keep your teeth sharp
In the time since his departure from Odersten, his hair had grown out somewhat, strands that barely reached his brow before now cast pale silver over his gaze, tickled beyond his ears. It was uneven, cut here and there with the edge of his knife when knots had formed into briars that pressed uncomfortably to his scalp when covered by his helm. In the armor's absence, it would be relatively dirty, collecting remnants of his hunt, the carmine blended nicely, evenly with the blight of dirt that had wormed its way through his visor. These days held little difference to those prior to his meeting her. The daylight was filled with a mire of unpleasant toil, the nights absconded by the paranoia of being discovered, of being trapped in this den like a wild boar. Sleep evaded, peace was nonexistent, a foreign and pleasant dream that he had begun to wonder if it was ever truly real. Let alone fathomless as to how he would have ever been capable of possessing it in hands forged for and of violence. Perhaps, once upon a time, it had slithered its way in, a delicate butterfly who left its powder upon his palms and dusted his fingers before he had accidentally crushed it upon its landing. The poor creature. It hadn't known any better than to choose him.

The roar of the flames reminded him of the hunt as well, a bliss he had grown unaccustomed to for himself. No, the smell of smoke and the smolder of ash had merely become something that helped him find them. Corralled around its voice, speaking, laughing. Some of them spoke of what they would do with the money. How they would treat themselves to finer gear. Maybe it was to buy food for themselves or their families whom they'd left behind in search of their fortunes to drag back those that had departed the draft. There was a part of him that was no longer so concealed to shade that had begun to enjoy it - a wicked, tantalizing thrill that would drive adrenaline through his veins with the notion of prey. Some were young, inexperienced. Had they hoped to ride the coattails of their elders to success? To use his skull as a stepping stone to their own sense of glory? No matter the misery, whatever warped sense of pride he possessed wouldn't allow death to come so easily to him.

In the end, that's why the beast hadn't perished as of yet.

Lokir's tongue lazily swept over his paws, cleansing every last fiber of the treat he'd been afforded, and that sound was accompanied by the feather-fall of her own foot steps. They were eerily soft upon the cavern floor, mere whispers in comparison to the heavy trod of his boots. It reminded him sharply that she had wandered here bereft of even shoes. He nearly sighed, almost shook his head in bewilderment of the inclinations of her mind and the decisions she'd made to bring herself to here of all places. But he didn't. He would only look away from the dance of the tonguing flames when her belly rumbled its empty displeasure. His brow drew, hardened at the evidence of her previous lie. Though he wouldn't make comment upon it, after all, he wasn't entirely forthcoming either with her inquiry. It probably was his blood she'd seen, the very same warmth that he could feel slowly, astutely, making its trek beneath his sleeve in miniscule rivulets. "Sorry." She murmured, the red wash of embarrassment dusting her cheeks - far more sunken than he last recalled. A face grown gaunt and dulled from what he'd grown familiar with. Fond of. He wanted to look away, but in doing so, he felt he'd deliver her further injustice. This was but another small penance he owed her. To look at what his poor decision had wrought. His chest tightened so painfully it nearly wrung a grimace to possess his features and he swallowed thickly as he felt her weight lean wholly against him.

He'd always taken such a gesture from her as permission. A grant to wrap his arm around the curve of her girlish shoulders and pull her closer to him, to relish in the warmth and radiance of her brilliant light. He'd cherished such moments that would always seem all too brief, no matter should it be hours as she lost herself within the pages of her novels or if she endeavored to mend clothing and other articles of fabric from around the house. There was a part of him that nearly instinctually did so as he had when she'd first placed herself there, but he also cruelly reminded himself that he was the blame, that he was undeserving of such action.

"Dimi." The sound of his name lingering from her lips had his focus shifting, from remaining upon her features in general to sharpen upon her own eyes as she finally looked up to him. "Can you teach me?" His crown would tilt slightly, a haunt of confusion touching upon a furrowing brow."I want to hunt." He stiffened slightly at the words, though he reasoned that their targets must differ greatly, remembering how put off she had seemed to learn what his tasks had been prior to his unforeseen sense of freedom from under his father's tyranny. She tugged at the linen of her nightgown, fingers fidgeting before she continued. "If something happened and you couldn't anymore... I want to be able to take care of us.  Of you." The tense of his sinew didn't ease at her implication. Maybe it was a quip in its own right after his own failure to properly ensure they had been cared for. Maybe it was because he had abandoned her by all rights many would claim. He hadn't been able to properly care for them.

His stare would transition once more to the flames, slowly rolling the steak over as the coals sizzled with the drip of fats and juices that bled from the cooking. "I'm not very good with a bow," he admitted, "but I can teach you what I remember about it. I just... can't aim very well with one anymore." Before the sight had been robbed from his eye, he'd been praised for his marksmanship, but it was a dexterous skill he had never been able to reclaim after the injury. He hoped that would be enough to satisfy her askance, as well as enough of an insurance should his head ever be claimed. That she could still provide for herself. He wouldn't want her to have to fall upon charity, the pride he had left wouldn't allow it. "But not in your nightclothes." He would add, glancing to her from the edge of his peripherals. "We'll go get your clothes and shoes tomorrow."

She watched the firelight dance throughout his hair, white turning orange and varying shades of yellow with each greedy flicker.  Warm, where otherwise chill should have claimed the haggard strands.  It was the first time she really took stock of him from beyond the cavern’s shadows.  Close enough that Ethel could see hair that was usually tamed had grown longer.  Patches of it were uneven from his primitive attempts at barbering.  He almost looked like the same man she’d met at Lidget’s all those months ago.  A time long ago when the only fear she knew was a father that would tell her to stay home in the loveless cage he’d built. Of all the riches he amassed, Myron Nethersole could never afford to love his daughter. Would he have taken time from his ledgers to smile at you, Yggdra?  To look at your little face and show a glimpse of emotion?  Your grandmother… perhaps she would have put down the pipe long enough to hold you in her arms.  Things they never did for me, perhaps they could have done for you. Ethel held her knees tightly against her chest as if her limbs could shield against the pain.  The sudden knot that formed in her throat, the tightness in her heart.  A threat of tears blurring the fire at her naked feet.  It was like a child seeking comfort the way she leaned into Dimitris.  Even if he didn’t put his arm around her, didn’t hold her, didn’t soothe away the ache weeping deeply into her veins, it didn’t stop her from destroying the bridge between them and sewing the river together.  Though she felt years of honed sinew tense beneath her, Ethel - in all her selfishness - didn’t move from his side. His chest rumbled as he spoke, the sensation loud enough to drown away the sizzling of the flame feasting on the drippings of rendered fat and the crackling of burning wood.  It lured her vision to him, a glimpse of content glimmering in their silver depths and the slight ghost of a smile tugging on one corner of her mouth.  Who could have known that a man with one good eye wouldn’t be a good shot?  Though, she couldn’t help but wonder.  “Then what do you use?”  There were many things she knew of this world but hunting and its nuances eluded her.  She’d never been allowed near a weapon - blunt or otherwise.  A sheltered child reared in the ways of genteel manners.  A girl taught to curtsey and smile rather than setting traps and patiently waiting for it to snare her target. “But not in your nightclothes.”  She almost felt like a child again being chided for sneaking out in one of her good gowns.  Silver caught the hint of blue that looked down at her and held them there, ensnared in the icy depths. “Ah…”  Ethel cleared her throat softly.  “Sorry… I just… I really couldn’t stand to be in the house anymore.”  She smiled for all but herself, for him, as if he couldn’t see through the hollow gesture.  “Well, that,”  A dainty finger rose to his chest, its tip surprisingly forceful against that wall of muscle.  “and I’ve had enough of you treatin’ me like the damned plague, Dimitris Markai.”  There grew a new fire in the cave, an ireful blaze burning behind the molten silver of her gaze.

keep your teeth sharp
She coiled tighter within herself, a cold breeze riffling through the entrance to the cavern, rustling them and the other contents within, a haunting reminder that stirred the smoke and cinders as if the fire itself breathed them out. His grasp would leave the tilt of the skewer, lifting instead to relinquish the burden of the buckles that held his pauldrons in place. They found themselves nearby upon the floor, followed shortly by the rest of his chest plate. Assuming her proffered reaction to be due to the cold, he would pull her closer in the armor's stead. Should she not pull away, he would place her between he and the warmth of the coals, the breadth of his chest offering aegis from the threat of the wind.

“Then what do you use?” she inquired, and he would lilt his head slightly. "Sometimes snares. Traps. I'm fast - so is Lokir." The wolf would shift with the mention of his name, a lazy kick of his hind legs pushing his body to the side, his tail dusting the cavern bottom slightly. In truth, the duo offered little chance of escape to their targets. Especially with his familiarity of the area and his tracking capability. They were an effective pack in their own right, despite if he donned the hide of a beast or not. Four legs or two, they had worked together for so long it seemed nearly seamless.

“Ah…” she would catch his sidelong glance, the silver of her moonlit stare not straying from his countenance as she cleared her throat and continued on in brief explanation. “Sorry… I just… I really couldn’t stand to be in the house anymore.” She smiled, but it wasn't her normal expression. It didn't reach the hollow radiance of her eyes, it didn't glow like it used to. This wasn't even a ghost of her previous simpers. Not even comparable to an imitation of it, something else entirely. Something that didn't fit the contours of her features and the easy way her smile used to hang. “Well, that,” her fingertip bit into his chest, a jab not unlike the impact of an arrow, drawing out a light grunt as he would gently snare her hand within his own though the motion lacked any aggression, “and I’ve had enough of you treatin’ me like the damned plague, Dimitris Markai.”

His mouth felt dry curving downwards into a frown, his brow furrowing tensely, nearing a grimace. "Sorry." He would finally manage, not that it was overly difficult for him to apologize in and of itself. Not when he had already whispered it to her a hundred times. Not when he had spoke it to these very walls when she had no chance of hearing it. Not when it was carved into the very stone surrounding them when she asked if the beast had been slain that made them. It just didn't seem like enough, and he doubted it ever would, a frustration that built upon itself as his lips parted again, "I..." How could he put into words this overwhelming suffocation? How did he tell her he expected his presence to be the last one she would want? When he had failed them? When he had let them down? When he'd let their daughter die? How she could even stomach to look at him was beyond him, an ability that he could not condone. Even the brief reflection of himself in the ripples of the water's surface was far too much in recent times.

The weight of his sight would transfer from she to the fire once again. On his own, by now, he'd be grasping his head within his hands, eyes widely staring at the floor as he warred with the threat of screaming his throat raw or the outbursts of violence to offer some semblance of assuaging this endless, pitiless storm of brutality. A depravity she didn't need to witness. For she certainly wasn't the one contaminated by a plague. He relinquished a sigh, the sound short lived, his vocals much quieter as merely relented another, "Sorry."

There wasn’t a time when she could recall the quiet huntsman handling the turmoils of mental strife the same way he dealt with a sword; in combat and survival, Dimitris was unmatched.  This was evidenced in how he was breathing despite trials the likes of which Ethel could never truly understand.  He’d never show it, his pain, whether visible within dark red lacerations or tucked deep in his cerebral cave.  In that regard, he reminded Ethel very much of her unfeeling mother.  Perhaps that’s why she understood that his distance wasn’t created out of hatred… Whether these feelings were his or hers, grief and anguish were the hands pushing them apart.  Fear.  Despair.  A lurking dread of the unknown, of racing possibilities, of guilt. Unlike the Nethersole matron, Ethel understood his heart and its sorrows.  She also felt it lodged deep in her entirety, her soul.  A loss - a life they’d never get to know. Broad arms pulled her close against the hewn plane of his armoured chest.  That familiar, unwelcome feeling swelled in her throat until it felt as if the skin would burst and from the wound, her lament would freely flow.  It took everything to beat it down, to swallow the agonising lump and draw in a deep breath while leaning back into his cradling embrace.  Body and flame chased the chill of autumn winds but they could not warm the ice claiming her stomach. Lithe digits hesitated before they wrapped around his wrist, making him hold her tighter like a child seeking comfort from a night of sleep-filled terrors.  Maybe it was selfish to ask this of him, to be held like this when she couldn’t even keep their daughter alive. Their daughter. “Sorry.  I… Sorry.”  Why couldn’t she come home?  “We’re sorry for your loss, madame Markai.”  Why wasn’t her share of rations enough to bring back the rosy flush in those chubby cheeks?  “If there is anything we can do.”  Bring her back.  Give her back.  “If love could only have saved you, you would’ve never died.”  Anything… take anything else but her.  Take me.  “The Lord be with you, Yggdra Markai, and may you rest in peace.” Ethel’s grief was quiet, warm, wet as it rolled down her pallid cheeks despite her earnest effort to restrain it and tether it back into the line of her lashes where it belonged.  She didn’t have the strength to fight it anymore.  Inhaling, her breath shook, exhaling was slow and grounding as she tried to collect herself enough to murmur, softly. “I can’t lose you too.”  She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.  Whether for him or her… maybe it was meant for both.  “Not when I’ve already lost her and myself.  You’re all I have left, Dimitris.”

keep your teeth sharp
He couldn't be there for her when folk said she would need him the most, and he loathed himself for that. He hated every fiber of himself for failing her, but how could he be present when he couldn't stand the mere thought of letting them put that little box in the earth? How could he even pretend to be composed as they shoveled each and every bit of dirt over her until the light was blotched eternally from her auburn hair? Until she was alone? How could he keep himself from retrieving her, from holding her because she was frightened of the darkness? They had offered whispers of condolences, of regret if he didn't change his mind and take part in her funeral. The idea of closure lost upon him, another shortcoming of his upbringing, or rather a result of it. Despite his best efforts, his best attempt to understand it, he couldn't grieve her properly. Not near the normalcy that most would call it. He didn't know how to just put it down, this grief. Even if he could just let it go, where did he put it? Not on a shelf at home. Not in this reclusive prison. Burying it with her, though, also felt so very wrong. How could he possibly place it with her? How could he even dare to tarnish her further? How dare he consider placing this unbearable weight on that delicate pine lid that bore her name? His name. Their name.

Markai.

It was almost laughable. The truth behind many of his scars, of his ruined eye. The root that wound through him like a constricting, parasitic vine. He'd swore he'd not be like him, like the man he'd called father. He would never raise a hand to her, he would never wound or maim her. The mere thought of it made him sick. What coldly ironic justice was it that all of his vows had merely resulted in her demise after all? For all the atrocities his sire committed, his son had lived, after all. He'd endured being locked in that small room with the mad tyrant on the night of a full moon. The only telling of time the dramatic change in the behemoth's form, no windows aligned upon the walls to mark the beginning or end of that horrid eve. He had to fight to survive or be mauled to death by those savage fang and claws, but the measly steel he'd been afforded did little more than ward off the brutal strikes. Of course silver was out of the question, especially at that time, before his will and hatred had been quelled into faithful obedience. He'd survived that horror. He survived the loss of his chosen brother and his closest friend. Oh, but this...

Her tentative, gentle grip upon his wrist offered anchor, bidding his arm closer to her and he would oblige, drawing her lithe shoulders tightly to the breadth of his chest. His other would wind softly about her lithe, hollow waist until there was no space left between them. He would curl forward faintly, caging her away from the chill embrace of the air that wormed its way through the cave's entrance.  His grasp would only tighten as he felt the first warm, wet tear fall upon his skin, and his jaw would clench tightly, his fingers loosening to gently brush his thumb across her cheeks. Soft porcelain now underlined by the bone of her gaunt features. He should say something - wanted to say something - but all he could think was another apology. One he felt fell miserably flat, because sorry wasn't enough to negate it.

“I can’t lose you too.” She spoke after her shaking inhale and the smooth lapse of the air leaving her lungs. The sound was loud in his ears despite the crackling of the fire's tinder and the noises that still lingered just outside. Her words overpowering the creak of bark and limb, the rustle of the dying leaves clinging desperately to their mantle, those stirring already within their self made blankets upon the chilling, damp soil. She gripped him tighter, and he would return her sentiment, forcing restraint to not crush her to him entirely. “Not when I’ve already lost her and myself." His eyes would close with heavy resentment, relinquishing a breath into the mussed strands of her dark auburn hair. "You’re all I have left, Dimitris.” His forehead would rest softly atop her crown. "You have me. Always. All of me." Quiet resignation would finally bleed into his tone, however, as he relented an admittance he hadn't told her. "I just can't go home yet. There's a bounty on my head." It wasn't enough that they had so effortlessly taken their daughter, but they couldn't even give them this small peace.