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“Cynda, your studies,” he reminds her from where he's bent over scattered parchments, reading glasses low on the bridge of his nose. A long sigh rings out from the table in the corner, where the child is meant to be practicing her letters.
“This has nothing to do with magic,” she grumbles under her breath, voice shrill with the fury only an eleven year old can manage. Ulumb tries in vain not to laugh, not wanting to encourage the unruly pupil. She sees Kazara's ear twitch from his place on the floor, seated close to the fire light.
“What mage worth their salt is unable to read?” he retorts, voice distant and distracted as he pens something down, masterfully dipping his quill in a pot of ink without dripping.
Behind them, the child complains further, but the messy sounds of her doodling are quickly replaced by the repetitive lines and swoops of letters being traced.
The peace is not long lasting. Ulumb gets halfway through her glass of wine, watching with bemused interest as Kazara pushes his glasses back up for the hundredth time, before the writing from the other side of the room tapers off. It takes only a moment before he notices as well, eyes not leaving the words on the paper in front of him when he calls out her name, a warning.
She lets out a defensive breath, glaring daggers at his turned back when Ulumb finally glances in her direction.
“You told me to finish the page, and I did,” she complains.
“Alright then, bring it to me,” he says, hand raising expectantly to receive her finished paper. There is a moment of hesitation from the corner as Cyndassa turns back to her work, giving it a nervous once over, her confidence immediately faltering at the raised challenge.
“If you're unsure-,” he starts, but she cuts him off with the sharp sound of her chair scooting out. With a few heavy footsteps, her rain damp boots dragging on the wooden floor, she appears at his side, eyes still scanning her own crumpled paper.
“Here,” she says, nervously placing her work in his waiting hand. She chews at her lip as he pauses his reading to tilt her paper towards the light, illuminating rows and rows of messy letters. Ulumb thinks it's endearing, but Kazara only furrows his brow and hums.
“Your lines are getting better,” he starts, and Cyndassa's eyes immediately light up at the praise.
“Does that mean I can-,” she half shrieks in her excitement, but he cuts her off with a patient finger.
“But,” he says, “your letters are sloppy. I want you to do another page.”
She wilts like a flower before them, lower lip protruding out at the overwhelming flood of despair.
“A whole page? But you said I could have my flute after this!” she whines, hands tugging at themselves.
“I know what I said,” he sighs, “Do another page, and you'll get your flute back”
“But that wasn't the deal!” her voice raises, posture going stiff with frustration. Behind him, Kazara's tail flicks impatiently.
“The flute is a privilege, one that I will revoke if your studies fall behind. You can either rewrite the page, or you can go lie in your bed till supper.”
At that, her face flushes bright red from anger and embarrassment alike. Ulumb can almost see it happen before it does, Cyndassa tearing the paper from his hand in the midst of an outburst. He turns to look at her, eyes stern.
“I'm going, you don't need to say it again!” she yells. When she turns to dramatically stomp away, her boot comes down on his still moving tail rather than the floorboards.
Kazara immediately lets out a pained cry, and the child nearly falls backwards in her urgency to remove her foot from his tail.
“Shit,” Ulumb mutters, rising up in her chair at the sudden commotion.
“I- I didn't mean to,” Cyndassa tries to apologize, tripping over her own words. Kazara's face goes pale in his sudden anger, shooting her a piercing glare.
“Go to your room,” he says, voice just beneath a yell. Her face drains of all color, tears welling up in her eyes. She's gone in an instant, running to her bedroom and slamming the door hard enough to make it shake on its hinges. Only a moment later do the sounds of her muffled sobs begin to echo out.
Still sitting up in her chair, Ulumb frowns and runs a hand over her prickly head. Before she can even comment on the situation, Kazara lets out a deeply tired sigh, setting his glasses aside to bury his face in his hands.
After a beat of silence, she attempts to broker some sort of peace, “you know it was an accident, Kaz.”
Ulumb isn't entirely sure how to answer. On one hand, she's never been all that fond of undisciplined children, especially having been raised rather sternly herself. While Cyndassa has the luxury of learning to read and write, she had been learning the ropes of the lumber trade by this age.
“I know,” he stresses from between his palms, “but what am I meant to do? Let her get away with that sort of behavior?”
On the other hand, she finds herself conflictingly sympathetic towards the child, wanting to shower her with affection despite her better judgment. It wasn't too long ago that Cyndassa lost her parents and was left to fend for herself, something Ulumb can't unsee when faced with her poor behavior.
“Maybe you should try being more.. gentle with her,” she attempts to advise.
Kazara raises up, his tail curling around his lap. He gives her a fatigued look, pinching the place between his eyes.
“I am nothing but gentle,” he argues, “my teachers would've swatted me for sloppy penmanship.”
Ulumb nearly laughs, picturing a much younger Kazara nervously presenting his own writing to stern and unforgiving mages, ready with a branch for striking.
“Yes well, she isn't you and you certainly aren't those teachers,” she chuckles, knowing full well that Cyndassa would hit back.
With the window left open, curtains dancing in the soft breeze, the Odai river can be heard below. More so than the water itself is the echoing of boats sloshing about, towing cargo and travelers alike through the heart of Balmora.
A young girl, a servant working for the house, had come through earlier in the day to open all the windows, letting the air in. The homes here, hollow stone things with tall ceilings, were built to let in cold air off the river, keeping the buildings cool during hot summers.
They could, of course, open the windows themselves, but it might be overstepping.
"Don't bother with it," Denanu had said to him once before, "someone will find it rude, and then we'll have an issue on our hands."
He's never had servants before, who quietly slip in and out of rooms, making his bed and setting out his things at the start of every day. These people, he imagines he might have drank with them in the South Wall years beforehand. Now they don't look him in the eyes, bowing their heads when he speaks
The river smells green, algae and soil wafting in on the wind, almost nostalgic to him now. The place he'd lived in before wasn't grand, and it certainly wasn't waterfront, but he used to come stand beneath the shade of the bridges, watching local fisherman hauling in the day's catch. These days, he stays in a manor, one he's not permitted to leave without some sort of house chaperone breathing down his neck.
Sitting at a low table, he gingerly picks up a soft white cake, roughly the size of his palm. It's warm still, coated in powdered sugar and smelling of marshmerrow. He tries in vain not to get powder on the dark silk of his robes while he takes a bite, spare hand cupped beneath his mouth. It's chewy and sweet, with some spice in the background that he doesn't recognize. With no one there to watch him, he places an elbow on the table, slouching forward and contemplating the flavor of his food with a bored expression.
He's not a fan of sweets, never has been, but he has nothing better to occupy his time than to eat. Set out on the table before him is an elaborate spread; fresh yam bread paired with spicy scrib jelly, sliced honeydew, pickled pumpkin, steamed saltrice, fried fish, and ash hopper dumplings. And, of course, the powdered marshmerrow cakes.
All of this is paired with imported flin from Cyrodiil, and an easy blend of gingergreen tea. His own cup had been poured for him when he'd sat down, nearly twenty minutes ago now, and he uses the cold tea to wash away the sticky taste of cake.
He's alone, for the most part, with very little to do until company arrives. He'd dressed for the day - bathed and shaved and dutifully put on what was selected for him to wear. He'd read over notes a few times, things written down by Denanu to help keep track of who's who, and to manage his ever growing schedule. He'd stared longingly out more than one window, smoking his pipe and thinking of the local street food that he's not permitted to enjoy.
The inn is nothing special, a shabby wooden building tucked between the trees and stones, lost somewhere along the muddy roads leading up towards Wrothgar. It's known only to the travelers that pass by often, serving as a humble nook for those that know where to find it. The orc behind the counter is absent-mindedly sweeping dirt into a dark corner when she ducks in, her gloved hand reaching up to steady herself on the short doorframe. He gives her a weary greeting as it falls shut behind her.
"We've got cider and ale," he says, voice deep and booming in the small interior. Someone coughs from their seat by the hearth. Ulumb clears her throat, a nervous habit, and approaches the counter with a quick shake of her head. She feels guilty lying before she's even done it, despite it not being her own lie, and even with knowing that this innkeeper would never know or care. Her hands rub against the old, worn wood of the counter. Her thumb finds the letters of someone's name, carved deep and partially sanded away.
"No, thank you," speaking barely above a whisper, she fights the urge to look over her shoulder. She's not even sure if she should be worried that someone less kind might be searching for the same individual, that there might be people out there aware of their connection. The thought makes her feel cold and anxious.
Words stall in her mouth, the kind eyes of the innkeeper avert from her gaze, giving her an odd sense of privacy.
"Do you... is there an Erwan here? Erwan… uhm. Forgive me, I'm not sure of the full name.."
The innkeeper scratches his chin, let's out a long breath that smells of meat and tobacco. Ulumb's face burns with embarrassment, not a feeling she's accustomed to. This whole situation is out of her comfort zone, the secrecy of it all is a far cry from the lumber business.
With broom still in hand, the innkeeper taps the knobby handle against the ceiling, only a short distance from both of their heads. He ignores the thin cloud of dust that falls from the planks.
"Upstairs, first room to your left," he says. Behind her, the door swings open again, and the sound of chipper bretic fills the stuffy air as a small group of travelers enter the building. Immediately, the innkeeper's attention is gone from her, yelling out once again of cider and ale. She's left to stare at the few rickety wooden steps that had been so lovingly referred to as a staircase. Pacing across the room in a few short steps, her hands find the wall, gaze meeting the poorly lit second story.
The hallway atop the steps is claustrophobic, she ducks down and makes herself small to avoid the walls and short ceiling built without someone her size in mind. First room to her left isn't hard instructions to follow, especially when the inn itself only has three rooms to speak of. She places herself quietly before the scuffed wooden thing, eyes lingering on the doorknob, and stands for a long time. She finds herself feeling hesitant and uninvited, despite what the Argonian had told her a day prior. He'd given her the information willingly, told her the exact place to go to, the name to ask for.
Making up her mind, she knocks once, curt sounding even to her own ears. She worries for a moment that it won't be recognized as a knock, sounding instead like someone bumping against the wall. Before she can raise her hand to try again, there's a faint sound from within, a voice saying something she can't quite make out. It sounds enough like a welcome for her to reach for the doorknob, it squeaks miserably as she turns it, letting herself in.
The room is darker than the hallway, dark enough that the light she lets in illuminates a round wooden table in front of her, covered with trinkets spilling from a leather bag.
"Erwan?" she asks tentatively, not sure of what else to do. There's a laugh from somewhere in the room, warm and familiar sounding, and it's confirmation enough for her to close the door behind her. As her eyes adjust, she's able to make out the rest of the room. It's small and quaint, with only a table, a stool, and a lumpy looking bed. From the doorway, she can only barely make out the shape of him beneath the covers, a candle on the floor beside him nearly burning itself out.
"Will you be calling me that for the duration of your visit?" he asks.
"How did you know it was me at the door?" she asks in return. He moves slightly in bed, still out of her sight.
"It wouldn't be anyone else".
"You aren't worried about being followed..?"
He laughs again, and she hears the sound of a book snapping shut. There is a thin quality to his voice now, and it makes her frown. She tries to ignore the lingering acidic smell of herbs and metal still hanging heaving in the room. Or the way he doesn't move to greet her.
"No, I'm not," he puts shortly.
Her heavy footsteps make the floorboards groan as she approaches the table, eyeing his few scattered possessions, evidence of someone who'd arrived in a hurry.
"You knew Wih-jei would send for me?" she asks. She removes her gloves, one careful finger at a time, listening to him haphazardly drop something onto the floor beside his fading candle.
"I thought he might. Orsinium is the closest city."
She shrugs off her coat, still speckled with raindrops, and sets it down on the table. She's mindful to avoid his remaining bandages, left in a pile near his bag. It's disorderly, in a way so unlike him, that she finds herself wondering if the disarray might be Wih-Jei's doing. The alternative is slightly more worrying, the image of him alone and hurting, fumbling through his own things. She pushes it out of mind.
"How bad is it then?" She addresses the elephant in the room, the reason for her rushed departure from Orsinium. She looks towards the bed, sees the reflection in his eyes flicker back at her. He sighs long and heavy, a hand reaching up to muse with his own hair. She can make out the dark color of his shirt now, hanging loose on his frame.
"I don't think I'll be returning to Wayrest anytime soon," he jests. When he's met with nothing but her brooding silence, he complies with a proper response.
"It's nothing but a scratch," he says.
"You stink of blood"
There's a long pause at that. He rests back against his pillow, head lulling to the side, staring at her fully now. The light from the candle turns his face a pale yellow, the shadows around his eyes seeming deep and foreboding. She worries her hands, frowns at his lack of a response.
"It'll heal," he says, finally. There's no argument in it, no assertion that he isn't as hurt as she's worried he might be. His tone is defeated in a subtle kind of way, something that feels too honest coming from him. Still, it's an answer, as indirect as it might be, and she feels the weight on her shoulders finally giving away.
"Oh- before I forget!", her voice is light, shrill from shot nerves and forced politeness. She reaches into her bag, digging past books and meticulously organized papers. Her fingers find the cold touch of metal, and she turns to face his hunched back.
"Here," she pulls out the picture frame, stepping closer to his shadow, "I found this with your things, I put it in a frame so it couldn't get any more damaged. It looks absolutely ancient."
That last bit is only partially a joke, the paper has long since gone yellow from years of apparent love. The person looking back at her, young and smiling, has been nearly smudged out of existence. She extends her arm, gesturing for him to take it. He moves, sluggish, as he turns towards her. The light behind her reflects in his one visible eye, she watches him squint at the picture. His calloused hands take it from her, as gentle as she's ever seen them.
He looks at it for what feels like a very long time, her standing awkwardly in the dark, hands crossed politely. The door behind her beckons, but she holds still, trying to savor whatever comfort she might find in that dark, drafty room. In the back of her mind, she tries not to contemplate the lack of familiarity in his presence- this whole meeting having been uncomfortable and forced. It's the first time they've seen each other outside of political meetings in over a month.
"Thank you Nineera", he says at last, cutting through her tired, anxious thoughts. There is a strained quality to his voice, a sort of wetness that immediately makes her skin grow cold. In the years they've traveled together, she's never seen him cry. Cursing and angry, sure, but nothing like this. Her mind is torn, not sure if she should run and hide or offer some sort of kindness. She ends up standing there, dumbfounded and scared, listening to the strained quality of his breathing as he tries to collect himself.
She watches him reach up and pinch the place between his eyes. There's a sniffle that's probably meant to sound dismissive rather than distinctly emotional. He stands, his dark clothes making him look like he's slowly emerging from the shadows, creeping up almost to her full height. He turns opposite of her, dragging himself to the window and carefully propping up the picture frame on the barren sill. He hesitates there a moment before turning in full to face her.
She realizes then that he hadn't looked at her the entire time she'd been in here. Beyond that, she honestly can't clearly recall the last time she'd seen him outside of all his costumes and fancy garb. Even in the poorly lit room, he looks small and plain in nothing but his simple robes and unkempt hair. More than that, he looks tightly wound and very tired.
"I didn't think I'd see that again," he says, sounding strange and far away. It's an explanation, perhaps even an apology for the unwelcome feelings he's failed to fully push away. It pulls at her heart strings, something she's not quite familiar with feeling in the context of him. Their relationship isn't exactly built up on mushy feelings.
"You're welcome," she says, unable to keep the sympathy out of her voice. Whatever else she might consider saying is cut short when he yawns, poorly concealed behind a raised hand. The tired burn in her eyes becomes all the more apparent as she fights the urge to yawn in return. It's very late, only a few short hours till sunrise, and she's still got to make it back to the redoran canton before she can retire for the night.
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In your dreams stern wrinkled hands braid your hair and whisper prayers. You wake up and taste those same prayers on your lips and look up at the familiar sunlight creeping in through closed shutters.
For a moment, all is right. You're in your bed, the blankets smell like the home you've found away from home. And then the silence cracks open, and you hear yourself crying before you can even register why.
You reach out for the comfort of her touch and find only bare sheets, cold from lack of use. You thrash around in the mess of blankets till the door to your room opens. Someone reaches for you, pulls you out from the constant remembering.
This time, it's Philo. Sometimes it's Cyllin. It's never Volano. He only comes late at night. You know he watches you sleep, but you never interrupt - you know he is paying his dues all the same.
You feel like her headstone. They come to you to watch you wailing as if they were paying respect by petting your hair and mumbling comforting words. You feel that the cold food on the table is offerings that will never find her grave.
How many times have you been asked to speak of death? It has always been there, like a childhood friend. You remember sitting in grandmother's hut, bowing your head, and giving thanks for moldy bread. Now it all feels burning hot - a stranger compared to the quiet cold you'd always known, the gentle smell of rot.
Philo wrings out a cloth over a bowl in his lap. Your ragged breath and rushing blood echo so loud in your ears, you can't hear him when his lips move. When he leans over you, you can smell traces of ink, it makes your broken heart ache. He pats your swollen eyes with the cold wet cloth.
You think of your lady Namira and feel shame. Should you be angry..? All the terrible childish feelings you've kept dormant pour out of you like water bursting from a dam, but it's never anger. Instead, your heart pleads for mercy, like she might reach out from the void and let your soul slip from your body.
Beyond that, there is guilt because how could you feel this way? You remember seeing Philo in the kitchen sobbing into his hands, Cyllin standing close by looking more gray and hallow than you thought them capable. That night, Philo disappeared, and his scholar paced the length of the house till you thought their footsteps might burn holes into the wooden floorboards.
He came back three days later and spoke nothing more of Ralkag and everything that had transpired.
"You need to eat" he says, trying to sound strong. More than anything he sounds so tired. You hear him up late at night, you know he doesn't sleep much these days.
Before you can stop yourself, you say, "so do you".
He pulls the cloth away as if burned, dropping it into the bowl. The water sloshes, and he lets out the sort of sigh that sounds like it's been held in for a long time. In the silence that comes after, you think you might slip back into your head and let the moment go. But there's something about the weight on the bed and the quiet way he cries - you find a weird sort of comfort that beckons you to stay.
Frozen grass crunched beneath their feet as they crept quietly along the side of the house, holding each other's hands in the dark. Ralkag squinted as she searched for the railing, fingers trailing over old wood and chipped paint before finally reaching the stairs leading up to the balcony.
"Careful", she whispered in quiet concern, mindful of Nana's bad leg as they made their way up the slippery, wet steps to the place she had prepared for them in secret just a few hours earlier.
Emerging from the shadow of the trees surrounding the once abandoned manor, they were cast in a soft blue light from above - making the auburn curls that framed Nana's face appear to glow. Not being able to help herself, the smaller women gasped and squeezed Ralkag's hands, eyes looking out at the aurora reflecting on Lake Ilinalta.
The lights folded over each other in the sky, casting blue and purple down over a horizon of jagged mountains. After a moment of silence, Ralkag remembered the blankets she'd brought out in preparation for this moment.
"Come, I've made a place for us to sit", the dragonborn gently pulled Nana from her thoughts, leading her to a warm little nook at the far end of the balcony. Taking her staff and helping the mage to sit, Ralkag moved to sit beside her, grunting at the effort it took to position her long frame neatly on the ground.
Neither of them were inclined towards romance, but that didn't stop the flutter in her stomach when Nana rested against her shoulder, half lidded eyes watching the lights above. In their closeness, Ralkag could smell the sweet scent of dirt and herbs on her skin and hair, the signature scent of her craft. Holding her hand, she could feel the gentle balance of soft skin and calluses, along with the mark of Namira extending down from the ring finger of her left hand.
That last bit, she tried not to think about. Worry would only sour such a precious moment.
Pulling the heavy cloak from off of her own back, Ralkag wrapped it around the both of the as best as she could and allowed herself to relax against the smaller woman.
"This is wonderful," Nana spoke in a soft, even tone, "I almost wish the others were here with us.. almost."
Ralkag hummed in response. The family of friends she had found during her recent years of hunting down dragons had all been called down their own paths, leaving only the two of them remaining at Lake View. Thinking of them made her heart ache, knowing even now it could not stay this way. Nana would have to return to the Reach in due time.
But for now she was home, and they were together, and the aurora lights shine just for them.
He's so proud of himself, despite the blood pouring from his nose. When he smiles, his teeth are red with it. The sight of him smeared in blood makes Holti cringe.
"You're bleeding all over yourself", he speaks to deaf ears, his Dunmer companion far too busy upon his high horse, lugging around his prize- a beautiful white wolf pelt. It'll sell well back at the market, they'll be eating good for days.
Holti sighs, pulling a stained rag from his pocket. Grabbing Mindel by the arm, he presses it gently to the other's nose. Mindel hisses in response, pulling away.
"Will you stay still, I'm trying to help!"
"I'm fine, Holti- leave it be!"
"Clearly not, if it hurts so much.."
Red eyes glare up at him, but the elf does indeed stop his thrashing, letting the taller man mop up the blood on his face. This is.. admittedly not a first for them.
Despite referring to themselves as "business partners", Holti is quite sure he does far more healing work than the average mercenary would. It is his misfortune to care about someone so prone to lack of thought.
"We can sell it tomorrow"
"Hold this to your nose till it stops bleeding.."
"Are you angry with me? You said you were tired of sleeping on the ground"
"I know what I said, Mindel"
"So then why are you angry??"
Holti stops, stares at him then. He knows already that this conversation will lead to a fight, so he doesn't hesitate to ignore the question. "Are you hurt anywhere else?", he finally chooses to say.
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