Chapter Text
“It’s clear,” Ithrenil said sharply as they emerged from the narrow passageway that led to another cavern. Their harsh voice barely cut through the muffled sound of rain hitting the rocks that concealed the cave’s entrance – a pair of rickety wooden doors that had them believing this was once a mine, it surely appeared to be man-made.
Farkas shot up from where he had sat down on one of the wooden crates around the cave to take a breather, biting back a grimace as the sudden movement aggravated the wound on his side. He hadn’t expected them to be back so soon, and their voice abruptly pulled him out of his thoughts, which were unsurprisingly surrounding said elf.
“There’s not much here,” he offered. “Well, mead is good, but that’s about it.”
With a small scoff, Ithrenil took the bottle from his hand and read the label. “Not even the good stuff.”
Their dry tone didn’t make it sound like the joke they intended, but he let out a small chuckle as they handed the bottle back to him – a low sound rumbling from deep within his chest – and they tried to hide the smile that was threatening to pull on their lips.
Turning on their heel, they made their way back towards the burnt-out fire at the far end of the cave, and he trailed behind them, watching as they pulled a cloth out to wipe the blood off of their dagger’s blade. There had only been a couple of bandits holed up in the old mine, and seeing as there were no bodies in this cavern, he figured they had all run out into the area where he’d alerted one of them by charging head-on, making Ithrenil rather irritated as it didn’t follow their preference of taking enemies out quietly.
With the blade clean, they tapped the quillon with their long, slender forefinger once, then twice, followed by a small flicking movement of their wrist in somewhat of a flourish before they finally sheathed the dagger in its scabbard at their hip. Farkas only smiled to himself at the ritual he’d noticed them do many times over the course of their journey.
Crouching down beside the pile of logs, Ithrenil huffed to themself as only a few sparks remained from the bandits’ fire, not nearly enough for it to be rekindled. They picked up some of the hardwood left aside and tossed it onto the pit, then prepared themself to cast. Harnessing their magicka, they focused on building up the energy until they felt the familiar prickling warmth arise in their palm then all the way to their fingertips.
Farkas watched as the flames expelled from one of their hands, lighting up the corner of the room that was devoid of the lanterns littered around the rest of the cave. Magic made him rather uneasy, especially the destruction kind, but they didn’t use it around him often and he saw no other way for them to light the fire.
His gaze travelled up to their face instead, their black eyes that reminded him of wells of ink were lit up by the flame and their brows were knit together in focus as they kept up a steady stream of magic until the pit would no longer require their aid. The way their damp hair was plastered to the side of their neck and across their temples – the dark strands a sharp contrast to their ivory skin – distracted him for a moment, until he was reminded of the storm outside, and his stomach flipped at the thought of having to sleep in such close proximity to them again. He hadn’t realised he’d been staring for so long until they abruptly stood up, making him tear his eyes away as he felt heat rise to his cheeks, and he knew for a fact that it wasn’t from the fire.
Now in relative safety, Ithrenil became acutely aware of the rubbing of their drenched tunic against their skin – how the fabric clung and pulled with every movement, how their leggings felt far too tight around their thighs, and how their armour only intensified the constricting feeling – and their heart sped up as irritation built up in their chest. Out of the corner of their eye, they noticed Farkas look over again, they could feel how worried he was, especially when they roughly shrugged off their pack and unbuckled their belt.
He had warned them that they wouldn’t make it back before nightfall, but had Ithrenil listened? No. Instead, they remained steadfast in their belief that the storm wouldn’t reach them until they were closer to Whiterun. Foolish on their part, though the nature of Skyrim’s weather was still something they weren’t quite used to. Now here they were, feeling their skin crawl all because the rain had soaked through their clothes.
They made quick work of their armour, but still feeling his eyes fixed on them, they looked over, not quite meeting his gaze, their fingers toying with the lace of their tunic. “You should take off your leathers”—motioning to the fire with a quick gesture of their hand—“so they will be dry come morn.”
He hummed in agreement as they continued to peel off the fabric, revealing more of their fair skin. The taut muscle littered with silver lines entranced Farkas. Some of them were small, barely-there marks while others were the evidence of deep lacerations. He cleared his throat and looked away. Rude to stare, he thought. He’d seen their body before; they weren’t particularly shy about stripping down when they would make camp, and there was that one time the two of them had to share body heat – a situation that wouldn’t typically have made him so flustered if he didn’t feel such a way whenever they did as little as walk into a room.
Reaching up to unclasp the worn chestplate that Ithrenil had pulled off of a hunter he’d slain after he shifted and tore through all of his armour, he winced at the way the gash on his side pulled with the movement. Ithrenil’s head snapped to look at him. He couldn’t tell, but he assumed their eyes were darting across his form to try and find the source of his pain.
“You’re bleeding,” they said plainly after a small sniff, the sweet metallic scent reaching their nose instead of them actually witnessing the fresh blood.
He nodded and they just pointed to the crate near the fire. With a small huff, he sat down on it, the wood creaking under his weight, and they went to stand at his back. Their hands deftly unclasped the poor excuse for armour and pulled it off before reaching for the hide underneath. No wonder the hunters fell so easily.
Crouching down to get a better look, they could see that the wound wasn’t as deep as they had anticipated, but the blood trickling down his side made them frown. One of the hunters had landed a good hit back in Dustman’s Cairn, but why it was taking so long to heal seemed a mystery to them. The thought that perhaps those who had contracted lycanthropy may not heal as quickly as someone such as themself, born with the gift, crossed their mind.
“This should’ve healed by now.” They glanced up at him after inspecting the wound as they reached over and dragged their pack over to the crate.
Farkas nodded as he watched them rifle through their belongings. “Aye, if it was any other wound, but they use silver.” He shrugged then leaned back on one arm before he added, “It will take a while.”
Ithrenil’s eyes darted up to meet his and their hands paused on pulling their bandages and tools to clean the gash out from amongst the mess of trinkets in their pack. “They?”
“The Silver Hand.” They tilted their head to the side, glancing between him and their waterskin as they uncorked it and poured some water into the empty pot by the fire. He clarified, “Bad people who don’t like werewolves. So they don’t like us.”
Finally, a name to these bastards. Or at least they hoped they were connected to the groups they had hunted all over Cyrodiil. It didn’t matter, they would take them all down regardless.
Soaking a clean cloth in the water, they then reached out and placed a hand on his side to steady themself, and his muscles tensed underneath their touch. “As in the Companions?”
“Not everyone, but—” He cut himself off with a hiss as they gently wiped at the blood surrounding the wound and they gave him an apologetic look. “Hey, can’t you use your magic for this?”
“Afraid not. I’m unfamiliar with restoration spells.” They felt a bit guilty for using the last of their healing potions back at the crypt, but they would have to make do with this. At least he would have a nice scar to show for it. “Continue.”
Farkas looked down at them, confused for a moment, before he realised they were referring to what they had asked before the pain from his side made him lose his train of thought. “All in The Circle are. It’s a secret to everybody else.”
They scoffed then as they unfurled their bandages, and the confusion that ran through them made Ithrenil glance up at him again, finding him watching them with a raised brow. The corners of their lips turned up as they simply got to work on wrapping the dressing around his torso, but the silence between the two of them didn’t last long.
“What?” he finally inquired.
“You’re not a subtle lot,” they teased, and he almost looked offended despite the way his lips pulled up in a smile, obviously enjoying that they were able to be more at ease with him so much as to poke fun. “That, and I could smell you all from yards away.”