A Fitting Finale Chapter 1: Fierce, an octopath traveler fanfic

The complete version of this one shot (which includes a lemon) is available on AO3. Sadly this site does not allow me to post more than suggestive themes, because sex is bad and we should feel bad.

You might be asking why I'm here and why I'm not writing moar Zelink or Legend of Zelda content ― it's because I am a bad person whose priorities are never properly sorted and because Octopath Traveler is my fucking revitalizing jam!

More pairings to come. I just thought there were too few H'aanit x Alaic fics out there and you know what they say: be the change you want to see in the world.

Love,
CM

A Fitting Finale

Part 1: Fierce

H'aanit was worried.

She didn't say anything, though. First because there was no one to listen... and second because she wasn't sure her concerns were founded. Not yet. But they were growing in her mind, looming large like the shadow of a great beast.

She strode forward, from the cover of one tree to the next, her feet avoiding noisy steps almost on their own. She had long stopped noticing breakable twigs and crackling needles. She moved like the wind, like a predator, an arrow nocked, but her bowstring undrawn.

She breathed evenly, each exhalation calculated on a level she no longer acknowledged, too deep to reflect upon, too rehearsed to distract her mind from the greater chase.

In her chest, though, her heart raced. Not with excitement, but with worry.

"Linde," she called, to the woods, eyes darting from bush to shadow, from clearing to foliage.

There was no reply ― not altogether unusual, for when Linde hunted, the snow leopard did so with deadly silence ― but the complete quiet filled H'aanit's heart with instinctual fear.

She paused to collect herself, taking in her surroundings. They were far from Victor's Hollow, and further still from S'warkii. They had drifted to the foothills of the Frostlands, whose snow-capped peaks and glacial valleys loomed high to the east. Here, for now, the snow had no hold, and the forest was thick and green and deep and dark. A perfect refuge for prey. A perfect realm for hunters.

It sometimes happened that Linde went off on her own. She was a fierce huntress in her own right ― and still young and strong enough that she did not need H'aanit's assistance to find her meals. But she rarely wandered out of H'aanit's range of call, and even more rarely wandered away longer than one day at a time.

So it was that H'aanit's heart was trembling with worry.

"Linde!" She called again, more insistently.

She paused, listened. There was wind in the trees, and here and there the distant buzzing of insects… but little else. No birdsong. No animal scents. Not a good place to hunt. Perhaps it had been overhunted, lately.

She was about to keep moving when she saw the snare.

Whatever creature it had captured had long since been devoured ― a rabbit, perhaps, or a squirrel. Eaten on location, by some other animal. A cruel, unfair way to die. And the snare was still there. A rookie mistake, for it remained a risk once the carcass decomposed. What hunter didn't recover their snared game in time? And left their snares to dwindle the forest's bounty needlessly?

With her knife, H'aanit cut the rope and let the snare mix with the bones. A good warning, perhaps.

But now the doubt niggled at her mind. If a careless hunter had come here and set this snare, it was likely there were others. And if there were others―

"Linde!" She called, firmly, looking about her.

She sensed the growl more than heard it. Scarcely catching her breath, she ran in its direction, hoping she was right, no longer caring what sound she made as she moved through the underbrush.

She found Linde by the steam, her leg twisted at an unnatural angle. She was matted and weak. No doubt she had been stuck here, with her leg in that snare ― another snare! H'aanit felt a surge of raw fury at the carelessness of whoever had set it ― for at least a few hours.

"Linde," she breathed, sliding down the bank towards her companion in a flurry of dead leaves and moss.

Blessedly, the snow leopard raised its head in acknowledgement, and let out a pathetic little purr. H'aanit's hand went to her neck, scratching the fur there, and Linde tried to rise, but merely twisted herself further.

"Stop," H'aanit urged her, hushing softly. "Stop moving, thou wilt hurt thy leg further."

She ran a hand along Linde's hind leg, heart aching with sympathy and anger. The rope had cut into Linde's back paw, rubbing it red and raw, and when she tried to pull at it, Linde snapped her befanged jaws at her, caterwauling.

"I know it hurteth," H'aanit murmured, the pain in her voice betraying the hurt in her soul. "It will hurten more before long."

Linde made another weak growl, but did not snap at her again, letting her head fall back to the ground in exhausted defeat.

As gently as she could, H'aanit slid her sharpest knife along Linde's spotted white fur, sliding its blade under the snare's rope.

"Art thou ready?" She breathed, glancing at Linde's feverish eye.

The snow leopard made a low sound in her throat that was neither assent or dissent, and H'aanit bent to kiss her forehead. And if she thought her vision was blurry, she wasn't going to acknowledge it.

With vigour, she began to cut the rope. Linde began to purr with pain, her teeth grinding uncharacteristically. Her head swayed, giving sharp nods, as though she were resisting the urge to rip H'aanit's arm off.

"I can't blamen thee," H'aanit agreed, as she cut through the last strands of the rope. "Be brave now," she commanded, sniffing, "for thy pains aren almost done."

Linde roared when H'aanit pried the rope out of her wound. The flesh was exposed and raw, bleeding and perhaps infected.

It was nasty business, and if H'aanit ever found the hunter responsible for this, she would share fists before she shared words.

Linde tried to stand, but her leg was still twisted. It refused to cooperate, and Linde could only drag herself with her front paws. No doubt she had dislocated her leg when the snare had tripped her.

In the wild, such an injury was a death sentence.

But H'aanit was not going to give up.

"I shall taken thou to safety," she vowed. "But it will be painful, and we must both remainen strong."

Even as she said the words, she dreaded the prospect, and found herself awash in more worry. They were far from civilization. Much farther than she had intended to be. And Linde was heavy ― almost as heavy as H'aanit herself. But she had not eaten recently, and H'aanit was strong. She had to be, and it would have to be enough.

As for where she ought to take her… The concern squeezed her gut. S'warkii would have been ideal, for Master Z'aanta was there, and he knew the healing of beasts. But S'warkii was four days out, perhaps five, and Linde's open wound would not survive four days with only minimal treatment for infections.

Her mind turned to Victor's Hollow, three days out, and immediately dismissed it. It was too big, too crowded, and H'aanit feared the use of beasts in the arena ― a wounded snow leopard might make too appealing an attraction to pass up, and by the time she arrived she would be tired and hard-pressed if the need came to defend her companion bodily.

But then what could she do?

The wind blew, cool and fresh, from the east ― and her eyes rose to look upon the peaks of the Frostlands. Her gut felt like lead. Twas true she was only two and a half days from Stillsnow, and there she could find Susanna, who had raised Master and taught him much of the ways of medicine. But it would be a grueling road, uphill and trudging through the snow, braving contrary winds and powerful wild beasts.

Linde made a small noise and H'aanit's eyes dropped to her friend, dismayed. It was a little mew, the sort she had made in cubhood when H'aanit had received her from that traveling fortune-teller. A sound of vulnerability and fear.

"Right," she exhaled, scratching Linde's fur as comfortingly as she could, then, against the pained roaring of her friend, lifting the leopard onto her shoulders. As she settled her weight across her frame, she shakily vowed, "Feare not, dear friend. We will maken it to Stillsnow ere long."

Or so she hoped, by Draefendi and all the wild gods of the Darkwood.

Alaic frowned at the intruder, his jaw set, then looked back down at his work.

"I'll be received," the intruder imperiously said. He was a pretty man ― his hair was oiled and perfumed, his fingers were heavy with rings, his clothes were richly coloured silk and satin.

Not that riches could disguise their lowborn speech. Alaic knew the type. Entitled, newly wealthy, usually through amoral means.

He wasn't going to get through.

The man's companion scoffed. "Let 'im in, y'big oaf." Then, to his richly-dressed companion, "Gods, is 'e simple?"

It was a common question. One Alaic heard often being asked to his face. He was beyond caring. He would never have claimed he was the smartest man in the world, but he was definitely not the dumbest, and that sufficed.

But as for their concern, Susanna had expressed no interest in dandies, no care for fops, and less time even for timewasters, so he was not going to test her. The door behind him would remain resolutely closed, and Alaic would continue carving his little wooden animal sculpture with unruffled patience and absorption. It was taking shape already ― he had carved out a neck and two ears, but the cuts were coarse, unrefined as yet.

"C'mon, then," the man said again, interrupting, a nasty smile coming to his lips, "fetch yer mistress t' me, boy."

Boy? With his thirty-one years, the word hardly fit. But Alaic did not even bother to snort. He found he often had the desired effect when he gave no acknowledgement of offense whatsoever. Lifting the carving knife, he pressed an experimental shaving off, trying to get the arch of the back just… so.

"He mus' be deaf," the other man said, dismissively. "Jus' get around 'im and knock―"

His knuckles didn't make it to the door. Instead Alaic, towering over them both, had shoved him away, as gently as he could. The man stumbled backwards down the steps, stunned.

As expected, the two men scrambled to unsheathe their swords. So Alaic let out a sigh through his nose and delicately placed both his carving knife and his wooden sculpture on the chair he had just vacated, cracked his neck this way and that, then joined them in the street.

And adopted his loosely defensive stance.

The first man lunged predictably: sword first. Alaic sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and twisted until the sword dropped to the snow-covered cobblestones.

The other man didn't try anything. Instead, they both hurried off, shouting obscenities at him. Obscenities he didn't hear, because he was back to wondering if the muzzle on his sculpture wouldn't benefit from some softening.

This happened all the time. Every day, he spent several hours by Susanna's front door, which allowed the old lady to work in peace. Every day, he shoved unwanted visitors away, gently but firmly. Susanna the Seer ― a bunch of nonsense if ever he'd heard any. But arguing as much was pointless, and anyway Alaic was not much of a talker.

He heard the crunching of snow before he heard the grunts of effort, and those he heard before the pained purring.

Raising his eyes, he nearly dropped his work, his entire mind grinded to such a halt.

H'aanit.

Her grey eyes lifted from the ground, hunched as she was under the weight of her injured leopard. She was trembling from exertion, but when her eyes met his, they conveyed a world of emotion: fear, worry, anger, fatigue… but also elated relief.

She never said a word ― he was at her side before he even realized he was moving, lifting the great beast from her back as gently as he could, and watching her nearly sag with relief. The leopard was not fighting him, which told him all he needed to know about the state of its health. It was heavy; he ignored the pang of admiration for the young huntress that echoed within him.

"Leg," she panted, sinking to her knees in the snow. "Please… Susanna…"

He didn't reply, turning away from her to stride back up to Susanna's front door, kicking it open. The old seer barely looked up from her brew at the noise or the sudden inflow of cold air. From her little laboratory, she could see everything. Alaic came in, cleared the dining table, and placed the leopard on the surface. It lay there, listless, all trace of proud, controlled danger gone.

Susanna strode forward, rolling up her sleeves. "Linde," she recognized, at once, though her vision had been growing dull, quite like her hearing. "And where there's Linde―" Her eyes lifted, looking at the front door.

H'aanit was leaning against the door jamb, looking ready to collapse. Leaving the leopard, Alaic crossed the large room in what felt like two strides rather than the dozen he usually needed, and braced his arm under hers for support.

By the time he had gently settled her into an armchair, which she did not even protest, Susanna had finished her assessment of the leopard. At his inquisitive look, she gave a grim reply: "Snare cut and twisted socket. Quite infected. A bad turn."

"Please," H'aanit breathed, looking pale. She tried to stand, but Alaic pushed her back down with a single finger on the forehead. She was so weak she could hardly fight him, and she was so tired she did not even glare at him. "Linde…"

"Worry not, dear," Susanna said, though her voice was not nearly as light as it usually was. "You've made it home. You've done your part. Now let old Susanna do hers."

H'aanit's eyes were fixed on Linde's near-lifeless form, a worry beyond words trembling in her exhausted body. But when she shifted her gaze and caught Alaic's eyes, gratitude flickered there, and a warmth of relief that seeped deep into his chest.

She was asleep by the time he returned with hot tea.

H'aanit woke a full day later, around noon. At first, she did not recognize where she was. The bed was soft, the blankets clean, and it seemed she was roused as from a cloud. A vase of dry winterblossoms sat on the windowsill, and the clean, simple air of the room felt alien to her.

The ache in her muscles came to her at the same time as the memories, and with them the renewed fear.

Linde. Oh gods of the wood.

She swung out of bed and was immediately dizzy. Rallying, she assessed her physical state. She was alive. Stiff as a board, and her muscles felt tired and bruised all the way to the bone. But she was alive.

She was barefoot, and wearing an old night chemise ― thick and stiff from too much time spent in a cupboard. Susanna's old things, perhaps. Her hair was still braided, but it was a mess, she noted, glancing into a mirror.

Absently, she hoped it was Susanna who had changed her ― and Alaic who had carried her upstairs, for the old woman's sake, though the thought of being transported like some broken thing made her heart clench with shame.

No matter. Her pride was nothing. If something had happened to Linde, she needed to know. She would not stand for another moment of anguish.

She padded to the door and slowly swung it open. The house was silent. Or rather, it was devoid of conversation, but it wasn't silent. Down a narrow flight of stairs, she could hear the conspicuous sounds of cooking: clinking and cutting, boiling and stirring, and the unmistakable sound of someone moving about without care for noise.

She made it down the stairs, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep.

Linde was curled up on a bed of blankets, her back leg in a cabbage poultice. She was breathing ― alive, her lithe stomach rising and falling in deep recovery.

The shock of relief made H'aanit weak in the knees. Exhaling shakily, she stumbled as she made for her companion.

She'd have sprawled to the floor had a firm hand not grabbed her arm to steady her.

She looked up into unfathomable brown eyes. Alaic. Reliable, silent Alaic. And although everything about him seemed calculated to inspire fear, all she felt was reassurance.

"Thanks be to thee," she whispered, knowing words were wholly insufficient.

He studied her, his expression unreadable. Then he said, his first words she'd heard from him since arriving, "The food is ready."

Her stomach growled and she chuckled. "It seemeth thou can guesse my every need. Susanna is blessed to have thee with her."

He was silent for a moment, then shook his head, as though to clear it, and motioned for her to take a seat.

"Is my granddaughter awake?" Susanna asked, peering around a crate full of potatoes. "I imagine you're hungry."

"I am," H'aanit replied, sighing. "Thou must forgive me ― I fell asleep yesterday and did not even thanke thee." Her eyes went back to Linde, who was sleeping soundly. "I have never been so gladde of my choice of destination."

"She is a strong one, Linde is," Susanna agreed. "But I hope you were in no hurry to race elsewhere, my dear." Alaic placed a bowl of warm stew in front of H'aanit that smelled of comfort and home and made her mouth water. "Linde is resting now, but she will need time to recover from that awful dislocation."

H'aanit nodded, heartsick. "I cannot thanke thee enough. I have no desire to see Linde injured further."

"At least two weeks of observation will be necessary," Susanna sternly said, as Alaic served her next, and made himself a bowl last. "And thereafter, some gentle exercise, I think."

"It shall be done," H'aanit vowed. "I will taken rooms at the inn―"

"Nonsense," Susanna barked, offended in the utmost. "Was our guest room not welcoming?"

H'aanit managed a sheepish smile. "I confesse I doe not want to intruden further."

Susanna glanced at Alaic, who remained stoically focused on each spoonful of stew, then back at H'aanit, an inscrutable look on her face. "You are not intruding, my dear. In fact, I daresay your presence shall be most refreshing."

H'aanit peered at Alaic. The bodyguard was still quiet across from her. "If Alaic believeth he can tolerate my presence." He had once been an assassin, and she had, after all, trounced him quite soundly the first time she had met Susanna. Or rather, she thought, glancing at Linde, who was still sleeping, she and Linde had.

Alaic finished his spoonful, then looked at her, his deep brown eyes assessing. Then, he shrugged. "You should stay."

"My," Susanna remarked, cheerfully, "how verbose he is today!" She leaned towards H'aanit conspiratorially. "So you see, it means you ought to remain."

And for the first time in days, H'aanit smiled, genuinely. Alaic's spoon clinked loudly against his bowl, and she glanced at him, but he was studiously focused on his meal, and did not seem to notice the satisfied grin on Susanna's face.

But even H'aanit, who did notice, wasn't sure what to make of it.

The days after that started slow. She would wake in the guest room, which was across the house from Susanna's ― separated by various storage attics ― but down the hall from Alaic's own quarters. She had not performed a full investigation, but it appeared he rose with the dawn and retired an hour before midnight, keeping even shorter nights than she did. Susanna, however, typically tended to sleep in and go to bed early, which left H'aanit plenty of time to herself.

So she had taken to watching Alaic.

The quiet man's days seemed busy: he either kept guard at the door or worked various odd jobs around the property, shoveling snow, clipping branches, running errands, chopping firewood...

For instance, she caught him chopping firewood on the second day, and was amazed at the fact that he did so in naught but a thin cotton shirt, even by frigid temperatures. H'aanit, having herself had to cut wood during her excursions, knew how grueling the task could be, and how much heat a body could generate while doing so, but there was really something to be said, she had mused over a steaming cup of tea, about watching a big, muscular man do it.

In a conversation with Tressa, Ophilia and Primrose, she'd once confessed that she had only one requirement in a man. Thinking back on those days now, she wanted to smile to herself. Tressa had misunderstood the question, Primrose had been her usual secretive self, Ophilia had been idealistic― and H'aanit had confessed to only one desire: that whomever she chose should be stronger than she was.

The others had insinuated that she would search a long time, but H'aanit had not dared admit there were men aplenty who fit the description. Indeed, women too. It seemed she had lacked the words, or perhaps she had not wanted the attention of her fellow travelers upon her for too long. Either way, she had not explained herself.

Strength was a variable, H'aanit mused, watching Alaic work, raising his axe then bringing it down with controlled force. It was a multifaceted asset. It wasn't just ability in combat, although H'aanit would be the first to agree it was its most common definition. Strength was a hundred things ― an intuition in the face of cluelessness, kindness in the face of cruelty, hope in the face of despair. Strength was leaving one's hometown in a sister's stead to perform a holy ritual. Strength was the courage to leave one's parents and friends behind in the pursuit of adventure. Strength was recognizing weaknesses in oneself and in others. Strength was braving discovery, facing the past, taunting the future. Strength was opening oneself to others when the world was nothing but betrayal.

Strength, H'aanit also thought, was having the needed eloquence to describe strength, which she did not have. It seemed when the time came to speak, especially to her fellow travelers, who were all so much more verbose and earnest and impulsive, she oft found herself tongue-tied.

But she liked them, she thought, returning her attention to her tea to avoid noticing that when Alaic breathed hard, a cloud of white fog formed in front of his mouth. She liked her friends, for that was what they were. She liked Cyrus' wisdom, despite his tendency to lecture, and she liked Alfyn's frankness, despite his embarrassing forwardness. She liked Therion and his callousness, and Olberic for his old-fashioned courtesies. She liked Ophilia's warmth and Tressa's genuine excitement, and Primrose's worldliness. She had none of those attributes, and admired them in others.

Alaic ran a hand through his sweaty hair and it stuck up at various angles. H'aanit caught herself stifling a smile. Now there was a man with even fewer manners than she did. Somehow, despite everything he had once been, that endeared him to her.

There was also the fact that he was built like a tower, all broad and muscular, with a handsome square-jawed face ― not that she was looking again.

Sighing, she returned her focus to Linde, who was napping. The injury, the shock and the stress had made her companion particularly drowsy, but Susanna had assured her this was good and healthy, for all creatures needed rest for a swift recovery.

Still, H'aanit was at a loss. She was not accustomed to staying in one place with naught to do but wait, and no Linde to speak to. However did other people do it every day? Did they not yearn for the wind on their faces and the ground swiftly vanishing under their feet?

The door opened, and in came Alaic, his arms full of firewood. He tracked snow into the house and was covered in flecks of bark and wood chips, and a thin sheen of perspiration covered his brow. Somehow, those things did not make him less appealing. A concept H'aanit noted with some reluctance.

His eyes flicked over to her, but he carried on his task, dropping the wood into the stack by the fireplace in firm, economical movements. Not graceful, this one, but able, with a precise and exacting sort of motion.

He was on his way back out the door when H'aanit realized she was following him. He noticed, but did not acknowledge. From this vantage point, she saw his cotton shirt clung to him where he had gotten warm, and that he was muscular, much more broadly so than she had first expected. He always wore a thick fur coat, which masked his true form, and H'aanit had, wrongly, she now realized, assumed he relied on his size and weight to push intruders away from Susanna's door.

She joined him by the chopping block and began to pile wood into her arms, same as him. They worked in silence, with only the crunching of snow underfoot and the laboured breathing of work to pierce the dampened sound of snow falling around them.

Then, when her arms were full, she straightened, and found he was looking at her. His own stack was perhaps half again as large as hers, and H'aanit felt an inkling of irritation. Most men, Master Z'aanta had reminded her time and again, were generally stronger than most women. H'aanit had wanted to argue, and she still remembered Master's hearty laughter at her protestations.

One cannot change the state of one's birth, Z'aanta had said, in a rare show of quiet wisdom. But it would be enough for H'aanit to be more resilient, more agile, more persistent. In many fights, such things sufficed.

It had sufficed, H'aanit mulishly recalled as they silently went back to the house, when she had needed to fight her way past Alaic several years ago. He had yielded, after all, hadn't he?

But seeing his strength now, seeing the expanse of muscle on his back, and recalling his half-hearted sword swings― Suddenly it seemed she had been robbed of a true victory.

They piled the wood onto the stack, still in silence. The pile was now comfortably high, and would last at least another few days, which was satisfying enough.

But Alaic made for the door again, so she asked, "Where art thou going?"

He paused, glancing back at her, and said, "I'm off to train."

Having moved the firewood, H'aanit had worked up a sweat, and realized she missed exerting herself. She nodded. "Could I joine thee?"

Alaic studied her. It seemed he was continually evaluating, assessing, watching. Then, averting his eyes, he said, "If you want," and continued on out the door.

She hurried after him, disappointed to see him pull on a woolen vest. He went around the house, out of sight from the street, and into a cleared area near the back of the garden wall. The ground here was trampled, the snow gone; she could see hard frozen dirt.

"Dost thou spar?" She asked, as he unlocked a storage shed and revealed a row of neat training weapons.

Alaic nodded. He picked a long spear and hefted it. "Would you like a warm-up round?"

H'aanit smiled and nodded, taking up a spear of her own. She was not nearly as handy with the spear as Master, let alone Sir Olberic, or even Tressa, but it was never a bad idea to train.

Alaic made a few experimental warm-up stretches, then calmly settled into a defensive stance. "Alright, then," he said. He had a warm, pleasant voice, unaffected and unaccented. "Ready when you are."

So he wanted her to attack. H'aanit stretched her neck this way, then that. "Art thou sure?" She asked, teasing. "T'would be a shame to knocke thee down again so soon."

Alaic's eyes changed, then, and a glint of amusement flickered in them, ever so briefly. "I like my chances better when your leopard's claws are tucked away."

Was that so? H'aanit's cheeks flushed. Did he think she had cheated, then, that first time? She got into position, feeling a familiar fire kindled inside her. "I heartily assure thee," she softly said, "that I am an able fighter in mine own right."

Alaic didn't reply, but she saw his fingers tighten on his practice spear, and now she was fairly sure the corner of his mouth had twitched upward.

She blew a strand of pale red hair out of her face, and made a first lunge, which he deflected easily. So she tried a few more, all of which were parried with hardly a flinch.

She took a step back, studied him, pacing to the side. He turned as she went, not particularly covering, so she moved back, and he dropped his guard. She leaped, and too late realized he'd dropped his guard purposely, because he suddenly repelled her in a single blow, the side of his lance pressing into her stomach and pushing her to the ground, harmlessly.

Embarrassingly.

She pushed herself back to her feet, dusting her backside, and shot him an annoyed look. He did not dignify her with even a look of triumph. She retrieved her lance, lunged more carefully this time, and was deflected.

"Dost thou ever attacken?" She asked, huffing.

Alaic shrugged a wide shoulder. "I don't want to hurt you."

She planted her spear into the frozen ground, annoyed. "What wouldst thou doe in my absence?"

He was silent for a moment, then raised his spear. As she stepped away to give him space, he began a series of careful, firm exercises.

And H'aanit realized she had grossly misjudged him.

He had once claimed to be a less-than-nothing waste of space, until Susanna had saved him from suicide. H'aanit could still recall his admission in the woods by Victor's Hollow, the dejection, the self-loathing. Everything he did now, he claimed, was in service to Susanna, for a debt yet to be repaid.

His devotion to his craft showed.

Each motion was controlled. More than that, they revealed power ― both in ability and in force. He moved with natural ease, each lunge spearing an unseen opponent mercilessly, then stepping back, breathing, and starting anew. He was well rehearsed, but mostly he was deadly.

She had seen this sort of skill before ― Sir Olberic was a natural with a lance, and many of his exercises were similar to these: strong, controlled, uncompromising. She had often marvelled at his firm, steady jabs. They were not agile, but they had a finesse of their own, the kind that promised they would find their mark if needed.

The alarming consideration haunted her, however: if this was his true level of skill, why, then, had he yielded, all those years ago?

Alaic finished a set, then stepped away from the middle of his practice yard, and began to catch his breath. She had not noticed him moving from one sequence to the next, but she realized she had been gawking, as plainly as the girl she had once been, admiring Master Z'aanta's ability with a bow.

"You don't fight with the spear, usually," Alaic said, and H'aanit startled a little.

"Nay," she admitted. "The axe and the bow aren my tools of predilection."

He nodded at her. "Then pick one."

She glanced inside the shed and hesitated. He had a collection of possible axes: broad cleavers, long spearaxes, several light hatchets, and even a slim tomahawk. She chose a hatchet, testing its weight. It was fair, heavy at the end that mattered, and it sliced the air like a whip when she twirled it.

She came to the center of his practice yard and asked, "Did Susanna aske that thou trainen? For safety?"

Alaic watched her. For the first time, it felt like he was looking beyond the surface, for he had revealed unknown depths, and she now felt he could see her own. At length, he said, "I made my own decision. Susanna was being pestered, but she would have hired someone if I had not taken the task for myself."

Something about his words made H'aanit's stomach flop like a fish. "Thy sense of duty is commendable." Would she have done the same, after the shame he'd experienced?

He merely looked at her, and now his gaze felt like a physical thing, a tangible force.

Rather than think on the matter, H'aanit averted her gaze and began to work through her own exercises. Better to focus on her body, to not think about his eyes, or his apparently deadly skill.

And the fact that she had been cheated out of a worthy victory...

She swung the axe experimentally, feeling the way her muscles worked with her. The more she focused, the less she thought about him, and soon enough she was performing a complete set, each step careful and quiet, each rustle of clothing measured, each swing potentially fatal.

By the time she finished, she had worked up a sweat and was panting. It felt good to move. It felt good to be back to her habits, odd though they might be. Linde had consumed so much of her thoughts and caused so many worries she was relishing the opportunity to return to normalcy.

She was smiling when she turned back to Alaic.

He was leaning against his storage shed, watching her, his arms crossed. H'aanit's smile faltered.

Draefendi but he was handsome. And yet, he always looked so… serious. It ought to have disturbed her. Indeed, he tended to alarm others, who feared him or derided him.

But what worried H'aanit was how comfortable she was in his quiet presence. Worse, how looking at him watching her in return made her feel… vulnerable.

Could one feel vulnerable in a good way? She wondered. It was certainly anathema to everything she had ever pursued. But knowing him now, seeing him in his element, and witnessing his ability― it all had a very strange effect on her. Her breath was not slowing down, and she felt warm, unusually so, almost feverish. She could even hear her blood pounding in her ears.

And there was also the fact that it seemed her very breasts felt heavy in her clothes.

"Are you alright?" He asked, and if he was asking, there was no question she looked unwell.

She was unsure. Now that she thought on the matter, it was certain his gaze had a destabilizing effect upon her nerves. It seemed all she could think about were his hands, his arms, and what they might feel like, and by all the gods of the wood, his eyes were still upon her, devouring.

He stepped forward.

A jolt of uncharacteristic fear seized her. Not fear for her life, which was the most worrisome part, for he looked predatory indeed. And not fear for her actions, which were to freeze like a deer in sights ― a costly mistake if her life were at risk.

But what else was she feeling, then, if not fear? What other sensation would explain the way her chest heaved, and her face felt flush, and her head felt so light? If not due to fear, then why was she feeling trapped?

"I... think I should aske Susanna," H'aanit admitted, taking a step back when he took another step forward. "Please, doe not stop on my account."

He closed the distance between them, peering down at her, which was intimidating because she was quite tall, after all, and something in his eyes flickered like a flame, ever so briefly. It had to be a flame, because she was growing warm.

She realized she was holding her breath. Was it fear, still?

Or anticipation?

"Alright," he finally said, softly, and she realized he was close enough to feel his warm breath in the cold air. It seemed to thaw her immobility and curl all the way inside her, coiling around parts of her that had no business participating in a training exercise.

How was a single whispered word enough to make her so hot and bothered? She couldn't stop looking at him. Why was she suddenly unable to speak? The last time they'd spoken, she had felt nothing. Or perhaps she had felt inclined to tease him, and be bewildered by his quiet watchfulness.

But three years had passed, after all, and he seemed… different. Not physically ― although she suddenly felt she saw him better― nor behaviourally ― although it suddenly seemed that he could make her weak with a single look...

H'aanit wondered if, perhaps, it wasn't Alaic who had changed… but herself.

"I shall returnen to the house," she murmured, and watched the way their breaths mingled in front of her face.

He didn't reply. His brown eyes studied her, as always. Was he leaning in?

She broke away before she could find out, heart pounding.

Foolish, she assured herself. He was merely concerned, just as he had been back then, accompanying her to those woods on Susanna's word, and remaining by their edge until she returned.

He watched her go. She was sure of it. She could feel his gaze on her back like a brand.

To be fair, she was uncomfortably aware of him. In all parts of her body.

And worse, H'aanit added another symptom to her list of sudden and alarming physical ailments: a certain sense of regret.

Alaic was fine.

Everything, in Alaic's world, was perfectly normal and routine. There was no concern, no strange dissatisfaction, no great misery for him to dread, and certainly nothing that kept his mind distracted.

Except, of course, the obvious.

His eyes slid to Linde, who was chewing on a sausage, while Susanna scratched her fur.

And, next to them both, the huntress.

Alaic ignored the memory of her eyes on him as he trained. He ignored the recollection of her firm, violent movements, the way her entire body danced when she practiced with an axe.

He ignored the way she had flushed so prettily under his gaze, and the way she hadn't bolted when he'd approached. People tended to bolt from him ― a product of his size, his strength and his sinister ex-assassin looks.

He especially ignored the thought of her wide hips, her long legs, her ample―

He forced his gaze away from body attributes that he wasn't thinking about at all, especially in terms of softness, silkiness or size. He was better than this. She was a guest in his mistress' house. She deserved to feel safe, and safe didn't typically involve hungry stares from men like him, no matter how reformed they were, or how desperately they were trying not to look.

Because by all the gods, he was trying not to look. He really was. But damn if she wasn't everywhere, all the time, just begging to be looked at.

It wasn't his fault. She was following him. Day after day. She exercised with him. She helped him with his chores, and sure, it was nice to have help once in a while ― not that he complained the rest of the time ― but it was difficult to go about his day and not look, not when she was so painfully, obviously there.

Still, after that disastrous first time, he had made valiant efforts not to look. He wasn't stupid, no matter what people in town might think. He knew he made her uncomfortable. He always did, he reflected, bitterly.

Gods, but he wanted to look. He was only human, and red and hot blooded, at that. And she triggered something in him that was decidedly not composed, not generous, not righteous, not gentle.

She made him hungry.

But, he reminded himself, he wasn't going to do anything. He wasn't going to do anything, and her leopard would recover, and she would leave again and he wasn't going to do or say anything that would make her uncomfortable, no matter how many hours a night he spent staring at the ceiling of his room, thinking about the fact that she was so close, right down the hall, possibly tangled in a mess of bedsheets.

He needed to calm down. Shoving his imaginings aside, he kept chopping the carrots, firmly devoted to his task.

But the inner voice kept murmuring, and she was right there, her profile illuminated by candlelight, like some legendary sylve, all beauty and pride, all wildness and innocence.

He was a damn idiot. He was no better than a stupid adolescent, impressed with a pretty face and curves that were completely wasted on women who spent their whole time away in the woods when they could be right here to be provided for, dammit.

Maybe it had been too long, he wondered, sliding the sliced carrots into the pot. How long had it been since the last time he'd been with someone? Four years? No, more like five? Well, that certainly explained his fierce attraction to her, which had gut-punched him from the very beginning. Lesser men would have gone mad. And just because he had been picturing that determined, impulsive, purposeful huntress for the past three years didn't mean he couldn't have gotten company in the meantime.

But Alaic had always been perfectly fine taking care of himself. Or so he thought.

Inexorably, his eyes slid again towards H'aanit, who was amiably chatting with Susanna. They had moved on to stemming lilyblooms, a key ingredient in Susanna's pain relieving teas. Her fingers moved nimbly, detaching the flowers from their stems with ginger ability, scarcely looking at them, and Alaic stifled a surge of foolish want.

"Twasn't all bad," she was saying. She had spent the better part of an hour detailing her journey alongside those seven other travelers. She and Susanna usually spent their evenings like this, discussing her companions and their adventures. "Their company was welcome."

Alaic had listened intently, despite himself. He knew her companions, though not well ― Therion the thief, with his cocky smirks and quick fingers; Cyrus the scholar, with his absurdly handsome looks and guileless compliments; Alfyn the apothecary, with his rugged charm and cheerful competence; and Sir Olberic the Unbending Blade, with his gallant fervour and history of extraordinary acts of bravery.

Alaic didn't like them. He preferred her female companions ― sweet Ophilia, mysterious Primrose, innocent Tressa. They made for safer topics of conversation, if Alaic's blood pressure could be trusted.

"You achieved great things together," Susanna conceded. "But it saddens me that you have since parted ways."

H'aanit shrugged, the fur lining of her vest shifting. "Parted ways," she agreed, "but we nevertheless reconvenen every year in a different city." Her eyes took on a distant look that might have been wistful. "To catchen up and reminiscen. Last year, twas Rippletide. This year, we shall meeten in Bolderfall. Three months hence."

Susanna nodded, pleasantly. "Linde should be recovered by then," she said.

H'aanit smiled gratefully, and once again Alaic felt his gut squeeze. Gods, but she had a pretty smile. It illuminated her face and changed her from a forbidding goddess of the Darkwood to a charming girl of the country. There was certainly something fae about it.

His knife slipped and he nearly cut his finger off.

This would not do, he considered, refocusing. He needed to get her out of his system. He couldn't spend another full night thinking about her presence down the hall, trying to imagine what the moonlight did to her skin.

Or what he would like to do to her skin.

"Perhaps I'll send Alaic along with you to Bolderfall," Susanna said, and Alaic was forced to return his attention to them, almost reluctantly. "The Cliftlands have herbs and dusts I will eventually have to replenish."

Now there was a pretty torture: being forced to travel with the huntress and sleep near her, with not even walls to keep him from giving suit to his dangerous ideas. He frowned at Susanna. "I can have them retrieved by courier."

Susanna waved his suggestion off as though he'd commented on the weather. "Worry not, Alaic dear. I could no sooner send you away than go without my teas." She leaned towards H'aanit, whose brows rose. "My joints, you see."

H'aanit nodded politely, though Alaic was sure she did not see the catastrophe she had just narrowly escaped.

Because now Alaic wondered if she ever bathed in rivers, and what the water looked like pearling on her skin. And if he was wondering about that, then he was fairly sure that, on the road with her, he would be tempted to find out.

"Vegetables are ready," he grunted. He needed to get out. He put his knife away, grabbed his coat, and strode towards the door.

"Where art thou going?" H'aanit asked, turning in her chair, and Alaic felt a magnetic pull that he desperately ignored. "Might I―"

"Let him go, H'aanit dear," Susanna said, shooting him a knowing smile that made Alaic angrily question his loyalty to the old witch. "He is a solitary man, and I think we've teased him enough for the nonce."

H'aanit's look of puzzlement somehow only made her prettier, which made Alaic angrier. "Teased?" She echoed.

Alaic didn't stick around to hear Susanna's explanation. The air outside was pleasantly cold, biting at his skin and reminding him to keep calm. He inhaled, trying to quiet the raging of his blood, then descended the front steps to go around the house.

Right now, he needed to hit something.

Later, when the house was asleep, he would take care of his... personal business. Hopefully that would help him get over the thought of H'aanit bathing or H'aanit smiling or H'aanit breathing ― existing, really.

He felt dangerous at the moment. His heart was pounding in his ears, his mind was a sorry mess of lewd images, and he was fairly sure that if anyone bothered him, he'd snap.

So it was only perfect that the silk-wearing ass was back, armed and in numbers.

"Tha's him!" The man called out, as his group of friends ― mercenaries? ― approached the house. "Tha's the simpleton what nearly kill't me t'other day!"

The group of six men approached, looking murderous. They entered into the garden, crushing the snowy flowerbed where Susanna had expressed the desire to plant turnips next spring. They were coming for him, armed with brand new swords and, in one case, a nasty-looking hammer.

Alaic watched them approach, thinking.

He had spent the better part of his life trying to atone for the extreme violence of his childhood.

For the most part, he had succeeded.

It was only in moments like these that he felt himself reconsidering his vow against killing.

Still, he found himself selecting a dulled sword, stifling a surge of violent satisfaction.

He was better than this, he reminded himself. He was better than his primal urges, murderous and lustful alike. Susanna had taught him to rescue himself, to reach higher, to leave behind the assassin and become a proper man, someone who not only had a whole range of emotions, but could also control the way he reacted to them. She had been like an elderly mother, despite the task the Obsidians had given him. He owed her the effort.

He hadn't been tested like this in a long time, though.

Maybe he would hurt them. Just a little.

H'aanit saw the trouble coming before Susanna could even say a word. The group outside was not making a particular effort to be quiet. The shutters on neighbouring houses were closing, as though to ward them away, and H'aanit knew it was serious.

She was on her feet in an instant, axe at the ready, and strode to the door with her heart in her throat.

"Honestly, child," Susanna called out, looking for all the world as though such assaults happened every day ― and perhaps they did ― "let them be. Alaic will handle them."

It was touching that Susanna had such faith in Alaic's ability. H'aanit, however, could not stand by and watch him be pummeled, no matter how many lickings he gave back.

By the time she reached the melee, Alaic had already dispatched one of them. H'aanit bent over the prone body of his victim, checking, and felt a pulse, faint but present.

Not for the first time, she looked on Alaic with renewed awe. He was a flurry of strikes, pushing away every assailant without spilling blood. Oh, they were getting bruised, but considering that they intended to stick him like a pin cushion, it was admirable that he was trying so very much not to kill. And succeeding.

In that moment, H'aanit hated him a little for his nobility. It always complicated things.

Reaching out, she seized the collar of the nearest intruder and pulled, sending him scrambling for balance as he fell backwards. He landed arse first on the snowy ground, and H'aanit leveled the sharp end of her axe at him.

"Begone," she growled, showing him, very steadily, how well sharpened her axe was. "Lest I give thee a very close shave."

He did not need further convincing. As he scrambled out of Susanna's yard, H'aanit turned back to the rest of the scuffle. Alaic was defending admirably, but he was still one man with a dulled blade against four with murderous intentions.

"Haven you no honour?" She called, hoping to distract at least one of them. "You aren't welcome here."

The man with the silk shirt turned, a nasty snarl on his face, and saw her axe. The leader, she thought, if his rings could be deemed a sign of wealth. He strode over to her with determination, his sword at the ready.

"Git here, bitch," he said, spittle and sweat flying off his chin.

H'aanit dodged his swing, but was unpleasantly surprised to find that his anger made him stronger. She parried his next attack, and was already on the defensive. Still, he was furious, and his moves were made predictable for it ― there was little effort on his part to disguise his intent.

She dodged and parried to the best of her ability, before seizing a gardening bucket that had filled with icemelt water and slamming it bluntly into the size of his face. Water splashed around them, freezing, but H'aanit scarcely felt it.

Now the anger in the man's eyes was beyond words. On and on he thrashed, each sword swing so powerful they rattled in H'aanit's teeth― but she parried as well as she could, and gave thanks that her bone-handle axe had been so well reinforced.

Until suddenly she was stuck against the side of the house, between a wood stack and the outer chimney, and she realized she had to strike back or face grievous wounds.

She swung, hitting her attacker with the flat of her axe rather than its edge, hoping to knock him out. He staggered, stumbling, and she freed herself from the corner where she had been trapped.

Only to run straight into Alaic's chest.

His hand reached out to steady her, and he looked down at her, wildly. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, breathlessly, then hauled back and swung her axe, hitting one of his own attackers. A glancing blow only, but enough to make the bastard drop his weapon and clutch at the cut, howling.

Now the leader was back, his sweaty silk shirt ridiculous for the weather.

"Stay close," Alaic commanded, and H'aanit felt an inkling of annoyance with him.

"I can fighten as well as thee," she grunted ― when suddenly another assailant grabbed her by the braid and yanked, throwing her to the ground with a cry.

She felt his boot kick into her stomach and a glancing blow to her arm, but she curled over and swung at his legs, forcing him to sidestep.

"Wily little bitch," the man spat, but he added nothing else because Alaic was suddenly upon him, pummeling him with sword hits, a veritable wall of violence, and H'aanit considered herself lucky his sword was dull, or else she'd have been showered in guts and blood.

She returned to the fight slightly dazed, but angry. They were two against ― she counted ― three, because one was down for the count, she had run another off, and the man she had cut was still whinging. Now the odds seemed much more palatable.

Alaic was busy with two of them, who clearly considered him the greater threat, so H'aanit turned to the third, who was looking increasingly hesitant. "Comen on, then," she purred menacingly.

The attack he gave her was half-hearted, and now that H'aanit was properly invested in the fight, he was trivial to dispatch. She bowled him over, then kicked away his weapon, and pursued him until he scampered away from the property.

She was catching her breath and ready to turn back…

When she heard Alaic grunt, his breath cut short.

Her eyes flew back to him ― between the two remaining attackers, his guard had slipped, and the hammer had hit him in the ribs.

H'aanit didn't wait to see whether there was any blood. She cried out in anger, and rushed at the hammer-wielding attacker, slamming the side of her axe against his ear. The man's head tilted sideways and he was suddenly on the ground, where she began punching him.

The silk-shirted leader grabbed her by the collar of her fur coat and pulled her off him, and though she was sure he was shouting obscenities, all H'aanit heard was her own breathing and grunting, her own words of insult.

And then, just as suddenly as he'd grabbed her, she was free, stumbling a few steps away. She turned.

Alaic had just finished knocking out the leader, using a particularly powerful blow with the pommel of his sword.

The running footsteps of a small contingent of town guards entering the courtyard was, as always, it seemed, a little late. By now, Susanna's yard was littered with moaning or unconscious men, while H'aanit and a bent-over Alaic stood over them, ready to knock them back to the ground should they get any brave ideas.

"Criminey," the head guard said, seeing the grounds, "more persistent than the usual rabble, eh, Alaic?"

Alaic was still catching his breath, but he nodded. "Aye. For all the good that did them."

The guard glanced at H'aanit, then back at Alaic. "She one of theirs, or one of yours?"

"Mine," Alaic grunted.

"Fair, then," the guard said, nodding to his men. "'Round them up, then, lads. It's a night in gaol for the lot. I imagine they'll be happy to see their escaped friends again." He smiled, for H'aanit and Alaic's benefit: "We caught runaway combattants down the street, by the way. We'll give 'em time to rethink their life decisions."

"They tried to killen us," H'aanit said, frowning.

The guard nodded. "A common enough problem for ol' Alaic, I should say. Still," the guard added, turning to Alaic fully in a fair approximation of due diligence, "would you like to press charges, sir?"

"They can go free for all I care," Alaic grunted. "Make sure they know that next time I'll have a proper weapon."

The defeated attackers ― the ones who were still conscious, at least ― blanched. H'aanit scowled at them, but added nothing while the guards dragged them off.

Then, she whirled on Alaic.

"What wilt thou doe if they should returnen?" She asked, sharply.

Alaic turned away. "Like I said. I'll have a real sword next time."

She watched him go. He was limping, favouring that side of his ribs where the hammer had struck him. Her countenance softened a little. She followed after him while he bent to collect the weapons on the ground.

"Thou art hurt."

True to form, Alaic didn't reply. H'aanit studied his profile, but he was deliberately opaque.

"They crushed thy ribs," she insisted. "I saw it."

Alaic's hand went to his side absently, but rather than respond to her statement, he said, "You should go back inside. Check on your companion."

Linde?

Linde? He was asking her to check on Linde? H'aanit shook her head in disbelief.

"Art thou mad?" She reached up to place a hand on his forehead. "Did they hit thy head? Hast thou got a fever?"

He stopped moving, and now suddenly his eyes were upon her. "I'm fine," he growled, his tone a warning. "They hit me with the blunt; I've had worse. Now go back inside."

He was angry with her. Angry! Why in the world should he be angry with her? "I will not; not until Susanna has had a look at you."

He reached out and grabbed her hand, the one she was still holding up, and used it to yank her close.

Very close.

Suddenly, their breaths were mingling and H'aanit felt his heat through her winter clothes. It seemed she was often stuck like this, nearly pressed against him.

And it was a telling betrayal that her heart was pounding in her ribcage. Could he feel it? They were certainly close enough.

But Alaic was not paying attention to her heart rate. He was angry. "I'm fine," he growled. "Mind your own business."

It was difficult to mind her own business when he was right there, so close that his heaving chest was almost brushing against hers. "I meant merely to help―"

"You got involved in a fight that wasn't yours," Alaic said, softly, menacingly. "You could have been seriously hurt. I'm used to it, you're not. I was handling it."

"Indeed," H'aanit said, deadpan, aware that she was channeling Therion's own brand of sarcasm. "Six against one seemed a perfectly fair fight."

Something flickered in Alaic's deep brown eyes. Something she saw because she was so close she could see it as clearly as the moon. A single flash of something wild, violent, desperately contained. Something that made her breath hitch.

She knew that hunger. It echoed inside of her like a gong.

Did Alaic see the light of recognition in her eyes? Was that why he suddenly averted his own gaze?

She was about to say something when he released her, turning away. His sudden departure for the shed made her stumble backwards.

"Don't do it again," he firmly said.

H'aanit scowled, unable to explain why his dismissal made her feel so strangely bereft. She stomped back to the house, wondering whether this was what Master had meant when he'd told her men were stubborn fools.

It had to be, she raged. Because why else did her blood pound so loudly in her ears?

Alaic was in trouble.

He was in pain, he was enraged, and he was losing his usual firm grip on sanity.

He locked the weapons he had into the garden shed, his hands trembling. Part of it was the rush of battle leaving him, he knew. Another part was fear for himself, Susanna and H'aanit. Mostly H'aanit.

A non-negligible part of it was raw fury that they had been attacked and that the intruders had dared lay a finger on her. It took everything he had not to stalk over to the town gaol and dismember a man or two.

Not that he was going to. He was the picture of calm.

Except when H'aanit looked at him with those eyes, from so close he could see each of her lashes. Full of fear, or something like it.

Leaning his forehead against the wood paneling of the shed, Alaic let out a long breath. Everything hurt. His pride, his head, his neck, his shoulders, his back, his ribs ― gods be damned but that hammer blow had hurt…

And a part of his anatomy that had been no use at all in the fight hurt too, for other reasons.

It wasn't his fault, though. H'aanit had been right there. Right there, alive, unharmed, mostly, and she was still breathless and flushed from battle, her hair was a wild mess, and she had expressed concern for him.

What was he supposed to do?

Not pull her in close and consider kissing her, for one. Shoo her off, instead. He was fairly sure that was the wisest thing to do. Who knew what would have happened if he'd held her close one more moment?

It wasn't easy to do, though. H'aanit's sense of self-preservation seemed rather poorly trained, for a huntress. Did she not see the danger in him? Did she not sense the madness boiling inside, the need, the want? Hell, if Alaic hadn't known any better, he'd have imagined she was doing it on purpose, taunting him with those little breath hitches, those expressions of concern…

The more she followed him around, getting into his fights and helping with his chores, the less control he would have.

It wasn't his fault, he told himself again, insistently. He was helpless when it came to H'aanit of S'warkii. He had been helpless from the first, and not only because Susanna had warned him not to harm hunters of the Darkwood. H'aanit had been so obviously that upon approaching him, three years ago, with her furs and her giant leopard and her wildness.

She had tried to provoke him, as all the other visitors did, and blast him but he'd wanted to know if she fought as well as she spoke, if she moved as well as her feline companion did. And he'd earned himself a nice tumble into the snow for it that still made him smile ruefully, three years later.

She was fierce, it was true, and earnest, in her own quiet way. It was easy to like her, beyond her looks ― not that he could discount their potent effect on him.

And she had no idea, clearly, that she looked... astonishing. Most beautiful women did. It was impossible not to know, when so many men made it their business to shout it at them.

Had H'aanit spent so much time in the woods, on her own lonesome journeys, that she had grown up completely unaware of her beauty? Of the fact that her hair looked like rose gold, that her lashes were impossibly long, that her mouth had perfect heart-shaped lips? Did she know how her cheeks flushed in the cold? Did she know her waist flared into hips no man should have in sight while he tried to hunt?

She had to be unaware. When she had closed in on him, after returning from the Whitewood with that sheaf of herb-of-grace, and thanked him for his concern― by all the gods, why had he even waited for her then? He was pathetic ― she had scarcely looked flirtatious. She'd been honest, gracious, if a little amused.

He had hurried away, tongue-tied, and been enraptured ever since.

And now this. This foolish business with the thugs.

In truth, he was grateful. Without her, there was little doubt he'd have sustained more injuries than a painful bruise to the ribs. But he still found himself wishing she hadn't joined in. There was no describing the way he'd felt, seeing her cornered against the house wall, or curled under the boots of his attackers.

And there was no justification for the rage that had taken over. Stifling the urge to kill had taken every ounce of his self-control.

She was dangerous for him. By being worthy of saving, she put his entire life into jeopardy.

And still. Alaic felt the corner of his lips rise, remembering the fierce aggression on her face, the thoughtless way she'd joined him, because of course she would. How fearless she had been ― how glorious her fighting.

It did not make it any easier to stop wanting her, damn it all.

Willing himself to get it together, Alaic pulled away from the shed and considered his options.

For one, he could pretend everything was perfectly fine and that he didn't secretly fantasize about moving against her ― inside her. This would involve a lot of dissembling and effort on his part, and would likely lead to a ridiculous amount of frustration and self-care at night, when no one would see or hear. Not to mention the fact that it would go on for another week, at least.

For two, he could blatantly tell the huntress he wanted to have her in every way a man could, and then face inevitable rejection. Not to mention the horror in her eyes at the very possibility, because women tended to run when grumpy ex-assassins admitted they wanted them.

Alaic sighed. Right.

Option one, then.

Damn it all.

H'aanit was cold.

Swinging that bucket of ice water at her opponent had not been her best idea. She shivered and scowled. Susanna had tisked very reprovingly at the sight of her stained and soaked clothes, and clucked her tongue once she heard the full tale. She had told her, she had said, that Alaic could handle it.

But H'aanit begged to differ. She had warned Susanna that Alaic was hurt, that his ribs were badly bruised, if not cracked. The old seer had shaken her head and muttered something about children that H'aanit pretended not to hear.

And then Alaic… Tall, broad, handsome Alaic walked in, tracking snow into the house. He bent over, removed his boots, only wincing a little. And Susanna accused him of overexerting himself to impress a pretty girl, an accusation he took with surprising calm.

In fact, H'aanit realized, he was… upsettingly calm. Completely unruffled. His expression, which had seemed so wild and dangerous only moments before, was back to its usual impassiveness. His gaze skipped over her as though she weren't there.

Which was how H'aanit concluded he truly was angry with her.

Was it her fault? She worried. Could he have truly handled six armed men alone? And if so, had her presence really been the distraction that had led to his injury?

Susanna had urged her to get a change of clothes and draw herself a bath while she saw to Alaic, but H'aanit hesitated. Her primary urge was to apologize, to have all the truths out immediately.

Except then Alaic removed his coat and his shirt in rough, jerking motions.

And H'aanit saw him and momentarily forgot what she wanted.

Gods above, he was perfect. All thick muscles, all taut skin and broad expanses. The kind of chest even Primrose would have sighed about, and Primrose was as blasé as could be where men were concerned.

If not for that bruise.

It was already ugly and purpling, the size of a hand, over the left side of his ribs. Draefendi, that must have hurt, H'aanit winced. If she had truly led to that injury by interfering, then she was perhaps in dire need of the scolding neither Susanna nor Alaic were giving her.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, hesitant, then relented. Ashamed, she turned on her heel and headed for the stairs.

Linde was dozing right there, her injured leg curled under her. She would need exercise to get back into running, after this, but every day she seemed to be fairing better and better. H'aanit stifled a new surge of guilt. She had relied on her hosts for help, and then possibly caused them more trouble.

She scratched Linde's head, then strode up the stairs, heart in turmoil.

Susanna was right, at least. She did need a warm bath and a change of clothes. Perhaps a good night's sleep would be useful ― in the morning she would make her formal apologies and declare she would remove to the inn, where she would no longer impede on their generosity and hospitality.

Downstairs, her two hosts were having an inaudible conversation, Susanna's tired voice clearly distinguishable from Alaic's deep tones. There was no way to explain the way his voice managed to make her insides squeeze, even when she couldn't hear his words. He softly rumbled into the timbers of the house as well as her bones.

She shook herself out of it. She would examine the thoughts later, once she was safely ensconced in bed.

Her cheeks flushed. Was that wise?

A fleeting image of Alaic ― broad, strong, barely controlled Alaic ― came into her mind, moving over her, and she felt her lungs expand inside her chest like she was drowning.

She knew the urge that struck her. She had a certain expertise in animal instincts, after all.

She took a deep breath. No. She was being ridiculous. Enough.

Bath. Bath. Bath. Not Alaic.

She collected her belongings, then headed into the bathroom, unsure. She had spent a week here without using the tub. She was accustomed to using washbasins and cloths, or heating her own buckets of water, or swimming in rivers. Big bathtubs, such as the one Susanna owned, with its own heater and pump, were designs her fellow travelers were most likely better able to handle.

And H'aanit still had not worked out the details of operating such contraptions. S'warkii didn't have them.

Leaving the door open, she placed her change of clothes in the corner, then paused, uncertainty making her waver. There were knobs and handles and levers, and a small gauge ― for temperature?

Not for the first time, she missed being able to rely on Cyrus' ingeniousness or Alfyn's resourcefulness. Not to mention Ophilia or Tressa no doubt used these bathing contraptions regularly.

Resolutely, H'aanit muttered to herself to get a grip. She was no dumber than them. It couldn't be that difficult. She'd seen it done once or twice, whenever they stopped at inns, and she was no idiot. She could figure it out.

Her hand went for the pump, and she hesitated.

"Need help?"

Alaic's deep voice nearly made her leap out of her skin.

Gods above― she hadn't heard him climb the stairs. How had he moved so quietly?

She turned and was dismayed to see he had not put his shirt back on. Instead, Susanna had apparently slathered a strange gelatinous substance on his bruise. Not that it diminished the splendour of the rest of him.

H'aanit realized she was looking at his chest again. Guiltily, her eyes lifted to Alaic's impassive expression, though his brow did twitch a little in question.

What had he asked?

Oh, right. Help. Help with the tub. Not help with her shallow breathing or that unbelievable ache inside of her. Help with the tub.

"I― yes, I…"

He pushed past her without another word, and H'aanit watched, trying to ignore how much smaller the bathroom felt when he was in it with her, how unbelievably daunting his presence was, and how suddenly weighty his silence could be.

The expanse of his back was, perhaps, more impressive than his chest. Damn him. Musculature rippled under his skin, dancing as he leaned towards the heater, the triceps in his arm sliding ever so slightly as he turned a pressure valve, then straightened.

"You need to open the water access, here," he said, motioning to the dented knob he had just turned a few times. "It's the main pipe from the boiler downstairs. The hot and cold water will mix once you press here." He motioned to a shutter valve, which clanked inside the wall when he pushed it slightly to the right. "Don't overdo it, or you'll boil. Afterwards, all you need to do is fill the bath." He gestured to the sturdy pump handle at the edge of the long bathtub.

H'aanit was still tongue-tied. He had turned towards her, and she was once again faced, up close, with an expanse of broad chest that would have put Sir Olberic's to shame. Probably. She certainly did not remember Sir Olberic making such an impression, at least.

"Thanke thee," she murmured, to the chest, wondering whether the hot water in the pipes would be enough to explain the heat under her skin.

Alaic was silent. H'aanit risked looking up at him, determined not to be nervous. He was peering down at her, impossibly close.

She inhaled. "I―"

"Alaic!"

Susanna. H'aanit immediately swallowed back whatever it was she had been about to say, wondering whether that was for the best or for the worst. The seer woman's voice carried through the house, shriller than her old lungs would otherwise suggest.

Alaic sighed out his nose. He pushed past H'aanit, leaning into the hallway. "Yes, mistress?" He called, without shouting, and once again H'aanit noted the way he rumbled into her very bones.

"I'm going to bed," Susanna called, from the end of the hallway. H'aanit wasn't sure whether she heard a note of amusement or deadpan annoyance in her voice. Either way, the implied warning was clear: don't bother me. "I've had two cups of softsleep and I'll be out like a log," she added, as H'aanit heard the floorboards cracking as she walked.

"Yes, mistress," Alaic replied.

"Tell H'aanit good night for me," the old woman added, and Alaic glanced back into the bathroom, brow raised, so that H'aanit's blood surged.

"Good night, Susanna," she replied, loudly, from within the bathroom, wondering why she felt so very flushed.

The old woman made a non-verbal sound of acknowledgement, and then her footsteps, over creaky floorboards, began to grow distant as she left the guest side of the house. She would sleep until at least the ninth hour tomorrow. Perhaps the tenth, if those two cups of softsleep tea had been consumed in truth.

Which left both Alaic and H'aanit alone.

Not that H'aanit cared.

He hadn't moved, so H'aanit did the only thing she could. She turned to the bath handle and prepared to pump. One pump, then two, and she began to hear the gurgling of water in the pipes, the pump pressure calling it forth from the cellar. The first gush of hot water splashed into the tub and H'aanit felt a strange twinge of triumph that it was working.

She was about to pump more when she felt him behind her.

His hand appeared over hers, dwarfing it. Firmly, he grabbed the handle and helped her along, so that the effort was divided.

She wanted to feel grateful. Instead, all she felt was everything else. The heat of his body, the smell of sweat and skin and unguent, the tantalizing brush of his bare chest against her shoulder, the calm exhalation of his breath against her ear―

The answering flood between her legs.

Oh, ye gods.

She was nearly paralyzed with the dawning realization that her body had a mind of its own, all movement now pure automation. She certainly did not mean to feel blood rushing through her veins, to have her heart pounding so hard against her ribcage, to feel any throbbing ache inside, or even to know her nipples were puckering inside her shirt. But they did, and she was suddenly awash with a rush of want so keen it took all her efforts to remain quiet, to see nothing except his hand over hers, pushing down, then releasing, then pushing down again.

The tub was soon full of steaming water, and H'aanit thought, perhaps, her torture was at an end.

Except then he released her hand, straightened… and didn't move away. She could still feel him, unbearably close, unmistakably there, not physically touching her anymore, but still so clearly present that there was no pretending otherwise. Her ears were pounding in time with her heart, she was so still. And she realized she was waiting. Afraid to move, afraid to scare him off.

Or was she the one who ought to be scared?

After what seemed like an eternity, he lifted her braid, gently. She felt the gentle tug against her scalp, and a spike of emptiness clenched inside of her. He untied the ribbon at its end, then began slowly working his way up the braid, untangling each strand slowly, and H'aanit let him― she let him, her breath shallow, because no man had ever taken the time to touch her hair so gently. Ophilia and Primrose had both enjoyed braiding her hair, but this… this was altogether different.

When his fingers reached the top, near her nape, they lingered, reaching in to rub at her scalp, lightly, gently, excruciatingly softly.

H'aanit had not been touched this gently in… oh. Years. Years? Yes, she mused, that had to be right. And it was nice. More than nice, because all she could think about was how warm he felt, how comforting he was, and how, perhaps, if he was undoing her braid so kindly, then maybe he wasn't angry with her at all, and maybe he would forgive her for interfering, and perhaps she would put this behind her. Go back to sparring and chores and silent evenings by the fireplace.

It would be nice.

She closed her eyes, sighing contentedly.

His fingers froze. Her eyes snapped open, and she realized he'd heard her, that she had lost that ever so tiny ounce of control― that he was about to retreat.

She didn't want him to go. She wanted him near. It was a petulant thought, one she might have expected from Tressa, perhaps. But there it was.

So, before he moved away, she did the only thing that she could. She leaned back against him completely, pressing against his chest.

Not unlike a cat in heat, she realized. But he irradiated so much heat too. He was so firm. And she was warm inside, and growing soft.

He wasn't growing soft, though. That was not a sword pommel pushing against her backside.

H'aanit was not as experienced as Primrose, fair. But she knew enough. And that firm bulge, at least, was gratifying.

Thank the gods of the wood. It was good to know she wasn't alone.

She made a tiny sound, halfway between a gasp and a sigh, and bucked against him, pushing, willing him to acknowledge, hoping he wouldn't deny the truth.

He did not disappoint.

With a stifled groan, his hands came around her waist, pulling her in more, and she felt his hard erection press against her arse insistently, pushing, as though he wanted to ignore their clothes.

And then he made another noise. A noise that had nothing to do with want.

Damn. His ribs.

Alaic froze with a grunt and released her.

When she turned, startled, he was silently cursing, his hand over his bruised ribs, where the unguent had rubbed off on H'aanit's clothes. It was an ugly and angry injury, and H'aanit once again felt a surge of guilt. She had forgotten, damn her, and now perhaps made things worse.

"Forgive me―"

Alaic raised his hand, silencing her. "No," he grumbled. "I'm sorry." He was looking at her, eyes dark, then looked away and said, "Serves me right, for rutting against a guest like some brute. I'll― I'll leave you alone. I'm sorry."

"Thou wilt do no such thing," H'aanit said, rushing to cut him off before he could exit the room. She shut the door behind her and pressed her back against it, as though to prevent him bodily from leaving. "Thou art injured. The bath should be thine."

He loomed over her, eyes dark, and when he studied her there was a violence in his gaze that ought to have alarmed her, but instead merely made her weak in the knees.

"Careful, huntress," he warned, almost growling. "You know what I am."

He meant assassin. H'aanit jutted her chin up at him in challenge. "Injured?"

"Dangerous," he corrected her. Now his eyes raked over her hungrily. "If you won't let me past you, I'll be crossing a different threshold."

A treacherous shiver ran down her spine. "Thou wouldst hurten me?" She asked. Skeptically. Hopefully.

"Depends on how good you are," Alaic whispered.

"We could sharen the bath," she whispered in return.

Much later, once they lay in bed, her hand lifted, brushed his hair. Her fingers were raking over his scalp in a distractingly appeasing way.

After a long moment, he heard her whisper, "I shall missen you."

Damn ― were they talking about separation already? "I'm not going anywhere just yet."

"I must go back to S'warkii eventually."

"Fine," he muttered, closing his eyes and nuzzling a warm, round breast.

She was silent for a long moment.

"I could returnen. Susanna would liken that."

Annoyed, he said, "Really? You had to bring her up while we're like this?"

She shot him a fiendish little smile, and Alaic felt his heart swell. Uncharacteristically.

And then the pain in his rib reminded him not to laugh.

"Did you sleep well?" Susanna asked, as she entered the kitchen, yawning.

It was ten in the morning. H'aanit looked up from the pastries she was preparing, hoping the flush on her cheeks didn't give her away. By the fireplace, Alaic was carving a little wooden statuette, looking for all the world as though he weren't equally guilty. He didn't even look up.

"I― yes," H'aanit replied, smiling at her host. "I did." Better than she had in years.

A purr sounded, and Susanna turned to Linde, who had limped over to her. "Oh, and look at you, darling Linde, it seems you're well on your way to recovery!"

Linde rubbed her big head against the old woman's leg, as cuddly as a kitten.

"She'll be fit as a fiddle by next month, and no mistake," Susanna determined, scratching the snow leopard behind the ears. "It's almost a shame― I liked having female company."

Alaic lifted his head to stare, and Susanna waved him off.

"Don't you mind my ramblings, Alaic dear. You're as talkative as a doorknob, but I wouldn't exchange you for the world."

H'aanit knew she was blushing now. "I could visit."

Susanna turned to her, blinking, and clasped her hands together. "Oh, my. That would make this old woman very happy." Her eyes were keen, and when she smiled there was an edge of knowing satisfaction in it. "But whatever convinced you?"

H'aanit hesitated. "Well― uh―"

"Never you mind," Susanna said, lifting a hand to stop her. "Pretend I never asked― at my age, I should know better than to interrogate gift horses." She clapped her hands together and looked down at H'aanit's work ― the pastry dough and the flour, and her hands kneading it. "You know what would make this delicacy even better? I have a jar of roseplum jam in my larder. Won't be a moment."

Susanna puttered away, and Linde curled up next to Alaic, by the hearth. But the bodyguard wasn't carving anymore. He was looking at H'aanit with a gaze that burned almost as much as the fire.

H'aanit flushed. "No need to looken at me thus," she muttered, turning back to her work.

"I disagree," Alaic said. She heard a smile in his voice. "If you come back often enough, maybe I'll court you."

H'aanit's chest squeezed with happiness. "Only if thou wishest."

"Oh," Alaic said, as Susanna's steps were heard returning from the larder, "I promise you, huntress. You can't make me do something I don't want to do."

H'aanit shot him a glare, but he schooled the smile off his face by the time Susanna was back, and H'aanit was forced to contend with the way her insides flopped over all on her own.

"I could make more," Susanna said, placing the jar on the table. "If you'd like to bring some for your friends when you visit Bolderfall."

It was a sweet intention. H'aanit smiled. "Only if it isn't too much of a burden."

"Nonsense," Susanna said. "I have nothing better to do with my time, do I? At least until one or both of you decide to give me great-grandchildren." She shot Alaic a small glare, which the bodyguard ignored with supreme indifference.

H'aanit, though, found herself tongue-tied.

A situation Susanna did not alleviate when she turned… and winked.

"Susanna―"

"Don't," Alaic said, without turning around. He was meticulously carving whiskers into his wooden figurine. It looked a lot like a leopard. "Don't give her ammunition. You can leave but I can't."

"Please," Susanna scoffed, heading for her large armchair. "They don't call me the Seer for my rheumy peepers." She sighed and reached down to pet Linde, who began to purr. "Alas, Linde, I am outnumbered. You must be my ally now."

H'aanit saw the confusion on Linde's face, and couldn't hold in a laugh. Susanna chuckled too.

There was a gentle look in Alaic's eyes ― not quite a smile, but close enough. He cast it her way for the briefest instant.

And in that moment, H'aanit knew everything would be alright.