Bonesplinter Ravine Dead Voxel

Set back to October 6, the morning after @Machiavelli has woken up

The woman's anger was near boiling as she worked, scrubbing the creature’s wounds with a force far rougher than any healer's touch ought to be. Why, the very nerve of Herod! Parading this... thing around as if it were some poor lost lamb, when in truth, it was nothing but a vile monster—the very one that had stolen her son from her!

Her paws moved briskly, though her thoughts stormed even faster, each motion fueled by the fury churning within her. She could feel her breath quicken, her thick muzzle curling into a silent, unconscious snarl as the bitterness took hold. The pain of her loss mingled with the disgust she felt toward the beast, and for a moment, it was all she could do to keep from letting her claws sink into its ripped flesh.

She paused only for a moment, her breath escaping in quick, angry puffs and her gaze hardening as she glared down at the beast.

Machiavelli winced, his sharp intake of breath barely contained as the woman’s hard paws dug into his torn flesh with all the grace of a butcher. Each rough stroke of her paw sent fresh waves of pain coursing through his body, but he bit back the sound that threatened to escape, grinding his teeth.

Her claws scraped against his skin, just shy of drawing blood, and for a brief second, Machiavelli thought she might actually do it—might let that rage consume her and finish what fate had already started. But she didn’t. She paused, her breath coming in quick, furious huffs, and Machiavelli dared to meet her eyes.

He opened his mouth, his voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper. I didn’t kill him.

Eira’s breath hitched, her body going rigid at the sound of its voice. I didn’t kill him. The words, barely more than a rasp, sent a chill rippling down her spine. It wasn’t its voice that caused her to falter, though—it was the sheer audacity.

She gripped the hide in her paw tighter, her knuckles whitening, the harsh scent of medicinal plants and blood filling her nose as she stared down at the creature, the one she had been ready to embrace as son, trying to worm its way out of guilt with a feeble whisper.

She did not like the look in its eyes. Speak again, and it will be the last thing you ever do.

Machiavelli's gaze softened into something akin to pleading. He didn’t have much left to offer—not after what she thought he had taken from her—but the least he could do was give her truth, even if she refused to accept it. He could feel the hatred in her eyes, sharper than any tooth or nail, and yet he dared to speak, dared to ask her to see logic. Herod wouldn’t let her kill him, and oddly enough, that was his only reassurance now. Oh, the bitter irony, to be grateful for the protection of the man that was to him what he must be to the snow mother.

What could have been my reason, Eira? he asked, gaze imploring. You trusted me once.

That was all he could manage. More words sat on the edge of his tongue, but he swallowed them down, knowing anything else would sound like hollow excuses. He knew her too well—she would take them as insults, more lies to fuel the fire that already blazed within her. So instead, he turned his face away, letting his gaze wander to the cave's walls, as if the streaks of gold weaving through the stone might offer some escape from the suffocating ache in his chest.

He didn’t expect forgiveness. He didn’t even expect her to listen. But deep down, there was that naive, lingering desire—a desperate hope she might see him, just for a moment, not as the monster she believed him to be, but as the boy who had once stood beside her son. Perhaps that was too much to ask.

His voice broke through the stillness once more, softer this time. I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but when I was attacked, I was traveling with a girl. His gaze flicked briefly to her, testing the waters. She hadn't attacked him, not yet at least. He took that as a good sign. I’m obviously in no position to send a message to Lady Eset, however... perhaps you could?

The words left his mouth before he could think too much about them, no demand in his tone, only hope. It was absurd, he knew it. Here he was, asking a woman who believed he had taken everything from her to do him a favor. But what choice did he have? If anyone could reach Eset, it was Eira. Whether she wanted to or not, whether she saw him as an enemy or not, she was his best chance. And he had so little left to lose.

Despite the bitterness that coursed through her veins, despite the tears that threatened to spill over from the reservoir of grief behind her eyes, Eira listened. She did not know why—why she did not take a paw to his throat and silence him once and for all. Perhaps it was that small, stubborn corner of her heart that had begun to doubt Herod, or maybe it was the nostalgic part of her that couldn’t bring herself to ignore that faint possibility of truth.

Still, she did not meet his gaze. Instead, she only paused her violent scrubbing, her brown eyes staring hard into the tear in his thigh. She watched the blood bubble up, small dots that could hardly be called pinpricks pooling together to form droplets, which further formed small puddles of the thick red substance.

Her mind traveled to Juno.
His final moments.
She wiped the blood away.

It was Hasdrubal who broke the silence again, and Eira turned to him, expression curdling into one of revulsion. I'm well aware of who you were traveling with, pig, she snapped, each word dripping with venom. Her paws moved with renewed purpose, though there was no tenderness in her touch. She poured a poultice of crushed herbs into the open wound, deliberately skipping anything that might ease the sting. Let him feel the burn. He deserved that much, at least.

You're right, you have no right to ask anything of me, she added sharply.

Machiavelli hadn’t fully grasped how his words could have been misinterpreted until the harshness of Eira's response struck him like a bolt of lightning. Any attempt at correction was swallowed by the searing pain in his thigh, a fiery agony that ripped through his body with merciless intensity. His mouth clamped shut, sharp teeth biting into the inside of his cheek to stifle a cry. His forepaw slammed against the ground, trembling as hot tears sprang to his eyes, turning his usually cold gaze into watery pools of pain.

He forced in a ragged breath, the air catching in his throat as his wide, opal eyes—now clouded with both agony and regret—lifted toward Eira. Her own gaze was relentless, hard as iron, and twice as uncompromising.

That was deserved, Machiavelli hissed through gritted teeth, his voice strained as he fought to breathe through the agony. He sucked in another slow breath, his composure wavering but holding. However, I assure you, the situation is not as it seems. I was traveling with her because her father entrusted me with her safety. I was meant to escort her to Akashingo.

He paused, sucking in another shallow breath, his body trembling as the burn in his thigh refused to subside, its intensity now a throb that traveled through the entirety of his leg. But still, he pressed on, trying to appeal to the part of her that had always valued protecting the vulnerable, even if that part no longer extended to him.

I’m not asking for my own sake. Please believe me when I say, I only wish to know if she made it safely. That is all.

He searched her hardened gaze for any trace of compassion, any flicker of the woman who had once cared for him as if he were her own. She might not believe him, she might never forgive him, but he also knew Eira—knew that despite her fury, she would never allow harm to come to another if she could prevent it. Especially not to a child.

If she made it to Akashingo safely, he said carefully, his voice dipping low, almost a whisper, then you don’t even need to tell me. I’ll accept that silence as an answer. But if she didn’t— he paused, letting the words settle heavily in the air between them, if the wolves that attacked us managed to get her... I might be the only one who can identify them, Eira. She could still be in danger.

She is innocent in all of this. All I ask is that you consider it, please, for her sake.

Of all the nerve, she thought.

Eira didn’t offer him the slightest mercy from the sharp sting of the poultice burning through his torn flesh—her hands were steady, but her heart, well, that was another matter altogether.  She could feel her jaw tighten, her paws stilling as Hasdrubal explained himself.

Something deep within her, buried beneath the weight of her grief, hesitated. Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing his face, searching for even the faintest glimmer of deceit...and finding none. Was she disappointed? She couldn’t tell. With a breath, she pulled herself together, keeping her tone measured, though the tension in her chest remained.

I'll think about it, was the icy reply. She would speak no more as she finished her work.