Chapter Text
The tree house had always been a safe place, a sanctuary. They had moved in after Ethari had taken over as the head craftsman. Helping the former one move out, and in with his niece. It had been an exhausting week for them. Between training, wedding planning, and the regular bickering between Lain and Tiadrin. Along with carrying the old smith’s stuff up and down the stairs. It had been beyond tiring. Most of the furniture had stayed, like the beds and kitchen table. Both attached to the walls and floor. But they had to move other things, like the old smith’s two couches, and his dresser. All heavy, and the old smith walking with a cane couldn’t help, so it was up to them. Runaan and Ethari moved the first couch, then Lain helped Runaan with the second. And Runaan was never told who moved the dresser. It was just gone one day, and he wasn’t going to complain. And even though the move had been some of the most grueling hours of Runaan’s life, he swore to never do it again (at least not with Lain), he would do it again. Standing there today, that was the truth. He would give a lot to live it again. He would be willing to live anything that took place the past 30 years prior to three years ago. Them moving together, their wedding night, the night Tia and Lain had announced the pregnancy with Rayla, and then of course raising Rayla. It had all taken place in that tree house. His home. Though now it felt different. Now it was only him and Ethari.
Sure his uncle or Ethari’s parents came to visit. Or Rayla and Callum every couple months. But it was different. Quiet. At least compared to life before the mission. He thought he would have loved this kind of quiet, but now that it happened reality had hit him. He hated the quiet. This quiet. Before the Katolis mission the halls had always been filled with the squeals and laughter of Rayla. Her arguing with him, the sounds of a mess being made by her and Ethari in the kitchen. But now just the sound of two heartbeats. And looking at the place made him feel uneasy. Standing on the hill with a basket of freshly harvested fruit. He could just go inside, and hear nothing except for his own breathing. It was a lonely thought. He could go into the forge to join Ethari, but he could feel a headache already coming on. The clanging and heat of the forge would only make it worse. By now he should be lying down, but sleep hadn’t come easy to him in the last couple months. Even with the pills, the therapy, and talking to Ethari. Anytime he tried to sleep his head blurred with any mad memory, and every burden he could ever carry. The lack of sleep drove him crazy, but the therapist had told him it was all part of that “healing process”. So he felt like he couldn’t complain. But it still never really helped. Just like him standing there for as long as he was. Getting a couple weird glares from other elves as they passed by, and you could hear them whispering. He didn’t need anymore gossip from the villagers and for it to get back to the elders. So sighing he made his way down the hill, and back home.
As he met the bottom of the staircase he dreaded the climb. Of course the stairs never got easier with each climb, and the years. Let alone now with his cane. Having to use it after his fall in the battle with Aaravos, going off the tower with the dark mage girl. The fall had affected more of his joints and body then he would’ve liked. But he knew it would come to this one day. His job would either end with him dead or an injury that would force him into retirement. He always thought death would be the latter, but he guesses he got lucky like his uncle and was still alive. And sure he was grateful to be alive, but the pain was something he most likely would have to deal with for the rest of his days. And everything that came with it. Like going through a dozen pain meds to try to find the right one, or the physical therapy that only ever seemed to help for a couple of days, then he was back to square one with the pain. It wasn’t annoying most days, but on the bad days he just told himself he was lucky to be alive. To come home, unlike some other assassins. To grow old with his love and wake up with him every day.
As he turned the handle to the door you stopped for a second, listening, hoping for some sound. Maybe Ethari had taken off work early, or was taking a break at least. A very late break, but one nonetheless. But no. As much as the elf wanted some sound, he didn’t hope for some stranger to be sitting at the kitchen table, or wild animals rampaging through the halls. But there was nothing as he turned the knob and opened the door, seeing that he was now truly alone. He set his cane next to the door, and the basket on the bench. Sitting next to it to take off his boots, before making his way further into the house and into the kitchen. He contemplated washing the fruits now or later as he set the basket on the counter. But he knew if he didn’t do it now then he would come down later to eat some and then have to wash them. Being annoyed at himself. So he decided to just get out of the way then, setting up the sink to wash the fruit. Saving his future self the trouble.
He mindlessly looked out the window as he scrubbed, curious to see if anyone was in the clearing it faced. But again not a soul. Sometimes it would be kids playing, families having a picnic, or training cadets sparing. But no one or any animals. Just the trees swaying in the wind. It was late Autumn now, most of the trees were skeletons. Bear from their leaves. Runaan used to hate this time of year, with Winter just around the corner. He hated the cold, and hated the snow more. Because while the SilverGrove didn’t get any snow, that didn’t mean any other places didn’t. And the snow always made their missions more difficult. Reminding him of the time, Skor had slipped on some ice hidden under the snow and had fallen from the small cliff they were camped out on. Lucky for the other man it was a short drop with a few feet of soft snow so he never didn’t get hurt on impact. But he did get stuck. Resulting in Runaan having to climb down the cliff and help the man out. He found no joy in it at the time, and scolded the others for laughing at the matter. But now he found himself laughing at the memory, and as he dried his hands he felt not so bad for a moment. Simply calm. Then reality hit him. Skor was dead. They were all dead. And it was because of him. No, not because he brought them on the mission, but because he killed them. Slaughtered them. One by one, with his own hands and weapons.
That night, after the king was dead and they had fended off the first round of guards, waiting for the next, he decided it was the time to strike. Going after them. Skor was already dead, by a guard’s hands. And Ram was incapacitated, two arrows to the leg. But Callisto and Andromeda were still standing, and who he would take out first. They were facing away from him, making it easy to come up behind. Slitting both of their throats with his dagger before they even had time to react. Then turning around and locking onto Ram, seeing the terror in the man's face. Runaan couldn’t blame him, he’d just watch his leader kill their two other teammates who he’s known for years. Who he helped train.
At first Ram lashed out, trying to stand to fend Runaan off. Eyes darting between the dagger covered in his companions blood, and Runaan. But Ram knew he stood no chance. He was shorter, and smaller than Runaan. The leader also had years more experience than him, beating him in a normal setting. But now he was here, injured. So as the dagger was held up to his throat, all he could do was ask why. His tone wasn’t what you would call angry, nor was he pleading. But he was hurt, hurt by the betrayal. But Runaan never answered why he was doing it before sliding the knife across the other’s throat. Runaan told himself it wasn’t for nothing, he did have a reason. And he didn’t travel, or leave for the mission with the plan to kill any others but the target. It was rather something that developed in the days leading up to that night. Because if it wasn’t the four of their lives it would have been Rayla’s. And even if it was only a possibility he wouldn’t take any chances. As much as his team meant to him, Rayla, his daughter meant more. Even if she made a mistake, a big one to their people, he would not let her die. And plus it was to be easy, the whole village knew it could be a suicide mission. Meaning no questions would be asked if he and Rayla (or even just Rayla) had made it home. Everyone would assume that others would have just died on the mission.
Though upon his release from the coin prison, Runaan was shocked to hear what really played out after the mission. How the board of elders had sent a “scouter” out after the team. One that they had “forgotten” to mention to him, to the “master of blades”. Sol, the scouter, was another assassin. He followed after the group, just to watch and report back about the mission. (In case it went sideways). And while that is what he reported, it wasn’t the only thing. He had reported about seeing Rayla running off with the princess, one of them their targets of the mission. Of course though he never saw the egg, or what Runaan had done to his team. Which was lucky for Runaan. Because if he did tell, Runaab would be dead himself, executed. Or if really lucky, ghosted at best. And so would Ethari and his uncle. But he wouldn’t let that happen. Sure it would hurt to be ghosted himself, to be turned on by his community. But really he didn’t have anyone in the SilverGrove besides Ethari and his uncle. His uncle could go live with Runaan’s cousin if he had to, but Ethari? He had so much in the SilverGrove. His parents, extended family. Friends and community. Much of it he built in the grieving of Runaan’s death. He couldn’t let Ethari lose all of it. So what he did on that mission is kept a secret. Only Ethari and Runaan’s uncle knew the secret. Not his therapist or the board, and certainly not Keeper Lyrennus. No one. He would not let his family pay for his actions. And Rayla? She could never know.
He feared she would never look at him the same way if she knew. Because at that point was he better than his targets? Any better than the dark mages who harvest animal parts? Any better than a king who kills? Was Runaan any better? The guilt would eat him alive, and sometimes, truly, he believed he didn’t deserve to be alive. His hands were stained in blood, taking so many lives. And now hiding a secret that could ruin his family. And none of this helped him get any better. Because in that moment he thought, and replayed everything he had ever done in his life. Paying no attention to his quickening breath or how his hand hurt from clutching the countertop too hard. His lip bleeding as he bit and picked at it. The door from the forge opened, and Ethari happily talked about the day. Then the drop of a box, and Ethari calling out for Runaan. How he grabbed his husband’s shoulders, trying to help through the panic and tears. He noticed none of it, even though he knew he was conscious. Trapped in his thoughts, only rescued by hands cradling the side of his face and the soft voice of his husband. And suddenly he was back. In his kitchen, in the treehouse. Ethari holding his face gently in his hands. Worry etched into his features. They were on the floor. And everything became clear. The coldness of the floor, his tear stained cheeks. The forgotten fruits on the counter. And Ethari. He was talking, Runaan could see he was talking. But couldn’t hear what he was saying, hearing the sound of kids playing. Probably in clearing outside the window. The sound was nice at that moment, reminding him of Rayla.