following a scarlet trail

 

Crimson ichor stained the pale snowfall, seeping slowly into its icy heart. Coursing a long path through the winding mountain tops, splatters of blood painted the disturbed snow every ten paces — give or take — leaving a haunting path directly to the collapsed brute. There, a wolf of raven fur lay crumpled against the winter, lifeless at first glance. The rise and fall of his ribcage was hardly visible, painting the portrait of a corpse long since victim to the mountain’s bitter touch. A cloak of black fur lay in tatters just feet away, frosted and buried in the mounds of snowfall that had drifted in frenzied descent to the ground; a raven pulled angrily at its clumped form, a squak of urgency resounding from her long beak. Desperately, the raven attempted to break the cloak free of winter’s might, but try and fail she did, until she could only give up. She spared her collapsed master only a glance, sapphire eyes drowned in dread, before she took to the skies in effortless flight, powerful wings sending her soaring. Her search began, a small scrap of the cloak clenched within her talons. 

Through the desolate mountain peaks, barren and abandoned, the song of the wind crowed, waning a song of agony through the bending alps. It lamented the fate of the fallen wolf, a howl of mourn. But in the quiet of the night, a subtle shift came. It began as a mere twitch of  muscle, a faint quiver in the wounded brute’s stagnant form. From a still mouth came the shuddering of breath, ragged and tenuous, and the faint wheeze; he inhaled the cold, crisp air, a shudder wracking his exhausted form. The wolf, carved from fire, would not relent to the winter’s bitter regime. Not now. Not while the faintest life still clung to his tattered pelt, slick with lifeblood. 

Through painstaking effort, the wolf pushed himself up, a puppet struggling against tangled strings. His vision blurred and bitten by darkness at the edges, the world around him became a distorted panorama of snow and stone. Yet, the instinct to live remained a cornerstone of his heart, a desire that transcended the knives of fate. His paws shoveled through the fresh snowfall that draped in pounds over the compacted snow beneath, sending flurries of dust flying forth into the breeze, only to be carried away, a blur in the descending fog. The black form of the brute shook with a violent aggression, resilient to the cold, yet not to his wounds; deep lacerations that scored his body, hot and bubbling with the threat of infection. A red shimmer coated the fur and matted it around the several open wounds, drenching his scent in that of iron and blood. 

He made it only several feet before staggering, a pained wheeze wracking his frame, and collapsing once more. In a heavy crash, his frame sunk into the snow, reduced to carrion -- life present in his frame only through the shallow breaths that brought his frame rising and falling steadily.

 

---

@Khione 

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The mountains, Northfall, she'd learned it was called, were an endless chain of ice and lifeless alienation. Like an undiscovered planet cursed to the permafrost, she hadn't stumbled across any other lifeforms aside from Aruna. It was a lonely land and Khione had not known a forsaken isolation such as this in many, many moons. In her last life, it seemed that time was a resource that was at a constant dwindle. Between protecting her lands, raising her children, and guiding her peoples, there was plenty to do. But now, as she gazed upon the infinite white, there was nothing but her somber thoughts to keep her entertained. 

Aruna had gone elsewhere and Khione, never a lady to be cooped up, wished to familiarize herself with this new and undiscovered world. Try as she might, her despondency was an ache in her heart that demanded to be felt in full. The ivory damsel feared little, but she'd sooner face death than a lifetime cursed to loneliness. To be devoid of the company of her most dearest loved ones, casted away, forgotten like a memory to the wind. She thought of her sons, her daughter, her husband. Would Lady Luck smile upon her and let her see their faces, but once more?

A sharp exhale escaped her nostrils and her eyes beckoned the dull sky above. Snow fell gently, like stardust descending to her feet. The very sight was almost therapeutic the way it reminded her of home, of Winterhelm. Then, a streak of black amidst the grey. Khione blinked once, twice. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but then there it was again: a flurry of blackened feathers that soared like a comet. A raven, the patron animal of the mighty Vargrheim Kingdom. Could it be? The avian circled above and emitted a shrill caw which reverberated through the wintry canyons. Khione's ear twitched. She'd know that cry anywhere: Ivori. The raven's eyes, as sharp as always, had long spotted the white wolf and she'd descended upon her, wings riding effortlessly along the unforgiving gale of the bitter cold. She landed before Khione and in her beak she held a tattered rag as black as night. Khione didn't need to heed its scent for the mere sight of Ivori alone could only mean one thing— he was here. Blood flooded her senses, filling her vessels with a sudden vigor that wasn't there before. A heavy, devastating perfume of bitter coal and balsamic fir, the scent she buried, drowned, herself in every sleepless night. The man who put the stars in her sky, the man who worshipped her very existence, and whispered her name like a dying oath. 

“Take me to him.” A demand vacant of any warmth, but one that roared with an explosive, desperate flame. Ivori squawked, brandishing her wings once more and taking flight. Khione lunged forward, parting the snows to follow the raven's path. She'd led her over hills, down precarious crags, and icy bluffs. It didn't matter, she'd overcome Heaven and Hell to find her rightful place beside him. Finally, Ivori settled upon a snowy flatland beside a crumpled pile of ebony shadow. Khione's paws would skitter to a stop before it with her chest heaving in haggard breaths. There he lay, a battered, abused body adorned in crimson lace. 

She fell to his side, burying her face into the heavy crook of his neck. There, a pulse, however weak and thready. She could feel the weight of the Earth being gingerly lifted from her shoulders, but they weren't out of the woods, not yet. He'd been reduced to a trembling corpse, helpless to the cold. Khione scanned the environment— she wouldn't find herbal remedies out here, she was far from the cavernous shelter she'd found with Aruna, and she wouldn't be able to carry the masculine without exhausting herself. All she could do was lie with him, offering all warmth she'd have to offer, and wait. 

“Issa jorrāelagon, nyke kesīr...” — My love, I am here...

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In and out of consciousness, the brute waned. His vision was a blurry haze, dotted with ink, that wavered between clarity and nothingness. The mountains that shadowed his frame had become large, mocking sentinels that laughed in the wolf’s face; a jarring noise lacking reality. Northfall had become a surreal dreamscape that refused to coalesce into coherence, spurring Adonis into a coughing fit with each blink of his eyes. To breathe took monumental effort, each rise and fall of his sides exploding with gut wrenching agony, a pain that lit every nerve he possessed on fire. 

But through the haze, he heard the flutter of wings, and sensed the approaching presence of the raven. It took all that he could to muster the strength to lift his head, and even then, it was not enough. The brute managed to gaze momentarily upon Ivori; her eyes, once beady, now bright with the fire of sapphires. A whine resonated from the brute, a sound so foreign that it caused the raven to flinch within her feathers. Adonis tried to focus, to lift his head, but his efforts were in vain once more, and he could only manage a feeble twitch of his ear.

Then, there she was, a vision of pale elegance, but now tarnished by something darker. The weight of grief hung heavily over her fur, her silver eyes wrought with the plague of sorrow. Khione's chest heaved with her own exhaustion, her breaths ragged, and yet she looked as radiant as the first day Adonis had laid eyes upon her.  Her presence, her scent, cold like the winter’s he’d always loved, was stabilizing. 

He felt her bury her face into the crook of his neck, her warmth seeping into his chilled fur. It was a sensation that grounded him. His nose, meek, pressed to the woman’s forehead, and the wolf inhaled her scent. Just as I remember. Khione.  “Khione…” From his voice, her name fell like the stars from the sky. Shattering into a million pieces and yet nothing. Adonis inhaled, a ragged noise that bubbled within his throat, desperate to speak more. As if he would never be able to again. Not to her, not to his love. His queen. 

“I do not.. remember.” A wheeze, pained and gurgled. “But I know…” The air practically left his lungs. “I am dying.” 

An acceptance of fate.

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