No One's Chosen

No One's Chosen

By Randall Fitzgerald

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Randall Fitzgerald

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It was the 11th week of Saol and the heat was nigh
unbearable even without the fighting. Socair sat on the crumbling
ruin of what had been the wall of a house, her brigandine, doublet,
and vambraces on the ground in a smelly heap. They weren't
impressive pieces by any means. Dull brown with a solemn green
stripe down the left breast and subjected to more patchings and
repairs than a poor farmer's cart. Sweat had long since soiled her
underclothes and now all she cared about was finding some relief
from the heat.

She'd been among the first through the gates and the
heat had taken its toll on near as many as of her people as the
centaur. She'd been cut shallow along the cheek in the initial push
with the vanguard and at the time she'd thanked the Sisters that
the blood somehow felt cool against the skin of her neck. In the
heat of the day the blood had turned to a thin, irritating paste
and Socair found herself cursing the centaur and the heat as much
as her lack of vigilance. Wherever the blame lay, she was
uncomfortable and there wasn't spare water enough to warrant using
it to wash. The tip of her left ear twitched as the sound of her
name snapped her out of an exhausted daze.

She stood to meet the pair and recognized the male.
Crosta, a member of the Binse of the Treorai of Abhainnbaile and
leader of campaign against the centaur. He was a capable enough
commander, tactically speaking, but he was famously short tempered
and uncharismatic besides. The woman was unknown, but judging from
the fine dress she wore and the shine of her hair, Socair assumed
her to be the Regent of what was left of the hamlet in which they
now stood.

"Socair." Crosta called flatly as they approached.
"This is Rún, Regent of the south and a close friend of our
Treorai."

Socair managed a slight bow, her muscles screaming in
protest. "Milady."

"She became indelibly curious when she heard the
Goddess of Glassruth led the van and insisted I bring her to you at
once." There was the slightest twinge to his lip that let show an
annoyance his tone would not betray.

She spoke before Crosta could start again, a softer,
more pleasant voice than Socair had expected of the sharp features
the noble bore. "I'm afraid the Binse has the truth of it and I
fear I've troubled him with my selfishness."

Rún turned to face him. "If it please the Binse, I am
sure I will be well cared for in the hands of such a capable
warrior and you may return to your duties."

Crosta snapped a tight bow, four fingers across his
chest in salute. "Then, by your leave." He turned and hurried away,
shouting orders as he went.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Rún heaved a sigh
and rolled her head back in resignation. "By the Sisters, I was
beginning to think he'd want to stand here and hold my hand.
Insufferable twat."

"
Ha!
—" Socair couldn't stifle the laugh
entirely and the overburdened muscles in her abdomen punished her
for trying. She doubled over and grabbed her side.
"Gah!"

"Oh! Are you injured?" There was genuine concern in
Rún's voice. "Sisters, I didn't mean—"

Socair held up a hand. "It's fine. I have had worse,
I promise you."

"I suppose I ought to trust you. You are well built,
to say the least." The highborn elf looked her over.

"I… thank you, Regent."

"There is no need for formality. Not with me. Call me
Rún." She smiled politely.

It was uncommon for highborn to forgo such
pleasantries as the meaningless gestures tended to wax their egos.
Socair was intrigued by the woman, to be sure.

"Would you dine with me?"

"Dine? In the keep? I am only a sword arm, Rún."

"Nonsense," she said. "You lead the van of the First
Company and you saved my precious city from ruin. I insist upon it.
Come, follow me."

Rún lead her across the yard and to the keep. When
they had passed into the entry hall, Rún was called away and she
informed Socair that attendants would come and see to her. A few
moments later a pair of shorter women came and whisked her off to
some corner of the keep. Socair did not know the place, though the
room was nice enough. If she had balked at the Regent's request,
she'd like to have heard an earful from Crosta when they returned
to camp.

The attendants saw to her needs, whether they were
truly her needs or not. Her short hair was combed and run through
with all manner of things she had never seen put to hair before.
Scented waters and powders and finally a sort of wax that made her
hair glisten.

When they had gone, Socair looked down at the
ill-fitting finery she had been stuffed into. Rún was a nice enough
host, but formal dinners were… well they were foreign to Socair.
She didn't know anything of polite society. It hadn't been her way.
Raised among boys in a family whose sole pride was their martial
prowess, they were insular and strict. She'd lived in the
hand-me-downs of three older brothers until she outgrew the lot of
them, standing half a foot taller than any elf she'd ever met.

Now here she was. In some town or other, in a keep
she'd only vaguely known existed until she was told to march there.
Socair was anything but cultured. She knew the lands well enough
and their histories, but its inhabitants were another thing.

The situation was not entirely miserable. At the very
least, she'd avoided frillery and gowns and the like. She'd never
so much as held a dress up to look at and to her great relief the
keep's servants couldn't find anything close enough to her size to
alter in time for the dinner. As it was, she wore basic tan
trousers, a white shift, and red waistcoat of crushed velvet that
had been quickly altered to fit her length and allow for her
breasts and hips. Her shoes were her own, cheap leather things she
wore when sabatons wouldn't serve. Even the shoes had been oiled
and polished.

She was fretting over the buttons on the vest when
there was a knock at the door. "Ah! Uh, come in."

Rún opened the door holding a greatcoat. At the very
least it was understated, Socair thought. Rún, on the other hand,
couldn't be more excited. She practically tackled Socair in her
excitement.

"Absolutely gorgeous!" Rún was clearly pleased.

Socair sighed and worked at the buttons. She felt
clumsy and horribly awkward.

"Oh, let me." Rún lightly slapped Socair's hands away
and began to work the buttons on the waistcoat. "I know, I know. It
must seem ridiculous to you."

"It does," Socair admitted, "It's just… this is no
place for me. I am a soldier."

Rún finished with the buttons. "And a soldier cannot
be a guest? Would you wear your armor at the dinner table?"

"I would." The waistcoat was tight on her chest. It
wasn't the comforting security of her brigandine. Her breasts were
too pronounced. She was too exposed. She was not herself.

"Well, had I not smelled it earlier, I might have
even let you." Rún paused at that. She frowned and looked up at
Socair. "But I am a selfish Regent and I wish to feast the savior
of my people. And if I was forced to have a meal alone with Crosta,
I'd likely fling myself from a balcony."

With that she smiled and left, reminding Socair to
put on the greatcoat before dinner. Socair did as she was bid and
left to find her way to the dining room. She lost her way twice,
though the keep was small, and had to be escorted to the hall by a
maid in the end.

The doors opened into a beautiful room of marble and
stone, lined with busts of former Treorai and luminaries of
Abhainnbaile culture on pedestals. It was smaller than rooms in
which Socair tended to take her meals and far less noisy. She
missed the noise now as the sound of the door drew the eyes of the
assembled party to her. Sisters, she was uncomfortable. She reached
for the comfort of the hilt of a sword that wasn't there and placed
the hand at her side instead.

Rún approached with the half dozen nobles and Crosta.
Introductions were exchanged and the announcement was made that
dinner was to begin. The lot made their way to the seats, Rún at
the head of the table. She insisted Socair take the seat to her
right with Crosta to her left. They were the guests of honor, after
all. As they sat, the servants took Socair's greatcoat. "Why even
have me put it on?" she wondered. "For show?" They weren't even her
clothes so why show them off?

For all her consternation at the pomp of the evening,
the food was the best Socair had ever tasted. The most amazing
soup. They'd called it some name she'd never heard and didn't
bother remembering but it was fresh and rich and tasted of tomatoes
and spices she didn't know. Salt and pepper were luxuries for
soldiers and most who added strange greenery or seeds from the
roadsides ended up sick for their troubles.

After, there was roast of snow pheasant. A bird from
the north, she'd heard of it vaguely from the yearnings of some
foot soldier. To her it looked of the prairie grouse she'd chased
on long training retreats her father had taken her on, but the
taste was much more succulent. The grouse were wiry things and
tough. Built to spend their lives fleeing. She was considering what
sort of lives the pheasant must live to end up so juicy when she
chanced to hear her name punctuate the sentence of on of the
guests.

Wide-eyed, she lowered her fork and looked around the
table, remembering the alien situation she'd nearly managed to put
out of her mind. Much as she hated him, it dawned on her that
Crosta had managed to draw the focus of the table for the better
part of a half hour. Their curiosity could no longer be shifted
away from their strange guest.

"P-pardon?" She sputtered, nearly spitting out a bite
of pheasant.

"Hoh!" The laugh seemed to shoot out of the nobleman
covered with as much fat and sweat as he was. "It would seem that
the food agrees with the lady." He seemed the jovial sort, but she
couldn't remember his name or station.

Rún moved a gentle hand toward Socair's shoulder. "No
need to be nervous." Rún's hand found Socair's but the gesture did
little to calm her. "The good lords and ladies are simply curious
about you. How you came to be so fierce and deft. Why you
fight."

"Aye! And what your mother fed you to grow you so
big," the fat lord said in jest. The table joined him in
laughter.

Socair waited for the laughter to die down. She had
no mind for speaking to highborn folk, especially not about
herself. She was confident in her abilities and her mind and her
body. But her tongue? That was a whole other thing. She stared down
at her plate for a moment, wondering what she could say.

"My lords, I apologize. I fear I am not entirely sure
how I should answer." She started almost mindlessly. "It would be
as useful to ask a sword why it is swung or a sharpened edge why it
cuts."

An older nobleman at the end of the table with a
large mustache pounded the table. "Hear, hear! Spoken like a true
warrior!" There was applause. Socair was just glad to be done with
it. She wanted to retreat back to the meat and her ponderings.