Hmph. Tell her you're talking with me about whether you need to kill someone.

“Talking to the voice.” She says with forced cheer. “Going to do more murder.” 

“Oh honey,” Elanor sets down her burdens and slowly approaches the girl. “How many times do I have to tell you? There is no voice. The voice isn’t real.” 

She pets the girl’s fair hair and makes little cooing sounds, ignoring the way the girl freezes up under her touch. 

Stupid woman. Your problems are much deeper than my ability to speak. If I kept my words to myself you might be a drop more sane, but you'd be dead and abandoned by now, too.

“Probably I really wouldn’t be all that much more sane. I was very tortured for many days, after all.”

“Poor dear,” Elanor says, still petting the girl’s hair. “Poor dear. That doesn’t follow with what I said at all. Poor dear.”

The voice emits a soundless hiss of frustration.

Perhaps a little more than a twentieth the pain...

“Perhaps.” The girl wriggles away from her caretaker. “Do you want me to sew up the shoulder or use a healing potion? I know you only said water and washcloth, but even if I’m not sewing me, I can sew the tunic?” 

“Oh child,” Elanor coos. “I will fix your shoulder. Poor dear. You don’t have to sew it yourself. Honestly, why her highness keeps sending her poor stunted sister into dangerous situations… I will never know.” 

Better to save the potions for a worse injury. Treat the wound, if you feel the need.

“Sure,” she seats at the caretaker and starts stitching. A tiny needle is nothing beside the arcanist’s knives. “Fuck off. Go find my sister.”

“Language,” Elanor insists, but her heart isn’t in it. She fusses for a moment more and then bustles out of the little cave. 

Finally.

The voice will leave the girl to her stitching.

And eventually Princess Nerissa the Uncrowned Queen shows up. 

“It’s done then? They were breaking the law? Oh gods, you’re hurt… it looks bad. Should I call the Arcanist?” 

“No!” She tries so so hard not to remember…

Girl! Focus now. The task is done, keep your sister on track.

“No,” the girl says. “Don’t send Adrien. Don’t ever send Adrien. I would rather die than see that man again. Yes, it’s done. Killed them all. I think. Maybe the speaker got away? Maybe he was too chopped up for me to easily recognize?” 

“They were breaking the law then?” 

“I didn’t realize my mission was to investigate,” the girl shrugs, but doesn’t get up. “Kinda thought bloodbath was the intended aftermath.” 

“I was very clear that I did NOT want a bloodbath.” 

So few deaths that were not cultists. Not a single slain civilian and this is the thanks we get?

“I don’t remember that,” the girl addresses her sister. “And anyway, you sent me. You want investigations or whatever, you send a spy. You want them all dead, you send me. I’m really not the spying sort of lunatic?” 

“Did they break the law at least?”

What, are we barristers, now? They made sacrifice of humanoids to the godkilling deep, so our target was accurate. If she regrets how she aimed, the responsibility is her own.