Beneath the Armour: An Elven Desire

Chapter 1

"Elvern b***h, get to work!" The rough, loud voice of the human male soldier snapped Faythistle out of her daydream. She quickly got to work in the makeshift kitchen, pouring the hot pumpkin and sprout soup she had whipped up. Her hands trembled slightly as she ladled the soup into wooden cups, the leather cuffs around her wrists constantly restricting her movement.

As she carefully walked over to the campfire where a few of the dreaded soldiers were gathered, she couldn't help but glance down at the makeshift cuffs, a bitter symbol of her enslavement. Her mind wandered to the stories she had heard growing up about the vile humans. She stopped in front of the one who had shouted, recognizing him as Drax, the third in command. She had observed him over the past few days, piecing together the hierarchy of her captors.

"Here, sir. Be careful, it's hot," she said softly, her voice velvety and gentle despite her hatred for them. She hated that even though she was held captive, she still didn't want to cause them harm. Drax took the cup from her without a word, completely ignoring her existence. She handed out the remaining cups before returning to the kitchen to stir the soup and begin cleaning.

As she worked, she watched the humans as they laughed and jested amongst themselves. She was starting to think not everything she had heard was true. Although captured, they did keep her safe, fed, and alive. Since the war between King Riland and Cannon, who led the rebellion against him, any peace or acceptance of the elves had been cast aside. Her village had been raided by savage humans, many of her people killed, their homes burned down. She had been trapped under some rubble when they first arrived, waking a few hours later to the aftermath.

She had searched her village for survivors but only found the corpses of those she knew. Her parents included. She found countless bodies of those she loved. The only one unaccounted for was her best friend Marrabel. She was missing, likely taken. A fate told to be far worse than death. She had packed a bag with everything she thought necessary and began her search.

"Elf, do you need a whipping? The Commander is here, get him some food!" Another soldier barked, yanking her back to the present. Faythistle quickly poured the soup and made her way over to the Commander. He was good looking for a human, easily three times her size, built with muscle, and standing at 6'3". His dark black hair slightly curled at the ends, and his bright blue eyes were breathtaking, set in a strong jawline. His men called him Commander, but a few, like Drax, called him Drake.

Drake always drew her eyes, not just because of his looks, but the way he held himself with power and confidence. He was probably the only reason she was still alive. Faythistle remembered the day she found him wounded a few miles from her village. She had watched him stumbling through the forest, his sheer size hard to miss. When he collapsed with a brutal groan, she had hidden behind the thick trunk of a tree, scared to move. If he heard her, would he kill her? Could she outrun him injured? She remained motionless for a while, her pointed ears listening intently to every sound from his direction.

She would have stayed like that forever if she hadn't heard horses approaching behind her. She scrambled to find cover and almost screamed when she was grabbed by strong, calloused hands. One covered her mouth to muffle her scream, and the other wrapped around her waist. He practically picked her up and pulled her into a large bush. They lay there in the dirt, on their sides, his warm breath puffing against the back of her neck.

He froze when they heard the approaching horses stop nearby. "Any signs of him?" a male voice asked. "No, sir," replied another man, his voice filled with fear. "Keep looking. We will circle around and recheck that filthy elf village. He followed us in there and was wounded. He can't be far," the first man boomed as he rode off, the others following.

Faythistle remained frozen when the man suddenly let her go and rolled away from her with a groan. He staggered to his feet and began stumbling off in the opposite direction of her destroyed village. "I suggest you get moving, Elf. They will be back soon," his voice was gruff, hard even. Yet her body responded in an unfamiliar way, her stomach filled with butterflies.

She stood watching him slowly make his way away from her. She turned to leave when she noticed the amount of blood on the ground. "You're wounded?" she asked, confusion swirling in her head. If they held the same amount of blood her people did, he wouldn't last the night. She was about to repeat herself when she saw him stumble again, catching himself on a tree. He then lowered himself to the ground. She approached him slowly, now noticing the large bloodstain on his shirt and the substantial sword at his side. "You're wounded," she repeated, her voice firmer this time.

His eyes met hers, and she gasped at the sight of his bright blue eyes. They were hard and cautious. "I'll be fine, elf. Now run along," his voice was firm, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze.

Faythistle frowned, her healer instincts kicking in. "Those men said you followed them into a village. You were after them, not the elves?" she inquired, her curiosity piqued. She was a healer, the best in her village, and all elves held some kind of magic; hers was healing.

"I have no interest in killing elves. Now leave before you change my mind," his voice now laced with frustration. But she couldn’t leave him here to die. She approached him with purpose, hearing his laboured breathing and the faint tremor in his voice.

Hearing her approach, he grabbed his sword. Her footsteps slowed, but she kept her gaze steady. "Let me help you. We both know you won't last the night without aid," her voice, although timid, held strength. "I was the main healer at my village. Let me help," she indicated to his wound.

He watched her for a long moment before reluctantly letting go of his sword and pulling his shirt up. The wound was deep, from either a sword or knife. She crouched next to him, examining the wound closely. Her eyes were drawn to his powerful figure, his stomach well-packed with muscle. She watched the way his stomach rippled when she lightly touched around his wound.

She forced her eyes away, slowly standing. "I'll be right back. I know just what that needs," she said, her voice filled with determination. She left and wandered around the forest, collecting the plants, herbs, and flowers she needed. She found a small stream and set to work, crushing the ingredients together and adding water to create a paste. She tipped the rest of the water into a flask and returned to the man.

Concentrating her magic onto the paste, she warned him, "Sorry, this may hurt a little. Try to stay still." She then applied it to his wound. He did well holding still, his muscles rippling from his attempt not to move. The occasional grunt or groan of pain parted his lips.

Once she was done, she offered him the flask of water. "That should stop the bleeding and prevent infection. Once you return to your people, please get it looked at," she smiled slightly, her eyes softening.

His gaze held hers, his eyes flickering with some unknown emotion. She held his gaze, feeling a strange connection. She was snapped out of her memories when a loud clap sounded near her, and she gasped, quickly maneuvering to prevent spilling the soup.

"Here, Commander. Be careful, it's hot," she said, her voice even softer now. He nodded at her, taking the cup. She watched him for a minute as he brought the cup to his lips.

"Elf b***h, what are you doing? Get out of here!" One of the soldiers, Kyle, sneered and threw the remaining of his soup at her. The hot liquid splashed onto her arm, scorching her skin. She bit her lip to hold back a cry of pain.

"Kyle!" The Commander's voice boomed, making everyone around the fire freeze. "You see to the kitchen duties tonight if you're going to waste good food. Maybe tomorrow you can have half of what is dealt." The Commander downed his cup, throwing it at Kyle's feet. "Elf, my tent. You need to attend to my wound."

Faythistle kept her head down, tears of pain and anger pricking at her eyes. Clenching her burning wrist, she fought with herself for staying instead of running. The humans were barbaric, and yet she followed the Commander to his tent. Inside, it was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the harshness outside.

"Sit," he ordered, his voice gentler now. She obeyed, her arm still throbbing from the burn. He watched her with a mix of anger and something else she couldn't quite place. "Let me see your arm."

She hesitated but then extended her arm. He examined the burn, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Kyle will be dealt with," he said softly, his eyes meeting hers. "My men will think twice before an incident like this reoccurs."

Her heart ached with a mixture of emotions—fear, anger, confusion, and a strange warmth she didn't want to acknowledge. "Why did you bring me with you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He sighed, looking away for a moment. "Because I saw someone who was in as much danger as I was. And because our fight is not against your kind." His voice was low, tinged with a hint of vulnerability that made her heart ache even more.

Faythistle swallowed hard, trying to process his words. There was so much she didn't understand about him, about this war, and about her own conflicting emotions. She nodded slightly, not trusting her voice to respond.

"Let me treat your burn," Drake said, reaching for a small pouch of herbs and bandages he kept in his tent. His movements were careful and deliberate as he prepared a soothing balm, his hands surprisingly deft for someone so used to wielding a sword.

As he applied the balm to her burn, she winced but said nothing, watching his face intently. There was a softness in his eyes now, a stark contrast to the stern, commanding presence she had seen before. She couldn't help but wonder what kind of man he truly was beneath the layers of duty and war.

"Thank you," she whispered once he had finished, her voice barely audible.

Drake nodded, his eyes meeting hers again. "You are a healer, Fay. It's in your nature to help, even those who might be considered your enemies. I respect that."

She looked down, her heart skipping a beat at his nickname for her. "I just... I don't understand why any of this has to happen. Why can't there be peace between our people?"

He sighed heavily, the weight of the world seeming to rest on his broad shoulders. "It's complicated. Old grudges, politics, power... It's a tangled web, and many are caught in it, just like you and I."

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Drax entered the tent, his expression serious. "Commander, we need you outside. There's been an incident."

Drake's shifted instantly, the softness replaced by the hard, unyielding mask of a leader. "I'll be right there," he said, standing up. He turned back to Faythistle, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. "Stay here and rest. I'll deal with this."

She nodded, watching him leave the tent, her mind racing with thoughts and emotions. She sat down on the small cot in the corner, wrapping her arms around herself. The events of the past few days had been overwhelming, and she felt a deep exhaustion settling in.

Outside, she could hear the raised voices and the commotion of the camp. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the noise and find some semblance of peace within herself. Her thoughts drifted back to her village, to the faces of her loved ones, and to the promise she had made to herself to find her best friend, Marrabel.

A tear slipped down her cheek as she thought of all she had lost. But she also felt a flicker of hope—a hope that perhaps, through all this chaos, there might be a way to bridge the divide between their worlds.

As the night wore on, Faythistle found herself drifting into an uneasy sleep, her dreams filled with images of her past and the uncertain future that lay ahead. And in the midst of it all, the face of the human commander, Drake, lingered in her mind, a symbol of the complex and fragile connection that fate had formed between them against all odds.

In the early hours of the morning, Faythistle was awakened by the soft rustle of the tent flap. She sat up, blinking in the dim light, to see Drake standing at the entrance, his expression weary but determined.

"I've dealt with the situation," he said quietly, stepping inside. "We need to move camp soon. It's not safe here anymore."

She nodded, understanding the urgency in his voice. "What can I do to help?"

He looked at her for a long moment, a mixture of respect and something deeper in his eyes. "Just be ready. We have a long journey ahead of us."

As they prepared to leave, Faythistle couldn't shake the feeling that her life was about to change in ways she couldn't yet comprehend. But for now, she would follow the path laid before her, guided by her instincts and the fragile bond she had with the man who had saved her life.

And so, with a mixture of fear and determination, she stepped out of the tent, ready to face whatever lay ahead in this uncertain and dangerous world.