"What was my name again?" Agatha asked. Or at least, the figure that was actually Agatha Fernbrook underneath the deep voice, broad shoulders and lack of breasts. Agnes' Ohrcraft had been holding remarkably steady. It had been five days since that night in the underground Lothren caverns where Jermid saw firsthand the incredible potential of Ohr transformation magic. He was aware of it, of course, and even ordered a few such transformations as part of his delegation of duties. His own ears though had only been flattened before so he could slip in amongst the humans by cosmeticists from the citadel using what he assumed to be a watered down version of the same Ohrcraft but old Agnes and the wood elves seemed to have perfected it into a fine art.
He wondered if some of the wood elves changed from male to female for reasons other than disguise? Did some do so because they wanted to? Because they felt like slipping into the other form would make the whole world somehow easier to live in? Jermid hated thinking this way, because he knew that by all practical accounts he lived in the lap of luxury. Sure, his mother died birthing him, which created a gulf between him and his father and brothers, a gulf ever widening when his inclinations proved to be not so attuned to the family tradition of warmaking. But that didn't necessarily mean that growing up was a hardship. His ability to empathise with alien frameworks of experience was picked up on quite early in his academic life and he was put on to a fairly stable career track in diplomacy, and while he was often a little too shy and awkward when dealing with things in person, his skills were untouched at managing the logistics of a number of mainland 'covers' across the nations and colonies to participate in (and if need arose, steer) the economic and political affairs of the humans.
This, coupled with the new Highfather's desire to weed out the old guard saw him rise to a seat on the council at the tender age of fity seven. And it took a while for his father to get over the shock of the only non-warrior of his children being the one that eventually rose to the greatest ranks, it earned him a modicum of begrudging respect from his family. But life was never... comfortable. His mistrust of battle and his gravitation to diplomacy made sense to him in that he hated anything to do with the use of his body as itself and there was immense joy in the 'creation' of different little humans and their stories, even though it all boiled down to a few sales and purchases and the occasional seat in a duchy council to be filled in by a disguised diplomat or a human intermediary. Occupying bodies other than his, even in a form so virtual and disconnected was of all the jobs in the citadel the one he most preferred.
"Hello? Jermy? I asked you a question, brassfoot."
"Huh? What?" Jermid was snapped out of his reverie with an embarrassed blush. "Sorry, I was... anyway, what did you ask?"
"What's my fucking name supposed to be, oh great Steward of Diplomatic Relations?"
"You cannot have forgotten your name a mere few yards away from the palace gates!" Jermid hated sending elves without diplomatic training on interfacing missions, which is why he took the odd step of accompanying Agatha, to make sure she wouldn't undo the elves' centuries old secret that they had successfully infiltrated human ranks in just a couple of days. Which is exactly what she seemed to be on the verge of doing.
"Jerm, I need you to stop worrying your pretty little nose about stuff like this..." Agatha walked with a swagger strangely befitting her lanky male form. "Now what's my name?"
"Lord Grenworth Essilar of Isle Ismara. Please don't forget."
Before she could retort, they were almost at the palace gates. Vothfort proper was a city in disarray. Empty shopfronts threatened to outpace the manned ones as the populace fled up into the forest, further north or even to the Isles to escape the Desjardese onslaught. But the palace gates beckoned past the bridge in all their glory, heavy wooden doors guarding an imposing Vothic edifice, all curved domes and pointed spires. Looking up, you could almost imagine it was the glory days of human civilisation.
Jermid stepped up, showing pre-approved letter requesting a meeting for a marriage proposal and in general, playing the part of an obedient vassal to his master the Lord Essilar. The guards took them through several layers of walls and antechambers before handing them over to a page who took them the rest of the way through, past palatial halls that were once luxurious but were now clearly in decay. It looked significantly less staffed than it needed to be. A single, stoic young guard blocked the entrance to a large door which he opened upon seeing them. Inside was a long council table, designed to seat twenty perhaps, but now occupied only by a few odd councillors with the weary, gray haired figure at the head of it who Jermid could only imagine was Henry Vothar II: king, at least for now.
"My liege," the page announced. "The Lord Essilar of Ismara and his vassal Grensmith."
Jermid bowed low and after a moment, Agatha followed suit though a little more clumsily. The king motioned to a couple of the chairs and they sat as he watched them gravely.
"She's going to reject you..." he said, finally. "He rejects all of them. My dear daughter, I'm afraid to tell you, lives with her head entirely in the clouds."
"What, even with my dashing good looks?" Agatha, or to be precise, Lord Essilar, said.
The king chuckled at that, his scraggly face breaking into a smile for the first time. "Oh, if only looks mattered to her in the slightest, I'd have her safely out of this crumbling house already. But at any rate, let's work through some preliminaries. Essilar has made some sound investments, to be sure, but my steward tells me some of them are in Rahethe. Could you explain this interest in fraternising with the empire's enemies?"
Jermid almost beamed in delight. Those 'sound investments' were all his, after all. And this was a question that he'd anticipated and primed Agatha for, if she'd even remember.
"My liege, I could certainly not find anything in the Imperial book of law against a few purchases and sales with interested customers across the seas. Could you, Grensmith?"
Jermid shook his head amused by her little improvisational turn at the end and playing along with it.
"And while I cannot speak for all the colonies, we at Ismara have many long term prospects to consider. Empires rise and wane, but we will always have mouths to feed. I'm sure you can understand that, my liege."
A risky play, on the border of insubordination. The king's green eyes pierced into Agatha's for a while before he nodded softly. "I suppose I do Obviously, the ceremony would take place at the groom's residence, but you have brought the commensurate caravan and security detail appropriate to such a journey?"
"We didn't quite have the guards to spare, given the imminent threat of a Desjardese invasion and all that. But we are both trained fighters, and it is only a small journey to the docklands, from where the Princess will be safely carried on an Ismaran ship with a full, armed crew."
The king scratched his chin. "Did you at least bring a woman of the household?"
"Excuse me, a what?" He looked at Jerm, who shrugged. He'd never heard of something like that.
"It is Vothic custom for the bride to be led to her new home by a woman of the household, close to the family. It is utterly essential that she undertake the journey with someone like that, in addition to her handmaiden who will of course accompany her. It is unthinkable for a Helathian princess to journey to a new island with just two men and a crew of sailors."
This was tricky. At best, one of them would have to make a trip back to the elflands to get someone to pretend to be a 'woman of the household'. Which the Highfather would probably not consent to.
"Oh! Well my sweet cousin has of course accompanied us and is presently touring your famed... uh.... hanging gardens? She will be present to accompany the Princess." Agatha said, and Jermid turned to look at her disguised face, trying to parse out what she could possibly mean.
"But we are, of course, getting vastly ahead of ourselves. Because all of that is built on the understanding that she won't reject you, which I find unlikely." The king turned to the door, which slowly opened. "Speaking of which, my daughter the Princess Primrose Vothlyn of Helathe."
Everyone turned back and at first, Jermid saw a tall woman with auburn hair cut quite short in a Northland style a freckle-smattered face. Pretty enough, after a fashion, though not quite what he had in mind. But then he quickly understood that this was probably the handmaiden, because from behind her emerged a sight which took Jermid's breath away. A perfectly coiled braid and a few artfully stray strands of platinum blonde hair framed a pale, delicate face that seemed to have been carved out of alabaster by some skilled elven craftsperson. She had her father's green eyes but they positively glew under her large, curved lids. Her perfectly formed little nose and plush ruby lips were accentuated by a hint of red in her cheeks, with a petite frame accentuated perfectly in a gown of gold and white: the colours of the Helathian empire. She smiled a practiced smile and bowed facing them, her eyes fixed on Agatha. It was like she didn't even realise Jermid was there, which he barely even recognised because he couldn't stop looking, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.
He felt an instant rush of a feeling he tried quickly to suppress, though its remnants resonated through his head. An inexplicable thought: that destiny connected him to this woman.
