sanctuary

Tel Vos looked even more impressive up close than it had appeared from the village. Not that it had seemed unremarkable – far from it, actually. But throughout the last week Bravoyn had spent in Vos, he’d been so focused on assisting Yakin at the temple that the nearby tower had existed as little more than a curious piece of architecture on a nearby hill, with its Imperial-style grey stone walls interwoven with fungal roots and branches that looked more like an experiment gone awry than somebody’s place of residence. Galos had suggested, when he’d told Bravoyn that Master Aryon had requested he assist with healing efforts at the temple after the recent disease outbreak in Vos, that he visit the tower while he was here, but truthfully, Bravoyn hadn’t intended to. This was partially because he didn’t think he’d have the time, and partially because he’d already managed to humiliate himself in front of one Telvanni councillor in the six months he’d spent with the House so far – he hadn’t wanted to risk a repeat of that. And so it had taken an encounter with Master Aryon at the temple that morning (Bravoyn hadn’t yet decided whether he thought said encounter was deliberate on the Mage-Lord’s part or by chance), an incident with a jar of salve that had granted Bravoyn his dreaded second humiliation in front of a Telvanni Councillor, and a direct invitation to the tower for him to find himself finally making his way there.

Bravoyn was greeted by a broad Imperial wearing steel armour and a disconcertingly friendly smile when he passed through the archway into Tel Vos’ main courtyard, who’d told him with some enthusiasm that he’d been expected and led him into one of the many stone towers that formed the bulk of the structure. As they walked, Bravoyn twisted one of the rings on his left hand around his finger a few times before realising what he was doing and making himself stop. The folk of Vos and Tel Vos had been kind enough thus far, but a sentence from Edd’s last letter had crossed his mind and, despite everything, Bravoyn still found himself trusting his uncle’s advice more than anyone’s.

Be careful who you let see you nervous, kid. The Telvanni like to exploit perceived weakness as much as they do strength.

He allowed himself to twist the ring once more, telling himself that he was just checking that the enchantment was charged enough to allow him to levitate – after his last encounter with a Telvanni councillor, he’d anticipated he might have to in order to access whatever part of the tower Master Aryon preferred to meet guests in. However, they’d ascended one flight of stairs already and as they approached another, it was becoming increasingly apparent that the Imperial was not actually leading him towards some platform from which he’d have to magically elevate himself into the more fungal, traditionally Telvanni part of Tel Vos.

Perhaps Master Aryon was considerate enough not to force his guests to levitate their way around his tower without knowing whether or not they would actually be able to manage it.

That was a courtesy Master Neloth certainly hadn’t granted.

 Bravoyn was led up another flight of stairs, and hanging from the walls of this set was a variety of banners, some displaying symbols he recognised, but others were unfamiliar. He stopped when he spotted the Imperial Dragon, though slightly tattered, as if it had been put up years ago and forgotten about, hanging before him, the design sharp and a little imposing and all too familiar. Bravoyn felt somewhat sick at the sight of it, if he were to be honest, though he tried to bury that unease deep inside of him. He didn’t need that hanging over him tonight. He tore his gaze away from the banner and back to the imperial, who’d paused a few steps up.

  “Homesick?” He asked; of course, he’d recognised Bravoyn’s accent – Bravoyn was well aware that his Nibenese accent was out of place on a Dunmer in Telvanni territory and marked him as Cyrodiil-born to most who’d heard him speak. Unbeknownst to the Imperial, though, the question landed harder than it had clearly been intended to, and so Bravoyn replied with a noncommittal hum. It wasn’t untrue, exactly. He was homesick, but sick for a home that he’d never be able to return to. That had been taken away from him under the guise of justice by authorities who answered to that very banner. Thankfully, though, the Imperial spoke again before Bravoyn’s mind could start circling those thoughts the way it tended to whenever something reminded him of everything he’d lost.

  “You’ll find that Master Aryon is quite well-travelled, which I gather is rather unusual among his peers. Though he holds a particular fascination for the Empire and its customs.” The Imperial continued as they resumed their climb up the stairs.

  “I see. I wonder if that’s why he invited me to dinner?” Bravoyn said, trying to lighten his own mood, more than anything. The Imperial looked back with an amused glint in his eye, though his expression overall remained composed.

  “I imagine he will have a great many questions for you. He often does. Ah,” he said as the stairs opened onto a landing that led into a corridor, adorned with yet more banners and tapestries. Bravoyn followed him to an open door at the other end, with a warm glow emanating from the room within. The Imperial knocked once on the open door and stepped into the room. “My lord, your dinner guest has arrived.” He stepped aside to allow Bravoyn into the room. Stood next to the hearth on the far wall was the same tall, elegant Dunmer who Bravoyn had first seen leaning against a doorframe in the Vos temple. His gaze lifted from the letter he was reviewing and those sharp, red eyes met Bravoyn’s, and then flicked over him briefly. Bravoyn couldn’t help but feel as though he was being analysed again and suddenly became very aware of himself. The corner of the Dunmer’s mouth curved upward slightly, and he set aside the letter on the mantlepiece before speaking.

  “Excellent. Thank you, Turedus.” Master Aryon inclined his head towards the Imperial, who bowed briefly towards Aryon and then turned to Bravoyn before he left.

  “Enjoy your evening, sera.” He said, and Bravoyn managed a small smile before inclining his own head.

  “Thank you.” Bravoyn said. Turedus left the room, and Bravoyn returned his attention to the mer who’d invited him here. He found Master Aryon watching him again with that same curious expression he’d worn in the temple.

“Welcome to Tel Vos, healer.” Master Aryon said and took a few steps towards him, his hands clasped behind his back. “I trust you didn’t find the stairs too bothersome? I did attempt to make my tower a little more hospitable to outsiders than Telvanni convention would typically allow, although I find that approximately half of my guests leave with as many complaints about having to climb them as the other half would about levitating.”

  “No, serjo. They were welcome, actually.” Bravoyn managed a small smile. And then, because Aryon was watching him with a certain warmth in his gaze already that seemed to make reason and all of Edd’s advice leave his mind, he added, “I’ve already embarrassed myself in front of one Telvanni councillor with my inability to levitate. I would hate to add a second to that list.” Aryon watched him quietly for a moment longer and Bravoyn felt his cheeks heating. Perhaps he’d already said too much. Or something awkward. But fortunately, Aryon laughed quietly under his breath.

  “I see. I suspect that may be a story I shall have to coax out of you one day. Please,” Aryon indicated towards a small dining area near the hearth, where a tea tray had already been set out. “Sit. I expect you’ve had a long day’s work since our encounter this morning. Though I see you’ve managed to make yourself presentable.” His gaze flicked down over the robe Bravoyn had changed into after he’d finished at the temple, and then back up over the long, auburn hair that Bravoyn had tied back properly and face that no longer bore traces of the salve he’d been working with that day. Bravoyn’s robe, the one item of clothing he owned that he thought was formal enough to wear to meet with a Telvanni councillor, was relatively plain in comparison to some of the styles he’d seen on other mages in Sadrith Mora, and especially in comparison to the gold-embroidered deep indigo robe Aryon was currently wearing, but the forest green fabric was fine, and the garment itself was made well enough that the lack of ostentation didn’t diminish it.

  “Oh, yes.” Bravoyn glanced down at it as he sat. He remembered the night half a year ago during which Ralam’s father had insisted he keep it after borrowing it when it became evident that he had no clothing suitable for presenting himself to Balmora’s city council. He’d believed that Bravoyn might make use of it again if he found himself in the company of another politician, which had made Bravoyn laugh quietly, but here he was. He’d never expected that the next time he’d wear it would be to attend a dinner invitation from a member of House Telvanni’s ruling council. “I, uh, well. I thought I should at least try to present myself properly.” He added, and nodded when Aryon held up the teapot.

 Aryon glanced at him again, and then back down to his hands as he poured some steaming tea into two cups. “The colour suits you well. Though I admit, I rather liked the chaos from the Temple. There was a certain charm to it.”

  “Oh gods,” Bravoyn tried to hide the pinkening of his cheeks as they flushed with embarrassment again behind his hand for a moment. He accepted the teacup Aryon had slid across the table to him with the other, though he left it to cool for a moment. “I was hoping you might have forgotten about that.”

  “My dear healer,” Aryon laughed and settled in the chair across from him, holding his own cup of tea. “It would take a little longer than eight or so hours for me to forget an encounter such as that. Though I do apologise for startling you. That hadn’t been my intention.”

  “And I apologise for dropping that jar and getting salve on your robe.” Bravoyn tried to push aside the lingering embarrassment and look back on the incident with as much good humour as Aryon seemed to, though his face still felt warm and his heart was beating faster than he’d have liked.

  Aryon waved off the apology with a startlingly casual gesture. “Please, if I were concerned about dirtying my robes in a working village such as Vos, then I’d never descend from my tower. Besides, it certainly made for a memorable introduction.” He paused and took a sip of his tea. “In any case, I find I prefer to meet people when they aren’t expecting me. Such introductions tend to be more honest. Though, if I may say, Bravoyn, you do not strike me as one predisposed to dishonesty.”

  Bravoyn held Aryon’s gaze for a moment before letting his eyes drop. The comment landed a little strangely, like he was simultaneously being seen but also dismantled. He blinked a few times and finally brought his cup to his lips. He blew on the tea gently, and then took a tentative sip. He’d remembered another of Edd’s warnings – to be careful if he ever found himself being presented tea by a strange Telvanni. But Galos apparently trusted Aryon, and Edd had trusted Galos enough to look out for Bravoyn in Sadrith Mora, so perhaps he could let his guard down a little. When the tea hit his tongue, he paused. The taste, slightly floral, slightly citrussy, and lightly spiced, was disconcertingly familiar. “Is this a Cyrodiilic blend?” He asked, taking another sip. It was startlingly close to the taste of the leaves his parents had come to favour back in Cheydinhal.

  “It is. I had wondered if you might recognise it.” Aryon took another sip. “I acquired the leaves from an Imperial Trader who passed through Vos not too long ago, and I thought this an opportune time to finally sample them. You’ll have to tell me if I’ve brewed it properly.”

  “Mm.” Bravoyn took another sip. He suspected Aryon might have just been asking his opinion to appear modest – it was, of course, brewed to perfection. “I usually preferred it sweetened, but it tastes just as I remember.”

“Oh,” Aryon, for the first time this evening, looked slightly startled himself. He set his cup aside, stood again, and reached across the table for Bravoyn’s. “My apologies.”

  “You don’t have to…” Bravoyn began to protest, but Aryon had already taken his cup and was currently opening what appeared to be a jar of marshmerrow syrup. “I know, it’s um, maybe spoiling the taste a bit.” His fingers found their way into the ends of his hair, which was resting over his shoulder and trailing down into his lap. He wound a few strands around them before realising that he was fiddling again and stopping himself.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Aryon replied as he stirred a spoonful of syrup through the tea. “But I do myself recalibrating several assumptions. I had thought that you might engage that typical healer’s mindset of allowing yourself to suffer through discomfort for the sake of practicality. Or to avoid imposing yourself on others.” He glanced up as he handed the cup back and Bravoyn managed to hold that gaze for a moment before looking away. There it was again. That feeling of being seen and dismantled at the same time. He could be like that, and had certainly spent much of the past six months or so making himself as small as possible. It was actually quite unlike him to voice a preference allowed. But he hadn’t even thought when he’d said that he liked his tea sweeter. He’d just…said it. Aryon hadn’t seemed offended by it, at least. He actually looked rather satisfied when Bravoyn took a longer drink. The taste was a little different with marshmerrow syrup instead of honey, but it remained warm and grounding and somewhat comforting. Good tea, Bravoyn found, went a long way in allowing him to feel settled.

  “You, um, weren’t necessarily inaccurate in that assumption.” Bravoyn admitted. “But my mother always said that a happy healer was a functional healer.”

  “I see,” Aryon sat back down and picked up his own cup. “A sound philosophy, and one that I think many healers could benefit from adopting. You’ve met Yakin, of course. Sometimes I wonder if he realises that he’s supposed to make people feel better than they did before the saw him.”

  “Yes,” Bravoyn let out a quiet laugh. “Though I think he’d resent the implication that his bedside manner is a detriment to his ability as a healer.”

  “He probably would.” Aryon conceded, though there was an amused glint to his eye. “I trust you have found working with him this past week informative?”

  “I have.” Bravoyn nodded, slightly grateful that the conversation had shifted away from Aryon’s increasingly accurate observations of him. “He is actually very good at what he does. I think perhaps he just doesn’t have much patience for indulging self-pity.”

“Mhm.” Aryon agreed. “I am of course grateful for his continued presence here. Vos is lucky to have one as skilled as himself stationed at its temple. However,” He folded his arms on the table and leant forwards slightly. “I did not invite you here to discuss Yakin’s temperament, Othran. I’d like to learn about you.”

  “Oh,” Bravoyn looked down at the tea between his hands. He wasn’t sure what to say – he’d become so used to people only being interested in what he could do that the prospect of someone wanting to know about him, however deeply, left him feeling strangely exposed. “I’m, um, I don’t think I’m very interesting, serjo.”

  “Hm.” Aryon leant back in his chair again and regarded Bravoyn with that intense gaze as he sipped on his tea; Bravoyn continued to look down, finding the teacup he’d started to rotate increasingly fascinating. “And in telling me that, you have inadvertently made yourself more intriguing. Perhaps we should determine whether or not there is any merit to that conclusion together? Would you tell me about yourself?”

Bravoyn glanced back up; Aryon’s gaze was still fixed on him, and he felt his cheeks heating in that familiar way it often did when he became the topic of conversation. He, perhaps, should have seen this coming. The Imperial had warned him, after all, that Master Aryon would no doubt have questions for him. He stared at Aryon for a moment, trying to think of something he could say. But where to begin? Did the mage-lord want to hear about his upbringing? His current work? All of the events of the past year and half that brought him here? It all felt both deeply unremarkable when sitting across the table from one of Morrowind’s most powerful mages and far too personal for a first conversation with him. “That’s, uh, a very broad question, serjo. I’m not sure where to begin.” Bravoyn finally said, his cheeks heating again.

  “I suppose it was. My apologies.” Aryon conceded. “Galos has of course told me a great many things about you, healer, but I find it more interesting to hear what one chooses to share when unprompted. Though I can see that approach doesn’t suit you. Perhaps you would prefer me to narrow the scope a little?”

  “Please.” Bravoyn inclined his head, slightly relieved that Master Aryon didn’t seem intent on stoking his discomfort the way some of the other Telvanni he’d encountered over the past six months did.

  “Very well.” Master Aryon smiled and set aside his teacup. He leant forwards a little further, with an amused glint in his eye that seemed to soften his sharp features, and rested his chin in his hand. Bravoyn felt his stomach tighten unexpectedly as those eyes fixed on him again, and Aryon asked, “Tell me, Othran. How exactly does a dockside healer of no formal standing manage to irritate enough people in Sadrith Mora that his actions reach the desk of Master Neloth, who famously cares for nothing outside of a one-metre radius of his own body?”

Bravoyn let out a startled laugh and looked away. “I, um… It wasn’t intentional, serjo. It just sort of happened by way of my existence in the city.”

“Fascinating,” Aryon leant back again. “That isn’t how Galos phrased it to me. I would not worry about it too much, though, healer. It is very typical to unintentionally make enemies in House Telvanni.” He smiled again, then, and Bravoyn felt that tightening in his stomach that was becoming alarmingly familiar. “I suppose you may fit in better with us than you anticipated, hm?”

“Don’t say that,” Bravoyn murmured with an amused huff, and Aryon laughed properly, a rich, warm sound that filled the room. Bravoyn felt some of the tension that had rooted itself into his body after their encounter this morning finally leave. Dinner, perhaps, wasn’t going to be as daunting as he’d initially feared.