#vilayn

I came home to something very different after our last voyage. Not even Casethar waiting for me on the sea wall, and when I came home

when I came home

it was so quiet. Our little house. Sunshine filled the garden, autumn, late afternoon, sun on the bench which Sham helped Ethysil build so Hazil could sit outside. Cold inside, except for the sick room, which we never could keep as cool as Hazil wanted it.

That's where they were. In the sick room.  Casethar dragged me through the door and dropped me down beside the bed so I could see him and he could see me and everything went cold and grey, then hot and... a curious shade of orange, and then

He wasn't dead, but he was dying. I think he said my name. His lips were so dry it was hard to tell, but I kissed them anyway and held his hand and promised him I wouldn't leave and

Which brings me to what we knew was going to happen, really, from the moment we met him.

What do I say? What am I supposed to say?

I'll write it down, I said, but every time I think I'm ready to talk about it my hands start to shake and the ink goes everywhere and the parchment ends up too damp to write on. I can't light this damned hackle-lo without getting ash all over the desk. I want to go back. I want him back. I want to write him back into existence and I can't, I fucking can't.

The week after it happened is all in bits. I remember lying there holding his hand for hours (it was cold. It was so cold). I remember looking up and finding he was gone, because I'd fallen asleep and Casethar moved me into our bedroom. I remember staring at a bookcase when R'khan arrived to offer his condolences, but I don't remember saying anything. I remember my hands being too numb to fasten my sash on the morning of the funeral. I remember Casethar's hug hurting as he pushed his jaw against my head, pulled the bones of my shoulders into his chest. I remember a lot of hot soreness in my eyes, my chest, everywhere. I don't remember drinking but there are a lot of empty bottles around here and my head hurts so I think that happened too.

After all these fragmented images appeared and faded I was at the funeral. It was a nice evening. Warm air, purple sky. Dartwings in the firelight. The sort of evening we would have walked up the hill together. Ethysil said a few words and then so did everybody else. I had the violin, the painted one R'khan gave me on my wedding day, the one which sounded so beautiful it would have brought Lord Seht to tears, and I think they expected me to play it. I threw it on the pyre instead because how the fuck was I supposed to play in that situation? How do I ever play again?

And then I came back to a place which didn't feel like home any more, locked myself in here and picked up the quill. Now I know what it's like to lift a feather and find your energy drained. I know how he felt.

I can't go to sea again. I'm not sure I can go outside again, so my history of the Scamps ends here. I wish them well, whatever they find on the horizon, and thank them for all we did together.

I can't write any more, Hazil. I'm sorry.

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.

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Epilogue

'How is he?'

'Bad.'

'Can I talk to him? I think I can help.'

'You can try, but he won't listen. He doesn't want to hear any of it.'

'He might want to hear this.'

Vilayn stabbed at the parchment with the quill, blotting the page and upsetting the vase of stoneflower stalks. Before the water splashed onto the manuscript he swept it aside, letting every word fall to the floor, and picked up a new sheet to write on. His hand jerked angrily across the page.

fucking priests and their fucking bloody thrice damned words oh I'm sorry how awful how sad let me know if there's anything I can do think about all the good things he's safe now he's with the gods now isn't that lovely isn't that so fucking nice for them fuck that make them give him back he isn't theirs he's ours I want him back I want him back I want him back why can't any of them fucking do anything

There was a knock on the door. The nib of the quill ripped through the paper and scratched the desk below.

'Vilayn? It's Ethysil. I really want to talk to you. May I come in?'

'Fuck off.'

R’khan would coolly deny any and all involvement. He would probably be right, in fairness – the elven races tend to be less fertile due to their extended lifespans – but even if the child was his, he would cut off all ties. His sole concession would be a small sum of gold on the understanding that he would never be approached again. In a few years’ time, however, he might just happen to pass by the port again, and if a young Dunmer was looking for work, they would find a place on the Runaway Scamp.

Vilayn’s reaction would be much the same, but if the person making the claim said the right things and pushed the right buttons, so to speak, he could potentially be persuaded into taking a more active part in the child’s upbringing. It would definitely require some conferring with his husbands, however.

Tosti would talk his way out of any and all responsibility.

Eddis would laugh until the person gave up and left, as is his way. If this didn’t work, he would go to the captain for advice, and R’khan would then follow his own tactics as described above.

Drasonval would feel a lot more responsibility than the rest of the crew. Some sort of regular payment would be the least he could offer, and if persuaded he might be convinced to talk to his wife about the situation. She would not be pleased. At all. Contact with the child would end abruptly right there.

Ethysil would open with an argument that we are all the children of ALMSIVI and therefore this particular child is no more entitled to his attentions than any other. If that didn’t work, he would point out that Lord Vivec set out to murder his unwanted children. If that didn’t put someone off, he would become genuinely concerned for the child’s wellbeing and might agree to at least visit.

Oran isn’t averse to the idea of becoming a father, but what he would mostly give the mother and child is a lot of empty promises -- money for the child’s upbringing (when he has some), tutoring (when the child is older), a home (when he stops sailing with the Scamp)...