Tiberius POV
The first few days after my return passed slowly.
I spent most of that time beside the vent where the heat could soothe the worst of the damage as my body worked to repair it. The torn membrane of my wing had stiffened with frozen blood and the scales along my side remained cracked where the Balrog's hardest blows landed. Moving too quickly sent pain through my chest sharp enough to force me still again.
I was stuck recovering, unable to hunt.
The people became the lifeline I had been for them. They pushed themselves to hunt more and further so I could eat. Though it was still not enough, the food I had stored supplemented the rest.
Aerlinn did not leave.
The first morning she woke before most of the camp and climbed to the ridge watching the white expanse that stretched past the brightening horizon. When the hunters began preparing the sleds, she stepped in to help without being asked.
Her pronunciations improved quickly.
The language was rough and practical, built for quick meaning more than grace, and she learned it through good natured laughter. Sometimes she would mispronounce something so badly the children would collapse in laughter and a red tinge would creep up her neck.
She would snap at them in stubbornness and be met by the chuckles of the adults watching. She would throw her hands up in exasperation before storming away.
She would always come back though, repeating the word or phrase until she got it right. I do not believe she was ever really offended or frustrated, but there is a joy in playing along especially with kids, who wear their hearts on their sleeve.
Ráni watched her at first, but over the days relaxed his vigilance. On the third day, he handed her a spear, a sign of trust in the tribe.
She tested he balance of it once before joining two of the younger hunters heading to the southern ridge, the sled dragging behind the three carrying a pile of traps. They returned at dusk dragging a deer across the snow.
The hunters spoke excitedly about the kill, their arms waving exaggeration, as Aerlinn remained quiet, though smug pride seemed to radiate off her. Apparently, she was as good with a spear as with her iconic bow.
That evening she sat beside my vent again while the tribe prepared meat.
After a few furtive glances, I met her gaze. My deadpan gaze staring her right in the eye as she ducked her head.
"So… you are healing," she asked.
"Slowly," I sighed.
She shifted to lean more towards the vent. "What is it like to fly?"
I paused, trying to formulate words to describe the indescribable. "Free."
She blinked, bewilderment on her face. "What does that mean?"
I was confused for a second, until I thought it out a little more.
"Free as in not bound," I huffed.
"Oh," She paused. "What are you bound by?"
She was genuinely curious; the slight inflection of her voice was easily recognizable from the many conversations we had over these few days.
"Myself," I replied.
She grew silent at that. Probably trying to understand, to help. In the end, she could only shake her head and turn it towards the tribe.
"They trust you," she gestured.
"I know."
"They love you," she emphasized.
I shifted slightly against the warm stone.
"They have only known this mask, not the shadow underneath it."
She did not answer immediately. Instead, she watched as one of the women corrected a child's grip on a knife, while another hung strips of meat over a drying rack.
"No. They know the you who pretends to wear a mask."
With that, she rose and walked towards the central fire, leaving me to ponder her words.
The following days fell into a pattern.
Aerlinn joined the hunters whenever they left the basin, sometimes she returned with small game tied to her belt, while other times she came back empty handed but smiling as the hunters dragged big game on their sleds.
The people accepted her presence easily, cutting out a place for her with appreciation and warmth.
They had lived long enough in the Northern Wastes to judge someone by their actions rather than their appearances, its how I was so easily accepted. Aerlinn worked beside them, shoulder to shoulder, without complaint and listened when they corrected her mistakes.
Children followed her constantly, at first, curious about the elf. Within a week they copied the way she walked, then the way she said certain words, her accent unwilling to dissipate.
She seemed amused by it and her laughter was a spring breeze in the frigid cold, drawing people around as she opened up more and more.
I watched all of this from the vent.
I was jealous.
The ugly thing dug into my heart like a parasite. I am a part of this tribe, but I would never be able to sit alongside the others at the fire, cling to one another during stories, or laugh as they worked together. I had never realized just how isolated my existence was until now.
I was a part of the tribe, but I would never be one of them.
My ribs slowly stopped protesting at every breath and the torn muscles started to knit itself back together. The scales would take decades to grow back, if ever, but the worst of the bleeding had stopped.
My wing remained the slowest part of the recovery.
The Balrog had torn the membrane and cauterized it with its flame, forcing me to reinjure it in order to allow for healing. I spent several mornings carefully spreading the wing along the warm stone while the heat from the vent worked through the damaged tissue.
One morning, Aerlinn approached quietly while I was adjusting the wing.
"That will tear again," she said.
I almost snarled in frustration but reigned it in at the last moment. I should not put my own emotions on someone else who has done no wrong to me.
"I am aware," I managed to grit out.
"You are stretching it too soon," she stated firmly.
"I am testing it," I huffed.
She crouched beside it, observing the wound.
"Hold still," she commanded.
I almost snapped a sarcastic reply, but clenched my teeth to keep it in.
She removed a small knife from her belt and cut a strip of leather from a harness lying in her pile of items where she slept, then she poked small holes along both sides of the tear and threaded the thin strip through and tied it tight. The leather pulled the torn edges closer together.
I flexed the wing slightly, the tension held.
"That may help," she said softly.
I remained silent as the guilt clawed at my sanity. I had been bitter, jealous, and frustrated at her for no logical reason, yet all she wanted was to help me.
"Thank you," I eventually rasped out.
She glanced at me, a faint smile gracing her lips.
"You're welcome."
Weeks passed. Snowstorms blew across the mountains in heavy waves that buried the basin before melting again under the vents.
Aerlinn learned the terrain and returned each evening with frost along her cloak and the cold wind clinging to her hair. Sometimes she would visit me to talk, other times she joined the tribe by the fire.
The pain in my ribs eventually vanished leaving only a dull stiffness that no longer interfered with my movement. I began walking the perimeter of the basin and just beyond, testing and rebuilding my strength.
Aerlinn would join me sometimes on my walks, silent and supportive, to my chagrin.
The hum in my chest returned. It was faint at first, little more than a vibration beneath my ribs when I exhaled, but, as time passed, it grew stronger and spread through my bones in the same quiet rhythm I had felt in Utum.
I did not speak of it but tested it quietly. My findings were distressing and exhilarating at the same time.
The artifact stirred whenever my dark thoughts crept in. Jealousy sharpened it, Pride fed it. The power built a constant pressure that pushed against the back of my mind, begging for release like a storm about to unleash.
I needed to find a way to put a constant drain on it especially while in a place so saturated with dark power. Or I would be consumed instead.