Hi, everyone! I'm so excited to have so many favorites and follows! I'm glad this story isn't being drowned by all the others and that there are actual people reading it! It definitely helps me to write this knowing that there are people interested in Iris's story. So, thank you! Without further ado, here's Chapter 3!
Iris's recovery has been going too slow for her liking. Every time Karliah manages to close the wound, it goes and opens up again, burning and singeing more skin along the way. What started as a three-inch long stab wound has slowly turned into a five-inch long infection, oozing pus and crusting over as it bleeds. Karliah has been letting Iris redress it herself, and early this morning, Iris decides she needs to get a move on before Mercer's trail goes completely dead. It's already been eight days since she was stabbed. So, when Karliah asks her if the wound finally stayed closed overnight, she lies and says yes. Karliah believes her, everyone always believes her—save one, she corrects herself—and she hands Iris her fur-lined traveling cloak and Gallus's journal.
"I've put some more of the antidote, salve, and potions in your bag," Karliah tells Iris as she puts on her cloak. "Remember, Enthir. He'll know how to go about translating the journal. He'll most likely be in the inn. If not, just ask around."
Iris hides her grimace as she hoists her bag over her shoulder, clipping her sword around her slim waist. "Thank you for everything, Karliah."
"Of course. Now, travel safely. I'll join you in Winterhold when I can."
And with that, Iris sets off toward Winterhold.
The further north she goes, the more frigid the air gets and the more unbearable the pain in her side becomes. She wonders exactly what kind of poison Mercer used on his blade because it's murder. She usually recovers from things like this fairly quickly, but now? She needs to do something about this poison. Maybe this Enthir will know what to do. Otherwise, Iris will be forced to search for more…unconventional ways of healing herself. Like absorbing a dragon soul, for instance. And she's not completely sure that she'd come out of that battle alive in this condition.
Her hands are clamped around her side and her feet stumbling up the path to Winterhold when her resilience finally fails her. She only has a second to unsheathe her sword when the frost troll appears before her, roaring and slamming its frozen fists on the ground. Her eyes widen in terror as the monster's hot breath puffs on her face. She swings her sword with all her might, hitting the troll in the abdomen. But her hit doesn't break the skin. She's too weakened by the poison infiltrating her system. The movement tears open what little of the wound was closed. She cries out in agony, doubling over, warmth spreading across her stomach. She doesn't have time to react before the troll swipes at her with its frozen arm. Its growl rumbles through the air as she is struck in the side and tossed into the snow. Crying out in pain, she struggles to get to her feet, but the troll hits her again, across the face. Her sword goes flying from her hand, and she strains to summon flames. She sees crimson stain the white snow as the flames flicker weakly in her hand. She delves into her dragon power and uses the last of her strength to try and kill the damn thing.
"YOL TOOR SHUL!" she Shouts, her Voice sounding weak even to her. But the Thu'um does its job and forces the frost troll to run for cover. Now, she can only hope it stays away. Hot tears roll down her face and threaten to freeze as she drags herself through the snow, smearing blood in her wake and trembling in the cold. Gasping and weeping, she pulls herself with her arms, standing an ordeal too agonizing to even think about. She just needs to get to Winterhold. They'll help her. But her arms are becoming so heavy and her eyes so sleepy. The blood coating her stomach is the only warmth she can find as she trembles in the snow, her body slowly numbing. She lays her face down, her cheek pressed against the freezing snow, her arms splayed out in front of her. She should never have lied to Karliah. This is where it got her. Shivering uncontrollably in cold and unbearable pain, bleeding out. Funny how the Gods mess with you. She thought she avoided Death, defeated Death, only to find it coming to claim her once more, so shortly after her first encounter. She tries to raise her head out of the snow, tries to continue pulling her numb body along the side of the path but she can't find the strength to. And everything is becoming so dark—
Brynjolf trudges along the path to Winterhold, trying his hardest not to think about the Breton lass who had stolen his heart. He strains to keep Vex's words out of his head, hating that they were true. He can't deny it to himself. He has been getting sloppy. His mind's been preoccupied with thoughts of a violet-eyed, brown-haired thief and the gaping hole in his guilt-ridden heart. He thought that by taking all these jobs, it'd be easier not to think about her. But he sees her in everything: the setting sun, the frost on the trees, the feathers on a bluebird. Gods, he can't do this without her. He's never felt this much sorrow, all for a woman he met a little over a month ago.
But it's no secret how close they were. He confided everything in her. Told her all his secrets, insecurities, fears, aspirations, dreams. And she told him hers. They used to sit on her porch in Honeyside, talking for hours over a bottle of mead. There was a sort of bond between them, a connection, an understanding. They just clicked, fit together. They both wished for their…relationship to go further, but they were afraid. Afraid that what happened to Karliah and Gallus would happen to them. No inter-Guild relationships, Mercer had warned them. So, they kept it platonic, though they both wished for it to be more. Her eyes are what did him in. Drew him in and did him in. Her bright violet eyes shone with challenge, with mystery. It's why he chose her to help him with the Brand-Shei job. With eyes like that, she was no doubt skilled in getting what she wanted. And judging by the hunk of moonstone on her finger, he was sure she was a trained thief.
He never thought they'd connect the way they did. He went with her on the Honningbrew job. She claimed she needed his help with it, though he was sure she could've done it on her own; she just wanted an excuse to spend more time with him, she later admitted. Whispers about them began to spread around the Guild. Mercer actually approached him with his concerns at one point, urging him that another Karliah and Gallus would tear the Guild apart. His instinct was to not care, but the Guild was his family. No matter how teasing, beautiful, and alluring Iris was, he had to stay true to his family, and Iris agreed. And now she's dead, and they'll never know anything more than their platonic friendship.
Growling in frustration and despair, Brynjolf scours the path for anything to kill. He almost wants a dragon to come and try to attack him, just so he can alleviate his inner turmoil with outer violence. It's as if the Gods have answered his wishes because a frost troll ambles out onto the path. Readying his blade, he dashes straight up to it, noting the burns marring its arms. The troll has no time to react as he stabs it in the throat with his dagger, repeatedly. He doesn't stop until the troll lays in a pool of blood, very much dead. He sheathes his dagger, frustrated that killing this thing did nothing to remedy his despair. He inteds to continue on his way when he spots crimson in the corner of his eye. Turning, he finds a trail of dark, shining blood leading into the thicket lining the trail. Frowning, Brynjolf draws out his dagger once more, readying himself for an attack. It'd be just like those bandits to lure him off the path in this way. He slowly follows the bloody trail, his eyes darting in all directions for any potential threats. But when he finally reaches the end of the crimson path, he sees something, someone, he thought he'd never see again.
"By the Nine…"
She lays, facedown, in the snow, her usual tanned skin paled and frosted over in the frigid air, her long cinnamon colored hair adorned with tiny snowflakes, a puddle of blood surrounding her small body. He slaps himself across the face, hard, convinced that he's finally gone mad. But she's still there when he opens his teary eyes. He knows it's her, for the moonstone ring still adorns her finger. Shaking his head in disbelief, he goes to her side, carefully turning her over and gasping when he finds the enormous bloodstain on her Thieves Guild armor.
Her skin is freezing to the touch; he has to get her to Winterhold now. He carefully draws her into his arms, hunting for her sword and cloak. He shoulders her bag and sword, when he finds it, and drapes the cloak over her motionless body, the whole time believing Sheogorath has paid him a visit and finally driven him to madness. He runs to Winterhold. Never slowing down once and leaving a trail of dripping blood in his wake.
"It's going to be okay, lass," he whispers to his Iris. "I promise. Just hold on a bit longer for me, okay?" He finally makes it into the city and bursts into the inn, frantic. "I need help!"
The innkeeper hurries to him and gasps when she spots the woman in his arms. "Take her to the back! Enthir!"
Brynjolf dashes into the back room, never taking his eyes off of her still form.
"Put her near the fire. Gods, she's almost completely frozen," the innkeeper orders him.
He carefully lays her on the blankets the innkeeper spreads on the ground, close to the roaring fire. The innkeeper, Haran, he learns, spreads thick blankets over Iris but shakes her head.
"This won't warm her up quickly enough, and I need to take a look at the source of all that blood." She turns to him. "Can you warm her up?"
He doesn't need to be told twice. He ducks under the blankets and immediately gathers Iris in his arms, careful not to move her bleeding torso. Snowflakes rest upon her eyelashes, he notices, frost on her cheeks.
"What happened?" Haran asks him.
"I don't know. I just found her laying in the snow."
"Do you know where she came from?"
"Well, I know her. I just don't know why she was there or what happened."
"Hm. What a coincidence," Haran comments before turning to a Altmer. "Thank you, Enthir." She accepts potions and bandages from the elf.
He can't believe she's here next to him. In disbelief, he softly kisses her cheek, his touch melting the frost from her blue-tinged skin. Why did Mercer tell them she was dead?
"Let me take a look at her stomach," Haran says, kneeling down and shifting the blankets down. She unbuckles Iris's armor and pulls it open to reveal a blood-stained bandage on her abdomen. Haran carefully peels the bandage from her skin and gasps. Brynjolf's stomach churns when he sees the horrible, infected wound marring her smooth skin.
"By the Eight. Enthir!" Haran calls for the Altmer once more and points to Iris's stomach.
"Stabbed by a poisoned blade no doubt." Enthir kneels down by her side, peering at the crusted skin. "I haven't seen this type of poison in a long time." He straightens up. "I need nightshade, honey, and nirnroot. In the meantime, let's see if she had anything she was treated it with."
"Her bag is over there," Brynjolf points to it.
Enthir retrieves a salve from her bag and proceeds to rub the wound with it before redressing it. "Is she warming up?"
"Aye." The frost is gone from her face, and her skin is regaining its color.
"Let's move her into the bed."
Brynjolf carefully carries her to the bed, gently setting her down on the soft surface and covering her with the thick blankets.
Haran places a hand on Iris's forehead. "She has a fever. I'll fetch a cold cloth to keep on her forehead. She may be warmed up now, but soon she'll wish she was laying outside in the snow again."
Haran and Enthir leave the room, going their separate ways to fetch things to tend to Iris, leaving Brynjolf alone with her.
"By the Nine, lass. You're a fighter." He kisses her forehead, her skin indeed burning as sweat begins to accumulate on her brow. He settles into the chair next to the bed, his eyes never leaving her. He doesn't intend on moving anytime soon.
"Have you gotten that courier from Bryn yet?" Delvin asks Vex after taking a swig of ale.
"No. I'm starting to get worried. It was a simple sweep job. Do you think he got caught?" Vex arches an eyebrow, looking up from the pile of gold she's counting.
Delvin shrugs. "Who knows? His head isn't screwed on all the way. He could have been. But even then, news would have traveled to us by now."
"It's been four days. A job like that should've only taken one." She examines a coin before huffing. "Counterfeit," she mutters, tossing it into the water.
"He's mourning. Maybe he's taking longer. Maybe he's already done it and forgotten to send the courier. You know how he can be sometimes." Delvin sighs, downing the rest of his ale.
"Maybe."
"Should we send someone or just keep waiting?"
Vex sighs, looking up from her pile of septims. "I say we wait two more days. The worst that could have happened is he got caught and is spending time in jail." She shrugs. "Might be good for him. A shock to his system to snap back into focus."
"I guess…"
"If we haven't heard from him in two days, we'll send someone. In the meantime, we'll wait." Vex goes back to her gold.
"What else is there to do?" Delvin sighs.
Yay! Reunited at last :) Now, the action will really begin...
Thank you all so much for reading! Please favorite, follow, and review! I'd love to hear your thoughts so far!
