Hi everyone, staying at home means I'm pushing myself to write more, so I hope you enjoy this update. I would also like to say that I am looking for a Beta reader (I find that it takes me so much longer to finish editing each chapter when I have only myself to consult with, which is why your reviews help so much, especially when you're pointing out what I'm doing well or not so well). If anyone is interested, please do get in touch.
Now, onto Chapter 26:
The time that it took Edna to make her way back to her side of the shelter seemed achingly long-drawn. Not only because of the physical pain but also because of how humiliating the retreat felt.
(And yes, intelligently, Edna knew that she had been in far more humiliating situations in the past, yet try as she may none came to mind.)
She was bleeding red through her make-shift bandages. Her limbs felt heavy as she dragged her feet forwards— just barely stopping her knees from buckling at every step. Her vision was blurry and wild. Her hair was a mess of sweaty tangles and curls that stuck to the nape of her neck, making her skin itch. She was tired. Her mouth tasted like copper, like unseasoned meat, like the bitter drive to stay alive.
The pragmatist in her knew that it would have been so much easier to just crawl across to the fire. Of course, Edna's pride refused to even consider making an even more shameful spectacle of herself. Not when Asgeir was watching her from afar, studying her every move. She'd already sacrificed too much of her dignity during their recent interaction.
The fact that Asgeir was still so gods-damn attractive— even when Edna looked like something that had crawled out of an ancient Nordic tomb— somehow made the entire situation worse.
Asgeir, with his beautiful golden hair and broad shoulders, and intense, blue-eyed judgement. His skin was already flushed with life, almost glowing in the firelight, colour high on his cheeks. You wouldn't say that he'd been tortured near to death only a few days before. He looked dignified and noble, the very picture of a rightous Nord hero out of her mother's stories.
It was unfair, frankly.
If that was what a hero was supposed to look like, Edna, with her bruised skin and pale, bloodless lips, could not compare. Not that that was what she should worry about.
There were many reasons why Edna shouldn't want Asgeir to see her in her current state, but vanity was a petty and senseless one to fixate on.
After all, it made no difference if Edna was the most beautiful woman on Nirn, or an injured assassin covered in dirt and blood. Asgeir would look at her with just as much hate and disgust. She was not a blushing maid trying to impress, and he was anything but an interested suitor. There was no purpose in Edna feeling self-conscious about her looks, of all things. Or in mooning over how handsome Asgeir was.
Not that she was doing it intentionally.
Edna didn't want to be so aware of this man, and she hated herself for not being able to look away. One more item to add to the list of things that were out of the Last Dragonborn's control.
Most of the meat had burned by the time she reached the fire pit. Edna was no longer hungry, but there was the concern that the smoke and the smell would attract predators. Just to be safe, the woman pulled the food away from the fire and buried the worst charred pieces into the dirt.
Once that was done, she sat down and re-dressed her wounds in silence. The quiet was welcoming after the air had been thick with heavy truths for such a long stretch of time. Everything that could be said had been said, so there was nothing more to talk about. Part of her was relieved by it.
No matter how unwise, it had felt liberating to talk about the events that had brought both of them where they were. The circumstances of Vittoria Vici's assassination. The great ploy to bring about the rebirth of the Dark Brotherhood through the death of an Emperor. Those were secrets she'd thought she would carry with her until she met her demise, likely at the hand of one of her Brothers or Sisters. Yet somehow as soon as Asgier had asked, Edna'd found herself speaking the forbidden truth.
Her decision hadn't been about repentance or seeking forgiveness. Edna wasn't sure what it what about this man that compelled her to be so irrational and thoughtless, but she still had some common sense. She'd not rushed in to answer his question in some stupid hope that it would redeem her in the other Nord's eyes. There was nothing redeeming about the motive for her crimes to begin with. Her reasons have been as nefarious as the act itself. And sharing them with Asgeir did nothing but poke at an open wound.
No, if she had meant to spare him pain— to make some sort of amends— she would have done better by keeping her mouth shut.
What she'd done by laying the truth bare had been risky, unkind, and ultimately practical. It'd been a way to force their entire exchange to a close. To sever any reason for Asgeir to hound her for further explanation for her crimes. Now that he had his answers, the only thing left for him to pursue was revenge, and Edna very much preferred it that way. Asgeir Show-Shod was not the type of man to enjoy getting his hands dirty, and Edna could handle hired thugs much better than being in direct contact with the other Nord.
Anything to avoid dealing with her conflicting, irrational responses to Asgeir. Like her desire to protect him and his stupid pretty face— for which she had a nasty wound to show off, and not much else.
Yes, better to give him what he wanted and for him to be on his way. That way, Edna would finally cure herself of her destructive fascination with the man, of her absurd urges to get closer to him.
Not that it had ever been possible for them to be close in any shape or form, of course, but this added a sense of finality to it. A clear break. They had no reason left to cross paths again.
Other than loss and pain and secrets, what else was there to share, after all?
The thought of it brought her a sense of reassurance, but no real satisfaction. It was another example of her emotions being a contradictory mess. This was the sort of nonsense that got people killed. The sort of dangerous mentality that already came close to doing so. Twice.
She needed to get herself together.
Edna drew onto the discipline that she's acquired over her training with Astrid to do so. Pushing her unease to the back of her mind, the woman tuned in to the sound of her own breathing. To the itch of her skin mending and the pain of strained joints and battered flesh. She focused on the dying fire as she purged her mind of unproductive thoughts. Once she felt centred, she lowered herself to the ground, willing herself to sleep.
The assassin welcomed the darkness. It was a comfort to close her eyes and shut out the outside world. In the dark, Edna did not fear images of glaring eyes and angry faces. Nor apparitions with soft bodies or sharp teeth to make her pulse spike.
The Dragonborn did not dream in pictures. A kindness she doubted she deserved.
Her victims did not await to point accusing fingers at their killer at night. Vittoria Vici's face did not haunt her in her sleep as the woman's memory did in the waking world. Edna prefered it that way, even if it spoke unkindly of her character.
Her dreams were full of noise, instead. They were loud with the roars of dragons and the sound of their souls being ripped away from their flesh. Seductive promises of untold power whispered in the echo of her mind. Distorted voices chased her in the emptiness of colour like a living, hungry thing.
Edna felt their ancient knowledge pushing against the roof of her mouth. Felt it strain the muscles of her throat, expanding like a burst of energy from her chest to her mouth.
There was a familiarity to the violence that was almost warming. It clung to her as she slipped between dream and wakefulness.
When she awoke, after a few short hours, her own hands were around her neck, blood under her fingernails. It wouldn't have been the first time she'd Shouted in her sleep; when she awoke with the taste of old magic on her tongue. With the sense that something had trespassed into her mind. It took her a moment to remember that she was not alone. For one, terrifying second, she wondered if Asgeir had heard her— felt her slip of control.
But when she turned on her side to check on him, his shoulders were moving evenly with his deep breathing. He was asleep, and as distant and detached from her as he'd ever been.
Falling back down, Edna stared up at the stone ceiling, feeling wide awake. And sore. And vulnerable in a way she'd not experienced often.
Here she was, too weak to even control her Voice. Stranded in an underground hole with a man that couldn't stand to even look at her, even though she'd bled for him.
There were countless injuries littering her body. Across the length of her arms, where elven swords had cut through her light armour. The back of her legs, where a Thalmor mage had burned her with a firebolt. Her hips and ribs, where the troll had torn through flesh like butter, leaving raw flesh behind. Even her wrists were covered in the dark purple imprints of Asgeir's fingers. What had she been thinking, really? How did she talk herself in such a weak position?
There was nothing to gain by turning back to walk through danger to save Asgeir. No wealth, no material advantage, and certainly no gratitude.
And absolution? Well, that was a foreign concept, and it wasn't like she was working herself up with guilt over the death of his wife.
Has she truly fashioned herself a hero?
Such a joke.
If nothing else, at least this adventure meant that she could finally put that foolish notion to rest. Provided she made it back to civilisation, and Asgeir didn't change his mind about killing her before they did.
Thank you for reading, please review, and stay safe and healthy!