Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was cold.

That was the first impression Cahara had as he trod carefully into the huge, metal entryway- he had opted for the large castle entrance, as opposed to the smaller door he had seen to his left. Well, opted was a strong word, when the sounds of inhumanely loud barking had permeated the air and his instincts had told him it was very much time to get inside, and stop blinking at the dead horse spread on the grounds, fat black flies buzzing and eating into its eyes, stop himself from wondering how much it would take for that to be him.

It was cold, it was more than cold- it was a pervasive, bone deep chill that made him shiver, made him long for a warm fire, the warm embrace of Celeste back home. Cold married dark, and it was that fusion that instilled a bone-deep tremor in him from the moment he stepped his first toe against the flagstones, something that faltered his steady hands, bubbled unease low in his stomach.

His footsteps seemed a thousand times louder in this silent entrance, but louder was their absence when he faltered, spoiled for choice in direction. Cahara had known a man once, a long time ago- a rough mercenary with heavy scars and heavier eyes, a man who had told him stories of the wars, stories of dungeons and mazes and attempted escape. The man had said ‘one hand on the wall at all times’- he was in no place now to be doubting advice that had been freely given, not when everything was bought. 

There were some things of interest, deep in crates, tucked into bookshelves- even a few silver coins, a slow supply in his coin-purse that jingled gently at every step. He didn’t expect to find a vendor, of course- but Cahara was a man who could never resist the sight of silver, the glimmer of a jewel, the promise of riches. Even if it cost him precious seconds to bend down, scrape his knuckles against the bottom of the barrel to retrieve whatever had been left there. It had been silent, thus far- he had no idea if that eased his nerves, or made his heartbeat all the louder in his ears.

It only took another half an hour, his wide eyes skimming the various piles of books on a bookshelf, to realise that this was really, really out of his pay grade. Even the titles were menacing- stories of the Old Gods, ancient tomes consisting of recipes for various forms of alchemised healing, requiring varieties of herbs he had never seen sprout in the heat of the South. Well, he’d find them when he found them, if they could survive down here. He was resourceful, after all. He adapted, he survived, and he most definitely didn’t jump at the sound the door made as he carefully picked the lock to enter, didn’t pause to catch his breath, sword already drawn, eyes huge and wary.

Gods- if he just knew what he’d be encountering here, it would be so much easier. It was worse not to know, to feel but not see, not hear the movement of whatever could inevitably be in the darkness just a few metres ahead, what could amble around a corner at any moment. Perhaps it would just be the crazed prisoners who had been abandoned here once upon a time- and hey, those didn’t have swords like he did.

In fact, it didn’t take him long to know, and once he did, he really wished he didn’t. Some form of creature, huge and malformed and disgusting stepping with heavy footfalls just at the periphery of his torch light- thankfully unaware of him, as of yet. The smell was almost worse than the offensive sight of him- it, despite the huge, vaguely phallic shape dragging on the floor, Cahara couldn’t in good conscious acquaint that monster with anything implying humanity. These dungeons stank of rot, a smell he knew well- but Gods old and new, that thing down there reeked , as if the bulbous flesh now disappearing just out of sight was rotting from the inside out, dead but walking. He held his breath, eyes narrowed, waiting for the all clear to duck across the hallway into the room opposite- and once the clink of the creature's tunic grew more distant, Cahara stuck to the shadows, glancing over his shoulder as he quickly picked the lock and stepped inside.

That was the other thing with this place, he mused as he blinked down at the depths of another empty barrel- the doors just didn’t close right. Half were locked, wasting precious seconds to unlock, but once they were open they caught on the flagstones, wide open like an invitation. Cahara hoped the creatures here weren’t intelligent enough to notice the change, to use it to track him down through the hallways. It was an alarming thought, and so immediately pushed out of his mind. 

Scavenging more or less complete, he moved on- further down the hall, a wary eye on where he had seen the creature disappear in the opposite direction. Cahara was many things- an optimist, perhaps a fool, most certainly resourceful and a thief, but he was not stupid. He knew to pick and choose his battles- and so when he came to a stop outside another wooden door, fingertips reaching for his metal lock-jig, he froze at the sound of breathing. It was laboured, high-pitched and perhaps scared, which didn’t tell him much except that he ought to steer clear. The way he saw it, there were two options; it was a human, likely scared or hurt from the stifled whimpering, and whatever had done it to them was waiting just on the other side of the thick wood- or, it was one of those guard-like creatures, and he very much did not want to meet whatever could draw that timbre of fear from one of those.

So, he moved on- down the corridor, to the right, his free hand trailing lightly against the jagged rock of the wall.

He was making good pace- he had scoured more or less all of the rooms, save for the one with the whimpering, and a little alcove where he had almost ran head first into one of those lumbering creatures, just about managing to lose it in narrow winding passageways. He had even ducked into some kind of prayer room- far more intimidating than those back in Rondon with its bare, bloodstained walls and sigils. He prayed all the same, on his knees and all- prayed to Sylvian for Celeste back home, prayed for himself now, prayed for the little one on the way. Now, face to face with some Ghoul that was blocking his exit out large metal doors in the back area of a dingy kitchen, sunlight just peaking through the crack at the bottom, he wished he had prayed for all the fuckers in here to die. 

He had almost mistaken it for another person when he first stepped in- almost waved a hand in greeting, up until the moment it caught sight of him and rushed over. But no- those soulless eyes, the open mouth and skin the colour of paper belonged to no living human, and he grit his teeth as he bared his sword. Both the creatures arms were now on the flagstone floor, along with its head- but the thing was still fighting , and a nasty tackle had Cahara landing poorly on his ankle, a slash in his arm from a minute ago oozing blood in a drip-drip-drip against the tile. A few more hits to the torso and the creature was down for good, motionless, but it did nothing to reverse the sparks of pain in Cahara’s ankle, the sting of where his skin had been sliced. 

The courtyard ahead yielded the increasingly common sight of decomposing bodies, along with a few of those stray herbs he had read about earlier- rubbing one against the tender sting of the gash eased the raw edges, but didn’t close the wound in the slightest. Applied to his ankle, it had no effect. The inner hall ahead let directly to some sort of sacrifice- and well, Cahara wasn’t taking his chances with being the next one crucified up there, so he slipped off to the left as silently as he could manage, the priests seemingly not noticing his presence, nor caring. Better to avoid.

A few more supplies in his pockets, some more close calls, and his luck ran out entirely, several floors to soon. He was scouring more bookcases, hoping the next book he pulled out wouldn’t dissolve between his fingertips as the last had, when a grunt behind him had his blood running still.

There was no time to freeze, no time to run- because that creature from before was there , dressed in a tunic, leering and approaching, cleaver brandished at a right angle from its deformed body, tunic rustling with each step, sunken yellow eyes staring down at him from below a bulbous growth on its forehead. 

It was all he could do to raise his scimitar to block the blow- to retaliate with a harsh slash that just caught its weapon arm, just managed to sever it lightly. The malformed guard didn’t pause, didn’t flinch- stepped closer, and and after a pause as if the Gods were deciding his fate, delivered a series of blows to each of his limbs. His arm, his torso, his leg, his- Gods, it was all just pain. It was pain beyond anything, pain again, fighting for the forefront of his focus when he fell to the floor and his head smacked against the flagstones. Pain as vials fell from his sling bag and smashed by his face. Pain as a hand enveloped his sprained ankle, dragging him out, dragging him for what felt like weeks as his eyes rolled into his head and darkness overcame him. He awoke periodically- once to the feeling of metal grates beneath him, dragging at his flesh, once to the slam of a cell door, once at the intense sensation of tear, somewhere deep within him, legs unable to kick, unable to move. A final time, startled by the sound of his own scream, his own impending death- and then not for a long, long while.

Chapter Text

Cahara had a lot of time to think, locked alone in that prison cell. 

He had no concept of when the creature had left, just that he woke to darkness, to an inescapable room of three stone walls and a stretch of metal bars. The pain dulled as the hours drifted into days- the needling numbness in his legs worn off, the sharp, stabbing pain deep inside him began to heal and mend, especially if he didn’t stand up to pace too much. His ankle felt better too, and at least, here in this cage none of the creatures lurking outside could enter. A couple times he idly watched the winged, grey creatures fluttering outside the narrow corridors. Other times he would watch the small patch of moss in the corner grow- and recently, he had begun weaving a doll from the fibres of his pants, hairs that fell out from prolonged hunger, sunken cheeks. 

Cahara thought that maybe this was his cruel punishment- a thief by nature, unreliable and greedy, opportunistic and relentless. Perhaps this cage, this cell, was the punishment he deserved. But that line of thought fell flat fast, because he believed he had suffered enough for his habitual sins. He had rationed his food- his explorations had yielded him a stick of salami, chunks of mouldy bread, dried, wizened mushrooms. He worked through the list slowly- he had picked the mould off the bread, tossed it into the corner when he ate it. What felt to be a week later, he crawled back to eat that too. It was humiliating- but there was no one to see his weakness, no one to hear his erratic pacing, and when he lost the energy for it, his laboured breaths, slumped in the corner. 

And so he made the doll- skilled fingers weaving whatever fibres he found into a rough shape, using cloth he’d torn from the ratty flags at the dungeons entrance into a dress. He propped it in the corner, letting his weary eyes rest on its form. 

“When I’m home, I’ll give you to my baby.” He told the scrap. He didn’t let himself think of if . He watched that moss grow, and when the food ran out, he ate that too, clumps of dark soil falling into his palm as he chewed on it. He drank the moisture from the ceiling- chapped lips sucking at the dampened rocks. It wasn’t enough, he knew it wasn’t enough. But that isolation, that starvation does strange things to a man, and even when he thought it would be easier to lay down and accept his fate, he found himself speaking to the scrap of a doll.

“I’ll give you to my baby- and I’ll give Celeste more silver than she can dream of.” His lips fell into a familiar smile, even as it tore at the dry skin, even as it made him taste copper. He imagined her warm smile, perhaps the look of pity in her eyes, the feel of her embrace, the feel of her warmth wrapped around him. He could almost feel it. He was too tired for lust, though, so his eyes returned to the restless movements of those fluttering gnomes outside the bars.

Time moved differently in that cell- the sound of his voice helped him keep track of it. It was hoarse when it had been a while since he last spoke, stronger when he rambled for hours on end. He recited arithmetic, the alphabet, tales of the Old Gods his own mother had once told him. He remembered odd things, now. Whether they were true or not, he didn’t question.

“You know, when the sun rises over Rondon- right over the curve of the temple, it looks like a half smile.” He informed the doll, whose existence as a scrap of cloth had grown confused in his mind with something like identity, consciousness. “You’ll see it one day. It’s incredible.”

Cahara was not a still man by nature- he was always moving, always smiling, conniving, taking what he could. He was still now, energy entirely sapped- he didn’t know what was left to take, after what must have been two weeks here. In his darker hours, he wished for the guard to return, to deliver him a fast death, but terror seized his throat at the mere thought of that deformed creature, and shocked him back to semi-lucidity. Better do it himself, then face that again.

“If I could paint, I’d paint it for you now.” He told the doll, eyes drifting around the confines of the four walls, unmoved, unchanged. “Celeste can paint. She’ll teach me, maybe, when I’m home. Or I can watch her teach our child.”

 Cahara wondered, not for the first time, if that growing child rounding her stomach was truly his. It made no difference to him, because Celeste was, and that was more than enough.

“I’ll take you to see the vendors-” He continued, because there wasn’t much left he could do but talk. He felt if he stopped, his heart would give out. “They’re terrible, every last one of them. But stupid enough that they don’t notice missing food, missing cloth. I never told Celeste, but she always knew. … She was smart.”

His words trailed off. Death was near. With no real idea how long it had been since he had woken here, it was hard to tell how long he had lived, how long was left- but he had slept seven, maybe eight times. He had eaten half as many, and the moss in the corner had ceased to grow. He had gotten too greedy, taken too much two sleeps ago. The irony of that made him want to laugh, but it came out a dry, choking sound. He had maybe two sleeps left, he thought. He could feel his heart slowing gently, his eyelids drooping with eternal fatigue. Could feel the confusion set in, deep and settled, comfortable in his bones. 

For that reason, when he heard a shuddery, squirmy death cry feel the air, he assumed it had come from his own lips. It was only when he turned his head and saw the body of one of those fluttering, gnome-like creatures on the ground, an arrow piercing its chest, that he realised it hadn’t. He dragged himself up, dragged himself across the floor, dragged himself to the bars. 

He didn’t need to squint in the ever-present darkness anymore- but he did in the sudden light, and something was brandishing a light out there, burning and incredible and shocking. A distant relative of adrenaline filled him, tingling his fingertips as it approached. Everything down here thrived in darkness- light was innovation, light was for humans. That was a person, approaching- unless he had lost his sanity entirely. A very real possibility.

The man who stared down at him certainly didn’t look entirely real. He was massive- a single one of his hands couldn’t fit through those bars if it tried, thick and scarred. His torso was much the same, broad and battle-ridden, furs pulled tight around his shoulders, his throat, his hips. His hair was the same brassy red of the flames in the torch he wielded- it looked like life. It felt like life. Cahara drew on his last reserves of energy to talk, because talking was all he had left.

“Are you here to save me?” He asked the hulking figure, letting his dry, dry lips pull into that same roguish smile. He knew he must look half crazed, kneeling by the bars like this, eyes squinting in the sudden light but without the energy to draw a hand to shield them. The mountain man considered him.

“Perhaps.” He replied, and his voice was deep, tinted with the accent of the North, heavy and clipped. Something fidgeted in the dark behind him, and Cahara’s squinting eyes tried to focus in the glare of brightness- eventually landing on a child, clutching at the man's belt, her head barely reaching his hip. It made her look comically smaller, and him comically larger.

“Well, it would be much appreciated.” Replied Cahara, eyes sliding back up, finally adjusting to the flaming torch, the embers reflected in the man's hair. He was half sure this wasn’t real- but only time would tell, and in this cell, he had that plentiful, without much else. 

“Tell me- why should I?” Came that same clipped tone, and Cahara would have laughed, if that ability hadn’t left him three sleeps ago. He forced his fingertips to grip the bar, forced himself to stand. He was still nowhere near eye level, but he felt less like some rodent, less like a limp corpse, even if his fingers stayed clutching the bars in support. The child tugged at the man's belt.

“That depends on what you need- I have many uses.” Cahara replied, tone suggestive, hoarse. He wasn’t above flirting, bartering, wasn’t above anything at all at the moment. The man's face didn’t waver at the implication of his words- whether he hadn’t picked up on it, or found it inadequate wasn’t clear. So, he tried again. “I’m a mercenary. Cahara of the South. At your service.”

The man watched him for a long, long moment, grey eyes narrowed. He didn’t seem the type for cruelty- if the roles had been reversed, Cahara was sure he would have walked away in an instant at the sight of his emaciated body, his tired eyes, empty satchel.

“Cahara of the South. I am Ragnvaldr of Oldegard.” Came the reply, and Cahara connected the furs, the accent, the sturdy stature of the man, and nodded. The man continued; “It is reassuring to see that I am not completely alone here.”

 Yeah, well, Cahara could agree with that sentiment. 

“This is locked, I presume?” The man- Ragnvaldr- asked. It was a pointless question. Cahara hadn’t rotted here out of will. “I will check if I have a key.”

Cahara watched as the man's hands dug into deep pockets- listened carefully to the light jingle of silver, to the clink of a vial, perhaps a bottle. Supplies he did not have. Supplies he could, if he played his cards right. “That would be great.” His voice had brightened, easing into that lilting, charismatic tone, masking, concealing. His eyes slid to the girl that flanked him, who was staring intently into the cell, somewhere behind him. He turned slightly, fingertips not leaving the bar, and saw she was staring at the doll. The deep, clipped tone of the Northern man recaptured his attention.

“I am sorry- I do not possess such a key.” 

Cahara had expected it- had felt it coming, had known this mercy was too good to be true. He didn’t let the slash of it against his ribs show on his face. Desperation was not appealing.

“Ah well- come back when you find it.” He replied, infusing his characteristic jaunt into his hoarse tone. That wasn’t good enough- no one sane would traverse back through these dungeons for an emaciated stranger, would risk double backing into escaped monsters for someone on death's door- who may well be dead by the time they returned. It was too high a risk. He watched the pity form in the man's eyes, watched as they lowered to the slender child beside him, who’s eyes hadn’t drifted from the corner of the cell, transfixed. Inspiration sparked somewhere in the depths of Cahara’s fuzzy mind.

He unwound his iron grip on the cell’s railings, tried to keep his footsteps steady as he made his way to the corner, scooped up the doll with shaking fingers. He could make another for his baby, if this worked. If he survived. He made his way back to the bars, and the pity in the man's eyes had not lessened- Cahara’s words may have glossed his condition, but his jerky, exhausted movements betrayed him. He kneeled down.

“Here.” He spoke to the girl, tilting his hand so he could press the doll through the gap. “Have this.”

It was not an entirely selfless act- he hoped it would be enough of a boon to even slightly convince the man to return. The girl twitched, her huge eyes flickering between Cahara’s own, and the faceless doll. Tentatively, she approached, slipping out from just behind Ragnvaldr, small hands reaching forward to take the scrappy, floppy material. She smoothed the fibres of its hair as though it were threads of gold. She didn’t step back from the bars. Cahara’s eyes raised to meet the Northern man’s. 

“If I find a key,” Came Ragnvaldr’s voice, lower, quieter than before, “I will return.” His eyes were sincere, clear and grey. “For now, take this, Cahara of the South.” A large hand delved back into that pouch, Cahara paused, counted, one, two, three- all the way up to twelve telltale clinks of metal before the hand emerged with a handful of mushrooms, a loaf of mouldy bread. The man's hand was too large to fit through the bar with the offering- Cahara wasted no time reaching past them to take it.

“Thank you.” He gripped the items tight in his hand, squeezing once, twice just to be sure they were really there.

“...I’ll wait here for you to return, shall I?” It was a weak attempt at humour, but Ragnvaldr smiled. His armed hand lowered to his side, bow gently brushing his lower thigh as he took the girl's hand in his free palm. He didn’t offer any words of condolence as he left, taking the light with him. In a strange way, Cahara was grateful for it. He resumed his slump against the damp wall, lifted the loaf of bread to his lips, and near wept from the taste.

Chapter Text

He still had half the stick of salami left when that burning light returned. It had been a few days, Cahara guessed- he had slept twice, both times fitfully, aches and pains from poorly healed wounds deep in his bones, a general restlessness that invaded this entire dungeon keeping his mind active and paranoid. 

He’d burned through the food faster then he’d meant to. That first bite of bread, mouldy and stale as it was, had left him insatiable; he only realised he’d eaten the loaf in its entirety when he’d reached for more and found his hands empty besides a smattering of crumbs. He’d licked those off too, one by one. 

It was hard, without the doll here- he had grown quite fond of its company. Cahara wasn’t completely insane, he knew the thing was a terrible composition of assorted thread by unskilled fingers, but it had represented something greater to him. Made him think of his home, of Celeste, of his coming child. Reminded him of life outside the cold, stone walls of this cell. Now it was gone, and he felt that loss acutely.

To be honest, he didn’t expect that Northern man to return. He had paid back the favour of the doll with the food, with extended life, with a smile. He could have at least left the damned torch, though. After a taste of light, the darkness felt all the worse- and now that he was no longer at the brink of death, he realised his mental deterioration wasn’t entirely linked to the absence of food. The silence, the darkness, the ache of his limbs- they all contributed to the paranoia that was growing at the base of his skull, the jitters of his fingers.

Half a salami left- after that, he’d wait three days, or whatever the equivalent felt in this timeless space. Three days, then he’d go peacefully. His Scimitar was still tucked to his side, and his paranoia made him reach for it when the light returned, up until he registered the soft jingle of keys. His eyes adjusted easier to the light this time, taking in the huge stature of the man sliding a key into the cell door, the small figure of the girl-child behind him, the ragdoll clutched to her chest. He rose to his feet, a hand on the wall to support him.

“You came back.” He spoke, voice hoarse. He had done less talking, with the doll gone. He hardly recognised his voice.

“Ja.” Came the response, short and clipped. The door swung inwards, just an inch short of Cahara before hitting the wall with a hard clang. It looked so odd, the gap where it had been a wall of bars before. He almost didn’t trust it when the man stepped aside, had to stop himself reaching out a hand to check that the door really had opened before he stepped out. “You thought I wouldn’t? I made a promise.”

Promises meant nothing in a place like this. They meant little out in the normal world, but in such utter lawlessness, in oppressive darkness, promises were more curse than blessing. But he wasn’t about to correct the red haired man, not when he was free , not when he passed through the exit of the cage without issue. He blinked down at the girl, who was watching him with wide eyes. 

“Sure. Thanks.” He couldn’t really think of anything else to say.

He didn’t know how to act around this man- so strong he could kill Cahara with one blow, if he wanted, but gentle enough to return and save a complete stranger from the clutches of darkness, of starvation. They were walking now- passing the killed gnome on the floor in a state of decomposition from a few days ago. Cahara just followed the lamplight, a step behind Ragnvaldr- he hadn’t ventured this far before he was caught, and he didn’t remember the path the guard had dragged him. 

“What brings you here, Cahara of the South?” Came a question- so the man remembered his name. Ragnvaldr, he had rolled that name in his mouth to the darkness a few times in those in-between days alone, working around the absent vowels, the unusual sound. 

He forced a jovial tone, forced himself to focus on the next plot at play, the next plan, the next route of survival. He was still reeling that it was a distinct possibility, an existence beyond right now and the following ten seconds.

“Well… I do have a mission here. But let’s save that story for another day, yeah?”  It was an easy dodge- if Ragnvaldar called him out for it, he could bluff, could dance around it. It wasn’t so much of a secret, but there was no benefit to revealing his intentions to this stranger.

 He was about to ask the same when he was paused by a large hand on his shoulder, drawing him to a halt. That girl was still walking silently beside the huge man, one of his hands protectively finding her head, patting gently. Those grey eyes were on him, stormier than before. He knew he posed more of a threat out here then trapped in a dingy cell, half dead. 

“If you do not wish to tell me that, you must at least tell me why you were imprisoned here.” Spoke to the man. A guarded response. It was a fair request, even if revealing the answer would make Cahara seem weak. There had been all sorts trapped in these dungeons once upon a time, the scum of the world. They hadn’t descended far down- where they were standing now, he could make out a flight of stairs leading up from the corner of the torch light. Perhaps up to where he was before, perhaps another sector of the sprawling surface building. 

“... I was caught. By one of those malformed prison guards.” The words were heavy, halting on his tongue. Gods, he knew it made him sound weak, but if he was caught in a lie, or evaded the question again, he had no doubt the man would dismiss him, leave him to fend for himself. He couldn’t, not just yet. Not without a quick pinch of a couple items in that fur pouch slung at Ragnvaldr’s waist. 

The man's eyes assessed him, glancing briefly down, then filling with understanding. Against his best wishes, Cahara’s cheeks burned. Well, if the man was already going to see him as weak, perhaps he ought to play into it, pull the vulnerability card.

“I’m feeling a little weak after being left there for ages.” That part didn’t take much convincing- hell, he was sure he looked it, bloodstained and gaunt and twitchy. Worse for wear, but if this was working, appealingly harmless. “Would you mind if we travelled together for a while?”

It was risky. It was so very risky, because any normal person would have turned him away at the admission of vulnerability, the moment he admitted to being a liability. But the man had that silent child flanking his side like a shadow, and he saw no weapon in her grasp- just that doll. The guy clearly had some protective complex, a straight moral compass that drew him to the vulnerable, the needy, offered them aid in return for- what? Righteousness? Cahara was sure if he ever possessed such a compass that it had been knocked off kilter at birth, the moment he was thrust from his mothers womb. He stared into those grey eyes for what felt like an entire minute, watching as they cleared slowly.

“Ja. That is a good idea.” The man conceded eventually, turning with a broad brandish of the torch, turning his attention to the surrounding area, huge, heavy hand leaving Cahara’s shoulder to grip his bow. 

They walked in relative silence for a few paces. Cahara’s eyes began to track that pouch at the man’s hip. It was the same side that he brandished his torch- meaning if he got close enough at a distraction, it would be easy enough to slide a hand in, pull out whatever his fingers brushed, and slip away. Plan in place, he turned his attention to the child walking in step beside him, whose eyes had not stopped staring at his face, half a pace behind Ragnvaldr.

“Hi, kid.” He said with what he hoped was a somewhat charming smile- he didn’t expect to leave this place looking like a regal beauty, but he hoped he hadn’t deteriorated enough to send children screaming. Though that was a shallow thought- the girl had seen far worse down here, he was sure of that. He was met with silence.

“You got a name?”

A silence stretched on for a few seconds, and a soft noise from ahead made his head snap forward, hand tightening at the hilt of his Scimitar. But it wasn’t an approaching creature, it was the sound of soft, deep laughter, as indicated by the shaking of those huge shoulders just ahead of him.

“She does not speak.”

Well. That was a brilliant development. Either the silence would linger, or he would brave the bear and ease into conversation with Ragnvaldr in front of him. If he did that, he would risk being caught- either with a hand in the man's stash, or with the items tucked into his own bag, retreating. He had a feeling despite the mercy shown to him thus far, his thievery would be neither forgiven, nor unpunished. Silence it was, then. 

Up ahead was a large form lying still on the ground- Ragnvaldr stepped over it without comment. Cahara followed suit, eyes scanning the guard on the ground. It wasn’t the same as the one who had dragged him here- this one had a huge crossbow beside it. The quiver at the thing's hip was empty, its tunic pockets turned inside out. Something told him this was the source of the hefty supply of arrows at the Northern man's side as well as the key that had freed him. 

Ragnvaldr started up a conversation as he dug idly in barrels- he didn’t need to bend fully over and strain to reach the bottom the way Cahara had. Moreover- he didn’t need Cahara in any way, shape or form beyond mild pity and a sense of obligation after freeing him from that cell. It made it easier to know that his absence wouldn’t put the man or the child at risk. That he would leave peacefully, and take only what he needed- or so were his intentions.

“You will adjust to this feeling soon.” Ragnvaldr stated, straightening, casting a glance to the slight tremor of Cahara’s fingers, unfooled by his attempts of smoothing out the shake by patting down his leather vest. He didn’t respond, feigning distraction at his surroundings- but his silence didn’t bother the larger man. How could it, if the girl was a mute?

“When we went on expedition to Vinland, far West, there was the same greater evil in the ground as there is here. God’s we do not understand. It is better if we do not. If you can understand that, you will find peace here.” The man's eyes were earnest as they peered over at Cahara. It was good advice, empirical, even if he didn’t have use for it.

 He wasn’t here for a noble purpose- it was a simple job, to track and extract the leader of the Knights of the Midnight Sun. Failing that, to find enough silver or jewels to leave, buy Celeste out of that brothel, to provide a better life for his child. As such, he coaxed his tone into a genuine form of appreciation, letting it blend with his sidelong glance around the surroundings.

“I’ll try. Where are we heading from here?” If he could just gauge the distance to the next exit, the next layer of horror, he could assess how close to stand to the Northern man, just where to place his hands. Ragnvaldr grunted, gesturing with his chin.

“That way. There was a lever, I heard a mechanism shift in that direction. It should lead us further down.” Us- well, that was not a current collective. He would follow further down eventually, once he had healed, once the limp he was concealing had been washed away with some form of healing brew, once the buzz of fear deep in his mind was soothed. Loyalty was something that would come later, given the chance. The Northern man shifted, crouching, gently tugging the doll from the girls hands, replacing it with a small dagger, the perfect fit for her hand. It made an odd sight.

“Right.” Cahara replied, and when the Ragnvaldr shifted, sliding whatever he had uncovered from the barrel into his pouch alongside the ragdoll, he followed close behind. The girl would be harder to shake, with her observant eyes glued to him with an odd sort of admiration he had no right to accept- but as they approached the exit, a series of steps leading down, she hurried slightly forward, looping a finger into the tall man's belt, eyes fixed forward. 

Cahara kept a careful distance, just a step behind, and when Ragnvaldr stepped warily forward, leaning just past the doorway to glance left, scoping the surroundings, he dipped his fingers lightly into the opening of that pouch.

He drew out a large vial, full of blue liquid, second a container of what he hoped would be some sort of liquor- and third, because he couldn’t help himself, a handful of silver coins. His fingertips brushed over the rough surface of that doll- his heart ached, his hand paused, and he left it where it was. Ragnvaldr turned his head right, brandishing the torch, before stepping into the new, unknown depth of the dungeon.

Holding his breath, Cahara hung back.

Shifting flat to mould with the slight alcove in the corridor, waiting for the sound of receding footsteps- it was too easy. Once the footfalls confirmed their ignorance to his absence, he turned, moving quickly and silently towards one of the wooden doors in the room they had just exited. With sly fingers he picked the lock, disappeared inside, leaned heavily against the wall, finding it thankfully empty.

 He wished the pair well- he really did. But he had no role in a team right now, wounded and untrusting, with no clear common interest. He had Celeste to think of, resources too scarce to share- and he would only slow the two down for now. Perhaps later, their paths would cross, perhaps Ragnvaldr was more inclined to forgive betrayal then he suspected. 

The mysterious glass vial yielded ale, and he pressed it to his lips thankfully, letting himself slide down to a crouch against the cool stone. He chased the burn with the blue liquid, almost letting out a moan of pure relief as the nagging pain in his ankle ceased, as whatever had cracked in his chest from being dragged, from the beating, from what followed mended itself over. His mind was clearer, his body restored, and the realization that he could think clearly again, move freely again was ecstatic. 

He could return to the surface layers of the dungeon- scrounge for whatever was left, create a decent stock of supplies. And then, with faith in his own abilities restored, he would follow the darkness deeper into the ground. The guilt he felt was fleeting- his actions were out of necessity, they always had been. No use finding conscience now. With a final swig from the murky brown flask, relishing the warmth flooding his limbs, he exited the room, retracing his steps past the cell, over to that staircase he spied earlier leading up, hand on the hilt of his sword. 

Chapter Text

Cahara had done alright for himself, so far. 

He’d managed to locate a mace, various pieces of armour, a decent stock of food in his heavy sash- if it wasn’t for the terror of being in this unholy place, he would be living better then he had back home. He missed Celeste, but these dungeons didn’t feel to be on the same plane as her, the same universe, and he found her serving more as an unspoken fuel to his motivations to reach deeper than a genuine ache at the base of his chest.

These mines were endless- he was fairly sure he was near the bottom, because that tension headache forming at his temples was just getting worse with each step. He hoped something in one of these barrels would ease that, but as he dug into the one nearest to him and retrieved something that felt vaguely explosive in the heat of his palm, footsteps started up behind him.

It wasn’t even a conscious train of thought anymore, the way he immediately ducked behind a crop of rock jutting out from the wall, it was pure instinct. Cahara had operated in shadows all his life, and with so much shadow to work with here, it came naturally. The rough footsteps paused- and Cahara watched the floor as shadows lengthened, twisted, formed. Whatever that was carried light. He pressed himself further against the jagged rock.

Whatever it was didn’t speak, moving in a jingle of metal and a clink of vials, pausing intermittently. Cahra held his breath, held it until his lungs burned. 

“ You.” Came a deep, low hiss, and a hand was pressed to the wall beside his head, a dagger brandished to his throat. Grey eyes glinted in the half-light, narrowed, menacing, full of promise. Ragnvaldr.

“Oh! Hey!” Tried Cahara. He felt that if he pressed himself any further back against the half-collapsed stone wall he might phase through it entirely. In any other situation, Cahara may have found the sight of the huge man towering over him at such proximity a little arousing.

The huge outlander before him didn’t blink, didn’t react, didn’t so much as breathe. Nor did he look down at the small girl tugging hard on his fur cloth for attention. 

“It’s ah- good to see you alive!” The smile on his face was beyond unnatural, and he was sure his gaunt cheeks didn’t help at all. With any luck, the man would deem him insane, and have mercy on his thievery. However, luck was a commodity rarely afforded to men like Cahara, certainly not one that could be stolen.

“You tricked me.” Came the reply, low and guttural and quiet. Cahara knew when he was backed into a corner, literally and figuratively. Nothing about the man's stormy grey eyes suggested mercy, much less forgiveness. Best go down with a fight.

“...There’s no avoiding it, I guess.” 

He brandished his sword, and used a quick deft motion to pry the dagger from his neck, to keep tension in his arm to push it a few inches away. The tugging at the man's scant armour grew more insistent from the child, but Cahara couldn’t afford a moment to glance away from Ragnvaldrs eyes.

The response was swift- disengagement from the lock of weapons, a slashing motion up his right arm, tearing into his bicep. Blood welled immediately, but adrenaline dulled the sting as Cahara jerked back, stepped to the side, deflected the next swift blow. 

“Look- look, I’ll give it back. And more for interest, yeah?” Tried Cahara again, the only response being a grunt and another slash, one he managed to sidestep. It caught the edge of his leather chestplate, bit into the thick, rough material, but failed to penetrate. 

“I will only accept your life, in return.” Came the throaty reply, and his torso jerked as the knife was withdrawn, aimed again. This he was able to block with his sword- but the wound quivering his bicep combined with the larger man's superior strength had him doubtful he could hold it long this time. 

The lock was held for almost a minute- pain contorting Cahara’s expression, not a single waver from the outlander, before Cahara’s arm gave in. He was knocked off balance with the sudden shift of his weight, stumbling to the side. A swift kick to the back of his knees had him on the floor in seconds, palms biting the rocks on the ground, a gasp leaving his lips. 

It was over. He was face down, and in the millisecond it took him to realise he had lost, he knew he ought to be dead. But the killing blow never came- even as his eyes widened, even as his body shook in preparation for the stab to the back that would take his life, leave his body to rot down here, to join one of the infinite piles of corpses he had ignored on his way down. 

But it never came. 

It felt like a year had passed before he chanced a glance over his shoulder. Ragnvaldr looked huge from the ground- two metres of pure muscle, refined and battle-worn, scarred with experience. Sword raised above his head, biceps flexed- but those stormy gray eyes weren’t on him. That child- her hair neater than he had remembered, clumsily fashioned into two pigtails with indelicate fingers was standing in front of Ragnvaldr. The doll in her hands was bared up into the air like some kind of sacrifice, like some otherworldly idol. Cahara couldn’t hear the silence over the ringing in his ears. The pause was pregnant.

“This is not a man to spare, child.” Ragnvaldr spoke finally, voice just as low, just as deep as earlier, but with none of the rage, none of the menace. A smooth, soothing timbre. “We will not remain here long.”

The girl stood her ground- not once did her weak arms waver in holding up the poor excuse for a doll, brandished up above her. Ragnvaldr tried again.

“He is a thief. What he took could have cost our lives.” Cahara couldn’t see from here if the girl was responding in any way- there was no audible response. He wondered if her lips were moving, if she was blinking, what expression was on that childish face that had no place here. “He is not trustworthy.”

Cahara had to think. He wasn’t dead yet- that was huge. It was gargantuan. He took the distraction of the outlander to reach into his sash band. He retrieved a vial, blue and swirling with liquid, retrieved a stew he had been able to cook a few meanders ago in a relatively safe alcove. In his desperation, he even retrieved a handful of coins. He placed the items on the ground, slid them to the side beside the girl's feet, shifting his weight off his bleeding arm to do so.

“Here- here, take these. I can give you more.” Cahara really was begging now, taking the opportunity he had been given and running with it. Rather, pleading with it. He felt trying to run now would result in a swift arrow in the back, much the same as that dead guard had received the last time he had encountered the outlander. The larger man's eyes slid from the girl down to the floor, assessing the items offered. He didn’t speak.

“I have more.” Cahara reached into his pouch, pulled out all the scraps of dried meat he had managed to find, an assortment of herbs, pulled out a second vial, a lighter blue in colour, a deeper glimmer to it, and placed it alongside the first offering. It was most of what he had acquired- without them, he would not survive, not unless he found replacements fast. The outlander blinked, then frowned. 

Sensing something Cahara didn’t, the girl lowered the doll, tucked it back to her side. The motion made her pigtails sway. The torch he had been wielding apon first entry had fallen to the ground in the altercation, burning against the stone only to provide lengthened, darkened shadows. This time, Ragnvaldr addressed Cahara, grey eyes glinting, untrusting.

“What are you suggesting?” 

Well, wasn’t that the question he was wondering himself? He knew what he was doing- the items he was offering were the difference between his future life and death. But the risk he was facing was right now. At any second, that sword could swing down, could pierce the skin of his throat, sever his head against the uneven ground. It would be fast. In a way it would be mercy. 

But Cahara didn’t want to die. 

“You can take whatever you want. I don’t care, I just- please let me live.” It was pathetic, it was desperate, and it was against his beliefs to make himself so weak. Genuine vulnerability was harder to stomach than an act, and it burned Cahara’s stomach, burned his cheeks with shame. “I have a wife- she’s pregnant. She needs me. I came to free her from her employment, to give our child a better life.”

This pause was a little longer- the girl took the chance to step away. Cahara tracked the movement of the man's sword down with his eyes, slow and careful. It hovered at his side- not put away, no, because this man was not stupid. But certainly not poised for his murder.

“She is- with child?” Came the gruff voice, perhaps a tone quieter, a tone calmer. “What do you seek, down here? How will you free her, if I allow your survival?”

Cahara didn’t hesitate to answer, not like he had when the man had freed him from his cell. 

“I came here for money. I’ve been assigned to locate the Captain of the Knights of the Midnight Sun, and give his head to the Kingdom officials. They’ll reward me for it- and if I can’t do it, I hope to find enough coin in here to help my wife either way.” It was far more than he would provide willingly, but it seemed sufficient, because the man sheathed his sword. 

“Provide me your bag.” With shaking fingers, Cahara unknotted his sash from his side. His injured arm was still quivering, every pull of the muscle sending a slice of pain through him. He pushed the bundled material alongside the other items. It caught on a rock, and the contents within spilt against the ground, revealing the rest of his meagre acquired belongings. 

The larger man kneeled, large fingers sifting through the items, assessing them individually, placing them one by one into his pouch with the exception of a bundle of cloth torn from a flag he had encountered what felt to be a lifetime ago.

“I will carry these supplies now. You may take the bandage and tend to your wound.”

Cahara shifted onto his knees, reached with one hand for the bundle of cloth. It was awkward and difficult to wrap his bicep; he held one end of the cloth between his teeth, wound it with his good arm. It was humiliating- he was sure it was intended to be, because the burn of the outlanders gaze on him never wavered once. He made to stand, shakily using one hand to propel himself to his feet. A heavy hand on his shoulder paused him, forcing Cahara to look up. 

“If you steal from us again,” Came Ragnvaldrs voice, low, quiet, and with an eerie calm that held the promise of an honest man, “I will dismember you, and leave you for one of the creatures to find. Do not take my mercy for granted.”

Cahara didn’t get to respond, because the man was turning away. Almost automatically, his huge hand reached down, allowing the slim fingers of the girl-child to wrap around a singular digit, sacrificing use of his shield to guide her. She retrieved the torch from the ground, tucking the doll into her pocket, shooting him a look he wasn’t quite calm enough to read. Cahara had no choice but to follow a pace behind them further into the darkness.