Fantastic Mr. Fox

There’s really no reason for his nerves to be aflame and aflutter like this.  Lirelye is Lirelye, not some fearsome beast with snapping jaws and claws like knives on every finger; a man, only a man, and nothing more.  He can handle this.  He is Neht Orphelin, wizard, occasional Nerevarine, and he can do this.

The thought crosses the Telvanni’s mind that maybe he’s just as nervous as he is and even though he’s still certain that he’ll botch everything up, the thought is a little comforting.

“I could say the same thing about you.  I’m saying it now.”

The lily is beautiful and Neht, ever the mad botanist, is already thinking of ways to preserve it forever, to clone it and have a whole host of lilies in his garden come spring, but more important than the flower, lovely as it might be and it is, Lirelye is holding his hand and suddenly few other things in the world matter right now.

“Oh, no, not at all, it was grand!  The Rift is so lovely this time of year and, well…traveling is always easier when you’re excited to see someone, isn’t it?  I, ah, I missed you too.”

“I don’t mind traveling a little more if you don’t.  I’d love to see your home; I’m sure it’s as charming as you.”

“Flatterer!” Lirelye accuses. Oh, but he adores the attention, especially from Neht; he’s almost too good to be true, it seems. Of course, Lirelye isn’t exactly an idealist, and he manages not to put Neht on (too high) a pedestal. “Fortunately,” he playfully continues, “you aren’t wrong. I do keep a charming home.” He glances down a moment to affectionately toy with Neht’s fingers. What lovely hands, he thinks, drawing his thumb down a long crease near the top of the Dunmer’s palm.

“It doesn’t matter what I thought,”  She groans as she hobbles inside, grateful for his hospitality.  “I only need to stay for a little while,”  She offers at once.  “I won’t be any trouble at all.  I just need a place to rest for a couple hours.”  She’s exhausted.  She’s been on her feet all day, and even so, she’s only made it about forty miles out of Riften.  Walking to Falkreath feels impossible.

“He’s dying,”  She breathes, and without asking, drops down into a chair.  She hopes he doesn’t mind.  Her feet ache, her body is sore, and there’s a hot, sick headache pounding a rhythm behind her eyes.  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to impose.  But he’s dying and the letter said I needed to come, that it might help him..”  She starts to dig around in her satchel, but gives up and shuts her eyes instead.

“Just a few hours,”  She murmurs.  “Just a few.  Then I’ll be gone.  I’ll be alright.”

“Who’s dying?” Does she intend to waltz in here and give him a heart attack? He’s never seen the poor girl this out of sorts before. Lirelye is frozen for a moment with indecision, but given her current state, he is more or less inclined in one direction. With a forceful sigh, he steels himself, and sets to work.  “You give me these,” he snatches her boots from her and sets them on the counter to be dealt with later. “A few hours! Not on your life, dear girl. If you are going to barge in and demand my hospitality then you do not get to choose the manner in which I give it. I have to insist that you stay until the sun is up,” he says decisively.

His home is the only one she knows of between Riften and Falkreath.  It’s been all day on the road, and part of the night as well.     Her feet are covered in blisters from her boots, hanging limply from her right hand.  Although she packed light, her pack feels as though it weighs a ton by the time she drags herself to Lirelye’s door and knocks.  Just a few hours more, and then she can travel again.  She must travel again.  He needs her, and she won’t disappoint.

In the course of the last hour, Neht has convinced himself yet again that not only is he an unmitigated disaster in general who makes poor life choices and should never have left the temple for the turbulent outside world, he has also managed to botch up all possibility of this visit going well.  He shouldn’t have worn the green silk robes.  Earlier in the day, Neht thought they were charming, wonderful, and altogether perfect, but now he has decided that as a priest, he really ought not be seen out of his clerical robes if it can be avoided (though by no means has a he taken a vow to wear nothing but his grey-and-red priestly garments, nor has he gone without other people seeing the occasionally gaudy robes he lounges around the house in), and moreover, everyone who sees him will think him nothing but a vain and conceited creature for having the audacity to wear something so fine.  

Everyone’s looking at the tiny smudge of eye paint he has on, Neht’s certain.  He didn’t do enough with his hair.  He did too much with his hair.  He should have brought a bouquet of roses in every color.  He should have brought cheerful tulips.  He can’t decide if the dab of perfume is too light or much too heavy.  He’s pretty sure he’s picked out such a disastrously awful pair of stockings that it will surely ruin his entire future.

Neht is contemplating the myriad little ways he is ruining his life when he sees him.  Lirelye.  He should be overjoyed (and he is happy to see him but it’s hard to focus on that when his nerves turn all jittery like this) but to be entirely honest, Neht wants very badly to lock himself up in his tower where no one will ever see him again.  Objectively, he knows that there’s no real reason for him to be so nervous (he’s well aware of his terrible habit of building a thousand terrible scenarios in his head) but even still, he likes Lirelye and that’s utterly terrifying.

There’s one thing to do then: stroll up like he’s a suave, self-confident person whose nerves absolutely aren’t fluttering all over the place.

“Lirelye?”