They had to find rooms for the evening, and Maretus volunteered to be the one this time to find them something. The evening was lengthening even as theyâd arrived in Kirkwall, and true night would soon be upon them. Maretus did not relish the idea of wandering the streets of Lowtown at night, trying to search for a place to stay in a town neither of them had been in for years---if at all; he wasnât sure Vanora had ever been here. She was perusing the last few merchants still open, resupplying their traveling stores that had diminished, while he found two warm beds that were preferably free of most pests before it got too dark.
It took him a little, wracking his memory of the city, before he recalled an inn and tavern that seemed the most likely to have at least clean beds, if not a decent meal, and only a short while after that to secure them. The rooms cost him more than he liked, but there was nothing for it. Times were hard for everyone, and from what he heard, Kirkwall had experienced quite a few rough years, and was still recovering. Maretus knew as well as any that it took more time than one expected to bounce back, something that only increased with age.
When he returned to the row of merchants heâd left her at, however, Vanora was nowhere to be found. A few inquiries to the shopkeeps still closing up their stalls didnât tell him much: yes, theyâd seen the woman he described, but she only perused for a moment, or bought a few items, before moving on. None had kept track of her after she left the small space of each of their stalls.
Unhurried, Maretus continued on, resting one hand on the pommel of his sword with casual ease. He didnât think heâd been gone that long, so she couldnât have gone too far. The streets of Kirkwall were no friendlier than when heâd been here last, but he knew Vanora could take care of herself regardless.
She was nowhere in sight, however, and after a few minutes of walking, a small, tight twist formed in his stomach. There was no real reason for her to wander so far from where theyâd parted. Unless sheâd run into trouble, an unwanted voice supplied in the back of his mind. Unconsciously, his steps quickened, the leather of his boots quietly rhythmic against the cobblestone of the street. Maretus resisted the urge to call out for her, and instead began glancing down alleyways, searching. The twist in his stomach tightened.
Just as he truly started to worry, he caught sight of a cloaked figure with the hood down. He knew instantly by the way they stood that it was Vanora, and jogged over to join her.
The question about her wandering off died on his lips as soon as he drew near enough to see her. Her hair was a mess, coming out of her braid, and she was looking down at her hands, which were covered in something dark. She hadnât looked up at him yet. He stopped a few paces away, taking in her disheveled appearance, and hoped it was a trick of the light, and not her hands actually shaking.
âVanora,â he said, confused.
Finally, she looked over at him, a quick motion of her head. Her eyes werenât wide, but distress was writ clearly across her face. Maretus slowly closed the distance between them, trying to get a better look at her in the dimming light. He narrowed his eyes as she dipped her head away from him just as he stopped in front of her. Something was wrong.
He reached out and caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, then lifted her face up to look at him properly. Maretus searched her eyes with his own, as if trying to divine answers from them alone, but only saw more of the same upset. Then, his gaze dropped to her mouth, where he could now clearly see the stain of blood from a split lip tracking down her chin.
Without thinking, he gently wiped at the blood. Some of it came off onto the pad of his thumb; it was still wet, still fresh.
Sharp anger welled within him, boiling up from his chest and spreading white-hot fingers between his lungs. Maretus lifted his eyes from the blood and her split lip back to her eyes, thinking of all the ways he knew how to break bones with his bare hands. His jaw tightened, and he let out a slow, controlled breath.
In a voice, quiet and tense, barely held together by a line taut and fine as garrote wire, he said, âWho did this to you?â
