#dimah things

The richly-dressed Imperial man turns with a warm smile. “Dimah. It’s been a long time.”

She says nothing. It has been a long time. Long enough for his once jet-black hair to turn to silver, for time to deepen the creases around his eyes and mouth– though Marcus is still a devastatingly handsome man, and still a dangerously charming one. But age has grayed Dimah’s hair, too, and she has grown wise enough with time to recognize insincerity when she sees it. His oh-so-dazzling salesman smile does nothing for her now.

“I wanted to come before,” he assures her, closing the distance between them. “Truly.”  Still she says nothing.

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Again, nothing, just a calm, even stare. His talent lies in soothing riled emotions, in pacifying fits of temper with sweet words and misdirection. Remaining passive gives Marcus nothing to work with, and she can see it already beginning to frustrate him.

Dimah would be lying if she said that this did not give her a certain degree of satisfaction.

He is growing impatient. “My ship leaves in the morning, Dimah, but I came to see the boy. May I?”

The Redguard woman purses her lips, the first show of emotion she’s given away during this brief conversation. “My son–” her words are chosen deliberately. My son. Not ours, and certainly not yours. “–is nearly seventeen years old, Marcus. Why bother now?”

Marcus shifts his weight uncomfortably and glances back to the crowd still gathered for the performance. Dimah follows his gaze to spot an Imperial child, a girl no older than ten, watching the dancers with an enraptured grin on her face. The child resembles him very little, but Dimah knows with a sinking sensation in her heart that this is Marcus’ child. A well-cared-for, pretty little girl as finely dressed as her father– Dimah can tell by sight alone that this child’s mother has never had to wonder where the girl’s next meal was coming from, never had to struggle to afford clothes or shoes or basic necessities, and the realization leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

“You are married,” she says dully. “Is this what kept you away for so long?” Long enough for the child he’d left her with to grow into a man without the guidance of his father.

Well, not entirely without guidance, but never from a man Alhusayn called ‘Father.’ Marcus’ abandonment has robbed him of that.

The Imperial clears his throat awkwardly, and evades the question. “I wanted Caesa to meet her brother, Dimah. And I thought… I wanted to offer him a job. Working for me, in Cyrodiil.”

“My son does perfectly well for himself,” she replies tersely, turning back to Marcus with a stony, closed-off expression. Internally, she is enraged. The audacity of him, to disappear off the face of Nirn for more than a decade and a half, to show up and offer to allow her son to work for him? 

How very gracious of him.

“I don’t doubt that,” he assures her, a placating half-smile turning up the corner of his mouth. The still-familiar sight of that only angers her further, to her own frustration. She’d been so determined to keep her wits about her during this confrontation. “But, Dimah, try to understand– there are opportunities, in Cyrodiil, that he simply won’t find here. I can help him. I can see to it that he rises far beyond anything he could accomplish on his own…”

“Do you not think you might be just a few years late, if you wanted to help him?” Dimah scoffed, abandoning all attempts at hiding her ire. “How dare you? Why do you suddenly care abou– he is not here, Marcus.“ This is spat at him with more force than is necessary, as she catches him scanning the troupe. She doubts very much that he would even recognize his son, were he to pass him on the street. Alhusayn resembles Marcus in some ways, but his dark skin and features are overwhelmingly Redguard, and for that Dimah has always been grateful. An Imperial child would not have lasted long, growing up in war-torn Sentinel.

"He is with my husband,” she adds, and relishes the surprise that registers on the other man’s face. Marcus’ shock contorts into a dull scowl. Dimah is interested in hearing his response to that; she remembers a much younger Marcus being quick to turn to jealousy. It had made her wary of him, when they were together, but he had no hold over her now. Before he can so much as open his mouth, however…

“Daddy!” 

The girl appears at her father’s elbow. “May I have a coin for the bards?” She holds out her hand expectantly, and only then seems to realize to whom he is speaking. 

“Oh…” The child stops dead in her tracks, and openly admires the bright colors of Dimah’s intricate costume. The Redguard woman takes the opportunity to get a good look at her, as well, and her heart nearly skips a beat when their eyes meet. The shape of them is different; rounder and wider, framed by long dark lashes; but the color is so precise a match that the girl might as well be staring up at Dimah with Alhusayn’s warm cinnamon-brown eyes.

Marcus’ eyes. The woman half-consciously lays a hand over her chest, as if to protect herself from the almost physical ache brought about by the sight.

The child is speaking. “I liked your singing very much,” she says politely, all sweet shyness and boisterous dark curls and those damned eyes. Dimah accepts the compliment with a thin-lipped smile, her gaze drifting from the child’s round face to the carefully tailored silk gown the girl wears. She suddenly doesn’t care to stand about making cordial conversation with his daughter. The brat who received everything Dimah’s son has been deprived of. The injustice of it all stings the back of her eyes, and she abruptly turns away, determined that Marcus Acutus will never see her cry. 

“Dimah.” He catches her by the arm, as she moves to leave, and forces her to face him. “Don’t you think I know how... how hurt you've been by this? Did it occur to you that perhaps I want to fix it?”

“Let go of me,” she hisses coldly, not buying his contrition for a moment; and glances from Marcus to his child, staring at the spectacle with wide-eyed alarm. Namir appears at Dimah’s side; he’s been keeping an eye on her from the moment Marcus showed his face.

“Trouble, Dimah?” The Redguard’s deep bass voice is pleasant enough in tone, but his burly, looming presence sends a clear message. Marcus releases her immediately.

“None at all, brother, thank you.” Reassured by her troupe mate, Dimah’s peaceful demeanor is back, but the look she gives Marcus now is a silent challenge. “We are finished here. The gentleman was just leaving.” 

She and Namir turn away, and for a moment, Dimah thinks that Marcus is going to comply, that he’ll simply go away and leave her and her family in peace; but of course Marcus can’t allow things to be so easy. He seems to hesitate, a moment, eyeing the much larger Redguard man nervously, but resolutely steps after them. Dimah feels a small, stiffened piece of parchment pressed into her hand. 

“In case you change your mind,” Marcus insists. “Or if he decides for himself. So he’ll know where to find me.” 

Namir claps a hand on the Imperial’s shoulder. Marcus flinches. 

“My friend,” the big man says jovially, though there is nothing friendly in his eyes. “How lucky you are, that her husband is not here with us today. He is the kind to draw steel first, and ask questions later. He will likely be along soon, though, if you would like to stay, and try your luck further?”