Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.
A/N: I apologize for the delayed update. I experienced some serious writer's block. I hope you all enjoy!
Chapter Ten: Temporary
I've begun bits of a journal from papers present on the desk in the hospice. I took them when we made our leave, more indiscreet than I should have been.
I am clean, but far from rested. The entirety of the night we arrived comprised of Talon's injuries and Valor's snide comments. The morning came harshly and without delay, breaking the horizon in a very pale but powerful display. Yet another sum of hours without sleep. The effects lay like bruises beneath my eyes.
I further treat the gash across my arm, wrapping it securely. Their bandages are so odd; they nearly itch. There hasn't been any bleeding, which sets my concerns aside. It's healing nicely. As soon as I'm capable, I send a messenger bird to Jarvan. Valor and I had argued briefly earlier. He says I neglect our teamwork and health just to let a pompous prince know I'm alive. If I hadn't sent him off, we may be in a more ideal situation. He was right, of course. But there are instances where I trust his abilities and his alone. There would be no interception of my message with Valor. Too many instances where I've watched a normal messenger be shot out of the sky. He's more capable than that. More trustworthy.
He brought back a letter from Jarvan IV, tucked away in his armor. I'll read it later.
The clothes provided are that of a hunter's. The leather is comfortable, though more revealing than I'd prefer. It lacks sleeves, and the high neck is a bit constricting. The waist is higher than I would care for. The pants are long and tight against the skin, durable for mountainous terrain. The boots are undoubtedly my favorite part. The north is widely known for its quality in boots. This is undoubtedly a casual and efficient style in the Capital of Freljord. Hunting? Yes. Assassinations? No.
I spend the rest of daybreak freshening my appearance. I remove the hair beneath my arms as well as anything that is slight over my face. I adjust the precision of my eyebrows, though I must thank my mother for a decent arch. I have always refused to remove anything from my arms or legs. It assists the senses necessary for my profession, and I have so light of hair that it goes unnoticed.
Even so, I doubt Avarosian culture cares. But the Demacian in me urges a cleaner, more appropriate disposition out of respect. I see how Garen winces at me when I return from elongated operations, unable to maintain an acceptable physical appearance. It involves social standing and basic politeness. To look upon royalty without an effort to seem hygienically composed is insulting. The rules of Demacian nobility have given me a terrible reputation among many of the houses, having presented myself immediately upon return from months abroad. It is comforting to know that Jarvan couldn't care less.
It is morning when Ashe requests my presence. The guard informed me that I'd be seen days sooner than anticipated. The Queen had unpredicted issues to attend to, and would rather not have me wait. I was escorted without Valor, left to wonder if Talon had finally returned to Noxus. High hopes, I suppose. Me being optimistic. I think about his body hanging over that edge. How quickly he'd fall straight out of my life and to his death. But the thought doesn't please me, as it should. No, it bothers me. All of those people he's murdered. The scouts and messengers. I only blame myself now. I don't understand why.
The meeting is informal, far from anything Demacian or Piltovian. It is not a joining of ten advisors and a council, with seven voices bickering. Nor does it involve a table or useless, fake pleasantries. It is simply Ashe, beside Tryndamere, and a single factotum to take note of the appeal. It's far more practical, though I am fully aware that it was rushed.
I feel no anxiousness as I stand before them. I have done this many times before, in front of far more people. I part my lips to speak, chapped, split, and raw from the cold. The room is warm. My skin is heated.
"Majesties of the Kingdom of Freljord. I humbly appeal for your audience." I bow, rigid into my introduction. Head throbbing still, but not as much. Ashe has her eyes upon me like gemstones, reflective in their focus. She wears something far more royal than what I'm accustomed to. It's off-putting.
"It is allowed." Her voice is not hostile. She is not offensive or haughty. Her king is beside her, lax in his massive posture. His hands are always in fists, fingers curled.
Their thrones interest me. Carved of stone or mineral, matching the mountainside. Solid blocks of heavy burden, decorated with Avarosian patterns to appear sightly.
I straighten out and speak, recalling the letter of request. The one I'd lost to the Abyss in my pack. The one I read once, perhaps even twice. It had slipped my mind until now. "As a messenger of the Demacian council, I shall speak on their behalf, as instructed. I have ventured from the borders of my homeland with the intention of proposing an alliance, all and any benefits provided to Rakelstake. As the founders and rulers of this advanced, civilized capital, King Jarvan III humbly requests the aid of the Avarosian in a time of need."
I'm winging it.
But I see their faces, suddenly judgmental. Immediately disinterested. Ashe has a sudden tension in her cheekbones, in sync with her rage. I see her clenched jaw. I recall Talon, and then Caleb. My mind wanders as I continue to listen. They've made up their mind. I see that clearly. No matter what I say, they will not hear me, nor my king. This was pointless.
"For what purpose?" Tryndamere inquires boredly, weight shifted to his right. He sits in that throne so uncomfortably. He's meant for battle. You can see it in his eyes.
"Demacia requires greater numbers to gain the upper hand in our war," I declare it. "We intend to vanquish the Noxian threat from our lands, as well as preserve your own."
"A late, but catching proposal. What assets do you offer in reference to my people?" She is being respectful, feigning interest. Making the factotum work to write the documentation. But the word 'late' rolls from her tongue unkindly, wrapped in distaste.
"Aid in the quarrels of Freljord, ready upon request. The development of a navigated and sustained trade route, which involve gracious imports, as well as exports. An increase in economic structure from the settlement of Demacian goods and services. And defense against the threats of your farther territories. I have witnessed, firsthand, the destruction of Avarosian strongholds and villages. They will have the necessary protection of well-trained Demacian guards, stationed to reside there."
A slight silence falls upon the hall. The throne room is filled with contemplation, falsified as though necessary. They do not move. Her hands are folded lightly in her lap, expression vacant of any emotion. Tryndamere is bored. Her behavior does not surprise me. A figure of importance must have principle and control. I commend it.
"The Freljord refuses Demacia's proposition." Damn it. I saw it coming, and yet my curiosity overwhelms me. I maintain a level tone, mimicking the countenance of royalty. I must know.
"May the council inquire as to why?" I truly must.
"Your king seeks out aid simply because he has abused Piltover's resources. Now they desire neutrality due to dwindling numbers. We will not tolerate the same neglect and mistreatment. Our committed armies thrive. Enough to fulfill the positions of aid which Demacia proposes. Our ill-will towards Noxus is minuscule in comparison to the conflict and distrust between our nations. Demacia's neutrality during the Barbarian Pacification Campaigns made their standing all too clear. Their actions, even more so."
I know what she speaks of. I am not daft. But I must clarify. The council needs the harsh criticisms of their desired allies. Because she's right. Piltover was bullied into our war, and in turn they were decimated and left with only half of their battle-capable population. When Vi came to see me, early in my recovery, I could see the conflict in her expression. The mourning of every Piltovian.
"The council would like those actions specified."
"The murder and abuse of innocent refugees, seeking bloodless land. The blame put upon Avarosian government despite our lack of wrongdoings. The refusal to assist in a dispute that had impacted both Avarosian and Demacian territories. Finally, the lack of action in halting the threat which had burdened so many, with or without Avarosian militia," she responds so clearly. Her voice is as cold as the ice that surrounds her lands. Her hands are tense with anger, set upon the sides of her throne.
A lack of action. How ironic.
Tryndamere straightens, observing me in a way I find uncomfortable. He reminds me of Jarvan IV in so many ways. And yet I can name no similarities.
He speaks, voice a low boom that ripples through the stiffened air. "The Avarosian are a society built upon mature, peaceful methods of alliance. Demacia has shown us nothing but childish behavior, seen in the tantrums of your prince, and violence, present in the bloodshed by your king."
Jarvan IV's tantrums. It takes everything in me not to scoff out a dry laugh.
"Has Demacia never proven themselves to the Avarosian? The defense of Piltover? Their place and side within the Rune wars?" I will argue. I always argue. And yet so often do I find myself defending what people call hypocrisy. Their words mimic Talon's, just elongated and more detailed.
"Not in the slightest," she says so with a suddenly hostility. Not pointed, but broad.
Tryndamere continues on as an extension of her voice. "Hypocrisy, delusion, egotistical action, selfish intent, wrongful judgement, useless death. All present within any 'decent' political maneuver, which left Demacia superior. We witnessed the innocent of Noxus die simply for living. Women beaten and raped, men severed limb from limb, children impaled...all at the hands of Demacian militia. Demacian law considered it justified, simply because they were Noxian, living in a time of war."
This is foreign to me. This can't be true. The men under Garen and Jarvan IV are the very few unquestionable loyalists of our Capital. They obey orders as though drones, born for that purpose, following a format based upon their generals. War was atrocious. Demacia is a city-state which sacrifices its morals and beliefs to purify the wrongdoings of the unjust. That's the excuse they would give. Their only response. But women, children...caught within the conflict. We are far better than that. Our invasion into Noxus had been unsuccessful. I'd not been there. I'd been scouting outer territories. So I assume that I will never know the truth. The actual, legitimate, truth.
Ashe parts her lips, inhaling the brief chill that moves the air from the massive window. "The audacity your council has to request aid from an abused rival is astonishing. Your king is a child at play with soldiers and swords, unknowing of the cuts upon his hands. We do not toy with children, dear Quinn, nor his imaginary empire."
Children...children.
The factotum is writing away. I see him from the corner of my eye.
"Then I find my business within the Kingdom of Freljord concluded. I thank you for seeing me so early into my arrival." I express the slightest of smiles, bending respectfully and stepping back. My hand is set upon my heart, the other at the arch of my back. The leather of these clothes is stiff.
"As we were left to fend for ourselves, Demacia shall fight alone. Go in peace, scout. You show us a respect we will surely never have from your people again." He raises a dismissive hand, a politeness present that I'd never thought him to have. But he has not complimented me, nor my behavior. There is no praise in what he discloses. I am insulted by a hidden truth. Or perhaps I am insulted by blatant lies.
I have so many questions. And yet, I have no one to ask.
He won't leave my side. It's disconcerting on many levels of personal space. He'd been waiting outside of the throne room, as though I'd only been inside for five minutes. To think I'd assumed Talon gone. How foolish of me.
Valor is in my room, awaiting my return. And as we depart from my meeting, we pass that man. The one who'd been pestering Ashe, stepping on her heels the night before. The Noxian diplomat. He stares, not obviously, and exposes something akin to observation in his countenance. A brief movement, face tilted barely in our direction as he walks to the throne. A younger gentleman, handsome, refined, with a rose-like tattoo crawling up his neck. Elongated eye contact. Obsidian so dark I cannot define his pupils. I'm forced to break it, turning away from the unwanted exchange. Talon has a sudden grip on my arm, pulling me forward at a quicker pace. His hand feels odd. It's second nature to develop a sense of danger within close proximity. I nearly hit him.
We make haste to my guest room. It bothers me that he'd led the way, entirely knowing of where I'd intended to sleep. The guard looks at me, skeptical. But I smile, assuring him unlike some forced hostage, and he opens it in greeting. Talon throws a nasty glare, either offended or just in a particular mood. Valor's head perks at the sound of opening doors. He's laying upon the bed, nestled comfortably. He's up, swiftly, staring down our company. Feathers standing, neck rigid.
I have Valor hovering over one shoulder, and now I have Talon seeming to loom over the other. In between their constricting behavior, they exchange looks of distaste or intolerance of one another. It seems endless, ranging from implied insults translated through my conversation to attempted swipes of aggression. I've never seen a subtle quarrel last so long. Nor have I known Valor to acknowledge anyone so...thoroughly.
The bird looks to me, expectant. He cocks his head, impatient. He wants to know how it'd gone. He refuses to attend these sorts of diplomatic meetings. Simply because he cannot stand the polite terms and stillness of people he hardly knows. Valor likes Ashe, which is unusual, but his fidgeting prevents good behavior as witness to royalty. I've tried, really.
"It didn't take," I say.
Demacia will fight alone. The words are engrained into my memory. A phrase I will never forget. Valor voices his displeasure. Multiple inquiries. Offense and outrage. He's exposing how I feel, and I find how similar we've become endearing. I remember our youth. Smaller wings, softer eyes. I'd blinked through our progress. I hardly recognize myself, much less him.
"They had no intentions of an alliance." Talon speaks, earning our attention. We've been here for perhaps a single day and already I'd like to curl up and sleep.
"It was a high probability. It holds no impact over my reputation." I admit it because it's true. Despite the warm relationship I have with Ashe, her blatant dislike for Demacian politics is obvious in her gross sneers that accompany the topic. The woman rules endless miles of territory, yet she still makes childish gagging noises when discussing Jarvan IV. I knew she'd deny it, deep down. And yet I came here, hopeful, simply because I was ordered to do so. Disappointment is not what bothers me.
"A fact." Talon responds, monotonous. He's rubbing at the arrow wound in his shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was doing so. He should have treated it. I snatch the journals on my desk, throwing them upon the bed. My head in throbbing yet again. I adjusted my headpiece, hoping it will alleviate the pressure. Valor leaps into the sheets, wings spread, hogging pillows. He nearly knocks over a bowl of roasted seeds on the nightstand.
"Based on?" I ask because I have no choice not to. Maybe he can answer the questions I have. He's never seemed to favor or despise people by their origins. Talon leans against the wall, concealing his appearance. I notice he's purchased a new hood. Or stolen it. Whichever. I suppose if you're going to brood, you must do so mysteriously.
Valor says he's a diva. I laugh at that. It makes everything suddenly uncomfortable.
The Noxian is glowering at me, as though a parent warning their child. But who was he to me? No one. A rival. An enemy who has forced a temporary truce upon us. We are far from friends. The farthest thing possible. Allies, for the moment. But this is a relationship born strictly out of desperation.
Talon continues, annoyed. "Avarosian history. Demacian politics. You call them savages, maintaining distrust. They call you hypocrites, avoiding diplomacy."
It's become agitating, admitting that he's right. But he's speaking far more now than he ever has, and it catches my attention more than I'd like to admit. I'm listening, and I cannot determine if it's a good or bad situation.
"I don't call anyone anything." I mumble because I'm not even sure, and Valor says something under his breath. I don't hear it, but a coy look crosses his eyes and I know it involves our temporary companion. Again something insulting.
"You're more confident than I remember." He's staring at the bird, hostile. I don't know who he's referring to. It could honestly be either of us.
It would be true no matter who it was directed at. Valor for voicing his displeasure so blatantly and myself for overcoming what had once frozen me in fear. I don't know how it's developed so far. From a man I once despised, to self-loathing, to indifference towards anyone but myself and Valor. From vengeance, to recovery, to self-preservation. I can't say which was more fueling. But I am driven, none the less. He's changed me, and I'm uncomfortable to admit it.
I've found the phrase 'I hate you' at the tip of my tongue so often now, and yet I hesitate each time. I don't say it simply because it's not true. I no longer hold that grudge or weight. I refuse to submit to Talon in any way, even if it involves despising him. That anger that had eaten me is still haunting in several ways. Being free of it...of him...it's beyond liberating. I desire only for myself, and I am slowly letting go of the guilt from the dead. I will do what's needed to ensure I thrive and re-earn my title. Chasing an impossible feat will get me nowhere. Valor had agreed with me upon discussing it. He says I'm losing it...losing grip of my duties beyond Demacia.
My mind is reeling recently. My head still aches with all of this new information. I feel scattered.
"Have you eaten?" I ask him because I have yet to. Avarosian food never appealed to me. Ionian, perhaps. But I can tell I'm lagging, so I eat handfuls of the roasted seeds for the protein. Valor picks at them. They hit my stomach a bit like needles. I haven't eaten since the day I left Demacia.
"Why would it matter?"
"It's a yes or no question."
"I don't need to." What an ass. We've trained our bodies to operate perfectly without sustenance. It doesn't mean we won't starve.
A silence passes between the three of us. I occupy myself in packing the very few belongings I have. There's a knapsack hanging on the closet door, likely a gift from Ashe. A painting of the Gelid Vortex beckons my interest, hung above the dresser. I cross my arms, head still pounding, before I remove my headpiece entirely. My hair is stiff at the top from being confined for hours now. It aches my scalp as it unrolls down my neck. I haven't cut it in such a long time. I need to.
"Why am I a target?" I ask as I run my fingers through stiffened roots. My hair is clean from the morning, but it dried in place. Another reason to cut it all off. The unwanted company is rifling through my journals. He glances at me briefly, judging my disposition.
"Your name is well known among the generals."
"In what way?" I ask, sounding far more offended than I'd planned. I talk between mouthfuls of seeds. I'm not taking him seriously.
"The Du Couteau household is the most influential family within Noxius." He says it while reading the journals. I don't bother being defensive. He was present for most of it. "Cassiopeia, despite her frequent absences from the Capital, maintains a strong network of spies dedicated to Noxus. A portion of her connections lay within Demacia's walls."
"Inevitable." I can see that easily. Our own spies lay in wait, seemingly dedicated Noxian soldiers. Valor makes an agitated noise, flapping his wings to spread the rest of the papers to the floor. He seems pleased with himself. Talon, not so much.
"The evidence you provided was handed directly to Katarina. She informed her kin, who mistakenly used her spies to obtain official documents regarding the execution directly out of Demacia."
"How does this involve my reputation to your generals?" It doesn't, so far. He hasn't answered my question.
"The agent entrusted with the documents was discovered to be a double, loyal to LeBlanc." LeBlanc. An ancient and popular name, though information on her is rare to come by. An advisor to Jericho Swain, as far as I understand.
But it makes sense, suddenly. My position within the Frostbacks was unknown beyond a certain group of people. My location would be impossible to confirm without the specified route. So how would assassins know where to intercept? Only nobility and law knew where I was headed. My hands are shaking, suddenly. I drop seeds which scatter over the ridges of bed sheets. I replace my headpiece and hair, swallowing to calm the agitated storm in my stomach. I have to warn Jarvan. I have to.
"During a classified, diplomatic mission to the Freljord, they knew exactly where to find me." He nods once, confirming my suspicions. Valor is atop my welcoming forearm, talons loose to prevent broken skin. But he feels it, also. I see it in how rigid he is. His eyes are piercing Talon with a sharp seriousness. The threat of our own kind has raised his feathers. The betrayal of the people we work for. One or many, we don't know. Simple guards or assistants were anticipated, but someone so close to the king?
"It indicates a member of Demacia's council."
I know that. I've figured it out. And it sickens me to my very core. I feel nauseated, throat tense against the bile that threatened to come up. Jarvan is in danger. Or is he? Is he? What if it is Jarvan IV? The prince who never returned from his capture; a feeble spy in his place. No. Absolutely impossible. No one can mimic Jarvan. Not even LeBlanc. I know him too well. I love-
"Quinn." He says my name, I stutter. He's holding that injury. It reminds me of my chance to let go. But where would I be if I had? If I had killed Talon?
"So Swain knows that we're the ones who arrested and detained the imposter, prevented his public execution, and killed him." I admit such easily because it's the only definitive truth. It's the only fact we have in this entire situation. Valor shifts his wings, uncomfortable. He bats his feathers at the air, agitated.
"I can identify the man we executed. It's safe to assume that the specifics they think I know could endanger their ploy. Which is why they want us." I don't sound confident. I don't.
"We need a sketch of the executed individual." Talon refers to himself and the Du Coteaus. His arms are crossed again. But the way he says it is off. His tone is not sincere and I wonder what exactly he's keeping from me. We know each other without knowing each other at all. I can tell when he's bluffing.
"What's the real reason you were following me?" I ask, thinking of the axe in my arm. Thinking of the assassin and then Darius. Considering death and wounds and agitation. The blood in the snow. The blood on Talon's clothes. Looking down in to the Abyss.
"Katarina," he says. Simply put, no beating around the bush. He's honest, eyes distant beneath the hood. He's thinking of her. I still can't believe he's no simple sociopath. I'd misled myself for so long. Improperly analyzed him.
"You may be vital to her investigation. If not, your publicized safety under the Du Couteau name will earn favor from esteemed families."
"Publicized?" What did he mean, publicized? Why would any of this be publicized? He identifies the panic and outrage in my voice and eyes. I make sure he sees it. I demand an explanation.
"The game in Demacia involves social status and finances. Nobility quarrels are frequently advertised to obtain support, debilitating the opponent. Noxus revolves around information and bloodshed instead." He continues, right hand against the healing wound on his abdomen. "The bounty urges Katarina to ensure your safety. What Swain wants, she strives for the opposite. If she wins a quarrel of this magnitude, she will gain allies."
"Doesn't this indicate the awareness of Swain's coup?"
"No. All the public knows is that you're wanted by the Grand General. The Du Couteau house competitively defied a government-issued warrant, offering the same sum of money to obtain you alive."
"You're saying you want to escort me into Noxus as an object of political esteem." It's exactly what he's saying. It's what I don't want to hear.
"I'm obligated to," he says. Like some unsung hero. The man who shits on justice and honor, speaking of obligations. More irony.
Valor has remained silent. Eerily so. He doesn't agree, I can see that much. He's still tense, grip firm into the bandaged skin of my arm. It doesn't hurt. His eyes do. He knows something. Valor has pieced something together that I have yet to figure.
"I'm returning to Demacia." I say it, idle. I refuse to fall into this game. I have duties to fulfill. Mostly to myself, if any more to Demacia.
"You'll be dead by daybreak," he tells me, careless in tone. He wouldn't lose sleep if I did. I know that as a proven fact. This mock concern is strictly political in the sense that I could aid their campaign.
"I'll die in Noxus." I argue. I have been within the walls of Noxus before, countless times for countless days. Spying on Talon, eyeing Swain's meetings, stalking assassination attempts. To be a known name and target has ruined any possible chance of a stealthy return. I would be slaughtered in less than days. My body would be thrown to a gutter in mere hours. And Valor…he would be unable to follow behind me. He would give away my identity upon sight.
"She has means of protecting you."
I laugh, bitter. "What? You?"
"Something like that."
He's not laughing. I shouldn't be, either.
"You must depart immediately." Her tone is hushed, feet light upon the floor. Her hair is loose and she wears a darkness about her that is agile and slimming. Her hands are upon my shoulders, urgent and with purpose. I rouse quickly, tense at the unanticipated visit. I'm sitting up in bed, Ashe standing to the side.
"Why?" I ask, flustered at her immediate contact. The Avarosian are a touchy-feely people. They share the trait of excessive physical contact with Noxians.
"The Noxian Diplomat, Amodias. He informs me that you've a bounty on your head, matching the price of your...undignified associate." I match Talon's price? I don't know whether to gloat or not. Valor is set atop her shoulder. When I woke earlier, I realized he hadn't been at my feet as usual. He spoke to Ashe.
The sun has yet to rise. A thin veil of light from the setting moon illuminates silhouettes.
"What has he asked of you?" Talon asks from the closed doorway, arms and ankles crossed and he leans. He always leans. I can't tell if it's laziness or appearance.
What the hell is he doing here?
Ashe stands straight, turning with an calmness. Valor follows her gesture, and I assume he's informed her of everything we'd earlier discussed. She parts her lips, glancing back at me briefly before confronting Talon.
"He wants me to detain Quinn for questioning. I imagine he'd inform General Darius upon confirmation. If I do not turn you in, it may be a slight upon Noxus. It could lead to more unwanted conflict."
"You want me to leave to prevent friction between yourself and Noxus." Understandable. She thinks of her people. She is already so consumed by the idle war of her sisters.
"No. I want you to leave so that you can live."
"We should go now," Talon interrupts. I can barely see him, but I know he registers the look I give him.
"How does this end, Ashe? Tell me the truth. Any and all possibilities." I ask her, because I have to hear it. I know how this ends. It's set in my stomach like a stone. This burden has alleviated from my shoulders, only to weigh on my entire being. I'm going to die.
She thinks before she responds, stepping back as I stand from the bed. I snatch at the clothes on the floor, toes frozen against the marble. The furs and sheets I'm forced to leave seem like a utopia now that they're gone. I strip down to change, quick to do so in the ice of the air.
"One of many ways," she starts, bending down to hand me my boots. "You will be executed by Noxian law once detained. Or assassinated the moment you return to Demacia. Your forces are so infiltrated and riddled with spies, it would be within days. Either way, you will be attacked no matter the destination. You could spend your life running. You may find peace in Ionia, unless war creates a bridge to their shores once again."
"We can protect her," he says, as though he'd protected anyone in his entire life. He has his head turned away as I dress. That's laughable.
"If she sets foot in Noxus, even as a guest of the Du Couteau house, she will die." They've obviously had this discussion already. Her tone is aggressive, and her fingers have a death grip on my satchel as she gestures me to take it. Valor changes arms. He's gentle on my shoulder. He hasn't said much. It's unusual.
"Unless she dies now." He's ready to leave.
"That's uncertain." Her tone has calmed.
"I can make it work." Talon has an hand on my arm, suddenly. I despise it when he moves so swiftly out of battle. But he's leading me to the door, prepping to leave. Valor doesn't like the contact. But he doesn't do anything except quietly complain.
I'm completely lost. While I slept, they had been plotting some grand escape. Discussing what to do with me as though I were a document or contract. I only follow, because Valor has this temporary trust in Talon and I assume I must also. Temporary...everything is temporary.
Ashe is idle by the bedside, watching us go.
"Quinn." We pause, Talon's free hand wrapped over the door handle. "He arrived with bodyguards. I have yet to see them since."
"Anyone large?" I ask her, thinking it may have been the ones who injured us in the pass. The one Talon led over the edge.
"Strictly limber."
"White hair?" He asks this time, suspicious.
"Only one." She sighs, nodding briefly at Valor. "He will undoubtedly send them come morning."
"Quinn, this is your safe haven; return to us when the time is right."
"Thank you, Ashe."
"Find safety in your travels. Find peace in your hearts."
And we left. She'd had a boat waiting, prepped with supplies. The moment we get to shore, the sun begins to break past the Frostbacks. We take everything and start a sprint. Valor takes to the skies, barely visible.
"Did you ever eat?" I ask.
"It doesn't matter," he says.