ㅤ› solaris' home.

@gunhilde. A soldier is alert, and these instincts do not simply die down. They may dull over time, but when one is a fugitive like Solaris is—a wanted deserter, punishable by death—these must be kept sharp. So the first time the warrior on her bed stirs, Solaris' consciousness has already awoken from her brief nap. Perhaps it might have been an oversight from her side, to let her guard so low as to let herself nap around... someone like *her,* but with the injuries that the other has sustained, Solaris is confident that even a cleric like her might beat her.

She hears a weak voice, cracking even with just a single syllable spoken, and her eyes flutter open. Violet eyes find their way to the woman on her bed, as though examining the other shamelessly. Not a single emotion can be read from her eyes, and for a moment, she remains silent. She watches the other, in a manner not unlike an assessment. One may say it is a doctor's assessment, but in truth—a truth that only she knows, at least, for now—it is so much more than that.

Will the bloodthirsty beastwoman slay the elf where she sits, had she retained her full power?

"Foolish you are," Solaris says then, breaking her silence along with a nod of her head. "You are still recovering. It is best if you do not move. At all, for now," she continues with a light tone, before reaching out, hovering her hand above the other's head. Silver glows from her palm, quite bright. "I am certain that you have many questions."

And so does she. So does she.

But the warrior's body is still in recovery, even if Solaris has healed most of the other's injuries. There are those that have been quite grave—it makes Solaris wonder, really, just a little bit, how the notorious soldier managed to find her way to Solaris' doorsteps—that Solaris has not healed yet fully, if only not to overwhelm the other's body. If Solaris had been anyone else, perhaps this woman would not be as... fortunate. A war cleric has her own pledge, regardless if she's long deserted her station.

She is a healer, no matter what.

"However, you must focus on your healing for now," she says. The glow around her hand does not disappear. "Your body may have healed, but your energy has not. For now, you must sleep," she says, casting a minor spell upon the other's person. Nothing too serious, just a little spell that will send the other into the Sandman's realm.

"When you wake up, I will be here to answer your questions."

And when the warrior wakes up later, she will not find Solaris in the room, but outside, making dinner for her son (and begrudgingly, for the patient in her bed).

@solaris. The moment Gunhilde’s consciousness finally returned to her, her body’s first instinct was to move, but the jarring pain from her wounds stopped her short. Forcing her eyes open instead, the first thing she noticed was the wooden ceiling above her, dimly lit by a flickering light she guessed to be a fire. The room was surrounded by the earthy scent of herbs and something sharp and metallic, like alcohol and antiseptic. Wooden shelves decorated the walls, crammed with jars of powders, bundles of dried plants, and bottles filled with liquids in every shade.

Where was she?

The last thing Gunhilde could recall was collapsing in front of the house. Her body had given out, her vision had faded, and then—nothing. Her mind raced instantly, coming up with possibilities of what could have transpired. Captured? No—she wasn’t restrained. Dead? No—surely, pain would cease to exist in death. Saved…? No, that couldn’t be the case.

Gunhilde’s gaze shifted, and that’s when she saw her. A woman slumped in a chair beside the bed, her hands gently resting on her lap, her breathing slow and steady. Gunhilde couldn’t help but study the woman, and her eyes narrowed as she noticed the tension in the woman’s brow even in slumber. Perhaps out of worry that a stranger was inside her house. Regardless, this woman—this stranger—had saved her.

She shifted slightly in bed, wincing as the movement sent a dull throb through her body. Someone had brought her to their home. Someone had treated her, willingly. It was both reassuring and unsettling.

At that moment, the dryness in became more noticeable, and when she tried to speak, her voice came out cracked and weak. “Why...?”

The sound startled even herself and she clenched her jaw in frustration. She hated everything about this—being weak, vulnerable, and reliant.

Wanting to prove herself wrong, Gunhilde attempted to push herself upright, but her arms gave out almost immediately. She fell back with a sharp exhale, her head spinning. Escape was clearly out of the picture. For now, her only option was to suffer through this indignity.

Her lips curled into a mocking smile. “Foolish,” she muttered, her voice barely audible in the quiet room. If the stranger knew who Gunhilde really was, they would have left her to die. That would have been the wise choice.

While the foolish remark was supposed to be directed at the stranger who had saved her, in reality, Gunhilde knew the only foolish one in that room was herself.

@gunhilde. "Careful, Lior!" Solaris' voice echoes within the small building, which stands as both her business and their home. She hears faint noises in the floor above, though she supposes not a single glass has been broken. Yet. there is a slight worry that shows itself in the way her eyebrows arch, questioning even if her son cannot see her. "What was that I heard?"

"Nothing, Ma! Don't worry about it!" comes Lior's muffled answer, followed by another noise. Solaris lets her gaze stay upon the ceiling, as though trying to visualize what is happening on the second floor. She has given her son the task of moving some medicine, all of which are bottled, upstairs, in the room where she often preserves them to avoid being mixed with the ones that she's displayed on the ground floor.

A soft exasperated sigh leaves her lips, before she turns back to her own task at hand. Today is someone of a general clean day, with her reorganizing the products on the shelves by the door, near the entrance where her customers would often come knocking and flocking about—but the thud that she hears against the door sounds a little more violent than what she's used to. Almost immediately, she puts down the bottle of pills that has been in her hold on top of the counter, before peeking at the gl in the door, placed to see whether the people outside are enemies or not.

Though... with her history, there should not be that many people who know of her face, by now, even if her face has not changed that much in years. (Courtesy of her elven bloodline, immortality is but a blink of an eye.)

She does not see anyone. But a groan reaches her ears, followed by a voice—barely a whisper, hoarse as it is. And with a slight worry, she pulls open the door.

Before her is the battered body of a woman. Blood has begun to pool around her body, and at a fast rate at that. "Lior!" Solaris' voice booms this time, more commanding than it had been gentle just minutes prior. "Come down here immediately!"

. . . . .

Healing someone on the verge of death, regardless of their race, has long been familiar to Solaris, even before she's started running this little apothecary of theirs. She is used to the faint feeling of life in someone else's body, and holding it back with a tight fist. Gifting life from the blessing the moon has given her, she has done her duty—without fail, without hesitation—ever since she was capable.

It was not every day, however, that she's had the opportunity of having the ability to save... a somewhat familiar enemy. A face she's only seen from portraits, sketches of her own troops several years ago. A name she's heard be uttered with vicious tongues by her previous men. That same face now lays in the bed that she's often used for her patients, a small room that used to be one used for storage, wearing cleaner clothes (which Solaris owns, and so the length falls quite short of the other lady's body).

Like this, it is difficult to believe that this is the same woman who's struck terror in the hearts of elven soldiers. Sharp features, but feminine all the same. Solaris' gaze narrows at the scar across the other's face. Bile threatens to rise up to , a heaviness so familiar hanging in her guts. Her heart beats faster, almost in a way that leaves her breathless—

—Solaris bites her lower lip harshly, enough to make it red.

The bile disappears, and the heaviness tones down. Not completely, but just enough to leave a faint bittersweet taste on her tongue.

She must save everyone. She must extend her hand to those in need, and this woman—regardless of her name and her own history with Solaris—is in need. In need of her help, in need of her healing. She bites her lower lip even more, and she clenches her fists above her thighs.

Now, all she can do is wait. Even if her nails dig into the skin of her palms.

@solaris. Gunhilde’s legs trembled with each step she took, her injuries and fatigue weighing her down. Multiple lacerations marred her body, the blood seeping through her tattered clothing. She could only hope that the blood wouldn’t leave a trail. She had barely managed to escape her pursuers, killing them all in the process, but she couldn’t afford to stop and tend to her wounds. Reinforcements would have sooner closed in on her.

Gunhilde had lost track of how much time had passed or how far she had traveled. Her instincts screamed at her to keep moving, but her body no longer listened as her vision began to waver. Through the haze of exhaustion and blood loss, she spotted a quaint house up ahead, enclosed within a thicket. The place seemed inconspicuous enough, perhaps she could rest and catch her breath—if only for a moment.

But even as Gunhilde’s eyes locked onto the house, doubt crept in. Trust had been shattered long ago—who’s to say the people inside wouldn’t betray her, too? Yet her pride couldn’t hold out forever, neither could her bleeding. She mustered the last of her strength and she dragged herself towards the door. Just as her hand weakly held onto the handle, her legs buckled beneath her. She landed hard against the dirt, the pressure it put on her wounds making her groan heavily.

“I need—” Her voice barely above a whisper. Help. Despite her battered state, she managed a bitter chuckle. Even in desperation, she couldn’t bring herself to say that dismal word. And she no longer had the chance to as her consciousness finally eluded her.

Now, all she could do now was wait.