The detritus crunched under his boots, the occasional step muffled by the patches of blood soaking the undergrowth. Vanya had been swept from his arms at Milore's house, Bralsa answering questions before he could form a thought, Niyya crowding him out as if he weren't there at all. Unable to stand by uselessly, he had followed his feet as they led him back to the scene that he found easier to stomach.
Teldryn stopped next to the first wolf, the jaws that had torn her leg yawning open in a final bloody snarl. Eight times she had stabbed it, along its neck and one shoulder.
He tracked her blood along the ground, mapping out her movements. The trail merged into the wide stain where the wounds of all had left their mark. A depression indicated where the boy had lain, the scattered brush next to it where her struggle with the larger wolf had taken place. Teldryn's breathing hitched. Her screams had pulled at him as he ran, fast as he could but not near fast enough. Then all had gone quiet, a horror he'd never known rising as he'd crashed through the trees. Silence meant death.
He gazed over at the beast that was more red than white, stepping closer to observe the gaping hole in its neck. A bitter chuckle escaped him. He'd trained her in the hope that she could defend herself should trouble find her, not for her to fling herself headlong into it. Part of him cursed her for so stubbornly refusing to wear even a bit of her armor. The final wolf laid a few paces away with Gael's arrow embedded deeply into its eye, its pristine appearance compared to the other two a testament to the battle that Vanya had endured. If it could only have been anyone else.
But she lives. It only matters that she lives.
His cowl stood out to him from the ground, brighter against the drying blood in that place where he'd come upon her as she looked up at him with frightening tranquility. He approached it slowly, picking it up, turning it over in his hands as if it were unfamiliar.
How long had he loved her?
He rubbed the cloth between his fingers as he thought back on their time together, trying to pinpoint when exactly he'd allowed her to become a part of him, wondering if he'd really had any choice. Every moment with her seemed to blur into one; a single candle that had lit him from the inside, consuming him with a satiating heat that already grieved him with how quickly it would burn through. The smudges on the fabric where he'd wiped her face caused a memory of a night in the tavern and her glittering eyes to seize his mind.
'At least your cowl is already red.'
He squeezed his eyes shut, bringing the cowl to his lips, holding his breath to suffocate the agony that was climbing up his throat.
"Boethiah's Victory..."
Teldryn took a breath, opening his eyes at the sound of Modyn's solemn voice. The cowl was wet and he hastily dried his face, setting his jaw as the captain approached, appraising the grisly scene in much the same way he had. Modyn bent over to retrieve the dagger, nodding lightly as he straightened back up. "Two full-grown ice-wolves with only a dagger?
Teldryn made no reply, watching as Modyn examined the dagger for a few more moments then turned the blade, holding the hilt out to him. He took it, wiping the blood away and tucking it under one of the straps of his chest plate as the captain stepped closer, focused on the corpse behind him.
"I've never seen ice-wolves this far south," Modyn said. "I've sent Gael and a few others to track and ward off any more that may be roaming around nearby."
It wasn't the thought of wolves that was making the burning in Teldryn's eyes give way to his fury. The animals had been displaced by someone, and the Skaal would not have been so careless about it.
"You know what this means, Teldryn. We've caught on much later than we should have. They'll be dug in like ticks up there, thinking they've laid a rightful claim."
Teldryn smirked, despite himself. "Then we had better pull them out by the head."
A flicker of approval passed through Modyn's eye. The captain, ever pragmatic, meant to use him and he meant to allow it. For once, their goals were aligned- albeit for very different reasons.
"Take some of my men with you," Modyn said with sudden energy. "Not green men, some of my best. And the old man." At Teldryn's skeptical look, he steeled his gaze in return. "It's not ideal but we should at least make a try for a bloodless resolution. Fethis is the one who invited this fuckery, he can lay his connections on the line to put an end to it."
The idea of taking a soft approach irked Teldryn's vengeful side, not to mention the invitation for treachery. "How do you know he won't side with them?"
"I don't. But according to him, they went behind his back as well. I suppose he has a choice to make."
"And if he chooses wrong?"
"That's what you're there for. I believe I've laid out my desire for this to end as diplomatically as possible, more fool me for sending a sell-sword who has never taken to listening." Teldryn's mouth twitched and Modyn quirked his brow up and for a fleeting moment it was as if they were in Blacklight again, conspiring some prank that would send him vaulting from balconies and scaling walls while Modyn ran interference. Their grim surroundings served as a stark reminder that they had come a long way from their youthful mischief. Modyn resumed his stern expression as he continued, "The men joining you will defer to your direction. Whatever you need to do to ensure the East Empire Trading Company gets the message, do it."
In his room in the Netch, Teldryn rubbed his forehead as he stared at the blank parchment on the table, his eyes drifting to the pile of ash next to it, the previous attempts at a missive that he'd set aflame in frustration. He wanted to say everything and nothing, each note so far taking on one extreme; either disorganized and wordy, or curt to the point that he might as well not bother.
What he really wanted was to look into Vanya's eyes and hold her close, to finally put words to the actions that he had not even understood himself until today. That desire was impossible for the moment as Milore had given her a sleeping draught in order to clean and mend her wounds properly. He would be long gone before she awakened and though she knew he was leaving, everything had changed. Everything. The shift so monumental that smears of ink on paper could not do justice to all he wanted her to know.
Still, there were things she needed to know. He would be gone longer than originally anticipated and perhaps not return before the next ship from Morrowind arrived. Had he even mentioned his mother's visit to Vanya? As he sifted through recent memory he realized he hadn't. There had never been any reason to bring it up. He sighed as it occurred to him he'd need to write another note for his mother in the event he was delayed.
Time was at his back, prodding him to quit squandering it. Dipping the quill into the ink, he wrote out what was necessary, not letting himself overthink. Once finished, he gave both missives a cursory read, not incredibly pleased with either but they would have to do. He folded the one for his mother then hesitated before folding the one for Vanya. He grabbed the quill and quickly scrawled one last line, not quite sure why he felt compelled to do so but as he watched the ink dry he knew it was right.
With both missives folded and labeled, he tucked Vanya's into one of his pockets then crossed the room to set the other in the drawer of the sidetable. He slid his pack over his shoulder, grunting with annoyance at the sight of his bloodied cowl that he'd tossed down next to it. There was no time to wash it. He blew air through pursed lips, stopping when he spotted the dark blue shawl hanging over the back of the chair. He smiled as he walked over to it, picking it up and bringing it to his nose with a deep breath. It smelled like her. He draped it around his neck without any further thought and left the room.
A strong mixture of odors wafted out from the door as Milore let him in. All her cauldrons were steaming, large and small, the air thick and warm in the house that was now nearly silent except for the bubbling. Along the wall near the door, he saw a makeshift cot covered in a pile of blankets, the only indication it was more than that was the sniffling dunmer woman sitting next to it obscuring the small boy from view.
"He'll lose the arm," Milore whispered up to him.
He had not known the extent of the child's injury and had truthfully thought him dead in Gael's arms as he'd passed by. It had been a close thing. "He's lucky."
"You're right," Milore said, pinching his elbow. "But keep that to yourself, hm?" He nearly grinned at her admonishing except he spotted Vanya on Garyn's chaise on the far side of the room. "Come." Milore pressed on his arm.
Vanya's face was turned toward the wall as she slept, a blanket covering her except for the wounded leg that Niyya was seated next to, dabbing ointment over a patchwork of stitches that twisted in chaotic patterns across her deeply bruised flesh.
"She will recover but it will take time, your quick healing surely saved her leg."
Milore touched Niyya's shoulder and she looked up, immediately rising from her chair with a gasp. "Oh, Teldryn! It's just awful, I'm so sorry." Her eyes were red and glistening and for once he did not mind her hysteria. "She'll be fine though, I swear it. We've given her potions to keep the wounds from festering and I've made a cream with egg yolks to help with the scarring..."
"Niyya, please," Milore interrupted gently, beckoning her away. "He knows."
Niyya swallowed the rest of her assurances, nodding as she made to leave. She stopped and grabbed his arm suddenly, her eyes two glinting amethysts. "You're going to drive off whoever caused this right? That's what I heard." He had to marvel at how quickly the woman picked up gossip. Had she not been here the whole time? He tipped his head once in confirmation. "Good," she said stiffly, letting him go and following Milore.
He pulled up the chair Niyya had been in and sat down, looking Vanya over as he dug out the missive he'd written, placing it on the side table nearby. She was still pale, but less so, the serenity of her now cleaned face soothing the disquiet that his last images of her had borne. The flickering candlelight danced along her profile, illuminating the richness of her hair and he longed to touch her, to press her to himself and keep her there.
Gently, so as not to cause any discomfort, he lifted her hand in his and looked over her slender fingers. Dried blood was still visible under her nails, a remnant of the devastation her hands had wrought. He tugged her dagger from under the strap of his armor, setting it alongside the missive.
"Khes'yi," he breathed, brushing a few strands of hair away from her brow. "You always surprise me, you know?"
Could she even hear him? If she would but turn and open her eyes, bring him into her world, he'd forsake all and go willingly.
She didn't move so he leaned over and pressed his lips to her cheek. The smooth surface of her skin was cooler than it should have been and writhing heat shot up his spine in response, his blood calling for retribution. Yes, he would go willingly. He straightened up, not taking his eyes from her as he fitted his helmet on his head, bringing her shawl up around his mouth.
The others in the house were naught but shadows against the wall as he got to his feet, marching through the room and out the door.
