Mountains west of Northgate
Winter 21
Vanja leans forward into the snow as she walks, increasing her pace, the weight of the sledge of scorpion parts dragging behind her, its lead crossed over her shoulders. Better to move quickly, to keep the sledge on top of the loose snow. She keeps some distance from Roux and his fey horse, though - she was still uneasy around Somersault, and the horse seemed averse to the remains of the scorpions.
Even walking apart from the others it was good to have company again after nearly a grasp of days on her own. It was a good sign, too, that she had been reunited with Roux, Astarael and Talith just when she had needed to be. Had she come across the scorpions alone, Vanja would have had to run. Cast her magic to pass without trace, perhaps, or tried to press herself into the stones, willing herself to become one with them, and for the creatures to ignore her.
To have her companions come across her, then, a single person traveling alone, in all the wilds of Jorung - it seemed to be more than chance. Streams of fate flowing back along the River.
Now, without someone to talk to, Vanja finds her mind drifting as she walks. The snow muffles most sounds, and so she focuses on the rhythm of her own boots, the warmth of her own breath over her lips. Here, in the quiet of the wilds, with good, clean air filling her lungs, sharp and cold, she finds herself thinking instead of the city. Of the alley near the Majestic and the stolen warmth of Deren’s cloak, wrapped around her. Of his hand finding her cheek, brushing away snow as he pulled the hood up over her head. Vanja had laughed at this, had chastised Deren for sacrificing his own warmth for this unnecessary act of chivalry, as Vanja had her own cloak, and hardly needed two. He’d insisted, though, as it was snowing, and “getting colder by the minute.”
Vanja had teased him, for his warm Isendelian blood, unable to cope with the chill, and she’d pulled him close, one hand curled against the golden edge of his tabard, her other hand on the back of his neck, where his hair was shorn close and standing on end against the cold. Vanja had raised herself onto her toes and kissed him, then, a quick thoughtless thing. But Deren had caught her, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back in, so close that Vanja could feel the heat of him. She looked up at Deren, at the deep brown of his eyes, at his lips, quirked up on the one side, and he’d leaned down and kissed her. It was a soft and cautious thing, at first, but Vanja responded enthusiastically. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed herself into him, pulling him off balance. Deren had staggered, slightly, broken off the kiss, laughed a little. And then they were against the alley wall, and Vanja could feel the cold stone against her back, even through her borrowed cloak, but she didn’t care. Deren’s hands were in her hair and he was kissing her again, desperately, like a man starved for it.
Vanja could feel warmth spreading through her. Adrenaline. And the familiar flow of riverlight, readying in response. Her pulse was racing, and her breathing quick and shallow. She felt like fighting, like doing anything to release the tension suddenly rising in her.
Deren lifted her off her feet, then, and Vanja broke away from the kiss, laughing, as she was briefly in the air and just as suddenly against the wall again, with Deren’s hand on her rump and her legs wrapped around his waist. Deren had grinned, and raised his eyebrows at her, had opened his mouth to say something, but Vanja had stopped him, pulling him to her, kissing him deeply again. She could feel him tense, even beneath the mail and gambeson, as his hands found their way beneath her borrowed cloak.
But a whistle had come from the street, then, and a call of “Private Lake?! Well done!” Deren had looked up - at the pair of Painted Swans patrolling the street in front of the Majestic who had stopped to catcall him. He’d laughed, and lowered Vanja to the ground, and the moment had been lost. Deren had taken her hand, though, and pulled her out to the street. Vanja had braced herself, then, ready to be searched or questioned, but the two other Swans - a young man and woman, neither older than Deren - had just commented on the braids in Vanja’s hair and teased Deren about “appreciating the local color.”
Deren had laughed at this, good natured. The other Swans dallied for only a few moments, talking and joking with Deren before continuing on their patrol. Vanja had tried to avoid looking at them, to even move away, but Deren had kept her at his side, putting his arm around her waist, bringing her in close, even as he exchanged japes with his comrades.
With the other Painted Swans gone, Deren had walked Vanja across the street to the Majestic, and stopped, taking shelter under the scaffolding Vanja had built, and kissing her again as if it was something they did all the time. As if they were any young couple, enjoying each others’ company, and neither wanting to go home, unwilling to part.
For a moment, it seemed an easy thing. Like something that could be true.
The thought had caught Vanja by surprise, and she’d pushed Deren away, then, gently but firmly. She’d told him, as honestly as she could, that she was perhaps growing to like him too much, too quickly. Deren had grinned, cupped her cheek and said how that was a good thing. He’d reminded her of what she herself had said, about the flow of fate, and how she’d told him that the River brought people together. If her feelings seemed strong, well, they were in line with his own. They were both in deep, Deren had reasoned, and they’d either swim or drown together. In that moment, Vanja hadn’t argued.
Now, Vanja stumbles in the snow of Jorung, the awkward step shaking her from her reverie. The edge of her makeshift sledge has caught on something beneath the snow, and she stops to clear the obstacle. It’s nothing. A small stone. She’d stepped over it herself, but it’s torn through the blanket that she used for the base of the sledge, and caught in the pine bough frame. Vanja shifts the sledge over the stone and continues walking, glancing back at the small pile of snow already forming in the sledge, coming through the hole in the fabric as she walks, making the load heavier with each step.
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