-8-

An hour later Elle found herself in a bar, cheek pressed against one of the round tables and guzzling another strong drink. The alcohol burned her throat as she glanced around the squalid place. Leo had dragged them inside, whining for a drink after the cold night, she had agreed.

The assassin only planned to stay to babysit, stalking to the bar and ordering shots, "the strongest stuff you've got" she had growled at the bartender, whose face paled at the blood splattered on her person and nodded.

One thing for certain, the buzz she was feeling took the edge off her pain. She would drink until she couldn't remember her own name, to oblivion and a few steps further.

With a wicked smirk to herself, she peered at the amber liquid as it sloshed up the sides of the glass, that bitch deserved what was coming for her. But relief didn't crash over her head like she expected...a sort of melancholic emptiness hollowed out her body instead, gods she had no gods-damned idea what she was doing drinking in this piss-poor place. Tomorrow they would be thrown into training; she couldn't afford to have a hangover.

Even at ungodly hours of the morning, the bar remained populated with drunks sprawled all over the place, collapsing in intoxicated stupors on the floor. Wrinkling her nose at their stench, their breath as they ordered more drink at the bar, she slid to the next unoccupied stool. Over her shoulder a small commotion had started, right in its centre was Leo—laughing, enjoying himself immensely while throwing sloppy punches. She raised her eyebrows and downed the rest of her drink.

Every so often a bottle smashed or some asshole was clubbed around the head, shards of glass winking in the candlelight. Her trousers stuck to her leg, matted with blood. Fire began to spread up her side. Clambering down from her stool, the walls of the inn warped and rippled as she steadied herself. Masking her limp, she tapped Leo on the shoulder, whispering, "I'm going home."

His murky features came into focus, copper hair jostled from his brawl. Elle just wanted cool sheets, not the din of a grubby bar in the slums. She happened to notice Tristan hunched over the booth in the corner, fingers pressed to his temple, looks like someone's had too much to drink.

Well, she couldn't really talk.

Assassins guarding the keep let her in, stumbling through the doors, gritting her teeth against the pain. Her vision blurred. I just need to get up the stairs. But, as luck would have it, a flash of blond hair caught her attention as an agent slipped out of a door at the end of the passage. Elle made a beeline for the steps before Kade noticed her.

"Elle!" He called, catching her just as she began to ascend,"wait!"

With a sour expression, she turned, arms crossed expectantly. Standing upright as much as her leg allowed, she watched as Kade's eyes flicked from the blood specks on her face, to her lips, clamped shut. Elle almost scoffed, the last thing she needed tonight was the pity she could already discern clouding his eyes.

"How was the mission?"

There was no chance she was telling him about Verity. Her voice came out hoarse and lifeless, sounding detached in the hallway. "It was a name."

Kade's brows furrowed, he shook his head. "I don't...understand. DETRA wanted a name?"

Too tired to come up with a snarky response, she looked down, praying that her leg wouldn't buckle. "Lianna Stormlyn," she gritted out. A moment of silence settled over them as the Council member mulled over the name. If he recognised it, Kade showed no signs of doing so.

"Hey." He placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her towards him fully, concern lighting his features at her ashen face. "Are you alright? Maybe it is too early for you on team missions, if you aren't—"

Elle pried his hands off her, anger flashing. "I am fine," she hissed. "Working with the team is just..." she threw her hands in the air, fumbling for the right word, "peachy. That is besides the point—what are you doing working this late? And in the library, of all places. I don't think I've seen you pick up a single book in all my years of knowing you." Her eyes narrowed.

Kade brushed away her accusing tone, chuckling. "Can't a man enjoy a book once in a while?"

Elle was still skeptical. "Right," she drawled, "at four in the morning?" She met his eyes. "What were you reading?"

"I won't hold you from your precious hours of sleep any longer." Kade stepped back, the corner of his mouth tugging in a small smile, which quickly disappeared. Elle kept her chin high as she took the stairs slowly, one at a time. She could feel his stare hot on the back of her neck, deducing her limp until—

"Elle—"

"Leave me be." She grumbled, hauling her leg up another few steps.

"Elle, what's wrong with—"

"Leave me the fuck alone!" She cried, leg buckling. Elle buried her face in her hands, hunched on the stone stair, her breathing ragged and uneven as air kept getting caught in her chest.

Kade glared at her, "Agent Hallor, I am taking you to medical. That is an order."

"All I want is to avoid assholes in hallways and sleep. I don't need to go to medical."

He ignored her protests, lifting her into his arms despite her cussing. She landed a few feeble punches to Kade's arms, his back, tugging his hair. But the jostling sensation made her feel sick, so she screwed her eyes closed. "I hate you," she mumbled.

"Say that to me when you're able to stand on your own two feet." His wide strides had brought them there quickly, and a medic murmured directions to him.

Elle was underwater, hearing muffled, vision darkening, words sounded faint and hundreds of miles away.

Poison...bedrest...training. Words wrapped her head like a whispered gauze. The last thing that she remembered was watching Kade's silhouette walk away: no parting words; no backward glance.

#

Elle awoke when the weak sun began to stream through the windows and the city's hubbub started. She sank back into the stiff bed, glancing at the other half dozen beds in medical. The Order only had two healers on duty, since agents shouldn't rely on medicine or magic to fix every broken bone.

Magic. Outlawed in Myndor, being a mostly human kingdom. If one was a different race, they would be smart to hide it. Elle was never sure if the Order's healers had been bought because of ancient healing powers running through their families, or that they were both exceptionally talented human medics.

Disinfectant burned her nostrils as she lifted the white linen covering her body, eyeing the bloody bandages. One of the healers entered the room, a thin man carrying various medicines on a tray. He placed a glass of water on her bedside which eased the scratchiness of her throat. After changing the bindings around her wound, already healing, the medic looked up at her.

"We see you in here too often, young lady. You will stay in here for another day at least, then I forbid you from strenuous exercise for at least a week. It's all stitched up nicely, don't ruin my work." A fleeting smile and then he slipped away.

Elle was left in boredom and silence once more. Hanging on the end of her bed was a satchel, containing Ravaryn and her fighting jacket. Her boots tucked together on the floor. "What happened to the rest of my clothes? My trousers and shirt?" She called into the empty room.

The medic poked his head around the supply room. "I burnt them." A satisfied grin resting upon his expression. Elle huffed, grumbling as she sank into the pillow further. She must have fallen asleep because she woke to the sound of voices in the next room, propping herself up slightly, Elle angled her ear to listen acutely to their conversation.

"Are you sure you have tried everything else?" The voice was deep, it sounded like the person was pacing.

The medic replied, "This is the limit of our power."

An uncomfortable silence settled before the person released a frustrated sigh. "It's...alright." They forced out. Elle heard shuffling of feet, then the medic's voice again, saying "in Aya, there are healers--talented healers." Was the medic inferring that their patient should seek magical help? Elle listened more attentively. "If these wormwood tablets do not work, I would suggest taking a trip to Aya. Consume one a day, do not miss a dose, otherwise you will rapidly decline."

"My schedule would never allow it," the man gruffed. "But thank you." He ducked out of the office, into the main room of cots. Elle immediately averted her eyes to avoid seeming like she had eaves-dropped.

"Elle." She turned her head, only to find that the deep voice had been Tristan Lyander. He still wore his ever-present frown, standing there with his arms crossed. There was no vial of wormwood tablets in his hands. Shaking his head, he sat on the edge of her bed, making the mattress sink with his weight.

He looked as though he was about to leave. Then he paused, deciding to duck through the doorway with his height and stand at the foot of her bed. "Why didn't you mention how bad you were hurt?"

His tone wasn't angry, but Elle stared at him, dumbfounded, all the same. "It wasn't important. I could have sorted it by myself." She stared intensely at her hands, now washed clean from all of the blood and dirt.

"Why are you here?" There was no reproach in her tone, only mild curiosity. Tristan didn't miss a beat when answering, "Oh, I didn't realise I was forbidden from visiting my teammate."

She released a breathy laugh, falling into comfortable silence until Tristan uttered, "how did you know her?"

Elle's eyelids were drooping, had the medic put a sleeping agent in her water? She couldn't think straight. "Hmm?"

"Verity." He amended, "you knew her."

"We didn't part on good terms last night, let's just leave it at that. She wanted my head almost as much as I wanted hers." A wicked glint shone in her eyes, accompanied by a sleeping sadness.

"What do you mean?" His soft question was ignored by the languid agent. "I'll see you in training." It was only when his hand touched the handle of the door that she spoke, the words spilling from her lips.

"They're all dead." She slurred, barely capable of controlling her own mouth. He turned—waiting. The assassin let out a hollow chuckle, "because of me."

When Tristan looked back at her eyes all he could see was the utter emptiness that they held. Six words. It took those six words for him to release his hold on the door. He didn't interrupt her murmuring for fear she would clamp up once again. "And here we are again," the bitterness in her tone took him by surprise. "It is always better to be alone."

She was talking to herself but he couldn't help but ask "why?"

"Gods, isn't it obvious? This business ruins lives, it-it takes and it doesn't ever give back. People get hurt when you mix feelings with profession." A wave of tiredness crashed into her, and she flopped back into her pillows, eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

Tristan didn't know what else to say. Elle had rolled over and seemed to be asleep when he finally spoke: "The rest of the team wishes you a speedy recovery." 

(edited)