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(feat. @brokencrown’s nerevarine, moon! possibly part one. we’ll see)
The crystals were the most concerning thing, really.
Iiraeniil frowned, glancing up at the pacing Dunmer. Spinning globules of metal and light danced overhead, simulating the orbits of the Divines and Mundus, along with Masser and Secunda, and casting the halfmer’s tower in gentle, fluctuating light. The sound of intermittent rattling of the Orrery overhead interrupted the soft footfalls of Fathili’s leather boots as they circled once, twice, thrice around the table they had laid their friend upon.
Iiraeniil hadn’t seen Thili in years - not since they were taken to their supposed execution in the Vvardenfell district. For all she knew, they were dead or worse - impressed into the service of the Blades. Their hair was longer now, wrinkles pressed into their twilight-grey skin, silvery scars marring the black-blue enchanted ink of their tattoos. Whatever had happened during their time in Vvardenfell had not been kind to them, it seemed.
To find them trudging towards her tower, carrying a wounded elf, had certainly been ... a surprise. The unconscious mer they held had a gaping wound across his chest, right over the heart - and, if the bruising around the wound was any indication, a few cracked ribs around the organ, as if his chest had been caved in and his heart ripped out. A cloth mask obscured the bottom half of his face - from what she could see, Iiraeniil figured he was either a very beautiful man or a very handsome woman. Slim and muscular, with dark, dark grey skin cut through with lines of red warpaint - he might be pretty when not half-dead.
Helping Fathili up the remaining stairs was a blur of adrenaline and concern. Once the injured mer was on her table, though, her instinct took over, and here they were - Fathili, worriedly tugging at muddy brown strands of their long hair, and Iiraeniil glancing between the two Dunmer, a Restoration spell gathering in her open palm, a quiet look of complete and utter shock overtaking any urgency she might have felt.
Thili caught her eyes, and their face contorted with worry and confusion. “He’s hurt - Nils, you have to help him, he’s -”
Iiraeniil raised a golden-toned hand, the magic fading from her fingertips. “He’s healed.”
Thili paused, arms falling gently to their side. “...Already? You worked that quickly?”
“No,” Iiraeniil replied, eyes trailing back to the unconscious figure. The blood that had pooled in his chest had crusted over, forming a sort of ... natural bandage, replacing torn skin the same way a Mending spell might’ve. Except - except.
“This friend of yours,” Iiraeniil began, voice bordering somewhere between cautious and deeply curious, “As far as you aware, does he hold any special ... abilities?”
Thili’s concern faded into confusion, their brows knitted together. “Wait. Wait, what do you mean, ‘no‘?”
The magician didn’t respond at first, the warm, golden glow of Restoration giving way to a bright white light. “Abilities. Does he have any?”
“Not - not as far as I know -”
“Nothing?” Iiraeniil watched as the crystals shimmered and deepened, observing with the sort of morbid fascination that came with wizardry, “How much do you know?”
“Not much. Not enough.”
The light bounced off of the crusted blood, draping the dim room with vivid refractions, as if shining a light through a cut garnet. Strips of the same substance - strips that Iiraeniil hadn’t notice in her haste - cast more of the graceful, red beams of light onto the various baubles of Iiraeniil’s tower. On his legs, torso, arms - everywhere there was a ‘scar’, it had apparently healed over with this strange, crystalline substance.
Thili had fallen silent, moving to Iiraeniil’s side - the action was familiar, it seemed, an old reflex still ingrained into their muscle memory.
“...Faelyn did this,” they whispered, reaching a hand towards the wounded elf’s chest. The glow, at first, was faded to the point of being unnoticable, though growing in its intensity as their fingers ghosted over the crystal sheen. The refractions that had hung suspended on the tower’s wall dulled as the light grew, casting the table and the pair around it in the an almost playful light. It followed Thili’s fingers, flowing languidly from scar to scar as they moved from his chest, to his shoulder, to his arm. “So. These... these are scars.”
Iiraeniil could still see the blood under the thin sheen. It was disconcerting - and marvelous. “You’re familiar with these markings, then?”
“I’m familiar with every mark on his body.”
“Oh.” Iiraeniil paused, blinking. If anyone would bring their half-dead lover to be healed by their ex, it was the lovable moron of Fathili Cursed-Stars. “Oh, I see!”
Thili stared for a moment, before something clicked in their mind. “Wait, no -”
“I had assumed he was simply a friend -”
The Dunmer scrunched their nose, a hand tugging again at their hair. “No - I mean, maybe? It’s complicated, but - not like that, woman!” Thili’s hand smacked gently against Iiraeniil’s shoulder, and she found herself smiling despite herself. “The man runs around in nothing but a loincloth is all!”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Iiraeniil said, nodding solemnly. Thili sighed and slinked backwards a bit.
“He’ll be okay,” they asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question. A mantra they were no doubt repeating in their head like a prayer.
thili loves to cook! they mastered campfire cooking while charting out the velothi mountains - you’ll never have a better meal on the road than with thili!
