'll likely go after Xandar at one point or another. And such division from the inside when we face opposition from the outside, frankly, is a folly we cannot afford. I doubt a man such as himself will let himself be convinced to act in any way differently than how he'd proclaimed he would. Regardless, if you could think of a solution to our dilemma, that would be...good. I hate to put such a burden on yourself, but you, as a Queen, have perhaps the best chance to resolve this, regardless of that Prince's opinion. Perhaps in conjunction with a word or two from the Black Widow," Jandar pursued his lips in thought, pondering if there was anything else after that bit of monologue.
There was, he realized. He sighed. "I don't wish to admit it, but if we will be facing more situations in which your safety will be compromised as much as it had been today, it would not be unwise for you to learn at least the basics of self-defense, stealth, and perhaps some other combat-related abilities."
