Alysanne

Her anger and resolve waivered in time with Tembovu’s body. She had only wanted him to go down so that it would be easier to heal him - forgetting how painful it would be for the great stallion to come crashing down into a bowing position. She took a step forward, already calling on the mists and they pooled around her hooves - to be silenced by shock a moment later as he said he might mistake her for an Executioner. The mists, the anger, they both evaporated in an instant as she took that blow. Never had she been described with such harsh words before and she did not understand why. Was it not reasonable for her to be angry over this? Over the near-murder of a herd mate because their king was having a bad day?

Although he was the one kneeling, the one actually injured, Alysanne’s blazing gaze faded to cold hurt and her body deflated in the process. “I wasn’t aware that I wasn’t allowed to have opinions.” Would that she were Executioner! At least then she could order him about, instead of having to stand there and listen while he did that to her.

No, not even for that. But the word, that title, was worming its way into Alysanne’s mind and would not leave. Excecutioner.

She waited then, either for him to pass out completely or give his approval, and her heart did not stop racing. She shouldn’t have been waiting, she should have healed him as soon as she came up to him. But that was what second-rate doctors did - they hesitated.

A nod was all she needed and she closed the gap between them again - bringing with her the magic of her post, the windy darkness that would cool the fever and remove the infection. Her attention focused on the injury instead of his face as the cool darkness collided with the injury. The puss from it reeked and it had widened as he had fallen but it was not a lost cause. His feverish, quiet words drew her attention to his face once more as her magic began the work. “Just because I’m angry with you, doesn’t mean I want you to die, Tembovu. Don’t be so dramatic.” A ghost of a smile flickered through her green eyes then - well aware that their entire exchange today had been quite dramatic. But it faded just as soon as it had arrived and she lowered her head toward the injured knee, guiding the shadowy mists so that they would wrap around it. She focused most of her attention there but also sent tendrils towards Tembovu’s head to relieve the fever.

After a moment of concentration, she continued. “I thought we were friends...” She whispered quietly, her gaze intently focused on the injury and away from his face - unwilling for him to see all of the uncertainty and pain that had been hidden behind her anger before. She didn’t yell at her friends like this - she didn’t even yell at Iona like she had with Tembovu. What was it about him that drew this wrath from her? “I don’t trust you but you can trust me. I’ll always heal you.” She knew it was true as she whispered it, secretly hating that it was. Whatever reckless stunt he pulled, she'd always come and try to stitch him back together again. Perhaps, eventually, their fractured friendship would receive the same treatment.