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Chapter XXXVII

The Guide

He dressed without help, the gear that had been collecting spiders in his wardrobe already laid out when he returned from Bastion’s operation. Someone had taken liberties with the gear. His brown leather cuirass was now piped in rich blue satin around the collar, a motif of an emperor dragon tooled across the front, mouth open to a breath of fire that curled around the Empire’s blue and white emblem. Where his shirt lay, the right sleeve had been removed, a foresight that could only have been achieved by Ralph’s tailors, but directed by his mother.

I won’t get the chance to thank them, occurred when he pulled out Farris’ cape and discovered someone had patched it.

He touched the repair, tracing the blue stitching that mended the two halves that had almost been torn apart. Evidence of Daedra’s attack remained, a stripe of sickly gray where her sword had sliced through Farris’ delicately embroidered patch, severed from life as easily as his arm had been. But now both were repaired. Made whole. And Fenrir could not deny the hope he felt when he put the cape on and stepped in front of his mirror.

An Adonis of a man greeted him, plucked from Orpheus’ beloved storybooks, space carved not by his body, but the sheer presence of him. His confidence and his laughter and his presumption that, no matter how bad things got, how tough the enemy, how shit the odds—he’d come out on top, and bring along all who stood by him.

He’d almost lost this. Lost himself. Not his arm, but an identity that had brought him this far. The games, as Vera called it, that he played, but which had saved his life many times over. Not just physically, but mentally too. He and Orpheus really were no different. They both escaped into a version of themselves they’d convinced the world to see alongside themselves. Except Fenrir had nearly been driven off course…

Now, he wasn’t a king mounting a defense, but a hero ready for his prize. A hero who had sacrificed enough already, and with it, earned his chance at peace.

Or that’s how the stories usually went. The hero saves the damsel, then rides off into the sunset of their happily-ever-after.

This time, Fenrir would make that ending stick.

There was just one task left on his list before he left.

“She awake yet?”

“She’s supposed to be asleep?” The guard stationed outside Daedra’s door made a show of looking him up and down. “Don’t sleep. Don’t eat. Don’t do much of anything besides read those books.”

Fenrir grinned and rolled his shoulder, enjoying the way the guard’s eyes kept landing on his new arm.

He couldn’t wait to see Daedra’s face when he showed it off.

The prison cell door opened with a familiar whine to reveal a room that had not changed much in the weeks since he’d first started visiting. Maybe there were a few more books atop the bed, but Daedra remained where she had been: crossed-legged against the wall, nose buried in a book, white hair a messy braid hanging over her shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, gate clattering closed behind him.

“Greetings,” Daedra murmured, not even bothering to lift her eyes from the page. “What new and awful torment do you wish to subject me to this visit?”

“I thought we could talk about home.”

Daedra snorted, then turned a page. “Nostalgia, I see. How very pedestrian. Well, go on then. I will listen to you ramble.”

“Daedra,” Fenrir said, voice lowering enough that she went stiff. “Do you want to go home?”

The room went quiet. Still. Daedra didn’t look up from her book until Fenrir pushed a hand through his hair—his new hand—and the metal caught the light.

Her eyes locked on it. Attention captured, hunger demanding.

“Ama,” Daedra said, voice a scratch. “Are you going to war?”

Fenrir grinned. “Rescue mission, actually. Still hoping to avoid war.”

A soft sound escaped her. Sharp and obviously unintended. She looked away before Fenrir could get a read on her, but he didn’t miss how her hands shook when she placed her book aside, the rise and fall of her chest with each shallow, plodding breath.

“No one wants to waste away in a prison cell, least of all a glorious Myrkur hunter, right?”

“Torment indeed,” Daedra breathed so softly Fenrir suspected he wasn’t meant to hear. “Curse you humans to the stars and back.”

“Well?” Fenrir prodded, stepping deeper into the room and picking up the book she’d discarded. “You can bring these, if you want.”

She didn’t reply. Fenrir cradled the book close and watched her. Legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, head tipped back on the wall, she breathed slowly, like she was measuring out the exact amount of air she took in and something about that…it was weird. All hells, why was that weird?