The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 34 - Previous Chapter
I had another chapter in mind, I however couldn't share it on here, because it may well have gone against the rules of the forums/site. I still have the chapter written down, and should I ever decide to get these books published that chapter 35 will be in the published versions. For now, although his name has been mention before, please meet Martheel, Queen Gabija's scribe and adviser....
Chapter 36: Martheel
Martheel the Scribe sat hunched over the small wooden table in his quarters, a plate of buttered bread and a steaming cup of nettle tea in front of him. He adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose and carefully tore a bite of bread, chewing as though the act of eating itself were a delicate scholarly task.
He had just lifted the cup of tea to his lips, eyes drifting dreamily to the shaft of sunlight spilling across his parchments, when—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The sudden pounding at his door boomed like a war drum. Martheel let out a strangled squeak, jolting in his chair. His elbow knocked the plate, his knee caught the table, and in one spectacular motion, bread, butter, and tea went sailing.
“Ahh! No, no, no, no!” he whimpered, leaping up in horror as hot tea drenched the front of his robes. The bread clung pitifully to his sleeve, butter-side down, of course.
Martheel flailed, patting himself down, which only smeared the mess further. His quill jar tipped, rolling ink across his notes. His breakfast was ruined, his robes ruined, his morning ruined.
Another knock rattled the door. Louder this time.
Martheel froze, wide-eyed like a rabbit caught in torchlight. He cleared his throat and called weakly, “C-coming!” His voice cracked halfway through the word.
With frantic haste, he tried to mop himself with a scrap of parchment—realizing too late it was an important report. Ink streaked across his chin, and now he looked like he’d been in a bar brawl rather than enjoying a quiet meal.
He shuffled toward the door, clutching the bread-smeared parchment against his chest. His hand hovered over the latch, trembling. Whoever it was, he silently prayed they wouldn’t notice the disaster zone that was his quarters.
Martheel sucked in a deep breath, smoothed his butter-smeared robes as best he could, and opened the door.
Standing there was a tall, armored elf from the city guard, posture sharp as a spear. In his hands was a sealed scroll tied with the queen’s insignia.
“Report for Her Majesty,” the guard intoned gravely, his voice carrying the weight of state matters.
Martheel blinked at him, clutching the parchment he’d used to blot his tea spill. It was stuck to his chest, half-inked, half-buttered, and dangling like a child’s bib.
“O-of course, yes, a report!” Martheel stammered, bobbing his head too quickly. His spectacles slipped down his nose, and in the process of fumbling them back up, he accidentally smeared more butter across the bridge.
The guard’s stoic expression didn’t budge, though his eyes lingered a fraction too long on the mess. He handed over the queen’s scroll with careful precision, as though trying not to let his fingertips touch Martheel’s disaster of a robe.
“Th-thank you, yes, I’ll see to it immediately!” Martheel squeaked. He tried to tuck the scroll under his arm, but it slipped, hit the plate on the floor, and came away with a little butter on the seal.
The guard’s eyes narrowed.
Martheel coughed, forcing a laugh that came out more like a squeak. “Harvest matters, terribly important, wouldn’t want to delay!” He tried to step back and close the door, but tripped over the fallen plate and nearly went sprawling.
The guard’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. “The Queen expects efficiency, Scribe Martheel.”
“Yes! Efficient. Very efficient. Like a—like a well-oiled… butter churn!” Martheel blurted, instantly regretting it as the guard’s brow arched.
He finally managed to shut the door with a thud, leaning against it with a groan. Looking down at the sealed scroll, he whispered to himself, “Right… efficient. I can do that. Can’t possibly make a bigger mess than this.”
Behind him, his table collapsed under the weight of the spilled tea and ink jars, scattering parchment like snow.
Scroll clutched tight against his chest, Martheel scurried through the palace corridors like a mouse fleeing a cat. His butter-stained robes flapped at his ankles, his spectacles fogged from nerves.
Every step seemed to conspire against him. He tripped over the same rug twice, knocked over a vase (catching it only to knock it again a second later), and at one point startled a maid so badly she dropped an entire tray of polished silver goblets.
“I’m sorry! Sorry! Very sorry!” Martheel squeaked, bowing with each apology until his spectacles slid to the tip of his nose again. He shoved them back up, smearing a streak of butter across his forehead in the process.
Finally, he reached the grand doors of the queen’s audience chamber. Two guards stood like statues, spears crossed. Martheel skidded to a halt, panting.
“I—ah—I have—” He fumbled with the scroll, nearly dropping it. “Report! Very important! Harvest! Grain… and… ah… turnips?”
The guards exchanged a glance, unimpressed. One sighed and knocked on the chamber doors, announcing in a booming voice, “Scribe Martheel, bearing Her Majesty’s harvest report.”
The doors swung open.
Martheel shuffled inside, immediately catching his foot on the polished marble step. He pitched forward, arms flailing, and the scroll shot from his grasp.
It spun dramatically through the air like a thrown dagger… and landed directly at Queen Gabija’s feet.
The queen, regal and composed on her throne, looked down at the scroll, then up at Martheel — now sprawled on the floor, spectacles askew, robes streaked with butter and ink, bowing so low it looked more like he was trying to hide beneath the floor tiles.
“Your Majesty!” he squeaked, voice cracking. “Harvest report, delivered! With utmost efficiency!”
A long silence followed.
Then Gabija raised a delicate brow and said, “Martheel… is that butter on your face?”
Queen Gabija let out the most regal sigh imaginable, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Martheel, you are a disaster,” she said flatly.
The court tittered behind their hands, some of the younger attendants biting their lips to keep from laughing outright.
With a flick of her fingers and a soft murmur in the ancient tongue, a shimmer of light enveloped Martheel. The butter stains vanished, the ink blots dissolved, and his hair even settled into neat elven waves, as though he had spent an hour grooming instead of tumbling headfirst into her throne room.
Martheel froze, eyes wide. He touched his robes in awe, patted his now-clean sleeves, then ran a hand through his suddenly silky hair.
“Ohhh—oh, my!” he gasped. “Your Majesty, you’ve… you’ve ironed me!”
The court erupted into muffled laughter.
Martheel bowed again—too deeply this time—smacking his forehead against the marble floor with an audible clonk. He popped back up, rubbing the red mark blooming above his brow, spectacles slightly cracked but still clinging to his face.
“Clean and presentable!” he squeaked, forcing a proud smile despite the bruise. “Yes, well, all part of the service!”
Gabija arched one elegant brow. “My service, Martheel. Not yours.”
“Yes! Exactly! Quite right!” He flapped his hands, as if batting away invisible insects. “Teamwork, Your Majesty, teamwork!”
The queen rolled her eyes again, reached down for the scroll he had dropped, and added dryly, “Let’s see if your handwriting is less of a catastrophe than your entrances.”
The heavy thunk of a spear against the marble floor echoed through the court.
“Announcing Nekira,” the guard declared in a booming voice, “and the dragon Amira, bearer of orange and purple flame.”
All eyes turned toward the great doors as they opened. Nekira entered with calm, deliberate steps, and just behind him, Amira’s massive head lowered through the archway, her scales shimmering like fire trapped in crystal.
Martheel, who had been standing stiff as a board next to the queen, froze mid-blink. His scroll trembled in his hands. His mouth opened in a silent scream.
And then—without warning—he bolted.
The court gasped as Martheel ran in a wide, frantic circle, skidded on the polished floor, and practically dove behind Queen Gabija’s throne. From there, only the top of his quivering head and his twitching ears could be seen.
Gabija didn’t even turn around. She just sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose again, and muttered, “Martheel…”
A muffled voice piped up from behind her chair: “I—I am not afraid, Your Majesty! I’m simply conducting… ah… an observational study! Yes! Of dragons! A very safe study, from a very safe vantage point.”
Amira’s enormous golden eye shifted toward the throne, fixing directly on the pair of twitching ears poking up. A low, amused rumble rolled out of her chest.
Nekira glanced at the queen with a small smirk. “Is your scribe always so… dignified?”
“Always,” Gabija deadpanned.
There was another muffled squeak from behind the throne. “I heard that!”
From behind the queen’s throne, Martheel tried to melt into the wood as if sheer willpower could make him invisible. Unfortunately for him, Amira’s enormous eye hadn’t budged from its target.
With deliberate slowness, the dragon lowered her snout until it hovered inches from the throne’s back. A low hum of amusement vibrated in her throat as she sniffed loudly at the quivering elf. Martheel yelped, scrambling backward, only to bump his head on the stone wall.
‘A little skittish one, isn’t he?’ Amira purred, her voice rolling like smoke, projecting her thoughts for Nekira, Gabija and Martheel to hear. ‘Perhaps he thinks I eat scribes for breakfast. Should I test the theory?’
"Please don’t!" Martheel squeaked, flattening himself against the wall. "I—I am very high in parchment content. Indigestible!"
A ripple of laughter spread through the court, though Nekira’s attention was elsewhere. He stepped forward, bowing respectfully before Queen Gabija.
“Your Majesty,” he began, his tone measured, “I seek permission to leave Caa Alora’s walls briefly. Only to the forests beyond.”
Gabija tilted her head, her sharp gaze narrowing. “And for what purpose, Nekira? Do not think to give me half-answers. You know better.”
For a heartbeat, Nekira hesitated. Then he stepped closer to the throne, lowering his voice to a whisper meant for her ears alone.
“To spend some time with Tara.”
Gabija’s expression softened ever so slightly, though the corner of her mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite approval. “Ah,” she murmured, folding her hands. “I see. That is… delicate. But you will not go without conditions, Nekira. And you will return when summoned.”
Behind her, Amira hadn’t given Martheel a moment’s peace. The dragon’s tongue flicked out, brushing the elf’s hair into wild tufts. Martheel squealed, clutching his quill like a sword.
“Stop that!” he cried. “This is harassment of the crown’s scribe!”
'Harassment?' Amira rumbled with mock offense. 'I call it… encouragement. Perhaps if you faced dragons more often, you wouldn’t trip over your own feet when delivering a letter.'
“Y-you’ve been watching me?” Martheel squeaked in horror.
Amira’s purr shook the chamber. 'Always.'
Even Gabija couldn’t suppress a small chuckle at the sight.
Amira ceased her playful torment for the briefest of moments, her great head rising high. Her molten-orange eyes fixed upon Gabija, and her voice rippled through the queen’s mind, silken yet firm:
'A dragon will do what a dragon wants. Nekira is not bound here. A free rider he is… though, too respectful, I find him to be… sometimes.'
Gabija’s breath caught in her throat, her composure faltering for a heartbeat. The weight of that mental voice pressed against her chest like a living flame. With great care, she inclined her head, the gesture almost reverent.
“My apologies, o’ mighty Amira,” she said softly, dipping into the old Elvish formality.
Amira snorted, satisfied with the queen’s respectful acknowledgement. But as quickly as her tone had grown solemn, her gaze slid back toward the quivering figure behind the throne.
‘Now then…’ the dragon purred aloud, her lips curling in something perilously close to a grin. ‘…where was I? Ah yes—our little parchment snack.’
Martheel whimpered, trying to crawl away, but her enormous claw gently tapped the floor in front of him, cutting off his retreat.
Gabija let the teasing play out for a moment before speaking with regal decisiveness. “Very well, Nekira. You have my blessing. But you will not go unattended.”
Nekira’s brows drew together. “Unattended?”
“Yes,” Gabija said, her voice deceptively sweet. “For propriety’s sake… and so that I may have a trustworthy report of your extracurricular activities.” She paused, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Martheel will accompany you as chaperone.”
The court erupted with muffled laughter. Martheel froze, his face draining of colour.
“M-me?!” he squealed, clutching the harvest report to his chest like a shield. “Your Majesty, I bruise easily! And dragons, well, they stare! I—I have blisters from walking too far in the palace gardens, let alone—”
“Then consider this… character building,” Gabija interrupted smoothly.
Amira’s chest rumbled with delight, her laughter echoing through the chamber like rolling thunder. 'Oh yes. This will be… entertaining.'
Martheel, meanwhile, sank to his knees, moaning into his ink-stained hands. “The scribes will never believe this. I’ll never hear the end of it…”
“Your Majesty,” Nekira began, his tone even and respectful, “is this truly necessary? I only wish to take Tara out on a surprise picnic date. I’m not sure what you mean by… extracurricular activities.”
Gabija arched a delicate brow, lips curving with the faintest of smirks. “Surprises can still be witnessed, Nekira. And I will have my witness.”
At that moment, Amira’s molten gaze softened as she turned it down toward her rider. Her voice threaded into his mind, warm and teasing:
‘Do not worry, little one. I shall keep the two-legged-elf-scribe distracted. He will be too busy squeaking and stumbling over his boots to notice what you and Tara are up to.’
Nekira exhaled through his nose, caught between relief and resignation.
Meanwhile, from behind the throne, Martheel’s head slowly peeked out. His wide eyes fixed on the queen like a rabbit staring at a hawk. He pressed his ink-stained fingers together in a pleading gesture.
“Y-your Majesty,” he whispered, voice cracking as though the very word Majesty had tripped over his tongue. “P-perhaps a more… experienced chaperone? Someone with, ah, stronger knees? Or better balance? Or—”
“Silence, Martheel,” Gabija said sweetly, without even looking at him.
The scribe squeaked like a kettle left too long on the fire, then vanished back behind the throne with a thump as he stumbled over his own feet. Amira’s chuckle reverberated through the chamber, shaking dust loose from the rafters.
Gabija straightened in her throne, her regal voice ringing through the chamber. “Martheel.”
There was a muffled eep from behind the throne, followed by a rustle of robes and the sound of something fragile toppling over. Martheel staggered out, one shoe half-off his foot, ink still smudged on his cheek. He tried to bow and nearly knocked his forehead on the marble floor.
“You will prepare for this journey,” Gabija said firmly. “Fetch everything Nekira requires. Exactly as he requests it. Not more, not less.”
“Yes, Your Radiance, of course, Your Majesty, with the utmost urgency, yes indeed,” Martheel babbled, straightening his spectacles that weren’t even crooked.
Nekira, already anticipating the chaos, produced a folded piece of parchment and pressed it into Martheel’s shaky hands. “This should help. A blanket, some bowls, plates, cups, cheese, bread, fruit, and a flask of summer wine. Simple enough, I think.”
Martheel squinted at the list, holding it at arm’s length, then too close to his face. “Blanket… bowls… plates… ah—fruit, yes, of course, fruit, though what kind of fruit? Apples? Pears? Perhaps both? Or—no, no, keep it simple, Martheel, don’t faint yet—”
“Martheel,” Gabija’s voice cut in, sharper than a sword edge.
“Yes, Your Majesty!” he squeaked, saluting with the parchment, which promptly tore in half.
As they walked out of the throne room, Nekira moved alongside him, his tone calm and measured. “I don’t want to be too far from the city, Martheel. But I want it far enough for privacy. A clearing near a small stream, or perhaps a lake. Something quiet.”
Martheel nodded furiously, clutching the torn parchment like it was a royal decree of life and death. “Yes, yes, quiet, private, lake or stream—no oceans, no swamps, understood—” He tripped on the step outside the throne room and yelped, but somehow managed to keep the parchment safe, holding it aloft like a banner.
Behind them, Amira snorted a puff of amused smoke. ‘If the two-legged-elf-scribe does not drown himself fetching wine, your date may yet succeed.’
Nekira just shook his head with a faint smile.
Martheel bustled through the palace kitchens like a tornado in elf’s clothing. He had three plates under one arm, a jug of summer wine clutched to his chest, and half a loaf of bread dangling precariously from his teeth. Every step was punctuated by a muttered list: “Blanket, cheese, fruit, cups—oh no, where did I put the cups—ah, right, on my head.”
Sure enough, two wooden cups were balanced in his hair like antlers.
The cook gave him a look of long-suffering patience as he scurried past, narrowly missing a pot of stew. “Scribe, if you spill that wine in my kitchen again, I’ll pickle you in it.”
Martheel squeaked, dropped the bread, picked it up, brushed it off on his already ruined robes, and dashed out, his arms full of supplies. Somewhere between the kitchens and the stables, he realised he’d forgotten the most important part: the message.
He stopped, swayed, nearly toppled under the weight of dishes, and muttered, “Oh, yes, yes, the invitation, the words must be proper.” He fumbled out a piece of parchment and scribbled, ink blotting in frantic splashes:
Lady Tara, Nekira humbly asks that you accept his invitation for a quiet outing. Signed respectfully, Scribe Martheel, Loyal Servant of Queen Gabija (and occasional bringer of cheese).
When he finally arrived at Tara’s quarters, he raised a trembling hand to knock, only for a massive shadow to fall over him. Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head.
Elqiana loomed there, scales glittering like polished ivory, wings folded but still vast enough to make the corridor feel too small. She was enormous, easily triple the size of Amira. Her golden eyes fixed on Martheel like he was a mouse who had wandered into the wrong burrow.
Martheel’s knees knocked audibly. “G-g-greetings, most—most magnificent lady of scales, Elqiana the Glorious, Destroyer of—no, no, wrong introduction—” He dropped the bread again.
Elqiana lowered her head until her breath ruffled his hair. ‘What… do you carry, little elf?’
“An—an invitation! A very humble, very polite invitation!” Martheel squeaked, holding up the parchment like a holy ward. “From Rider Nekira himself, to Lady Tara, if you’d be so kind, so merciful, so—er—so hungry for cheese? Not for me! For—oh gods—”
He tripped over his own feet and landed flat on his back, the wine jug miraculously still upright on his chest. The dragon blinked once, then let out a low rumble that might have been laughter.
Tara opened the door, eyebrows arched. “Martheel? What are you doing on the floor?”
“Delivering… romance,” he wheezed, parchment fluttering in his hand.
Tara’s soft laugh echoed through the corridor, warm and melodic, though laced with just the tiniest edge of amusement.
“Come on, Martheel,” she said, stooping to help him to his feet. “You can’t deliver a message from the floor.”
Martheel scrambled upright, bowing too low and nearly toppling again. His hair stuck up in every direction, eyes wide, breath coming in nervous puffs.
Tara handed him a soft cloth, which he immediately began trying to bundle the bread, cheese, fruit, and cups into, fumbling and muttering:
“Right, yes, the cheese must not escape… the bread—oh! Fruit, too—don’t let it roll away, no, stay in the bundle—oh, gods, it’s heavy—”
“There, that should help,” Tara said, smiling softly. “I will accept the invitation. We will meet him there.”
Martheel blinked rapidly, then nearly spun in a circle. “Y-yes! Of course! Absolutely! He shall be pleased, I’m certain, no, very certain, very very certain!” He bobbed his head in a bow so low it seemed like he might collapse again.
And then… his heart stopped.
Elqiana’s enormous golden eye had drifted closer, filling his entire field of vision. The reflection of Martheel’s ink-stained face shimmered across her scales.
“W-what… what are you looking at?” he squeaked, clutching the bundle to his chest as if sheer terror could make him disappear.
The dragon rumbled low, amused, a vibration that tickled Martheel’s knees.
“I—I was… er… inspecting… the parchment! Yes, very important parchment! Not me, of course, nothing to do with me! Just a humble elf delivering cheese and words!”
Tara’s laugh bubbled again, gentle and teasing, as she watched the scribe wobble under the gaze of a dragon three times the size of Amira.
Martheel glanced at her, then at the eye, then back at her, muttering, “I—yes—oh, gods, I will survive this, won’t I? I must survive this…”
Amira, flying just outside the corridor’s window, sent a soft mental chuckle to Nekira: 'He’s still alive… barely.'
Martheel trundled through the forest, every twig snapping underfoot announcing his presence like a marching band. The bundle of food, plates, bowls, and wine jostled dangerously against his chest, and the blanket slipped once, forcing him to do a near-cartwheel to catch it before it hit a puddle.
“Quiet… quiet… romantic quiet!” he muttered to himself, glaring at the offending roots. “No smashing anything! Love requires dignity… yes, dignity!”
He finally stumbled upon a clearing by a small, sparkling stream. The sunlight danced across the water, birds chirped as if punctuating his every step, and the place was perfect. If only he could stop panting and sweating long enough to set it up.
Martheel unfolded the blanket with dramatic care, flinging one corner like a flag. It landed sideways. “No, no, elegance! Romantic elegance!” He repositioned it, only to step on the edge and nearly face-plant into the dirt.
Next, he set down the plates, trying to align them perfectly with the bowls and cups. One plate tipped over. He caught it with a yelp, cheeks pink, muttering, “Perfect symmetry is vital! Vital, I say!”
He arranged the bread, cheese, and fruit into what he thought looked aesthetically pleasing, but it mostly resembled a leaning tower of snack. The wine bottle rolled once and he lunged after it, tumbling over his own feet again.
Then he froze. A shadow passed overhead. His eyes went wide, and he squeaked. Amira had been hovering nearby, and Elqiana’s enormous head was peering down from above, sniffing curiously.
Martheel flailed, nearly dropping the jug of wine, and somehow managed to wedge it upright between two bowls. “N-not… for me… only for… the humans! Yes, humans only! Nothing to do with dragons, I swear!”
After what felt like hours of juggling, arranging, and panicking, Martheel finally stepped back and surveyed his work. The blanket was at least mostly flat, the food piled in some semblance of order, and the sunlight hit the scene beautifully.
“Romantic… perfect… yes, a lovely, subtle… romantic picnic!” he whispered to himself, swaying slightly. Then, remembering the message, he squeaked again: “And the note! Oh, yes, mustn’t forget the note!” He placed the parchment delicately on a plate, as if it were a crown jewel, and stepped back, bowing dramatically to the empty clearing.
“Now… just wait for the humans… quietly… elegantly… romantically… quietly!”
Above him, Amira snorted a mental chuckle to Nekira: ‘He’s trying… in his own ridiculous way.’
I had another chapter in mind, I however couldn't share it on here, because it may well have gone against the rules of the forums/site. I still have the chapter written down, and should I ever decide to get these books published that chapter 35 will be in the published versions. For now, although his name has been mention before, please meet Martheel, Queen Gabija's scribe and adviser....
Chapter 36: Martheel
Martheel the Scribe sat hunched over the small wooden table in his quarters, a plate of buttered bread and a steaming cup of nettle tea in front of him. He adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose and carefully tore a bite of bread, chewing as though the act of eating itself were a delicate scholarly task.
He had just lifted the cup of tea to his lips, eyes drifting dreamily to the shaft of sunlight spilling across his parchments, when—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The sudden pounding at his door boomed like a war drum. Martheel let out a strangled squeak, jolting in his chair. His elbow knocked the plate, his knee caught the table, and in one spectacular motion, bread, butter, and tea went sailing.
“Ahh! No, no, no, no!” he whimpered, leaping up in horror as hot tea drenched the front of his robes. The bread clung pitifully to his sleeve, butter-side down, of course.
Martheel flailed, patting himself down, which only smeared the mess further. His quill jar tipped, rolling ink across his notes. His breakfast was ruined, his robes ruined, his morning ruined.
Another knock rattled the door. Louder this time.
Martheel froze, wide-eyed like a rabbit caught in torchlight. He cleared his throat and called weakly, “C-coming!” His voice cracked halfway through the word.
With frantic haste, he tried to mop himself with a scrap of parchment—realizing too late it was an important report. Ink streaked across his chin, and now he looked like he’d been in a bar brawl rather than enjoying a quiet meal.
He shuffled toward the door, clutching the bread-smeared parchment against his chest. His hand hovered over the latch, trembling. Whoever it was, he silently prayed they wouldn’t notice the disaster zone that was his quarters.
Martheel sucked in a deep breath, smoothed his butter-smeared robes as best he could, and opened the door.
Standing there was a tall, armored elf from the city guard, posture sharp as a spear. In his hands was a sealed scroll tied with the queen’s insignia.
“Report for Her Majesty,” the guard intoned gravely, his voice carrying the weight of state matters.
Martheel blinked at him, clutching the parchment he’d used to blot his tea spill. It was stuck to his chest, half-inked, half-buttered, and dangling like a child’s bib.
“O-of course, yes, a report!” Martheel stammered, bobbing his head too quickly. His spectacles slipped down his nose, and in the process of fumbling them back up, he accidentally smeared more butter across the bridge.
The guard’s stoic expression didn’t budge, though his eyes lingered a fraction too long on the mess. He handed over the queen’s scroll with careful precision, as though trying not to let his fingertips touch Martheel’s disaster of a robe.
“Th-thank you, yes, I’ll see to it immediately!” Martheel squeaked. He tried to tuck the scroll under his arm, but it slipped, hit the plate on the floor, and came away with a little butter on the seal.
The guard’s eyes narrowed.
Martheel coughed, forcing a laugh that came out more like a squeak. “Harvest matters, terribly important, wouldn’t want to delay!” He tried to step back and close the door, but tripped over the fallen plate and nearly went sprawling.
The guard’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. “The Queen expects efficiency, Scribe Martheel.”
“Yes! Efficient. Very efficient. Like a—like a well-oiled… butter churn!” Martheel blurted, instantly regretting it as the guard’s brow arched.
He finally managed to shut the door with a thud, leaning against it with a groan. Looking down at the sealed scroll, he whispered to himself, “Right… efficient. I can do that. Can’t possibly make a bigger mess than this.”
Behind him, his table collapsed under the weight of the spilled tea and ink jars, scattering parchment like snow.
Scroll clutched tight against his chest, Martheel scurried through the palace corridors like a mouse fleeing a cat. His butter-stained robes flapped at his ankles, his spectacles fogged from nerves.
Every step seemed to conspire against him. He tripped over the same rug twice, knocked over a vase (catching it only to knock it again a second later), and at one point startled a maid so badly she dropped an entire tray of polished silver goblets.
“I’m sorry! Sorry! Very sorry!” Martheel squeaked, bowing with each apology until his spectacles slid to the tip of his nose again. He shoved them back up, smearing a streak of butter across his forehead in the process.
Finally, he reached the grand doors of the queen’s audience chamber. Two guards stood like statues, spears crossed. Martheel skidded to a halt, panting.
“I—ah—I have—” He fumbled with the scroll, nearly dropping it. “Report! Very important! Harvest! Grain… and… ah… turnips?”
The guards exchanged a glance, unimpressed. One sighed and knocked on the chamber doors, announcing in a booming voice, “Scribe Martheel, bearing Her Majesty’s harvest report.”
The doors swung open.
Martheel shuffled inside, immediately catching his foot on the polished marble step. He pitched forward, arms flailing, and the scroll shot from his grasp.
It spun dramatically through the air like a thrown dagger… and landed directly at Queen Gabija’s feet.
The queen, regal and composed on her throne, looked down at the scroll, then up at Martheel — now sprawled on the floor, spectacles askew, robes streaked with butter and ink, bowing so low it looked more like he was trying to hide beneath the floor tiles.
“Your Majesty!” he squeaked, voice cracking. “Harvest report, delivered! With utmost efficiency!”
A long silence followed.
Then Gabija raised a delicate brow and said, “Martheel… is that butter on your face?”
Queen Gabija let out the most regal sigh imaginable, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Martheel, you are a disaster,” she said flatly.
The court tittered behind their hands, some of the younger attendants biting their lips to keep from laughing outright.
With a flick of her fingers and a soft murmur in the ancient tongue, a shimmer of light enveloped Martheel. The butter stains vanished, the ink blots dissolved, and his hair even settled into neat elven waves, as though he had spent an hour grooming instead of tumbling headfirst into her throne room.
Martheel froze, eyes wide. He touched his robes in awe, patted his now-clean sleeves, then ran a hand through his suddenly silky hair.
“Ohhh—oh, my!” he gasped. “Your Majesty, you’ve… you’ve ironed me!”
The court erupted into muffled laughter.
Martheel bowed again—too deeply this time—smacking his forehead against the marble floor with an audible clonk. He popped back up, rubbing the red mark blooming above his brow, spectacles slightly cracked but still clinging to his face.
“Clean and presentable!” he squeaked, forcing a proud smile despite the bruise. “Yes, well, all part of the service!”
Gabija arched one elegant brow. “My service, Martheel. Not yours.”
“Yes! Exactly! Quite right!” He flapped his hands, as if batting away invisible insects. “Teamwork, Your Majesty, teamwork!”
The queen rolled her eyes again, reached down for the scroll he had dropped, and added dryly, “Let’s see if your handwriting is less of a catastrophe than your entrances.”
The heavy thunk of a spear against the marble floor echoed through the court.
“Announcing Nekira,” the guard declared in a booming voice, “and the dragon Amira, bearer of orange and purple flame.”
All eyes turned toward the great doors as they opened. Nekira entered with calm, deliberate steps, and just behind him, Amira’s massive head lowered through the archway, her scales shimmering like fire trapped in crystal.
Martheel, who had been standing stiff as a board next to the queen, froze mid-blink. His scroll trembled in his hands. His mouth opened in a silent scream.
And then—without warning—he bolted.
The court gasped as Martheel ran in a wide, frantic circle, skidded on the polished floor, and practically dove behind Queen Gabija’s throne. From there, only the top of his quivering head and his twitching ears could be seen.
Gabija didn’t even turn around. She just sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose again, and muttered, “Martheel…”
A muffled voice piped up from behind her chair: “I—I am not afraid, Your Majesty! I’m simply conducting… ah… an observational study! Yes! Of dragons! A very safe study, from a very safe vantage point.”
Amira’s enormous golden eye shifted toward the throne, fixing directly on the pair of twitching ears poking up. A low, amused rumble rolled out of her chest.
Nekira glanced at the queen with a small smirk. “Is your scribe always so… dignified?”
“Always,” Gabija deadpanned.
There was another muffled squeak from behind the throne. “I heard that!”
From behind the queen’s throne, Martheel tried to melt into the wood as if sheer willpower could make him invisible. Unfortunately for him, Amira’s enormous eye hadn’t budged from its target.
With deliberate slowness, the dragon lowered her snout until it hovered inches from the throne’s back. A low hum of amusement vibrated in her throat as she sniffed loudly at the quivering elf. Martheel yelped, scrambling backward, only to bump his head on the stone wall.
‘A little skittish one, isn’t he?’ Amira purred, her voice rolling like smoke, projecting her thoughts for Nekira, Gabija and Martheel to hear. ‘Perhaps he thinks I eat scribes for breakfast. Should I test the theory?’
"Please don’t!" Martheel squeaked, flattening himself against the wall. "I—I am very high in parchment content. Indigestible!"
A ripple of laughter spread through the court, though Nekira’s attention was elsewhere. He stepped forward, bowing respectfully before Queen Gabija.
“Your Majesty,” he began, his tone measured, “I seek permission to leave Caa Alora’s walls briefly. Only to the forests beyond.”
Gabija tilted her head, her sharp gaze narrowing. “And for what purpose, Nekira? Do not think to give me half-answers. You know better.”
For a heartbeat, Nekira hesitated. Then he stepped closer to the throne, lowering his voice to a whisper meant for her ears alone.
“To spend some time with Tara.”
Gabija’s expression softened ever so slightly, though the corner of her mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite approval. “Ah,” she murmured, folding her hands. “I see. That is… delicate. But you will not go without conditions, Nekira. And you will return when summoned.”
Behind her, Amira hadn’t given Martheel a moment’s peace. The dragon’s tongue flicked out, brushing the elf’s hair into wild tufts. Martheel squealed, clutching his quill like a sword.
“Stop that!” he cried. “This is harassment of the crown’s scribe!”
'Harassment?' Amira rumbled with mock offense. 'I call it… encouragement. Perhaps if you faced dragons more often, you wouldn’t trip over your own feet when delivering a letter.'
“Y-you’ve been watching me?” Martheel squeaked in horror.
Amira’s purr shook the chamber. 'Always.'
Even Gabija couldn’t suppress a small chuckle at the sight.
Amira ceased her playful torment for the briefest of moments, her great head rising high. Her molten-orange eyes fixed upon Gabija, and her voice rippled through the queen’s mind, silken yet firm:
'A dragon will do what a dragon wants. Nekira is not bound here. A free rider he is… though, too respectful, I find him to be… sometimes.'
Gabija’s breath caught in her throat, her composure faltering for a heartbeat. The weight of that mental voice pressed against her chest like a living flame. With great care, she inclined her head, the gesture almost reverent.
“My apologies, o’ mighty Amira,” she said softly, dipping into the old Elvish formality.
Amira snorted, satisfied with the queen’s respectful acknowledgement. But as quickly as her tone had grown solemn, her gaze slid back toward the quivering figure behind the throne.
‘Now then…’ the dragon purred aloud, her lips curling in something perilously close to a grin. ‘…where was I? Ah yes—our little parchment snack.’
Martheel whimpered, trying to crawl away, but her enormous claw gently tapped the floor in front of him, cutting off his retreat.
Gabija let the teasing play out for a moment before speaking with regal decisiveness. “Very well, Nekira. You have my blessing. But you will not go unattended.”
Nekira’s brows drew together. “Unattended?”
“Yes,” Gabija said, her voice deceptively sweet. “For propriety’s sake… and so that I may have a trustworthy report of your extracurricular activities.” She paused, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Martheel will accompany you as chaperone.”
The court erupted with muffled laughter. Martheel froze, his face draining of colour.
“M-me?!” he squealed, clutching the harvest report to his chest like a shield. “Your Majesty, I bruise easily! And dragons, well, they stare! I—I have blisters from walking too far in the palace gardens, let alone—”
“Then consider this… character building,” Gabija interrupted smoothly.
Amira’s chest rumbled with delight, her laughter echoing through the chamber like rolling thunder. 'Oh yes. This will be… entertaining.'
Martheel, meanwhile, sank to his knees, moaning into his ink-stained hands. “The scribes will never believe this. I’ll never hear the end of it…”
“Your Majesty,” Nekira began, his tone even and respectful, “is this truly necessary? I only wish to take Tara out on a surprise picnic date. I’m not sure what you mean by… extracurricular activities.”
Gabija arched a delicate brow, lips curving with the faintest of smirks. “Surprises can still be witnessed, Nekira. And I will have my witness.”
At that moment, Amira’s molten gaze softened as she turned it down toward her rider. Her voice threaded into his mind, warm and teasing:
‘Do not worry, little one. I shall keep the two-legged-elf-scribe distracted. He will be too busy squeaking and stumbling over his boots to notice what you and Tara are up to.’
Nekira exhaled through his nose, caught between relief and resignation.
Meanwhile, from behind the throne, Martheel’s head slowly peeked out. His wide eyes fixed on the queen like a rabbit staring at a hawk. He pressed his ink-stained fingers together in a pleading gesture.
“Y-your Majesty,” he whispered, voice cracking as though the very word Majesty had tripped over his tongue. “P-perhaps a more… experienced chaperone? Someone with, ah, stronger knees? Or better balance? Or—”
“Silence, Martheel,” Gabija said sweetly, without even looking at him.
The scribe squeaked like a kettle left too long on the fire, then vanished back behind the throne with a thump as he stumbled over his own feet. Amira’s chuckle reverberated through the chamber, shaking dust loose from the rafters.
Gabija straightened in her throne, her regal voice ringing through the chamber. “Martheel.”
There was a muffled eep from behind the throne, followed by a rustle of robes and the sound of something fragile toppling over. Martheel staggered out, one shoe half-off his foot, ink still smudged on his cheek. He tried to bow and nearly knocked his forehead on the marble floor.
“You will prepare for this journey,” Gabija said firmly. “Fetch everything Nekira requires. Exactly as he requests it. Not more, not less.”
“Yes, Your Radiance, of course, Your Majesty, with the utmost urgency, yes indeed,” Martheel babbled, straightening his spectacles that weren’t even crooked.
Nekira, already anticipating the chaos, produced a folded piece of parchment and pressed it into Martheel’s shaky hands. “This should help. A blanket, some bowls, plates, cups, cheese, bread, fruit, and a flask of summer wine. Simple enough, I think.”
Martheel squinted at the list, holding it at arm’s length, then too close to his face. “Blanket… bowls… plates… ah—fruit, yes, of course, fruit, though what kind of fruit? Apples? Pears? Perhaps both? Or—no, no, keep it simple, Martheel, don’t faint yet—”
“Martheel,” Gabija’s voice cut in, sharper than a sword edge.
“Yes, Your Majesty!” he squeaked, saluting with the parchment, which promptly tore in half.
As they walked out of the throne room, Nekira moved alongside him, his tone calm and measured. “I don’t want to be too far from the city, Martheel. But I want it far enough for privacy. A clearing near a small stream, or perhaps a lake. Something quiet.”
Martheel nodded furiously, clutching the torn parchment like it was a royal decree of life and death. “Yes, yes, quiet, private, lake or stream—no oceans, no swamps, understood—” He tripped on the step outside the throne room and yelped, but somehow managed to keep the parchment safe, holding it aloft like a banner.
Behind them, Amira snorted a puff of amused smoke. ‘If the two-legged-elf-scribe does not drown himself fetching wine, your date may yet succeed.’
Nekira just shook his head with a faint smile.
Martheel bustled through the palace kitchens like a tornado in elf’s clothing. He had three plates under one arm, a jug of summer wine clutched to his chest, and half a loaf of bread dangling precariously from his teeth. Every step was punctuated by a muttered list: “Blanket, cheese, fruit, cups—oh no, where did I put the cups—ah, right, on my head.”
Sure enough, two wooden cups were balanced in his hair like antlers.
The cook gave him a look of long-suffering patience as he scurried past, narrowly missing a pot of stew. “Scribe, if you spill that wine in my kitchen again, I’ll pickle you in it.”
Martheel squeaked, dropped the bread, picked it up, brushed it off on his already ruined robes, and dashed out, his arms full of supplies. Somewhere between the kitchens and the stables, he realised he’d forgotten the most important part: the message.
He stopped, swayed, nearly toppled under the weight of dishes, and muttered, “Oh, yes, yes, the invitation, the words must be proper.” He fumbled out a piece of parchment and scribbled, ink blotting in frantic splashes:
Lady Tara, Nekira humbly asks that you accept his invitation for a quiet outing. Signed respectfully, Scribe Martheel, Loyal Servant of Queen Gabija (and occasional bringer of cheese).
When he finally arrived at Tara’s quarters, he raised a trembling hand to knock, only for a massive shadow to fall over him. Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head.
Elqiana loomed there, scales glittering like polished ivory, wings folded but still vast enough to make the corridor feel too small. She was enormous, easily triple the size of Amira. Her golden eyes fixed on Martheel like he was a mouse who had wandered into the wrong burrow.
Martheel’s knees knocked audibly. “G-g-greetings, most—most magnificent lady of scales, Elqiana the Glorious, Destroyer of—no, no, wrong introduction—” He dropped the bread again.
Elqiana lowered her head until her breath ruffled his hair. ‘What… do you carry, little elf?’
“An—an invitation! A very humble, very polite invitation!” Martheel squeaked, holding up the parchment like a holy ward. “From Rider Nekira himself, to Lady Tara, if you’d be so kind, so merciful, so—er—so hungry for cheese? Not for me! For—oh gods—”
He tripped over his own feet and landed flat on his back, the wine jug miraculously still upright on his chest. The dragon blinked once, then let out a low rumble that might have been laughter.
Tara opened the door, eyebrows arched. “Martheel? What are you doing on the floor?”
“Delivering… romance,” he wheezed, parchment fluttering in his hand.
Tara’s soft laugh echoed through the corridor, warm and melodic, though laced with just the tiniest edge of amusement.
“Come on, Martheel,” she said, stooping to help him to his feet. “You can’t deliver a message from the floor.”
Martheel scrambled upright, bowing too low and nearly toppling again. His hair stuck up in every direction, eyes wide, breath coming in nervous puffs.
Tara handed him a soft cloth, which he immediately began trying to bundle the bread, cheese, fruit, and cups into, fumbling and muttering:
“Right, yes, the cheese must not escape… the bread—oh! Fruit, too—don’t let it roll away, no, stay in the bundle—oh, gods, it’s heavy—”
“There, that should help,” Tara said, smiling softly. “I will accept the invitation. We will meet him there.”
Martheel blinked rapidly, then nearly spun in a circle. “Y-yes! Of course! Absolutely! He shall be pleased, I’m certain, no, very certain, very very certain!” He bobbed his head in a bow so low it seemed like he might collapse again.
And then… his heart stopped.
Elqiana’s enormous golden eye had drifted closer, filling his entire field of vision. The reflection of Martheel’s ink-stained face shimmered across her scales.
“W-what… what are you looking at?” he squeaked, clutching the bundle to his chest as if sheer terror could make him disappear.
The dragon rumbled low, amused, a vibration that tickled Martheel’s knees.
“I—I was… er… inspecting… the parchment! Yes, very important parchment! Not me, of course, nothing to do with me! Just a humble elf delivering cheese and words!”
Tara’s laugh bubbled again, gentle and teasing, as she watched the scribe wobble under the gaze of a dragon three times the size of Amira.
Martheel glanced at her, then at the eye, then back at her, muttering, “I—yes—oh, gods, I will survive this, won’t I? I must survive this…”
Amira, flying just outside the corridor’s window, sent a soft mental chuckle to Nekira: 'He’s still alive… barely.'
Martheel trundled through the forest, every twig snapping underfoot announcing his presence like a marching band. The bundle of food, plates, bowls, and wine jostled dangerously against his chest, and the blanket slipped once, forcing him to do a near-cartwheel to catch it before it hit a puddle.
“Quiet… quiet… romantic quiet!” he muttered to himself, glaring at the offending roots. “No smashing anything! Love requires dignity… yes, dignity!”
He finally stumbled upon a clearing by a small, sparkling stream. The sunlight danced across the water, birds chirped as if punctuating his every step, and the place was perfect. If only he could stop panting and sweating long enough to set it up.
Martheel unfolded the blanket with dramatic care, flinging one corner like a flag. It landed sideways. “No, no, elegance! Romantic elegance!” He repositioned it, only to step on the edge and nearly face-plant into the dirt.
Next, he set down the plates, trying to align them perfectly with the bowls and cups. One plate tipped over. He caught it with a yelp, cheeks pink, muttering, “Perfect symmetry is vital! Vital, I say!”
He arranged the bread, cheese, and fruit into what he thought looked aesthetically pleasing, but it mostly resembled a leaning tower of snack. The wine bottle rolled once and he lunged after it, tumbling over his own feet again.
Then he froze. A shadow passed overhead. His eyes went wide, and he squeaked. Amira had been hovering nearby, and Elqiana’s enormous head was peering down from above, sniffing curiously.
Martheel flailed, nearly dropping the jug of wine, and somehow managed to wedge it upright between two bowls. “N-not… for me… only for… the humans! Yes, humans only! Nothing to do with dragons, I swear!”
After what felt like hours of juggling, arranging, and panicking, Martheel finally stepped back and surveyed his work. The blanket was at least mostly flat, the food piled in some semblance of order, and the sunlight hit the scene beautifully.
“Romantic… perfect… yes, a lovely, subtle… romantic picnic!” he whispered to himself, swaying slightly. Then, remembering the message, he squeaked again: “And the note! Oh, yes, mustn’t forget the note!” He placed the parchment delicately on a plate, as if it were a crown jewel, and stepped back, bowing dramatically to the empty clearing.
“Now… just wait for the humans… quietly… elegantly… romantically… quietly!”
Above him, Amira snorted a mental chuckle to Nekira: ‘He’s trying… in his own ridiculous way.’