#handsommer

Anovis wrung the coat he’d been given in his hands as he stood outside the not-quite-finished home Rehvas had helped him build, guilt beginning to grow a cold mass in his stomach. He had not expected to be gone so long, but after nearly dying of his injuries in Winterhold and reuniting with his great-grandfather, the mer who had taught him everything he knew about magic, his return had been delayed for five days. Rehvas was surely in a state after the long silence. But now, hopefully, Anovis would return to a nearly empty house; as helpful as it had been for the young bard to enlist the help of his many friends, the thief had never enjoyed being the center of attention and preferred the company of himself, his son, and his dog. 

Quickly, casting a sheepish glance to the horse munching on the foliage in the front yard-- undoubtedly belonging to one of Rehvas’s friends, ‘Halley’, if he remembered correctly-- Anovis caught his reflection in the glass of the windows, and marveled at how it had changed: after the restoration spell, taught to him by Revus himself, Anovis almost felt as though he had been given back the thirty years spent languishing on Solstheim. Sure, he had still not regained the muscle or weight he had before, but his face looked less care-worn and he stood a bit straighter. 

By all accounts, it should have been a nice day. A rare sunny day without humidity was certainly cause for celebration in Riften, if only because it meant that the stink didn’t rise from the derelict canal like smoke from Red Mountain. Anvovis watched the vendors hawk their wares at potential customers as woodsmoke from a cooking fire scented the marketplace with the perfume of slow-roasted venison.

Anovis stared down at the letter, the paper trembling with his hand, Meeko searching for attention from his other hand. A letter from the Steward of Riften announcing the termination of his employment at Mistveil Keep. No matter how he had tried to smooth things over with the court, no matter what punishment he had offered to take in lieu of being fired, insult to the Empress was unforgivable-- even in a Stormcloak-aligned court.

So the old Dunmer sat near the Temple of Mara on an old stone wall, left to ponder his current state and the choices that had brought him to it. Anything that belonged to him was in a large leather bag: the deconstructed Waiting Door, a few alchemical and otherwise arcane tools, a spell tome or two, and of course Meeko. Everything else he had left; after all, he may have been a thief, but he was not so ill-mannered as to rob them of their furnishings. Besides, he wouldn’t have been able to carry all of it out. He sighed and looked up.

What on Nirn would he tell Rehvas? He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, loosening the hair tie that pulled at his scalp and made his growing headache even worse. The boy had tried so hard to help him find that job; for a while, Anovis had played the role of honest, humble servant well. All had changed when the Empress had come. Even still, Anovis would never apologize for speaking out on her son’s behalf. The prince was a good lad and deserved better.

The merry jingle of a full coin purse was music to the ears as Anovis walked up the staircase of the Bee and Barb, never mind the cold glare the barkeep gave him all the way to the room he shared with Rehvas whenever the boy was in Riften. He rapped on the door quickly, before poking his head into the room. No sign of Rehvas; he must have still been on whatever job he’d been sent on.

Anovis sat heavily in the deep chair in the corner, kicking off his boots and resting his feet on the corner of the bedframe. Idly, he stared at the pot in the small hearth, and his hand went to his chin. His eyes drifted to the pocket where the coins still sat. An idea began swirling in his mind.

The world swam around Anovis as people bustled around him. Everything melted from one muffled sound into the other and he only vaguely recognized the voice of the Redguard priest as he was moved from the bustling market into the temple and laid on a bed that was so rickety it creaked in protest of even his lean weight.

Everything had started out simply enough: of course, it only took one of the Ragged Flagon’s Cistern coming down with some disease to make it spread like wildfire through the rest of the Cistern’s population. This time, it was Red Fever; for most people, a relatively mild disease that usually ran its course within days or, with a potion, a matter of hours. With no coin for potions, Anovis had to simply hope for the best and, for a few days at least, it seemed to be working, counting for some nausea, and a mild feeling of warmth—in Skyrim, such a feeling was a bit welcomed; at noon that day, though, his luck ran out. He’d been speaking to— oh, what was his name? The Dunmer with the Argonian name— when the world began to spin. Moments later, he felt himself hit the ground, unable to move as his Guild armor became soaked with sweat.

The late evening brought about a gentle rain from the Jeralls, blanketing the foothills where Riften lay in a low veil of clouds. Anovis listened to the light pattering of droplets hit the slate stone outside the door and windows. While he so wanted to run after his daughter, he knew it would be for the best to allow her to work things out in her own time. In the brief moments he had been with her, Anovis knew she was head-strong so much like Tabiah. And himself, if he were truly honest. He covered his face with a hand and allowed his breathing to even, Meeko at his side, nosing for attention. The dog, brilliant animal he was, laid his head in Anovis’s lap, earning a rub on the head from the mer. 

Something else, more than Haleth’s abrupt departure, concerned him: where was Tabiah in all this? Surely his daughter was not allowed to roam Skyrim alone at such a young age— no Dunmer parent would allow that. A sense of dread churned in his stomach, but he willed it away. After all, without the ring, he would be unable to call for his wife even if she had passed; he could resort to desperate measures to contact his own ancestors, but as he recalled, many of his ancestors were prickly and would do little to help him through any emotional turmoil. Instead he sat awake, waiting for his son’s return. 

Anovis busied himself around the laboratory adjacent to the Keep’s Great Hall. From inside the room, cloistered by the locals’ general distrust of magic the Dunmer could hear the sound of a bard playing a rousing version of Ragnar the Red... the same version he’d been playing throughout the day. Anovis rolled his eyes and attempted to tune out the song by lightly humming a song he vaguely remembered from home, a popular tune with bards of Gnisis’s cornerclubs... or was it from a holiday celebrated by his father’s tribe? He stopped humming, unable to place where he had heard it, and continued his work in silence, the spare soul gems glimmering in the flickering candlelight.

It was already late when the party began and the reveling  would likely last late into the night. Anovis peered out the window to see Massar and Secunda hanging in the sky; it was far past the time he was supposed to have finished, but the old Dunmer lingered in the lab, outside the action of the festivities but close enough to know that other people lived in the Keep. As much as he enjoyed living in the relative comfort of the Keep’s basement, only visiting the Flagon for assignments and to speak to the few friends he had in the Guild, but to return to an empty room every evening was isolating. 

Anovis pulled his arms behind his back as he walked, attempting to stretch out the kinks that had wound their way up his spine, then looked over to check on his young travelling partner. It had been nearly two months since he’d fallen ill and recovered, yet the boy seemed intent on treating him like some delicate glass relic; when Anovis told him that he had to travel to Markarth for ‘work’, Rehvas had all but insisted on accompanying him. 

Not that Anovis would complain, of course. The young bard was pleasant company and occasionally Anovis wondered if his destruction casting was back up to par. For the past day, they’d been traveling the roads of Skyrim undisturbed. It seemed that in the late Spring months its people preferred to stay home and attend to their farms. Anovis rolled his shoulders, allowing them to pop.