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“It’s over then?”
“It’s over. I believe it’s over.” The nameless woman sighed, crouching down to untie her sandals as her lover leaned down to close the flap of their shared tent. It was a rough little dwelling, befitting of a former slave, the cloth full of holes and the earth muddy and bare, save for a cot in the corner. The woman stood and walked to it, laying on her back with a thin arm over her eyes, exhaustion seeping out of her like water into the warm earth below.
The bull man got to work quickly, the blood in his fur already beginning to dry. The water in their small wash bin was already dirty; they had arrived so recently that they had not yet had a chance to resupply. Curse his uncle, for rushing them around the continent like this. The blood didn’t even belong to mer he himself had killed.
Their lady savior has scarlet all over her front, her ornate dagger gleaming red in the daylight. She begs the gods for their patience, their help, their forgiveness, for her champion has been beset by some strange and unfathomable madness, as men often are.
The gods must have been listening, because days later, the star-born knight wanders listlessly back to camp, empty eyed and awash in crimson, blood not his own. He drops his mace at the entrance to the camp, then his sword, then finally his shield, before falling to the earth himself, filthy armor collecting more dirt on the way down. He still breaths, and Morihaus tosses the man over his shoulder, for he is not heavy for someone like the son of Kyne.
They went to an unclaimed tent, the nameless woman meeting them along the way. Together, they made quick work of the armor, which was dirty but undented. The man inside lay, listless and unresponsive, working his way out of the thick fog the aedra had placed in his mind in order to halt the hurricane, to stop the carnage. He mumbles something to the woman and she shushes him, exhausted but not unkind. The same name, again and again-
“If I had known this would happen, I would not have allowed Huna to set foot on the battlefield,” the woman said, turning towards her companion.
“It’s not your fault, my love,” Morihaus responded, “These things happen in war. We knew this from the start.”
The woman curls an arm under her threadbare pillow.
“The line between war and slaughter was crossed many times, I think.” And to that, the man bull has no argument.