To Kill a Nightingale

Companionship

The sun had begun its long process of setting when they walked through the gates of Whiterun, casting a golden light over the buildings and the streets. The same gold tinted the puffy scraps of clouds above them, and the side of the Throat of the World to the East. From about these times all the way to Hearthfire, the sun liked to linger in the sky, taking its sweet time to set and to rise, during the day mostly staying low. Runa had always loved the long days of spring and summer, even if the short and relatively light nights of summer made it difficult to sleep at times. But then, who was sleeping anyhow?

The city, in any case, was in the process of calling it a day. The main drag was peopled by folks scurrying about, some on their way home and some to one of the two local inns. This was one of the two times when the hinges of the inn doors were most burdened, the other time being later when the bulk of the customers dragged themselves home to recover for the coming day.

All the feet going this way and that kicked up a dust as they scraped the sand in between the street's cobblestones. In this sun-gilded haze, pressing through the crowd, Runa and Hroar walked toward the market square. Rusty had departed for the evening, for his supposed "business call," though it was obvious what kind of business the man had. In any case, it was better this way as his obvious distaste for the Companions wasn't exactly a one-way affair. Not that there was love lost between them and Runa, either, but at least she believed that they more of less trusted her. Just as she more or less trusted them. Emphasis, perhaps, on less.

She nodded a greeting to a town guard as a pair of 'em walked past. Even with the faceguard, ol' Radd was easy to recognize by his somewhat limping gait. She marched in confident stride, acting as though it'd been her idea all along to come here. Taking special care of concealing the fact that she still very much thought it a bad call. They should have stayed. They should have waited for the Orc leaving. They would have been led straight to the Nightingale, she just knew it! But there was no way she was able to convince her friends of that. This, perhaps more than anything, chafed at her. Since when had her powers of persuasion started to diminish?

Don't panic, girl. After all, you managed to talk them into this suicide mission, didn't you?

It's not a suicide mission—

Before she started arguing with herself—or worse, sowing seeds of doubt in her own mind—she cleared the dust from her throat. "Well, now we're here I could sure go for an ale, couldn't you? Perhaps better grab a couple afore we head out to yon Companions' mead hall. You know, to ease them nerves a bit?"

Hroar gave her a look she did not particularly appreciate. "I'm sure they'll give us a drink over there too." Then the look turned even less likeable. "What, you're nervous? Well. I would have never thought—"

"I'll have you know—" Runa started, scowling.

"Hroar!"

From a stall at the other end of the market square, centered on the town well, a woman came running at them. She came so fast that Hroar barely had time to utter, "Mila!" before she was all over him, enfolding him in a mighty embrace.

"It's so nice to see you!" Then, still holding onto his shoulders, she pulled back with a frown "Where have you been? It's been forever!"

"Uh. I've been . . . busy."

"Busy trying to save the word from itself again." The way she said it, it wasn't a question but a reproof.

"Aye, well . . . beats just idly watching by as it destroys itself."

The dark eyes of the woman with the heart-shaped face and olive skin studied him, her little bud of a mouth in an appraising pucker. "You haven't changed at least." Then she hugged him again.