Chained to a wall? Iliana frowned at Callach's indelicacy, and the presumption that Aria was at all better. Aria was strong, but she was not invulnerable. It had been less than a day since she was released from that putrid dungeon, and from the close grasps of tortures and deprivation. Had Aria not screamed upon waking, just minutes earlier, as she fled the remembered horrors lurking just beneath her consciousness?
"Rest well, Callach," Iliana acknowledged the changeling with an inclination of the head. When Callach invoked their performer friend and Iliana almost grinned. It seemed not a solitary conversation could pass without the changeling speaking of Dazzle; she wondered whether Callach had taken a shine to him.
A pair of healers stood mid-way down the hall, allowing for privacy behind the infirmary doors. Approaching, Iliana bowed from the waist.
"Thank you for everything you've done," Iliana said. "I can't express how grateful I am that my friend was so kindly met by your expert care."
The halflings acknowledged her gratitude with a practiced professionalism. Before returning to the infirmary, they directed her to a room, a few scant halls away, where she could rest. Iliana walked there, half asleep already.
Even so, after closing the door, she sought out the still bowl of water upon the dresser. Stripping off the layers of clothes and armour, she washed away as best she could the cling of sweat and grim. The water went black with filth before she was finished, but when she turned the bowl fully round the water appeared clean again. After a handful of turns, she was able to finish, her skin red from scrubbing.
Brushing her curls smooth, she fastened them in a simple braid. Too tired to pray, she nevertheless did, muttering just above hearing a stream of nonsense syllables that broke upon the sudden swell of her tears. She found herself abed, not remember how she'd gotten there, fists twisted in her pillow, curled up beneath the sheets.
She prayed against the war, but there were no gods outside the faithful themselves. Who was she praying to? It didn't matter. All that stood before Khorvaire and war were people like herself, mortal and breakable. And so she would stand, with her prayers to no-one and her sword and whatever strength she possessed. She wondered if she would die of this, and whether she was afraid of dying. She wondered why she'd left Aria alone in the infirmary, why she hadn't simply taken up the bed beside hers to sleep. But it was too late now, and Iliana's limbs were heavy, and the bed so soft.