Methinks you will like this chapter. But not so much the next one ;)

"I hunted this one with my father when I was barely a man," Garald said. He gestured toward the mounted head of a great sabre cat, and he smiled when the Dragonborn gulped from the size of its teeth. "My father, the Alpha before me, determined that it was time for my Proving. He accompanied me on the Hunt, as is custom."

"Proving?" Isben asked as he reached out to trace a finger along the sharp fangs. He knew the teeth were catalogued as stimulants, as they had properties providing boosts to stamina, but he was also aware that they could potentially make someone vulnerable to poisons.

He was careful not to prick himself.

Garald nodded. "It is a test for werefolk to prove themselves worthy of being a Hunter for Hircine. Of course, the Hunt must be equally worthy. Foxes, rabbits, or goats will not do."

Isben hunched his shoulders, remembering the struggle he had hunting in Riverwood's forests. "Every Hunter does this?"

"If they want Hircine to acknowledge them, yes. I was with my Shêzanaré for her Proving, and soon, I will accompany my Nyssa for hers. Helena, well," he chuckled. "Part of me hopes that she will stay small forever, my little pup. I wanted the same for Shêzanaré when she was born, too." He glanced at the Dragonborn and raised his brows when the man smiled. "She was a tough little babe—fought the blankets. Always wah, wah, wah, and never wanted to sleep. Always wanted to be held, too."

"What did she hunt for her Proving?"

Garald chuckled and motioned for the Dragonborn to follow. "I take it you know that my daughter has a strong spirit." He moved across his chambers, and mounted by itself on the wall was the skull of a creature with tusks still sharp and stark white. "I told her to choose another, that hunting mammoth was too dangerous for her. Stubborn girl," he muttered, a fond smile creeping on his mouth. "It didn't help any that Ivor agreed with her—it was his Proving, too.

"The mammoth wasn't fully grown," Garald continued as they both admired the skeleton. "It was only a youngling, but still vicious. Ivor suffered several injuries to his shoulder and knee."

"And Shêza?" Isben asked quietly. Even though the mammoth had been a babe, his fingers did not touch when he curled his hand around the tusk.

"Unharmed. No scratches, no cuts, no missing patches of fur. She triumphed that day, she did. Hircine, I was terrified throughout the whole Proving, worrying that the mammoth would alert its mother. My Shêza is a quick student, though, and crippled it by climbing on its back. Talos, my heart was fit to bursting with pride when it fell to its knees. She completed her Proving in front of the mammoth, punching her fist into its skull."

Isben bit his lip. In his mind's eye, he could see her true self hacking her claws through the mammoth's hide, howling and digging her teeth through its mane to the back of its neck, knowing that the kill was only moments away. He pursed his lips together and covered his mouth. "And what of her cousin?"

Garald sighed and sat on a jutting rock. In his hands he held a bowl of water. "Tradition has fathers go with their children on their Proving—not only to witness the kill for themselves, but to continue the Honor of the Hunt."

"I don't follow," Isben said.

"Most people believe that Hircine only values the Hunt, the thrill of prey dying before a mighty hunter." Garald shook his head, his mouth pressed in a grim line. "While this is true, it is not the only thing He holds in high regard. He values survival, Dragonborn," Garald said with his head inclined. "Do you know what survival is?"

"Living after bearing a great ordeal, yes?"

"It is wits, strength, diet, cunning, agility—it is the difference between the fit and the unfit, Dragonborn. A father goes with his children so that one fit generation may witness the birth of another fit generation, and to prove that the cycle continues." He dipped his finger in the bowl, and Isben watched as a drop of water fell. "It ripples onward, continuously, Dragonborn."

The Dragonborn slowly nodded and took a seat opposite of Garald. "But, sir, you are not—"

"'Sir?'" Garald grinned and clasped his hands together. "I've never received such a formality in my life. Please, 'Garald' will do fine."

"Garald," Isben started again, "you are not Ivor's father, though. I-I don't mean to pry—"

The Alpha nodded. "This is true. I am his uncle. Alas, not every child has the fortune to have their father there for his or her Proving." When Isben tilted his head, Garald exhaled and rested his hands on his knees. "Ivor's father left us some time ago, before my nephew became a man. His father had always been… harsh on him, urging him away from the other young ones to become the best at hunting. He was convinced that Ivor wouldn't amount to anything, and after Ivor's mother passed away…"

"He left," Isben finished. Though Ivor had memories of his father, foul as they were, a frown was etched into Isben's brow, for he himself was a man who could not put a face to his own sire.

"Aye, and he is not welcome here. Our laws forbid a deserter to return."

"All having to do with survival, yes? I… imagine your pack works as a unit, a community, to stay alive, and when someone leaves, the foundation shifts, causing a fissure."

"You are starting to understand," Garald chuckled. "Think of it as your alchemy, Dragonborn. If even one ingredient is bad, the resulting potion will be fouled, no?"

"That makes it much easier to understand," Isben snorted. "But to cast aside family so quickly without regrets?"

Garald steepled his fingers. "You are beginning to understand the role as Alpha, as well, as it is my duty to see our traditions held. It brings me peace of mind if I consider Teodor casting his family aside, not me." He closed his eyes.

"Forgive me," Isben said. "I didn't mean—"

"I know," Garald whispered, "what you meant and what you did not mean. Pardon this old werewolf, Dragonborn; sometimes his mind wanders to a time when he was younger, when he, Nuel, and Teodor were the best of Hunt-Brothers, of friends."

Isben stared at his boots, his own mind creeping to a time and place of poverty, ramshackle huts, and scraps of food. He didn't notice he had stood.

"You ought to be going," Garald said. "I've kept you long enough, and the evening meal will soon begin."

"Yes," Isben drawled, his mouth not quite working, as his eyes were still in the past.

"I've something for you: a token of my thanks and gratitude." Garald pushed himself to his feet, his knees cracking, and fetched a bundle from a corner of the chamber.

Isben blinked when the Alpha held out a folded bundle of fur to him. "I-I—"

"It will never be enough to thank you for saving my Helena's life," Garald said, "but it has meaning. It's the fur of my Proving." When Isben still blinked at the fur, Garald hurriedly said, "It's old, but it's clean; Petra saw to it earlier and had it trimmed to a poncho. If you're worried about bugs—"

"No, no." Isben waved his hand and shook his head. "I just can't accept this." Something flashed in Garald's eyes—panic, perhaps—and he hurried to clarify, lest the Alpha suddenly grew claws. "If it has meaning, then that meaning belongs to you, not to me. I have no business with it."

Garald uttered a hollow chuckle and edged the poncho closer to him. "And I am giving it to you, Dragonborn, as a gift from the Alpha." He paused, and Isben had an inkling that there was something else he wanted to say. The Alpha quickly recovered, though. "If not for me, for Helena."

"That seems to be a very common phrase around here," Isben mused to himself.

"Aye, and it's one that works."

"I've only had Dagfinn for a few months," Helena said as she smoothed the worn fur of her toy fox tail. She grinned at the Dragonborn sitting next to her, too absorbed in her story to pay her food any mind. On her other side, Nyssa gave pointed looks to her jerky, and Helena also paid her no mind. "Ivor gave him to me. He said there was this really stupid hunter who threw up at the sight of a fox he had killed in our ivy—what's wrong?"

Isben coughed into his sleeve, ducking his head when he felt Ivor's smug, all-too-knowing grin from across the fire. "Nothing," he managed to choke out.

Helena shrugged. "But after Ivor scared him off, he took the fox for himself."

"Eat your food," Nyssa said. Helena only stuck her tongue out at her. "You eat it, too," she said to the Dragonborn. "This meal's in your honor. Eat, eat, eat." It was a supper dedicated to the Dragonborn; Garald had said a few words and expressed his gratitude once more before the meal began.

For the past week, all of the suppers had been dedicated to him.

"And," Helena whispered in Isben's ear, "it's bear meat. Really hard to hunt in winter. Ivor hunted it, and if you don't eat it… He's looking at you right now."

"No, little one, I'm afraid you're mistaken," Isben said. "He's deciding which sauce to use when he sautés me."

Ivor's eyes slashed to the petite figure edging her way to the Alpha's daughters, and his eyebrows lifted when he caught the scent of mountain flowers. A smile tweaked the corner of his mouth, and so he bit his lip to hide it.

Petra smiled when Nyssa and Helena squished her between them. The servant chanced a glance at the Dragonborn, her eyes settling on the poncho he wore. It was a beautiful pelt, the grey markings painted in the fur by Kynareth's expert hand, and all of the pack knew it.

They all stared at it while they ate, their eyes darting away from the Dragonborn when he met their amazed gazes. The werewolves tried to pretend they were not openly gawking at him, but he knew better.

He felt like a trinket in a collector's house—a curiosity for all to marvel and ponder over. They murmured under their breaths, shooting him smiles and then glancing at their Alpha in astonishment.

Save for three pack members. One, that beak-man adviser sitting next to the Alpha wearing his usual beak-like frown. Two, an enraged Brute who was too busy glaring holes into him, especially when that red-haired servant smiled from something the Dragonborn said. And three…

"Where is your sister?"

"Nyssa's right here next to Petra," Helena said around a mouthful of food.

"No, not her; your other sister."

Helena chewed and helped herself to a large gulp of water. "Shêza?"

"Yes," Isben said. He had turned a brow up, noticing how the young girl avoided looking at him and preferred to be fascinated with her food.

"Shêza as in my sister Shêza?" Helena asked. She looked at Nyssa for help, but she was too busy smirking at Ivor to notice her.

"Yes, Shêza as in your sister Shêza," Isben said. He smiled when Helena squirmed and sucked her lips into her mouth.

"Shêza as in my oldest sister—"

"Helena," Isben said slowly, "where is your sister?"

"Her place," Helena murmured. "She goes there when she wants to be alone."

"And where is her place?"

The Alpha's youngest daughter twisted her mouth and narrowed her eyes at the Dragonborn. "Are you sure it's my oldest sister Shêza you—" She bit her tongue when Isben's other brow quirked. "By the river. Turn left when you leave. There's a big rock on the riverbank. She goes there sometimes," Helena whispered. "Don't tell her I told?"

"Promise," Isben smiled as he gathered a bundle of meat.

Ivor's eyes—as well as every other pack member's—followed the Dragonborn out of the eating chamber. The Brute wanted nothing more than to chase this half-breed out of their home and make sure he never returned, but alas, the poncho the mutt wore—Practically flaunting it and parading it, Ivor thought with a growl—kept him rooted to his place.

Crossing his arms and shifting about, he huffed and furrowed his brow, entertaining himself with thoughts of biting at the Dragonborn's heels. The scent of mountain flowers wafted into his nose again, and he pulled his gaze from the floor to across the fire.

He was too mesmerized by the way the firelight danced over her hair, making it spark and erupt in the deepest of reds and oranges, to notice her smiling at him.

Isben trudged through the snow, cursing when he slipped on hidden patches of ice or fell through deep parts. It had snowed every day the past week, the heavy, pregnant clouds making it impossible to see the stars and moons. In Cyrodiil, you can see the stars in Evening Star. Not in Skyrim, though, Isben thought. He jumped when snow fell from a branch above him.

After more slipping, sinking, and dodging falling snow, he finally saw a large, pointed boulder overlooking the river. Swallowing, he felt his feet drag him toward it on their own accord. He frowned in confusion when he did not see her perched atop of the boulder, as that was where he expected she'd be. Alone with her thoughts, still as a statue on her boulder, watching the land beneath her…

A huntress scrutinizing and pondering the world under her. Hers for the taking.

He exhaled, his breath coming out as a white puff, and toed a stone off of the boulder. He watched it land in the snow with a plop, and he tilted his head when something winked at him in the darkness.

His breath caught in his throat when he realized a pair of eyes was looking at him, and his chest tightened further when he recognized the steel-blue.

"That almost hit me," she said.

"S-sorry," he whispered. He backed away from the boulder's edge and hurried back to level ground, nearly slipping on another patch of ice in the process. Soon he was at the bottom, but when he stood in front of the boulder, he frowned.

"I'm still here," she said.

"I can't see—oh." He cleared his throat and shifted his weight when her eyes blinked at him again. "Your eyes… they're, er... glowing."

"They do that," she said.

"Mabel's do that too," Isben thought aloud. "Um…" She was as silent as Secunda, and briefly, a jolt of fear shot up his spine at the thought of a werewolf watching him from the dark. Shoving aside that thought, he shuffled closer to the boulder and squinted to see through the darkness. "If I step on you—" He gasped when something grabbed his poncho and pulled him down. With an undignified yelp, he landed on his bottom.

"You won't," she said, a hint of a sneer in her voice. "You have terrible aim, remember?"

"Of course," he said with a dry chuckle. He tried to make her out in the darkness, but the shadow the boulder cast was far too dark and deep to see her. He could feel her eyes studying him, and occasionally they would flicker. "I-I came to speak with you."

She snorted, and he heard the snow around her crunch. "Of course you did; I doubt you just stumbled upon my boulder by coincidence." Another crunch. "You shouldn't have left. The meal was in your honor."

"Ah, yes," he said. "While it was delicious and pleasant—not counting your cousin growling at me—I find myself enjoying the outdoors much more." Crunch, crunch. "I brought you some," he said. Hesitantly, he held out the bundle of food, holding his breath until he felt the weight leave his palm. "You're thinking about something—you'd have been at the meal, otherwise."

Her eyes flashed again, and she muttered, "Bribery," before helping herself to a piece of meat.

He hummed, folding his hands together, and drawled, "Maybe."

"What do you care for it?" Crunch.

"Curiosity," he said.

"Killed the cat," she growled. She saw all of the emotions flitting over his face: fear, embarrassment, confusion, and shame. He bent his body away from her, and his mouth turned down in a nervous frown. "I don't want to talk. I'm thinking."

"Then I'll go first," he said at long last. He turned to her—at least, he could only assume he was facing her—and tried to find her eyes again. "I haven't seen you for a week."

"I wasn't aware you wanted to see me. After all, you don't take favorably to my kind."

He closed his eyes, knowing that he deserved her contempt. "I'm sorry for throwing that rock at you."

"Just the rock?" She took another piece of meat.

"No," he said. "I said some horrible things about you. I won't apologize for being terrified of you—part of me is still scared. It wouldn't be fair to you." He waited, expecting more sarcasm from her, but instead, her voice was calm.

"I didn't run when I saw what you were," she said. "Dragonborn. Half Man, half Dragon."

"Aye," he said with a bob of his head. "I wish I could run from myself—leave me miles behind. But you're used to mons—" He clamped his mouth shut and felt a cold sweat break out on his neck.

"Say it," she said. When he said nothing, she growled and fisted her hand in his poncho. He sucked in a breath when he realized she was right in front of him, nose-to-nose, straddling him and pinning his hands with her knees. "Say it!"

He swallowed. "Monsters."

"Do you believe it?" she asked. Her voice was still a growl, and her eyes burned into his own.

"Y-yes," he croaked out. He closed his eyes when her grip only tightened. "Yes, I do."

Her face fell, though he couldn't see it, and she lowered her head. "I do not blame you," she whispered. "I can't blame you, you foolish idiot. Can't, can't, can't. You saved Helena's life; I can't blame you. She's my sister."

"No," he said firmly, surprising the both of them. "No. You don't use her as an excuse, Shêzanaré. You haven't been coming here for a week to find excuses, and I find it classless that you think I'd believe that."

"I didn't think you'd believe it," she said. "I was trying to make myself believe it." The sigh that came from her seemed to start at her toes, it was so heavy. "I can't blame you because we're the same." Then, with another sigh and great effort on her part, she whispered, "I am scared of you."

"What? Me? If this is about the rock still, I said I was sorry—"

"No," she snarled, "forget the stupid rock!" She sat back on her haunches, his poncho still tightly in her hand, and stared at the snow. "You confuse me," she muttered. "I can blame you for a hundred things: that thief in the Barrow, that stupid annoying pilgrim, that swine you befriended in Riften, the Dark Brotherhood pursuing us, that bloody ice wolf gouging my back open, the Thalmor looking for you—" She sucked in a breath and glared at him. "You cause problems. You don't solve them; you start them.

"But by Hircine," she whimpered, "I can't blame you."

"Do you want to?" he asked after a moment.

"What?"

"Do you want to blame me? I blame me; I've admitted that. But I think it would make you a monster if you did blame me."

She snorted and shook her head. "You've already said I was a monster."

"No, I didn't. I was referring to myself as the monster, Shêzanaré. Which," he continued with his eyes closed, "makes us very, very different."

"I do want to blame you," she said. "It'd be easier to blame you. Blame you and forget about you, but always remember the blame to remind me to forget."

"You don't have the heart for that," he said.

She grunted humorlessly and glanced at him. "I tore men to shreds on The Throat of the World—bit one's head off. You're saying I'm too good to hold a grudge?"

"You saved my life," he said carefully, "and though lives were lost, I'm still alive. I'm witness that your goal was not to murder, but to protect." He hung his head, and quietly added, "I should have realized that sooner."

"Keep a life alive by ending lives. It's all confusing," she muttered, not quite listening to him.

"Is hunting any different? You hunt game to keep your family alive."

"You're part of that family now."

"Excuse me?"

"The poncho," she said, splaying her fingers over it. "Garald didn't tell you?"

"It's from his Proving, I know that, but—"

"It's a gift," she said. "Not just the poncho, but the symbolism. It's him welcoming you into our pack, acknowledging that you are a friend. It's his most prized possession—apart from his daughters—and he gave it to you."

"I told him to keep it," Isben said. "That I wasn't worthy of it."

"Then you questioned his judgment. That is a very bold thing to do."

"He seemed upset."

She thought for a moment before nodding. "Of course he would. He was honoring your existence with this pelt. He told you that a Proving ensures survival carrying on throughout the generations, no? Well, he gave that proof, that assurance, to you, recognizing that you have survived, and will survive, to keep the pelt. It is not every day an Alpha gives away his Proving."

"Then I really don't deserve it," he murmured. "If he knew I threw a rock at one of his most prized possessions—"

"He does know," Shêza said. A small smile graced her features when he blanched. "I told him."

"Did it hurt?"

"Let's throw a rock at your head and see how…" Her voice died out when his hand twined with the one on his poncho, following that hand to her wrist, up her arm, past her elbow, and onto her shoulder before pausing.

"I don't want to poke your eye out," he said.

"You won't." She would have added "I'll poke yours out if you do," but she couldn't find her voice when his fingers prodded at her temple.

"Right here, yes?" he asked. He felt her nod, and he smoothed his thumb over the skin. "There's a scar," he murmured. "It's faint, but I can feel it. I'm sorry."

"Stop," she gurgled, and his fingers did stop. "Stop saying sorry—close your mouth, don't say it." She hunched her shoulders, and her breathing was becoming labored. "It's harder to blame you if you apologize. I want to blame you, Hircine knows it."

He said the only thing he could say. "I'm sorry."

She tossed her head and opened her mouth to find something, anything to say. "You saved my sister's life. You, an idiotic, foolish, twat of a Dragonborn, saved my sister's life. You," she continued, "a half-breed who can't even hunt deer or nock an arrow, saved her. You, you—you can't even climb a mountain without having wolves, trolls, and Thalmor after you."

She was too focused on finding other ways to describe him to notice that she had punctuated each characteristic with her free fist pounding against his chest. He was numb to every blow; he was far too interested in the tears he knew were moments away from falling.

"You, you… you stupid Bosmer-Nord-thing with a dumb smile, a girlish frame, a bony bottom, stupid pointed ears, and stained fingers—" She tried to collect her breath, tried to keep the hysteria from her voice, but all she managed to do was take one of his hands and kiss those stained fingers.

"Thank—" she said through her tears, "thank—thank you—" Over and over, she kissed his hand, idly finding his palms to be calloused, his knuckles red and chapped, and his fingers long with short, blunted nails. "She's—my—" She choked and screwed her eyes shut, relieved that her face was hidden in the darkness. "She's—she's my—"

"I know," he whispered. One more choke from her, and then he had upset her balance, pulling her under his poncho and slipping it over her head. He wrapped her in an embrace, his free hand rubbing her back and brushing the hair from her face, and let her tears fall.

"She—could—have—" She couldn't finish that sentence, not with her heart threatening to burst.

"She didn't, though," he murmured in her hair. "She's alive." Her answering nod was rigid, and he rested his chin atop her head. He uttered small sounds, just what his mother did when he'd bawl his eyes out, and did his best to comfort her.

"I blame you for this," she said with a sniffle she detested to the darkest depths of Oblivion. "Making me weep like a damsel in distress—like some woman with frilly crinoline." Her tone was groggy and a tad nasally. "Elven trickery."

"At its finest," he agreed with a nod. He didn't know when his mouth had grown a mind of its own, but in a heartbeat he had found her temple and placed a kiss upon it. She stiffened in his arms, and quickly, he said, "I blame you for making me realize how much emotion a werewolf is capable of. You love your family."

She nodded, hiding her face in his shoulder in fear that he'd be able to see her puffy cheeks and red nose. "I do." She heard him hum in response and felt his hand rub between her shoulder blades. Her sobs had stopped, but her breathing was still quick and her heart still pounding. She tried to match her heart to the calmer lub-dub of his, but hers only raced faster when she heard how strong, how healthy and alive he was.

It wasn't until she caught a whiff of something that she had to breathe slowly. She sniffed his shoulder. "You smell like mushrooms."

He grinned and raised a finger in the air. She heard the lecture forming before he even opened his mouth. "Blisterwort. Found in dark, dank recesses of caves, it's mainly used for its healing properties, but if used otherwise, it can make a person feel very lethargic or burst into a frenzy of movement, and can also—" He scrunched his face up when she pinched his lips together.

"I hate mushrooms," she grunted.

Ivor sat in his chambers, his furs kicked off and his clothes disregarded, hoping to find an ounce of meaningful rest. He was irritable; he hadn't slept a minute last night, and he had high suspicions it had something to do with the smell of mountain flowers clinging in his nostrils like some tar—an entirely welcomed, faint, subtle tar that he quite enjoyed and hated at the same time.

He had tried cocooning himself in his furs, hoping to block out the flowers, but all that led to was him becoming aware of how hot his skin had become, and off the furs went.

He had tried sleeping propped against the cave wall, but then he only realized it was similar to how he had sat at the evening meal, and images of fiery hair and shadows would assault his mind, coupled not only with the flowers, but with guilt.

Heavy, suffocating guilt for ever thinking that she was a vile mage, for threatening her, for hurting her with his words. He'd seen her frown and cower too many times for his liking, and it was hard for him to think of her smile—how she was always shy when she grinned, how her face lit up, how her eyes shone.

And then he felt feverish.

The Brute had settled with sleeping nude, shoulders hunched and back protesting, to keep thoughts of her at bay. His eyes would droop, his shoulders would slouch, and his head would loll to the side, and then he would jerk and snap, eyes opened wide and shoulders squared.

And then he would whimper, and the process would repeat.

When he heard the quiet scuttles of pack members already rising to greet the morning, he whined and exhaled. There would be no sleep for him. He was becoming inane as well as irritable. Still, he closed his eyes and hoped he'd be lulled.

He nearly howled when his divider was pushed aside and breathless gasps and pants filled his chambers. Snapping his eyes open, he bared his teeth at whoever dared to disturb him, and all color drained from his face when he saw her standing there, frame shaking as she tried to gather her wits.

She squeaked when she saw him and quickly covered her eyes. "B-B-Brute Iv-Ivor, p-please forgive… me," she panted. She felt her cheeks flush, and she hunched her shoulders, wishing more than anything that she'd melt to the floor and disappear. "Th-there's… a troupe of… of outsiders from another… pack, and—"

"What!" All fatigue was forgotten, and he had pulled his trousers and furs on in an instant. He made to pass her, but a thought occurred to him. "Stay here," he said.

"B-but I have chores that need to be—"

"Stay here," he growled, turning on his heel to stare her down. He frowned when she still covered her eyes, and he pried her hands away, unaware that his touch was gentle and that his fingers had twined with hers. "I don't want them to see you."

"Why?" she asked quietly. She was met by the bags under his eyes, the way lines formed in the corners of them when he squinted. Still, his opal-green was captivating, and she felt horribly inferior with her dull brown eyes. Forcing herself to look elsewhere, she stared at their hands, her blush spreading to her neck when his thumbs brushed against her forefingers.

"Petra," he said, as if the issue had grown tiresome.

And so she repeated her question, not stopping him when he took a step forward, she one back. She was sure that he knew he had her back to the wall, his torso just touching hers, and she was sure he was just as aware of how sweaty their palms had become. She sucked in a breath, the small motion making him move ever closer, until he had to incline his head to keep their eyes locked.

And still he moved closer until they both knew they could feel the differences in their anatomies. He murmured something that sounded like her name, and before she could respond, he dipped his head.

"The troupe," she gasped right when his mouth touched hers. Her eyes were spooked, and she looked anywhere but at him. "The troupe," she repeated quieter, feeling something shoot through her body when he made a sound and only continued his advance.

It was chaste, brief, but not hesitant—no, he hadn't given them any time to think about what they were doing. Her sigh only prompted another kiss, one that had his arms around her waist and her hands cupping his face.

He moved, brushing his nose against hers and letting their lips part, and tried to stop his breath from coming out in choppy gasps. His fingers curled around the fabric of her dress, and he rested his head in the crook of her neck. "Stay here," he breathed into her ear. When he felt her nod, he took a step away, and then another one, and forced his body past the divider.

Mutely, she nodded again, knowing that she couldn't leave; her knees were far too wobbly and her face as red as the tomatoes he hated.

"I am Vidar, son of Reinhart, Alpha of the Tangled-Knots, and next in line to become Alpha. My companions and I come bearing gifts."

The Black-Coats stood in front of the tree guarding their sanctuary, growls brewing in the backs of their throats and eyes scrutinizing the five strangers in front of them. Garald stood at the head of his most advanced and trusted Hunters, the Alpha's arms crossed and his expression stern.

"Alpha Reinhart of the Tangled-Knots has never made an attempt to meet my pack before," Garald said. "What brings on such an occasion?"

Vidar bowed his head, as did the rest of his troupe. "These are difficult times, as we all know. Regardless of packs, we are all were-brothers and were-sisters, are we not?" He motioned for his troupe, and they took a step forward to place bundles in the snow. The Black-Coats shifted on their feet and narrowed their eyes. "I offer you cured meats to help your pack survive this winter unscathed."

"That is a generous offer," Garald said, "one that entails something from us in return."

Vidar nodded and looked at the Alpha. "Aye. If it would not trouble your pack, warm furs and rest would be most accommodating for us."

Garald glanced to his side when he heard his nephew gurgle. He hadn't been standing there a moment before, and he was not the only one to notice that. Nuel looked Ivor up and down, severe lines crossing over the adviser's face when he smelled something… different on him.

"Then it will be so. But," Garald added before Vidar's smile could fully form, "it is not open-ended. You will return to your pack as soon as you are rested."

Still, Reinhart's son did not falter. He grinned and inclined his head. "You are most gracious, Alpha…"

"Garald," he said.

Vidar nodded. "We are very thankful, Alpha Garald." Ivor followed these Tangled-Knots into his home, his light eyes burning with anger when Vidar turned to smile at him.

"Is she beautiful?" one of the other Tangled-Knots asked him. Ivor bared his teeth, not liking how this outsider walked abreast of him.

"Lorens," Vidar laughed from Ivor's other side, "please, do not badger our hosts!"

"I think it is romantic," the man named Lorens said. Ivor felt his hackles rising, and he tried to keep these Tangled-Knots in front of him, but they only matched his pace. "Skafti could write a ballad for you. He likes romance, too."

"You will do well," Ivor said, "to keep your questions and thoughts to yourself."

Lorens bobbed his head up and down. "Very well, but only as soon as you stop excreting that scent. You'll make Kakali and Ebeneser sneeze."

"Too late," Vidar chuckled after his other two pack members snorted out a synchronized ha-choo!

"They brought mammoth thighs," Helena said with a dreamy look on her face. "I like them."

"They shouldn't be here," Nyssa whispered as she eyed the five strangers sitting about a fire, helping themselves to food and water. "I don't like them, especially the one who keeps looking at me."

Ivor knew which Tangled-Knot she spoke of, the one who liked ballads and romance. Skafti. "If they try anything with our females—"

"—they'll be sorry," Askel finished. His posture mimicked Ivor's; both brutes had their arms crossed and their expressions lined into frowns. "He is looking at Nyssa," he said after a moment.

She held her arms and slunk behind Ivor. "He's around my age," she murmured.

"If he touches her," Ivor said loud enough for the Tangled-Knot to hear him, "then I'll bite his fingers off."

Skafti ducked his head and turned around into the safety of his other pack members.

"But they brought mammoth thighs," Helena pouted. She hugged the Dragonborn's dog when it nudged her with its furry muzzle.

"I don't care if they brought food for five winters," someone else said as they joined them in their dark corner. Ivor, Askel, Nyssa, and Helena turned to see it was Ritta. "I wouldn't trust them."

Nyssa frowned, finding something not quite right with Nuel's daughter. Askel snorted and bit the inside of his cheek. "I'm not letting them out of sight," he said.

"Neither am I." There was something to the huntress's tone, the way she was too quick to agree with Askel, that raised the Alpha's daughter's suspicions. Ritta nodded—forced—and paused. She sniffed the air, then turned to look at Ivor with a perplexed face. "You smell—"

"Where have you been the past week?" Nyssa asked before Ritta could complete her thought. The huntress raised a brow at Nyssa.

"I had to vent some frustrations," she said. "Secunda has not been kind to me lately." She rolled her eyes when the Alpha's daughter did not look satisfied with her answer. "I still struggle with the beastblood, alright? Does that please you?"

"No," Nyssa said, having noticed the way Ritta couldn't hold her gaze and how her hair had started to bristle. Liar.

"He keeps looking up," Ivor said, motioning to Vidar with a jerk of his head. "Like he's expecting someone." He and Askel watched as Vidar excused himself from his pack members and walked down a tunnel leading to the outdoors. "Good; he should leave. I don't like his smug face."

Again, Ritta swiveled her head up and down. "I don't like anything about him."

Liar.

Petra hadn't moved an inch from Ivor's chambers. Instead, she had slid to the floor, hugged her knees to her chest, and rocked back and forth. She tried anything that would make her blush vanish and her body stop shaking. She wanted Ivor's taste off of her lips, her stomach to stop jumping, and her hands to stop shaking.

She had been trying for hours.

She knew she had chores to do, and even if Ivor thought it was acceptable for her not to see to them, she knew there would be others who would have words with her. The thought of Nuel staring down his aquiline nose at her made her squeak and slowly climb to her feet. Just thinking about the adviser giving her more chores made her stomach ache.

"Is this the linen chamber—it must be here somewhere," a voice mused from behind the divider. Petra gasped when an unfamiliar scent breezed into the room, followed by the divider ripping open. "Aha—no, not the linen chamber," the stranger sighed.

She panicked, her legs rooting her to the floor, and held her breath. The stranger tilted his head at her, sniffed, and then beamed. "Oh, you are beautiful!" he gushed. Black dots spotted her peripherals when the man hurried over to her and coiled a lock of her hair around his finger. "Of course, of course! This room smells like him, you're here—oh you're beautiful! Red hair amongst a pack full of browns and black! This is good stuff for Skafti to put in his ballad."

Petra trembled, and her eyes threatened to roll back in her skull.

"No wonder he wouldn't speak about you," the man thought aloud. He uttered a mm-hmm and gave a firm nod in affirmation to his own thoughts. "You are unique, different, lovely, and beautiful! You must be his treasure, his jewel! The Black-Coats must think you're a rarity. Tell me, what do you do here?"

"S-s-s…."

"A fellow Sister of the Hunt? Ah, a beauty and a huntress! Such qualities are hard to find in an individual—"

"Servant," she croaked.

"A what?" He gaped and shook his head. She braced herself for more ridicule when he held his head high and squared his shoulders. "That is atrocious! How dare they do that to you! My fellow were-sister," he said, taking her hand in both of his, "I am sorry this injustice has been forced upon you! Were I Alpha, I'd pamper and treasure you."

She nearly fainted.

"Forgive me, dear were-sister. I am Lorens, Hunt-Brother of the Tangled-Knot pack. It is a pleasure to meet you. What may I call you, my Lady Redhead?"

"P-Petra," she squeaked, certain that she'd have Oblivion to pay later.

"Ah, a beautiful name!" He beamed and shook her hand up and down. "A strong, lovely name for a strong, lovely woman!" She thought she'd lose the appendage. "Would you be kind enough to escort me through your home? Your pack's brutes have been watching us since we arrived, and we just managed to skirt past their noses." He smiled, all cheeks and dimples. "Skafti's leading them on a wild goose chase outside."

"We?" Petra mumbled.

"Oh, yes—Ebeneser, Kakali, come in here!" No sooner had he spoken the words that the two brutes came shuffling in, heads turning to and fro as they took in Ivor's many trophies. "Please show us around, Petra?"

She swallowed when all three of them stared at her, the ones named Ebeneser and Kakali raising their brows with interest when they saw her red hair. She wished she'd have cut it all off.

"This is Petra, Brothers! She's a servant," Lorens said when she still stood like a statue. "She's fancied by that brute we met earlier."

Ebeneser smiled while Kakali shrugged and continued admiring the trophies. "Then he won't take kindly to us swarming his fancy," Ebeneser said. "Yes, he will be angry if we disturb you. Are we disturbing you?"

Yes. "N-no," Petra said.

"Good," Kakali grunted. He shucked his trousers off, and his furs fell to the ground. Petra gasped and tried to hide, but he dumped his clothes into her arms. "Our clothes smell like sweat."

"Kakali," Ebeneser said. "That's not nice."

"Well, she's a servant," his Hunt-Brother reasoned, "and we need to be served."

"You don't treat my sister that way," Ebeneser said, "and she's a servant, too."

"That doesn't change the fact our clothes are soiled." All three men sheepishly looked at Petra, Ebeneser looking the most ashamed, and it wasn't long before she sighed and slouched her shoulders. Her arms were soon laden with all of their laundry.

"Where do your people wash their clothes?" Lorens asked as they followed Petra's painfully slow pace out of Ivor's chambers. "Do you heat the water? We have natural springs in Tangled-Knot Crag that are hot all year round."

"This place is very different than home," Ebeneser mused. "I've never been inside another pack's den before." When Kakali didn't look interested in conversation, he trotted alongside Petra. He had a lovely smile, one that crinkled his eyes and made his chin protrude, similar to Askel's. "My sister Yrse is a servant, too," he said. He took some of the laundry from her before she could squeak a protest. "I'll help you. Pretty female like you shouldn't have to do so much for a pack that hides her away," he whispered with a blush coloring his cheeks.

That time, she did faint.

A/N: Alright... c'mon... Ivor fans... ;) lemme know what you think...