When they finally stopped for the evening, their surroundings were becoming more familiar. Varen hadn’t seen anything he outright recognized, but it felt distantly familiar, like he had maybe been here once long ago. As Korik had said, he expected they would reach the outpost the following day, which didn’t leave him much time to make amends.
“Korik,” he said softly, when they were both sitting in front of the fire, waiting for the pheasant he’d shot earlier in the day to finish roasting. Korik sat across from him, instead of next to him, and the two razorfang kits huddled beside him. The orc didn’t respond, so he continued uncertainly, “Listen, I... I’m sorry about what I said earlier. That was unkind of me. I don’t know why I said it.”
For a long moment, Korik remained silent, his golden eyes glowing as he stared down at the flickering firelight. When he finally responded, his voice was flat, and he still didn’t look at Varen. “It’s fine. You made your opinion very clear from the beginning.”
Varen sighed, looking glumly down at the fire. He supposed that was true. He wished he hadn’t framed it as something casual and meaningless; but it seemed Korik had only warmed up to him enough to bed him, and that was where the line was drawn. It was fun while it lasted.
“Still. I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice small. Korik didn’t reply.
When they had eaten, Varen started setting up his bedroll—and stopped short, seeing that Korik was setting up his own on the opposite side of the fire, instead of side-by-side.
It seemed like such a small, silly thing to be upset about, but a cold feeling of despair settled over him at the sight. Staying warm sounded a poor excuse now; while the weather would only grow colder, it hadn’t snowed again since the storm. More than that, it meant that Korik really was done with him. He wanted to protest—to ask Korik to lie next to him, if they truly would never have the chance again—but the words stuck in his throat, too humiliating to get out. Instead, he forced himself to turn away and finish setting up his bedroll.
Both the kits cuddled up in Korik’s bedroll, which only added salt to the wound. Even the rambunctious one, which he had been getting along with, preferred the company of Korik when it came down to it.
As he curled up in his blanket, much colder than he was used to, Varen considered that this was really his own fault. If he could have just kept his mouth shut, or even said anything other than the bitter words that had been the first to come to mind, things would be different. He could be warmly enjoying the final night that they would have together, instead of sulking over memories of the last week. But he’d let his instinct take over, succumbing to the urge to cover himself with the cruel and arrogant mask that had protected him in his long years dealing with bureaucracy—useless to him anywhere else.
Not that it mattered anymore. Varen sighed, pulling his blankets closer, and squeezed his eyes shut. If he laid still and tried not to think about anything, sleep would take him eventually.
In the morning, Varen’s joints were stiff with cold. He groaned as he rolled over, then used his magic to warm his blankets and clothes until some of the ache faded away. When he finally sat up, blinking blearily in the early morning light, Korik was already up. He must have stoked the fire back to life. He sat with his hands pressed to the earth, head tilted up, eyes closed. His hair was undone, taken out of the braid that Varen had done for him the day before, which stung more than Varen thought it could.
Still, Varen stared at him for a long moment. This might be the last time he ever saw Korik using his magic. But then the energetic kit clambered into his lap, and he chuckled, forcing himself to get up and start preparing to leave. He packed up his bedroll and prepared the very last of their rations: barely more than a handful of berries Korik had picked the day before, plus a few scraps of the pheasant, half of which went to the kits. They would only get a few mouthfuls with all they had found, but it would be enough to get them to Solitude.
As he prepared the food, Korik stirred. When he looked over at Varen, he had the same cool, distant expression that he’d worn when they first began traveling together, much to Varen’s dismay.
“I saw the outpost,” he said simply, his voice flat. “We should get there in a few hours. A little after midday.”
Varen nodded, forcing himself to smile. “We’re almost there.”
Korik nodded, then turned away, busying himself with the kittens. Then they ate, finished packing, and set out with the razorfang kits trailing behind them. Korik didn’t address him again.
In the past, Varen’s instinct would have been to fill the quiet between them—to talk to Korik even if the orc wouldn’t respond. But why bother now? They had walked in silence often enough now that it had become comfortable. This wasnotcomfortable, but what was the point of saying anything anymore?
The only sound between them was their snowshoes crunching on the icy snow beneath them, and occasionally a cry or hiss from the razorfang kits as they played. Otherwise, he was left alone with his thoughts.
By the time the sun was at its peak, Varen knew exactly where they were. It had been a long time since he’d been to Solitude, but he found a path he recognized that wound through the woods they traversed. The sight set his heart racing with equal parts relief and despair.
When the trees gave way to a clearing, he could see it in the distance: the small shapes of the old village circled around the tree-temple, and the tall tower of the military outpost further beyond.
“We made it,” he said faintly, slowing to a stop as he looked out at it. They still had another mile or so to walk, but it felt like nothing compared to how far they’d come. Korik stood silently beside him, yet there was a greater distance between them than had ever been before.
When they were close enough to spot a scout atop the village gates, Varen raised his hands to his mouth and made the short, lilting call of the Aefrayan bluejay, the sign of an allied ranger approaching. He could see the scout on the wall turn and descend, disappearing from view. A moment later, the gates opened, and two more soldiers came striding out to meet them.
He could feel Korik tense behind him, but all he felt at seeing them now was relief.
As they approached, one of the elves called out in a bewildered tone, “You aren’t Commander Petkas, are you?”
Varen grinned. “The very same. And this is Healer Korik, of Drol Kuggradh. You’ve been expecting us, then?”
The two looked at each other, then the one who had spoken shook his head, laughing nervously. “Not at all. Our supply runner from two days ago told us Commander Petkas had gone missing along with an orc, but—just as a rumor. Not that we should be looking for you. How in all the hells did you get here?”
“It’s a long story,” he sighed. “Can we speak with the officer in command here?”
“Of course. Sir,” the soldier replied, gesturing for them to follow.
Varen hesitated, then added, “We found these razorfang cubs along the way. I know it’s a big ask, but can they come in with us? They were orphaned.”
To his surprise, the expression of both soldiers brightened as they peered past him. The two kits were hiding behind Korik, looking uncertain.
