“I don’t think I could stop you having opinions, even if I tried,” the smallest of humorous rumbles colored his quiet, rolling alto voice as the mists gather around his knee. They are dark— and for a fleeting moment a dark, dreadful feeling curled in his barrel as he recalled being trapped within those very mists by his crafting magic— but Alysanne was speaking agin as the magic seeped into his wound. The coldness slipped beneath the infection’s fever, as ominously powerful as the Moon herself, easily uprooting the heat and replacing it with calm and cool health. A relieved sigh, long and low, blew out of his bowed nostrils.

An echo of a grin flickered across his lips, mirroring the ghost of one in Alysanne’s green eyes, as she accused him of being dramatic. Though it faded as he slowly heaved back to his feet, still favoring his right forelimb as the healing was not entirely completed, yet. Only the fever was gone from his veins, the infection in his knee was still being calmed and eradicated by the swirling mists. “I thought we were friends…”

His head cocked slightly, ears tilting backwards somewhat, at those words, “As did I, Alysanne.” His low reply came on the heels of a muted groan as he too soon tried to place weight on his injured leg. But he could feel it heal, he could feel his knee slowly being able to accept his weight once again. Dark gaze, which had drifted to the mists around his legs, rose to meet the Doctor’s. But hers was intensely averted, focused wholly on his injury.

Gone was the anger from her voice, gone was the bristling fury radiating from her form. Now that she was healing him, now that his mind was no longer clouded by sepsis, he felt a new guilt rise in him— and along with it, more anger. The guilt stemmed from his lack of control, for his spewing of meaningful memories as if they were worthless— those who knew of Mara and Faxr deserved to know, their names were not meant to be cast about as excuses or explanations. And the anger that simmered was at both himself and Alysanne— their actions here had been childish.

But he kept impassivity in his face as he intently studied his head Doctor with a newly-cleared mind. “Thank you for healing me, Alysanne,” he paused his deep rumble, contemplating his next words, “But if you do not trust me, then I cannot lead you. I hope to earn your trust back, as I know that I cannot demand it. But, while I value your trust, I more value your loyalty. Do I, at least, have that?” He paused a moment, closely watching the creases in her ebon brow and ivory star, the flicker of her lashes around brilliant eyes, the telling curve of her cheek.

And, continuing his close study of the lovely woman in such close quarters, he continued, “In matters of healing, I defer to your opinion, as your knowledge and experience is far greater than mine. But, as you stated, you are no Queen— you are not a ruler of the Edge. There are times when leaders ask things of those they lead, and at those times we expect those directives to be followed. I’ll not as you to submit,” the word sounds unpleasant on his low roll, “to me. But I ask you to follow the few orders I give.”

His gaze drifted to the slightly drooping wing he injuring in their spar, held onto like a battle prize by the Doctor. “Now, please, heal yourself, my Doctor,” this time the request was said as such. It was not a demand, a command, or a challenge. It was simply a King asking a healing of his Doctor.

Tembovu

the Elephant King