Owe You My Sins [GxG]

Chapter 4

If there was ever a moment that Maeven felt completely and utterly powerless, it would be now.

The weather was angrier than it had been all year and was only expected to worsen over the next few days, the first of winter's blizzards moving in to oppress them. Soon enough, they would be snowed in until spring took pity on them. The air was thick and the snow thicker, forcing Maeven to plant her feet and blink frost from her lashes in her attempts to see through the whiteout.

Still, when they'd gotten word that the Church had been spotted in the woods, they braved the blizzard to meet them. She could see the swathes of fine grey robes and elegantly swaying cloaks, their faces covered by a long hood that swallowed them in anonymity. Despite their steady pace across the snow which realistically was no faster than a stroll, their presence felt like an avalanche into her life. The Church of Autellia was large, more so than any of them had dared to imagine. Of course, to lay the Jorgtorian Hordes to waste, they would have had to be a formidable force, but nothing prepared her for their sheer number.

Like malevolent ghosts, they flittered amongst the pines and stormed the remaining stretch of snow that was between them and Stonehearth. She stood beside her father just outside the gates, which had been swung open and latched to give the false appearance of being welcoming. The commonfolk stood behind the walls in rumbling mobs which lined both sides of the cobblestone path. Soldiers stood with their weapons sheathed but hands twitching towards them apprehensively, which Maeven couldn't fault them for since she had caught herself doing the same.

Now Maeven's hands were clenched into tight fists by her side, shoulders tense as she stood next to her father and willed herself to appear at least somewhat unphased. Wynterfang rested on her belt sheathe, that odd relentless chill still seeping into her hip and down into her upper thigh. Despite the dagger's beautiful craftsmanship and undoubtedly even weight, in that moment it felt as heavy as any greatsword.

"Stay calm," Ulfric said lowly as his eyes sought out the vampire amongst the approaching horde.

Maeven's did as well, looking for who she pictured to be a grizzled man with hellfire eyes and an arrogant, mocking sneer. They all appeared the same, however, with their uniformed attire and she felt herself growing nervous knowing that they had absolutely no idea who the wolf was among the flock.

At least that was until the Church drew near enough to make out the subtlest of features and they parted fluidly to allow a tall figure to move past the pack. She could feel her heat stutter in what she avidly convinced herself was terror, despite something telling her otherwise. A woman.

She cursed herself for thinking for even a moment that a woman couldn't be as feared or powerful as a man, immortal or not. Far too soon she was mere metres away and Maeven's eyes were selfishly drinking in her appearance. She was ethereal, her fitted uniform braced with thin metal plates, concealed only partially by a long and flowing cloak which was whipping around in the wind. Unlike the rest, her clothes were embellished with elegant silver embossment in the form of vines which wound along her body and seemed to worship the natural curves and contours of her form. A matching silver circlet rested quietly on her head, holding back the silver strands of her hair from completely obscuring her eyes. Her eyes, which Maeven swore were all it took to prove her immortality; not red like hellfire, but a knowing and inhuman silver which left her awestruck despite every fibre in her body telling her that this was a predator.

A killer of men and drinker of blood, but her skin was pale and smooth, and she imagined it would feel soft and supple under her fingertips. Her lips were a delicate pink, parted softly as calm breaths left her in dancing clouds. Maeven wondered if behind them hid rows of sharp teeth.