Chapter Text
Concealed on the outskirts of town, H’aanit watches them, these two travelers that have stumbled out of the forest into her village; Linde, beside her like always (she’s almost like a third limb, albeit one that can maul just about anything), gives a bemused huff when the One with Brown Hair starts talking to everyone, pleasant and open and happy like he didn’t just fight his way through a half-dozen spear-wielding squirrels.
The One with the Scarf says nothing, crossing and uncrossing his arms, absently scratching at his wrist. He shivers, despite the fact that it isn’t cold, and she almost laughs.
Because – though she is loath to admit it – she’ll need their help; even with her considerable skill, there’s only so much she can do alone.
Her master needs her, she knows this like she knows when a deer will break cover, or her opponent will throw a punch, or the way to step silently through the woods; it’s more than ‘instinctive’ it just simply is.
Once she defeats the beast in the woods, she’ll be leaving to search for Z’aanta.
She watches as the One with the Scarf nicks some grapes from one of the hunters-in-training, clicks her tongue in disapproval and thinks, serves them right, if they didst not notice.
…
Breathing heavily, H’aanit watches as the other two finish up their opponents, Alfyn (she learned his name when he offered it with a smile, along with his life story; he misses his boyfriend Zeph a lot, and she almost wonders what being on either end of that kind of longing would be like) heaving his ax from the bandit’s chest, brown eyes dark and tumultuous.
He has grown more skilled since she started giving him pointers, but still hates killing, and it pains him every time; she wishes she were better at giving comfort and reassurance.
Alas, with other humans, her words are like her arrows: sharp and pointed and too often vicious.
The One with the Scarf draws his dagger from the throat of his bandit, smirking as he wipes the blade clean.
(She hasn’t gotten his name yet; Alfyn refers to him as ‘my friend’ or ‘buddy’, and she wonders if he knows either. She wonders about the One with the Scarf a lot, now that she thinks about it)
“Us or them, Alf. Us or them,” he says, patting his friend’s shoulder, playing at nonchalance.
Because he’s only playing, and H’aanit knows this because she watches, she sees:
the way his strikes kill as painlessly and quickly as possible (like hers do)
how he’ll fight only as a last resort (while she Provokes her way to her goals)
the fact that he shares his Spirit with Alfyn as soon as the battle is done, in case any of them need healing beyond what their items can provide (the same way she taught Alfyn woodcraft, adding to his already prodigious knowledge of botany)
and pretends oh-so-well that he couldn’t care less about any of it
She sees all these things, and wants – as viscerally as she’s ever wanted anything – to understand.
So, H’aanit decides to keep watching.
…
He’s watching her (their reciprocated observation has almost become a game, she realizes, but the rules are unclear) as she skins that night’s dinner, but his gaze feels… different.
Usually, it is cool and precise, but now, she almost feels warm.
Perhaps I am too close to the fire, she decides, because that way she can dismiss the urge to look back, to meet his eyes and…
She shivers, even though it isn’t cold.
“Therion.” The One with the Scarf says, his voice breaking the silence like a stone disturbing the surface of a clear pond, “My name, it’s… Therion.”
Alfyn looks up from where he was tending to Linde’s paw – a thorn, of all things, caught in the sensitive area between her toes – grinning like their next stop is Clearbrook…
Which it is, but that’s not the point.
Shooting their newly non-nameless companion a cheerful thumbs-up, Alfyn laughs, “Nice to finally get an introduction, buddy!”
The ripples settle, and stillness returns to their little camp.
Therion, H’annit turns his name over in her head, smiling, I suppose that fits.
It’s nice, to put a name to his silhouette in her mind.
“I am pleased thou decided to share thy name, Therion,” she remarks later, partly just to say it, “Be not worried, we shall not go bandying it about lightly. Well, I shan’t, at the least.”
Knowing Alfyn, he’s probably already planning the introductions for when they arrive.
…
She pries his story out of him piece by hard-won piece, trading him training in stealth and survival, legends of her people, tales of her hunts (successful or no), anything and everything she can think of for bits of his past, because she is tired of just watching.
Her patience is extraordinary, but for some reason, seeing him sit, so far away from their group – they’re a proper group now, not three, not four, but eight – in the evenings while they gather around a fire, it strikes a chord of… of…
Melancholy.
And H’aanit doesn’t like it, how it dwells in her chest, a weight no amount of tinctures or prayers will lift.
“Just talk to him,” Primrose implores, “please. I’ll do it for you, if you don’t want to.”
Primrose would. She’s strong, maybe the strongest of all of them, but H’aanit can’t let her bear this burden too, and knows her methods wouldn’t work if she tried them.
Pretty words and coy smiles aren’t her tools; no, she’ll do this her way or not at all.
…
H’aanit hunts her target with single-minded determination. A question deferred to him here, the mention of a story he had told her there, she slowly lays her traps and baits them, topics he’ll find interesting, challenges he can’t resist.
She gradually draws Therion closer, into the rings of light cast by the fire, into their conversations, into their octet – where he belongs.
The others accept this, but keep some distance, regrettably wary of his thieving prowess. She doesn’t bother, because Linde would take his leg off if he tried.
They’re probably worried for nothing; she doesn’t mind being closest anyway.
…
Late one night, he tells her – only her, as everyone else is fast asleep – about the band on his arm.
The shame of it, and his reluctant acceptance of the quest that will win him its removal.
They’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder (because the fire is almost dead and they’ve been told to conserve fuel, because it’s windy and this way they’re sheltered, because a million-and-one reasons that aren’t this truth: they simply enjoy being close to each other) with Linde sprawled beside her, her head lolling onto H’aanit’s thigh.
“Then, I looked down at my wrist, and there it was.” He holds up his wrist so she can see the cuff, firelight glinting off the metal.
“Such underhanded trickery,” she seethes, scowling, “True, thou didst not have noble intentions, but…”
He laughs, and she feels it just as much as she hears it, “You know, most people would just say that I deserved it.”
“I,” she says, nudging his shoulder, “am not most people. Thou should ken that well by now.”
Therion nods, smiling. She feels his hand find hers, their fingers intertwining, like the tumblers of a lock meshing to a key (not a pick, they actually belong there), or an arrow nocking to a drawstring.
When their watch draws to a close, they wake Cyrus and Ophilia, who thankfully don’t notice their clasped hands – well, Cyrus smirks, which is unusual for this time of night.
They’ll never hear the end of it, in the morning.
…
H’aanit observes Therion as he laughs, studying (drinking in) the tilt of his chin, the furrow of his brow. If this moment, Tressa slamming down the winning hand of cards, leaving Alfyn, Cyrus, and Olberic distraught and the others in stiches, were a beast, she wouldn’t hesitate to capture it, if only to call it whenever she needed a reminder of her family.
Tressa collects her money with only minor grousing, while Therion sidles his way over to her.
“Told ya she’d win,” he says with a grin, “Sharp as a knife, that one.”
Her only reply is a nod, as she leans into him, feeling his arm reflexively wrap around her.
“Aye, thou didst,” she agrees with a fond sigh, “Art thou prepared to deal with the monster thine encouragements have unleashed when next we reach a town?”
His reply, muttered along with a faint brush of his lips across her temple, is affirmative.
“Yeah. The look on Cyrus’ face was well worth it.”
…
Therion looks different while he is sleeping. Less guarded, but also… less vibrant.
He is like a flame, she thinks, gently stroking his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin against the calloused pads of her fingers.
He hums happily, moving towards her touch, towards her, still asleep.
Some days, she still rises with the sun, a habit she’s not sure she’ll ever completely break, but if it allows her moments like this, she doesn’t want to. She yawns, feeling Linde readjust her position at the foot of their bed (the innkeeper had been less than thrilled at her insistence that the leopard accompany her, but pointed glares from every one of her friends had solved that problem) and sleepily leans forward, pressing a kiss to Therion’s forehead.
They will be in town for several days yet, there is no rush, so she gathers the blankets around her as Therion curls into her side.
H’aanit closes her eyes.
She doesn’t need to watch him to know the smile on his face matches her own.