Conciliatory [Zenethil]

[Jacqueline]

The Medicae. A place of healing and protection. Under the care of the Medicae, no knight would need to fear for his life. All were welcome. Except the ones that got into a shouting match with the priests.

"WHAT?!" Jacqueline was going toe to toe against one of the priests, her face just inches from his, trying to fight back the urge to punch it. The spectacle was already drawing every eye in the hall. "Ay-a! Safkųra! Why can't ah see 'er?!"

She'd heard some of the other initiates talking about it earlier that day. Nairore had returned from her walkabout with her new master, she knew that much already, but then they'd mentioned Merik Dragmire. There'd been a battle. Nairore had been hurt badly. Someone said he'd heard she was dead.

Of course, she couldn't just drop everything and run to the Medicae. That would have caused no end of problems. Besides, Nairore barely even talked to her anymore, why should she care?

And yet the moment they were dismissed she'd ran to the Medicae, still sweaty from the day's work. Hell, she hadn't even taken her armor off. She'd simply charged in, dressed for combat, and quietly demanded to see Nairore.

"I told you, Knight-Commander Zenethil's daughter cannot receive visitors at this time! Her situation is simply too critical!"

"BULLSHIT! You lie! Do you know who ah am?!"

"Yes," the priest replied acidly. "I do."

And just like that, Jacqueline's anger deflated like it had been punched in the gut. Despair set in and didn't let go, and shame pulled her out of the temple, hating herself. She beat the grand facade of the temple until her knuckles split open and finally slumped back against the wall, sliding down to a sitting position, defeated.

[Zenethil]

Zenethil had sat for much of the day, assisting the healers wherever he could, but unable to help. His powers as a healer were not suited for repairing such extensive damage properly. He was a triage healer. He could prevent someone's death. Keep men and women in fighting condition. He could not stabilise someone this close to death. His hands were clasped around one of Nairore's own, limp ones, conflicting and confused emotions wracking him. His face was set in a concentrated, determined, but otherwise impassive expression. Myrna had spoken of not bottling his emotions. But at this moment, with no-one to witness, what was the point in showing them?

His reverie was interrupted by raucous shouts coming from inside the temple. And the tell-tale calls in the Gerudo language. Jacquline. He ignored it for a moment, sitting beside Nairore for a few more moments, for the first time alone with her, now that Leon had taken his leave. He was surprised Lorina wasn't here. But he supposed she simply didn't want to witness her so close to death. Even in her renewed state, she was volatile. Fractious. Again, the shouting blazed through his thoughts, and Zenethil stood, lightly patting on Nairore's hand, before setting it gently across her stomach. He would not leave her hands at her sides. It reminded him too much of the poses people were left in when buried or cremated. She was not dead. She was simply unconscious. Sleeping.

He walked briskly out, seeking to confront Jacqueline and remind her exactly of where she was. But the argument had evidently been finished. And won by the priesthood. He nodded gently to them, who only acknowledged him with a flick of the eyes. He frowned. Once again, one of his charges was creating tension between the two noble orders of Hyrule. It pained him. He walked out of the temple, to see blood marking the outer skin of the temple, where Jacqueline had slumped down, her expression forlorn and lost. He stood for a moment, allowing her to compose herself.

I take, that you are unhappy at not being allowed to see Nairore. I can sympathise.

It was about the closest he'd ever come to actually saying something nice to the Knight-Who-Never-Fit-In. She was a mirror to Nairore. The Hylian raised by Gerudo. Her grasp on the language was broken at times, she worshipped Din in the aspect of the Sand Goddess, and frequently broke out into vehement Gerudo when annoyed. Just as earlier.

Irrespective of your feelings, you must control yourself. I will not have any of my Knights, no matter the circumstances, except in emergency, provoking, shouting or otherwise upsetting the Priesthood.

His tone was uncompromisingly blunt, giving a startlingly accurate representation of a stone wall. Immovable, impassive, utterly unsubtle. Particularly as wracked by grief, worry, pride and thoughts of vengeance as he was.

[Jacqueline]

If there was anything more effective at capping the primal tribal rage bubbling in Jacqueline's soul than the presence of her ultimate commander, Zenethil. The man who held her life in his hands in a very real way whether he knew it or not. She quickly rose to her feet and saluted, trying to look less on the edge of tears. And yet when he told her off about her confrontation with the knights the urge to spit in his face was overwhelming.

"Mah apologies, sir. Ah hadn't been informed a th' Medicae's new policy ta discriminate bah ear shape an' skin color." She stopped herself from going any further across the line. Not being allowed in galled her, even if she was the one who'd decorated Nairore's face. She tried to rein in her anger. "Sir, with respect, sir, ah'd lahk ta request th' full story, an update on Nairéša an' permission ta speak freely, sir."

[Zenethil]

Her accenting, mixed with the splashing of Gerudo in Jacqueline's speech, was almost intolerable. His reserve was tested. Not only did this Knight, almost as insubordinate as they could come, speak in such broken tongue he still had trouble deciphering her speech, but she spoke in the tongue of his most hated adversary, about his daughter, who had only recently been mutilated by that very same man. Internally, he seethed at the speech, the sheer brashness of it. He narrowed his eyes. He had little patience for Jacqueline at the best of times. Now was not such a time, and his patience was thin. His tone was icy, his possible understanding evaporating under the heat of his irritation. Typically, one requests permission to speak freely, before one does so Knight-Errant Durand. You would do well to remember your place, and whom you serve. One thing Zenethil would not tolerate, from anyone, peasant, Knight or otherwise, was insubordination. And from a Knight, it was utterly inexcusable.

He paused for a moment, composing himself. He really did find her the single most difficult person in the entirety of the Knights to deal with. They do not discriminate. You simply think they do. You are not allowed in not because of your choice of practices, facial colouration or any other physical or even mental or psychological factor. You are not allowed to see her because she is in a critical condition. His tone was blunt, somewhat brutal in it's lack of sympathy and direct manner of speech. The full story would take me longer than I care to spend to explain. In short, Merik stabbed her through the stomach, following a... Confrontation I had with Nairore...

Torment and anguish flashed across his face for a moment, before he strained to bring it to heel again. Not in front of a Knight. And certainly not in front of this one.