Jackass is a slathering, bruised mess between my thighs when Whiterun finally comes into view. I pull hard on his reins and get him stopped beside a small stream. I barely take enough time to wash the blood from myself before remounting my steed and hurrying off again. My hands are swollen and the fresh scratches across my face still throb; sadly, there's nothing I can do for either of those injuries at the moment. My main priority now is to get a healer from the Temple of Kynareth to come with me to treat the Khajiit I left a broken, bloody mess on the floor of our shared home. Wiping the blood from my hands and arms was the bare minimum to validate the story that it wasn't me who beat the woman bloody and instead a group of rogue bandits.
It's a weak story at best that anyone would poke a hole in, but right now it's the best I've got. The safest option would be to kill the healer after she's tended to my future wife's injuries; sadly, a dead healer last seen leaving the city with a mysterious stranger is more likely to draw attention than a healer with a strange tale of an injured Khajiit and her bruised lover seeking medical attention. Any disguise I don will likely be insufficient to fully mask me and I'm sure my fellow Companion members would recognize me. Thankfully, I'm certain a thick cloak and deepened voice will be enough to make a stranger pause if she had to come forward and claim a crime was committed.
Accusing a high-ranking member of The Companions of raping a woman before beating her within an inch of her life is a hefty accusation that would need insurmountable proof of evidence. An odd stranger coming forth and seeking a healer for her beaten wife is hardly enough to make someone risk their good name by coming forward to accuse me of the crimes I've committed. Still, I'd be wise to stick to the back alleys and keep attention away from me. I do just that by stashing Jackass in a small thicket of trees close to the stables before entering the city by foot.
A nice, dark clock is snatched from someone's drying laundry as I weave my way around the familiar alleys of Whiterun. The only witness to my passing is a tethered dog accompanying some children who are too busy playing with their dice to notice the woman slinking by them. The hound catches my scent and offers a hopeful whine; then, I'm past him and the beast resumes watching the children play their game. I find the Temple of Kynareth abandoned and locked for the night. A sharp rap of my knuckles brings an older healer to crack the door open. I pull my hood close and the flickering candlelight in the woman's hand fails to reach me. The woman's face sours at my hidden identity, and I see her tense on the other side of the door. She opens her mouth, no doubt to ask me to lower my hood, and I speak before she gets the chance.
"My wife is injured, please, I need help!". I toss my voice an octave lower and speak quickly to convey a sense of urgency I don't truly feel. The woman's face remains unchanged as she begins digging for information.
"What happened?"
"Bandits broke into our home while I was out, she's been raped and beaten. Please, I don't think she has much longer!".
The woman's face softens the tiniest bit as she sees what I want her to see: a husband who was out working to sustain his family and couldn't protect his wife from the cruelties of bandits. It's also more understandable for a man to wish to keep himself hidden after such an event for both his and his wife's sake. Neither husband nor wife would care for news of the woman's rape to spread through Whiterun.
"Where is she?"
"She's still at our house, we live close to the border with Dawnstar. I'm beginning you; her wounds are grave. The only reason she lives is because I interrupted the attack.". I reach into my hood, collect some blood from my still oozing wounds, and produce a bloodied hand dripping with fresh scarlet to the woman. Instantly, her face softens, and I hear the door unlock. A wounded, scared man hiding his mangled face from a healer is understandable given everything else that's occurred to him and his family recently.
"I need to grab some supplies, stay there or come in as you please.". I choose to remain outside as the woman closes the door to get the tools that she'll need to piece my wife back together again. I cast a single glance towards Jorrvaskr and am met with stillness and darkness. Whoever's up there slumbers a dreamless sleep undisturbed by the wickedness of their fellows. I have a few more days until I'll have to return to Whiterun once again to deliver the false news of the Khajiit's betrayal and death at my hand before announcing an extended hunting trip I'll be taking by myself to "grieve" and "process everything".
In truth my hunting trip will be dedicated to fucking the Khajiit as often and as deeply as possible until my seed has taken inside her womb and she's swollen full of my bastard. Obviously, my fellow Companions need to know that as badly as they need to know I'm seeking a healer in the middle of the night for my raped and beaten mate. If I'm lucky, neither Companions nor healers will ever catch wind of one another's stories of Khajiit women. Even if they do, I feel confident I've sown enough seeds of doubt no real repercussions can come of it. I'll just need to be careful and make sure there isn't a third story of a wounded Khajiit woman circulating around Whiterun. Even with the healers assuring everyone they don't spread rumors or stories I doubt the strength of their word.
My thoughts are interrupted by the healer pushing her way outside. The woman is loaded down with a thick, large trunk I'm sure is stuffed to the brim with everything imaginable. I haven't explained the Khajiit's wounds in detail; still, I'm sure the situation being explained and me repeatedly saying my mate was near death has given the healer a good enough idea of what she'll need. I'd usually offer to help carry the trunk, but I need my face obscured and my voice still unknown. I turn and silently begin leading the woman away.
Her quick, frantic steps and labored breathing tells me she's following. I guide her back through the twisting, turning alleys that are now abandoned save for a stray cat that offers a hiss before disappearing into the ever-darkening night. It would be safest to wait until morning and ride at sunrise when there's light to see holes and cliffs hidden by the dark, but the Khajiit might not make it until the sun rises. I believe the healer and I riding on Jackass, even if he's loaded down by the trunk of supplies, can make it with my love still alive and wounded on the cabin floor; however, with the severity of her wounds I don't want to cut it so close as to wait until the sun rises. Even with us traveling my night, I send a silent prayer to whoever will listen that the Khajiit is still breathing when I return.
I find Jackass anxiously pawing the ground and hold him firm while the nameless healer loads her trunk onto the back of his ass. The horse chews his lead and shuffles uncomfortably at the added weight, but he doesn't find the courage to buck or bite as both the healer and I mount him. The poor beast struggles to find his footing and walk with all three of us loading him down; thankfully, the best is brighter than most and quickly figures out how best to move his limbs to allow him to break into a gallop without throwing either ride.
The trunk awkwardly bangs his ass with every stride, yet he finds the will to ignore it as best he can in favor of his continued pace. A thick, foaming lather is building on the horse's muscles as we speed blindly through the night. Jackass' eyes see hidden dips and obstacles I can't, so I allow him to guide the way as he sees "safe" while I keep him on course to the cabin where my love is waiting for me. Soon enough, I'm pulling on his reins and squinting to see the nearly invisible path that cuts off from the main trail that'll lead me home. Once I've spotted it, I turn Jackass down the beaten path and let him finish the journey with little input from me. As soon as the cabin is in sight, I leap down from Jackass with his reins still firmly in my hand.
The horse finds himself quickly tethered as the healer undoes her trunk that's now smeared with Jackass' foamy sweat. I offer my faithful steed a quick word of praise and the promise of a carrot later before rushing to open the cabin door for the healer and her trunk. I unlock the door and quickly light a candle to allow the woman who'll be healing my love some light to work by. Once the door is closed and a few more candles are lit, both the healer and I are finally able to get a good look at my beloved. She's still as I left her: broken, bloody, and breathing.
Her eyes are swollen to the point she can't see and her shattered jaw prevents her from talking; still, she offers a twitch of her torn tail and her right hand flicks broken fingers in our general direction. A prayer from the woman beside me urges me forward. Gently, I kneel in the blood and vomit surrounding the Khajiit's head. The healer says nothing as I reach out and lovingly cup the back of her skull. I raise her head the slightest bit and slide my legs under her skull. The woman's ruined face rest in my lap and I slowly push some of her mane out of her blackened, bruised eyes. The healer's trunk comes to rest beside me, but I can't bring myself to look upon the healer for fear she'll see my true identity.
I fear she'll see not only who I am, but the five long, deep scratches across my face that attest to the fact I was the beast who mauled this woman beyond recognition. Thankfully, the healer asks no questions as she goes about the long, painful process of sticking back together the toy I tore apart. Broken fingers and toes are snapped back into place and taped together while shattered legs and arms are corrected and splinted. My love's tail has been torn in two for too long to the point it's rotting and a quick cut leaves her with half the length she had this morning all bandaged up tight.
Open wounds from my bites, scratches, and knife are all washed, slathered in poultice, and stitched where they're too deep or wide for bandaging. The woman's teeth are gently put back into place and the shattered jaw wrapped tightly shut. All of the countless bruises and scrapes are given poultices and ointments. Words of prayer and spells of healing are endlessly given out during the entire process as the healer repeatedly downs potions to restore her strength and faith. Some potions are dribbled past my love's lips, but she's so swollen and bruised it nearly drowns her as she struggles to swallow. After hours of the healer slaving away over the Khajiit's body, she finally stops. The woman before me is smeared in poultices, wrapped in bandages, and splinted beyond recognition. The Khajiit slowly finds the strength to open her eyes. That's when the crying starts.