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nerevar-quote-and-star · 8 months

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I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part X: Swan, continued

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Author's note: Here it is! Please forgive this super long chapter. It's 12.5k but my dear @elder-dragon-reposes assures me none of it's filler (I love her). ✨ So, here's my attempt to fix the Grand Crystal Ball while interweaving Leara's past, anxiety, and unavoidable plot stuff in.

Also! We finally get to my Silmarillion reference! Maglor my beloved

Tag list:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality @singleteapot @aardvark-123 @blossom-adventures @argisthebulwark @inkysqueed @average-crazy-fangirl @the-tuzen-chronicles @shivering-isles-cryptid @orangevanillabubbles @cosmermaid

Content Warning: Nothing you need to be worried about right now 🤞🏻

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Leara poured over the Prose Edda until the half-hour chimed in the belfry at the Temple of Divines. Marking her place, it was with a weary heart that she placed it in her satchel. Another bag beside it held her armor, compact yet heavy when not on her body. She wrapped the fur stole about her shoulders before lifting her bags. It may yet be high summer in Skyrim, but the evening air was cool and her arms and shoulders, bare save for the thin straps of her dress, were cold.

Honestly, Victoria cinched the gown so tight that the straps could be removed entirely, and it still wouldn’t fall. No, the only thing at risk of falling was Leara’s chest. The cut of the gown, paired with the tightness and lift from the corset, pushed her modest breasts up in an almost obscene display of flushed decolletage. The last time she saw this much skin from a woman in public was when Bishop got into it with that barmaid at The Bannered Mare. Funny, Leara didn’t recall seeing her there before then, and the girl certainly wasn’t there when she and Bishop were last in Whiterun. Perhaps she got a job at one of the other bars in town. Goodness knows she would’ve just to avoid another public scene like that.

Pulling the black fur tighter, Leara made her way from the dressing room back to the showroom where Victoria was fussing over a package. Beside her, a young Nord in a courier’s jacket stood, shifting from foot to foot. At Leara’s entrance, he stopped. “Woah.”

“Hmm?" Victoria hummed. Following the young man’s gaze, she lit up, “Oh! Is it that time already?”

“Yes, I was just going,” Leara said.

Victoria tutted. “Are you quite certain you want to wear your hair down? I have some ornaments that would create an exquisite updo!”

All at the courtesy of Casavir went unspoken. Where did he get this kind of money, Leara wondered. How much were paladins paid, anyway?

Leara’s hair, long and curling at the ends, brushed her shoulders as she shook her head. “Oh, no, thank you.” The courier gaped at her, and Leara made to offer him a reassuring smile before remembering that his nerves were likely tied to her. Her mouth slipped into passive marble. “Thank you for everything, Victoria.”

“Of course!” Victoria fawned. “Have a delightful time at the ball with Sir Casavir! You will definitely be the envy of all the patrons.”

The courier coughed.

Tracing a frost rune on her palm with her thumb, Leara focused on the sting in her nerves. Anything to divert her attention from the rolling nausea and rose flush burning her face.

Without another word, she exited the shop, skirts lifted as she made her way back to the main street. Sunset was still a few hours away, but it was growing late. Perhaps hiding in the dressing room wasn’t the best use of her time, but she needed some time to herself before subjugating herself to the dog and pony show this ball was bound to be. She made a mental note to ask Casavir about it when he came to escort her.

Walking down the street, she couldn’t help but notice people watching her. The urge to duck her head and hide behind her hair ate at her, but she suppressed it. She didn’t know what this ball was about, but she was familiar with the rules. Balls looked like a fairy tale extravaganza, but in all reality, they were political echo chambers where everyone was in costume. The parade began long before the doors to the ballroom opened: Who was attending on whose arm, what were they wearing, who filled out their dance card – endless questions that haunted the days and weeks before a ball like frost heralding bitter winter. Mothers foisted their daughters off on eligible bachelors while rich men cut business deals in dark corners. Ending the evening with an intact reputation and no personal losses took a particular talent, but Leara hadn’t devoted years of her life to espionage and masks to lose her face in this masquerade now. So she walked, head held high, bags ruffling her skirts, down one street and then another, back to The Winking Skeever.

Bishop was seated at a corner table, a half-full pint of ale next time him. She could feel his eyes on her the moment she maneuvered through the door hotter than any other stare in the room. At the counter, Sorex Vinius dropped a mercifully empty cup, eliciting an indignant scoff from his younger sister. The bard’s fingers trilled a succession of chords on her lyre. Leara swore someone wolf-whistled.

If the Dominion didn’t get her, the crowds would.

Head high, she went upstairs to her boardroom and dumped her bags on the bed. On second thought, she moved them to the table. Divines knew she’d be exhausted when she got back. Out of her satchel, she drew a pair of elbow-length gloves, cream in color, and tugged them on. More silk from Summerset, if Victoria was to be believed. Removing her fur, Leara tugged them on, hiding her rings securely in the glove.

The door opened behind her.

“Wow!” Bishop breathed, “You look amazing!”

Beside him, Karnwyr woofed in agreement.

She gave Karnwyr a soft smile before a sigh slipped out. “As long as Casavir likes it, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” she sneered.

“He’ll like it and he’ll hate it,” Bishop said, “because looking at you will make his blood boil and that’s not something he’s comfortable with.”

“He’ll just have to stomach it.”

Bishop caught her arm as she moved to the door, his calloused hand folding around her elbow. “You’d make any real man’s blood boil,” he murmured, low. His gaze dropped from her face to, well. He whistled. “My, my, that number does wonders for your breasts! If I didn't know better, I'd say you might actually have enough up top to make a man's head comfortable!”

Her sneer blossomed into thorns. “Now Bishop, don’t tell me you’re as put upon as you think Casavir will be.” Leaning closer, she tilted her head counter to his. “I can’t imagine you being flustered.”

Barking a laugh, Bishop dropped her arm. “Flustered? No. Thrilled? Yes. Excited? Yes, without question. Would I lose control? Like Hell I would. Does that satisfy your curiosity, sweetheart?”

“I didn’t realize I was bothering you.”

“Oh, my dear, you can bother me anytime,” Bishop stepped back, brushing her skirts. Karnwyr grunted. “But your knight in shining armor awaits.”

Discontent pooled in the pit of her stomach. “Already?”

“Came in not long after you did. But he’s not man enough to tell you he’s here. I saw him at the bar, guzzling water like a fish right before I came up.”

How attractive. “I’ll see you later,” she said. The black stole was secured around her shoulders, its own kind of armor.

Bishop winked at her.

·•★•·

Casavir spluttered, water bubbling down his chin onto his shirtfront. Leara smiled. “You look exquisite this evening!” he said, standing up so quickly that the barstool teetered. “I fear to gaze at you, that I may lose myself—”

“Shall we be going, then?” Leara asked, saccharine.

“Certainly,” Casavir coughed. His cup clattered on the bar.

Someone scoffed. They probably thought this was as ridiculous as Leara did. They were definitely smarter than her, she mused as she accepted Casavir’s arm and allowed him to lead her from the Skeever into the streets. She was thankful for the protection of the fur stole over her shoulders. The anticipation gave her goosebumps, and not in excitement. She glanced around the street and spied neither a carriage nor any other kind of transport. So, when Casavir said he was picking her up, he meant they were walking clear across the city. How very chivalrous of him!

Silently, she detangled her arm from his and slipped her shoes off.

“What are you doing, my lady?” Casavir asked.

“These shoes weren’t made for walking,” Leara said, tucking them under her left arm. No one would notice she wasn’t wearing them; they’d be hidden by the fur.

“It is not becoming for a lady to walk barefoot through the streets,” Casavir said, watching her.

Now that was cute, given that first, he didn’t really see her as a lady, and secondly, he clearly didn’t care enough to procure a carriage for the evening. Leara’s smile was jagged. “I’ll just have to make do, won’t I? Now,” she said, entwining her free arm again with his, “why don’t you tell me about this ball? I know it must be terribly exciting! What sort of entertainment will they have?”

“I am not sure,” Casavir admitted. They strolled down the street, and Leara angled toward the Dour Run. Like Oblivion, she was walking barefoot down that steep hill to the Avenues! Casavir, distracted by the sound of his own voice, made no move to divert her path. “I am fairly new to Skyrim, so am unfamiliar with many of the customs and practices of the people. Though I am told that the ball traditionally has many great festivities, my paladin vows prevent me from partaking in a few of them.”

Ah, yes, paladin and all that. The only Order whose oaths she ever bothered with was the Blades, and she was the poster child for broken vows. But even as a Knight-Sister and later, after the war, she became acquainted with several different religious orders throughout High Rock, Hammerfell, and Cyrodiil. She wasn’t an expert by any means, but Casavir’s vows pricked her interest, if only because she knew how he seemed to rail against them. Perhaps she was playing Daedra’s advocate by agreeing to accompany him to the ball, but it did make Bishop upset. And now she had a break from him for the evening. That had to count for something, right? And besides, attending the ball, as absurd as it would be, would be good, the people of Skyrim would see her invested in their culture. She was serious.

Although she highly doubted that this was what Ulfric meant.

No, she chastised herself. Do not think about him. Do not!

“Tell me about your vows,” she said, in search of distraction.

“I must not partake in any drink that would impair my senses,” Casavir explained. “Partaking of wine and other strong drink would prohibit me from fulfilling my oaths. I must remain clear-minded so I am able to carry out the commandments of my Order.”

“And what Order is that?” she asked. And what in Oblivion did he drink? Milk? Ulfric’s voice calling Bishop a ‘skeever-faced milkdrinker’ came back to her, and it was all Leara could do to suppress her snort. Casavir was clearly one, too. By the time they mounted the run that cut through the Castle Dour yard, she’d just managed to compose herself. As they passed the entrance to the Court of the Eight and the Tempe of the Divines, Leara sent a silent prayer up to Akatosh, Mara, and Stendarr for grace, patience, and mercy. And then, after a moment’s thought, she asked Kyne for strength.

Casavir’s chest puffed up, swelling his ascot and blue coat. “I am a paladin in the Order of the Divines, my lady. We are a militant arm of the Council of the Eight.”

The Council of the Eight. By Talos. The Council of the Nine was the head of the Imperial Church, and just as they appointed priests to parishes and sent missionaries out to spread the Cult throughout the provinces, they also pandered to politics. Faith meant nothing when the concrete fist of the state threatened to break everything apart. That’s what happened following the White-Gold Concordat: Talos worship was banned, and the Imperial Church was restructured to cut the God of Man from their teachings. The Order of Talos was all but scrubbed from the face of the Empire. In the vacuum that followed, the Council of the Eight, so rebranded, formed the Order of the Divines, knight-paladins whose job it was to denounce Talos throughout the Empire in an effort to appease the Aldmeri Dominion. The Aldmeri Dominion, who despised the Imperial Church’s interpretation of the Aedra on a good day.

Bile clawed at Leara’s throat. She’d heard stories about the Order of the Divines, how they would sell out and even hand over Blades to the Thalmor. And here she was, a Blades operative on the arm of a paladin sworn into the Order of the Divines. Her katana was tucked under her mattress at The Winking Skeever, but the desire to check it burned her. She’d left it there before going to meet General Tullius. She didn’t realize it wasn’t the General’s recognition of a Blades weapon that she needed to be worried about.

“Also, I must not dance too close,” Casavir went on, oblivious. “It would be inappropriate to encourage my sensual thoughts.” Separated as they were by her gloves and his coat, there was a tension in his arm that threatened to snatch her closer, claiming to save her when he could only damn her to Oblivion.

This evening just got far more dangerous.

·•★•·

The Imperial Gardens lining the walk to the grand doors of the Blue Palace were alight with torches and chattering guests waiting to get in. Fiery dragon’s tongue and blushing mountain flowers waved from the flower beds lining the drive, enticing people toward the branching paths that wound off into the manicured gardens. Amid the clouds of perfume and torch smoke, soothing lavender wafted through the air, carried from the depths of the garden on a slight night wind. Arising on either side of the gardens, the wings of the palace loomed, cast into shadow by the westward sunfall. Stained glass windows were aglow with warm lights inviting partygoers in from the cool evening air. But the doors were still closed, and so they could only wait.

Hanging back, Leara fell behind Casavir to slip her shoes back on. By the time he turned to question her, she’d straightened and, with a placating smile, allowed him to lead her into the crowd in the gardens.

Stunned dismay and morbid intrigue seized Leara in turns. Several of the women were squeezed into dresses from The Jewel, some more flattering than others. From what she could tell, no one else’s waist was compressed as much as hers. The benefit of time to order according to measurements and having a trusted maid or relative to tie the corset, contrary to Victoria’s distorted preferences, was not lost on her. If she hadn’t refused Balgruuf’s desire to appoint her as a Thane of Whiterun, it was possible she could’ve had a better gown fitted properly. Although, she thought, sardonic, if she were a Thane of Whiterun, she highly doubted she would openly come to such an Imperialized function. Not while Balgruuf remained neutral in the war.

One woman broke off her twittering to her companion, her kohl-lined eyes wide at the sight of Leara. Too-red lips popped open. “It’s you!”

A cordial mask, the same she wore when attending Elenwen’s little soiree, settled across her face. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

The woman, packed into Victoria’s lavender death gown, flushed. “You’re the Dragonborn!”

How forward. And how very unsettling that this random woman recognized her on sight. A strange little smile tried to pull Casavir’s mouth into something beyond his usual smolder. Lightning teased her nerves.

“The Dragonborn, eh?” the woman’s companion chuckled. “How about you put yourself to good use and Shout the doors open for us?”

Leara just smiled.

Wait, isn’t that what they said Ulfric did after he killed Torygg? Or was she getting her story mixed up? The facts around the High King’s death were so muddled by conjecture and heresay.

. . . and she was not going to think of Ulfric Stormcloak again this evening. She was not.

“You must excuse all the gossips out here tonight,” said one woman in slimming dovetail silk. “You’re causing quite a stir! You’re probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to them.”

More exciting than dragons and war? “Of course.”

“The windows look so pretty when they are lit up from the inside,” a nearby girl let out a dreamy sigh. Mercifully for her, she was wearing one of those high-waisted chemise gowns favored in more refined places, like Evermore.

The too-tight corset dug into her ribs. Leara shuddered.

“Are you cold, my lady?” Casavir asked, low in her ear.

“No, I—”

“I am!” cried a girl whose Victoria-gown was decked out with feathers, of all things. “It’s ruddy freezing out here!” The older woman beside her, clearly her mother or an aunt, tutted.

“I heard the Council of Commerce actually funded new sapphire fittings for the ballroom!”

“Fat chance,” someone sniffed.

Discontent murmured through the crowd. Leara wondered at the delay. It was almost unheard of to leave guests waiting like this. Were they still preparing the dinner and hall? Jarl Elisif canceled the ball last year, in the wake of Torygg’s death. In light of the progress in the war, or lack thereof, Leara began to doubt the young queen’s desire to actually host such a frivolous event. But what did that have to do with the Council of Commerce? Unless this was their party, Leara quickly amended. Ah, but things made sense now. An excess of extravagant and ornamental costumes, the volume of food that no doubt awaited them, the festivities and music – all the product of large amounts of money changing hands so merchants could show up, show out, and make bank.

Good taste and culture didn’t matter as long as money was made, yeah?

A hush fell over the crowd. Leara, who stood taller than most of the women, save a few of the Nords, straightened to see between the men’s heads. Then everyone was moving: The doors were open. Leara allowed herself to be guided by Casavir through the sea of people streaming into the Blue Palace. They went at a sedate pace, guests stopping in turns to hand off wraps and outerwear to servants. The line went quickly. Were these Elisif’s servants, or shop assistants pulled in by the Merchants Guild to work the evening? It probably looked good for business if people entered shops to find the same friendly faces who kept their coats safe for the evening.

All too soon, Leara and Casavir were through the doors, and she was handing her stole off to a bright-eyed maid. The cool air from the gardens brushed her shoulders. Casavir gave their names – and by names, she meant Sir Casavir and the Dragonborn since the knight so courteously never asked Leara her name – and then they were off again, swept along by the crowd.

The Blue Palace was large, larger than the Palace of the Kings or Dragonsreach, and certainly more grandiose. It had to be, having served as the residence of several members of the Septim dynasty during the height of the Empire. It was odd, walking where Uriel III and Pelagius the Mad once stood, never mind the Wolf Queen herself. An uncanny feeling utterly foreign to the reassurance she once felt in Cloud Ruler Temple knowing that Martin Septim once lived there. But, she decided, there was a stark difference between the fortress where hope was kept and the palace where treason and madness reigned. Bad things happened in the Blue Palace, most recently the High King’s death and the outbreak of war. With Leara’s recent string of luck, tonight would be just the latest in its sordid history, and she’d be right at the center of it.

They entered the ballroom, a white marble and gold draped hall that echoed bygone Imperial glory that was out of place in the grey climate of the current age. Amidst the rainbow of gowns and robes and suits already clustered on the floor, she could almost see dried blood on cold stone, blue eyes too bright, and shattered bones. A wolf howled.

“Sir Casavir and the one, the only – at least I hope there’s only one, or things will get interesting – DRAGONBORN!”

Leara slammed into the present. If Casavir hadn’t had her hand tucked into his arm, she might have stumbled at the announcer’s introduction. As it was, she tensed against the pull toward the floor. Casavir all but dragged her, escorting her to the wall where chairs were set aside for the women. Ballroom etiquette. How droll.

Introductions were still being made as Leara settled in her chair. Settling her skirts around her, she found Casavir staring at her expectantly. “May I help you?”

Casavir started. He smiled in what he no doubt thought was a suave display, but Leara wasn’t wooed. Nor would she be, having learned far too much about this man and his views on her to put her off him for the rest of the night. How very unfortunate that she was now obligated to dance with him by virtue of being his guest!

“You look beautiful,” Casavir said.

“Thank you,” Leara stared passed him.

The announcer rattled off several names. Most she didn’t recognize, but after a bit, she could pick out a few. There were many with some connection or another to the East Empire Company, crowned with, “Vittoria Vici and her Stormcloak teddy bear, Asgeir Snow-Shod!”

“You are so fair,” he went on. “For once in my life, I find myself regretting ever taking my vows.”

“Pardon, what?” Where in Oblivion did that come from?

Taking the seat beside her, Casavir reached for her hand. “I am merely thankful that you chose to accompany me this evening rather than remain in Bishop’s company. I fear what a man like him might do to you.”

Leara recoiled, but his grip was too much. “Are you saying I cannot defend myself?”

“My lady,” he pressed. “You are most kind, but I am skilled in the arts of battle and healing. Permit me to accompany you when you leave Solitude.”

This again? He’d mentioned as much when they met in The Prints and the Paper, but she didn’t realize he was serious! Bishop’s insistence that Casavir saw her as nothing more than a temptation only reinforced her realization that all these men who were obsessed with her wanted her. Casavir wanted her, and he wanted to get Bishop while he was at it. She coughed delicately into her free wrist, trying to ease the discomfort squeezing her ribs.

The members of the court began to be introduced.

“I don’t believe this is appropriate ballroom conversation,” she said. Again, she tried to withdraw her hand. With a sharp tug on her part, Casavir let her go.

“Forgive me, my lady. I do not mean to offend you.”

“Of course not.”

“And now, the fairest of them all, Good Queen Elisif!”

Everyone was watching then. Even Casavir turned from Leara to watch the Jarl of Solitude descend the short flight of steps to the ballroom. She was lovely, in a sweet yet melancholic way. Her coppery hair was coiled in a net of sapphires, framing bold green eyes in a gentle face. She indeed wore Victoria’s Blue Palace design and, somehow, it flattered her figure in a way many of the other gowns from The Jewel did not. The pink gem at her heart glittered under the candlelight. A gentleman who Leara thought was from the Merchants Guild stepped forward to meet Elisif. Bowing, he extended his hand to her. Elisif placed her gloved hand in his, and at once, music sprang up, and the first dance began.

Couples, hands clasped, swept onto the floor to join them.

“May I have this first dance, my lady?” Casavir stood and bowed neatly.

Silently, Leara nodded and allowed him to lead her to the lines of couples circling through the band’s lifting waltz.

Years separated her from the last time she stepped onto a ballroom floor. When was it, Fourth Era 190? Then, she was just a petty lord’s daughter’s governess, worth no more attention at a debutante ball than the curtains on the wall. Now as Casavir led her in line with the other dancers, she could feel eyes on her, the Dragonborn. The music swelled, a sweet revelry, and she made the expected step to turn. Casavir’s hand in hers was hot, but she held it as he led her, and they made the necessary pass. Were these the steps to the dance? She was unsure. Everything felt like a caricature of reality.

“Tell me more about your vows,” she said at length. Conversations from the surrounding dancers flitted just under the music. She forgot that it was necessary to talk to one’s partner to get through a set. Who came up with these rules?

“Well, being a holy knight, I must maintain vows, constantly upholding the cause of virtue and light,” Casavir explained. He spun Leara.

Spinning back to him, her velvet skirts flaring, Leara asked, “Does the Order of the Divines demand terribly much of you?”

“I must pray to keep a pure life dedicated to honor and justice,” he explained, evasive. “I must never succumb to worldly temptations.” Again, he mentions temptation, Leara thought. Any decent person would believe it natural to try and avoid obvious temptations when one’s honor and reputation hinged on it. While it was possible that some knights tried to maintain their image of noble chivalry, there were far too many stories of those who did not for Leara to take any knight’s word at face value. Especially one sworn to the Order of the Divines! Whatever Casavir’s personal failings, whether exhibited or mentioned by Bishop, the fact that he was a member of the militant arm designated to choke out Talos and the Blades penned volumes about his worldview.

“Do you enjoy your missions for the Order?” Was she digging? If so, was it anyone’s business but her own?

Their arms joined in an arch, Casavir broke from her, turned, and then rejoined their hands for another pass. “I fight for a worthy cause, just as you do, my lady. The eradication of heresy is a dangerous course, it’s true, but it is no less worth pursuing.”

“I see.”

Casavir clasped her left hand in his, her rings pressed into her skin under the heat of his palm. Too warm, the still-tender nerves of her hands prickled. Around them, the other women separated from their partners, spinning into an inner circle, mixing poised grace with giggling prattle. Leara followed, the netting of her skirts brushing against her legs as she went. In the midst of the sea of twirling skirts, she spotted Jarl Elisif laughing and twining arms with another woman, her dark umber hair coiled with silver ribbons. She orbited Elisif, dancing in a gauzy chiffon piece fluttering as a bank of clouds and as alike to the sky as her eyes. Like noon shining around the Blue Palace, illuminating the windows and gleaming off the great dome. The dark-haired woman mouthed something unintelligible to her companion, but Leara only caught Elisif’s dimpled smile before she felt an arm coil around hers, tugging her into a spin.

“So, you’re the one who has taken our favorite paladin’s arm!”

Momentum brought Leara face-to-face with an auburn woman, her pale complexion and cool contrast against the warm sienna of her skirts, flaring like a sunburst. Her face was aglow, but her eyes were shuttered.

“Pardon?”

“You know, he isn’t as noble as you may think.”

Not that Leara thought Casavir was very noble, to begin with, but this lady’s apparent penchant for gossip pricked her interest. Over her new partner’s shoulder, Leara spotted Casavir moving away in the line of gentlemen circling the perimeter. His back was to her, his hands folded behind him as he pranced away from sight and earshot. “Oh?”

A thin conspiratorial quirk of her mouth. “You didn’t hear it from me, but supposedly, a maid was cleaning his room and found a book under his bed, a certain script about a certain Argonian maid.”

Was that it, then? He read erotic plays? “Has he read the one about the bard?”

“What?”

But then the women were separating, spinning back to be joined again with their partners. Leara slipped back into Casavir’s waiting hold, manacled by his hands. Ballroom etiquette dictated that she only dance two sets with the same partner. She that was what Casavir expected of her, but Leara found herself wishing to vacate the first dance early, never mind finishing the set!

Mercifully, the dance ended moments later, Casavir dipping her low over his arm. Her arm thrown behind her, Leara could only hope and pray she didn’t spill from the top of her gown at this angle. Then he brought her back up, the room righted itself, and her head spun in its own little dance as he bowed to her. Leara curtsied.

A breath of silence from the musicians, and then the next piece sprang from the strings, a bright waltz more boisterous than the last.

Casavir took her in hand again, and Leara was swept across the floor in a dizzying whirl once more.

·•★•·

Gathering her skirts, Leara settled back in her seat as the couples dispersed from the floor. An airy flute melody wafted through the room, filling the absence left by the full orchestra. She wondered if the musicians were all from the Bards College or if some came from one of the conservatories in High Rock or Cyrodiil. Alinor has a very fine academy of music, but she somewhat doubted an Altmer virtuoso would play in Skyrim at a facsimile of a real ball. Not unless they were employed at the Embassy for one of Elenwen’s parties. Leara shifted just so in her seat at the thought. She didn’t recall much in the way of music at the party she essentially crashed, save for a flutist in the corner, but the elf, for all his quick notes and birdlike trills, hadn’t done much in the way of showcasing Aldmeri musicianship to the lower races.

Her fingers quivered, this time for a reason other than her fragile nerves.

In Alinor, at a real ball, harp song and fairy light filled the air, illuminating the room so that it shown with the brilliance of dawn over the Abecean. Flowers and fine stones covered the hall, ornamenting the guests against the backdrop of a thousand silver mirrors, as endless as the rolling seas. Dancers waltzed, their skirts in turns the crystalline sweep of the tide; in others, the pearly kiss of the moons; and again, the blazing gold of Magnus. So much of Alinor was shrouded in shadow and terror, and as an undercover Blade, she became familiar with more than her fair share of fear. But in those days, amid the society parades and political showcases, she took comfort in the starlight, visible and transparent at once as it fitted and fluttered with magic and memory. The arcane was so much more real in Alinor, and the beauty it took on in the land of the High Elves was more poignant than anywhere else in Tamriel. Though the Thalmor tarnished the true silver sheen of her ancestors, the call, the echo of Aldmeris in her blood sprang to life. Her heart longed for the gentle sands, the buzzing meadows, the white cities, and the crystal towers. To be again ingulfed in magic, arcane and musical.

To pluck a harp and truly touch the earth’s soul with her fingertips.

She could almost see the cherry harp stand, strung with mithril and gold filament. The bell chime laughter of the other members of her class when she was instructed to play. The hummingbird breath and petal fall of the lament, whispering and sighing as she cajoled it from the strings in turns of forlorn memory and wishful longing.

“Would you care for a drink, my lady?”

Gossamer frayed to rags and crystal shattered. Leara opened her eyes to find Casavir watching her, expectant. The shadow of Alinor passed from her face and she was again in the Blue Palace at a ball with a tête de nœud, a ridiculous dress, and under threat of apprehension from the Thalmor Embassy.

“Yes, please,” she said, anything to make Casavir go away.

With a bow, the paladin disappeared. At once, Leara got to her feet and glided in the opposite direction. Not hurried, but not sedate. She would have to join with him again for another dance, she knew, though whether it was the next set or the dinner set she didn’t know. She couldn’t imagine Casavir to be presumptive enough to expect more than two dances, not when he was so verbally concerned with his vows of chastity and piety. Those were ridiculous in themselves: Why would the Council of the Eight expect their paladins to remain chaste and pure? Unless they wanted them as wound up and disturbed as Casavir seemed to be. The Imperial Church, what an institution.

All around her, skirts and coats milled around, chattering to one another in seemingly pleasant tones. Underneath, however, ran the undercurrent or Imperial snobbery and mercantile calculation she expected from an event footed by the Merchants Guild. Their signature was written in the small print of the ball like an insidious contract. All the pomp and poise that seemed out of place in Skyrim was likely a joint effort from the government and the Merchants Guild to reinforce Imperialism to the Nords. The Empire had already taken so much from Skyrim and the other provinces by way of overlaying native cultures with the glories of Cyrodiil that when the people began to question the Emperor’s decisions, the Empire only tightened its fist and expected the people to fall back in line. Solitude fell in line. And all the while, politicians and merchants exploited the system for power and money.

People in corners, gathered away from the candlestands and the tall mirrors, huddled together in a conspiratorial hush. Yes, whatever else this night brought, money was made, power was promised, and someone somewhere would suffer for it.

“Ah, Dragonborn, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Leara turned and found – of all people! – General Tullius. In polished regalia and with a glass of rum punch in hand, at first glance, he didn’t appear quite as put upon as when she met him that morning. Yet there was a hardness around his mouth and eyes that said he wished to be back in his war room, far away from the spectacle around them.

“It was very last minute,” Leara said. “How are you this evening, General?”

“Not at all drunk enough to be here.”

Leara snorted and then coughed into her wrist to cover it up. “The punch isn’t to your liking, I take it?”

Tullius swirled his glass, the ice clinking against the crystal. “It’s fine enough, I suppose. The best that can expected at a place like this. Not until dinner, anyway.”

“Do they not have a room set aside for cards and brandy?” Leara asked, recalling the arrangements made for the debutante ball in Camlorn and how her charge’s mother bemoaned the prospect of the gentlemen hiding away for the whole evening.

“They do,” Tullius said, “But half the Merchants Council is hauled up in there. I’d rather not get dragged into whatever they’re plotting just to get a decent shot of whiskey.”

“That’s a shame, I could use some,” Leara found herself admitting.

Tullius looked at her then, as if seeing her properly for the first time. “Not enjoying yourself, I take it?”

“You could say that.” Leara watched as the string and percussion musicians on the stairs took up their instruments again while woodwinds sat down for a break. The next set began. “Do you dance, General Tullius?”

He threw back the punch as if it were hard liquor. How much did they water it down to stretch the reserve through the night? “Not if I can help it.”

“Then since you have no intention of asking me, I will have to sit this one out.”

“I suspect that doesn’t bother you too much.”

“Hardly at all,” Leara replied. It suited her just fine, she thought. Walking barefoot across Solitude was enough, but to follow that up with endless dancing was like traipsing through broken glass.

Facing the lines of dancers rushing together in a rapid mazurka as they were, Leara spied a wry quirk on the General’s face. This gave Leara some small hope for the approaching peace council. Tensions would be high – she expected nothing less from a meeting between Imperials and Stormcloaks – but if she could connect to either side, then there was a chance she could connect them together. Tullius was a tired veteran used to leading men but was dragged into politics for the sake of his country. He had a strong sense of duty. She could understand that fundamentally. He would come around, kicking and griping as he came, but he would get there. She wasn’t worried about the Empire.

“It’s a shame we’ll never see Ulfric at one of these events,” a booming voice lamented nearby. “Shouting a man to pieces? Meh. Stormcloak and Dragonborn dance off? Gods yes!”

Tension buckled her knees. Leara would’ve stumbled if Tullius hadn’t grabbed her elbow. “Jackass,” he muttered, frown directed off toward whoever made such a tasteless comment.

And it really was in poor taste. Ulfric already proved that he doubted her ability as Dragonborn and her willingness to take her destiny seriously; He didn’t think she could look out for the wellbeing of Skyrim’s people. He would be difficult to manage. It didn’t matter that at the last party she attended, he’d smiled at her. His ability to make her laugh despite her embarrassment was without merit. And honestly! He would have defended any woman from Alec’s smarmy attentions. She wasn’t special. No, the only thing she deserved from Ulfric Stormcloak was his anger: For Skyrim, for his people, and for what she’d done to him. She would get no quarter from Windhelm, and so every inch would be its own battle.

“Divines,” Tullius grumbled.

“General, are you enjoying yourself?” a warm voice asked.

Yet again, Leara forced Ulfric from her mind, though she suspected at this point he’d return fairly soon. At this rate, she was probably going to hallucinate him stalking her, spying from the windows just to judge whatever she did against his standards. And then, of course, all her secrets would inevitably be laid bare before him: The Dominion, the Blades, her mother’s family recipes. Everything. She took a quick peek at one of the upper-story windows. No, nothing. For now. But this wasn’t the first time she’d questioned her sanity, and it would all be downhill from here.

“Have you met the Dragonborn?” Tullius asked, releasing her arm.

“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

Leara focused in again to find the woman in the cloud blue gown poised before them. Her smile was small, but star-bright, framed in all the warmth of a southern complexion. The West Weald accent was slight on her tongue like Surilie Brothers Wine. “How do you do?”

“It’s wonderful to finally meet you!” the woman said.

“Right, Julia, this is Leara,” Tullius said. Julia clasped Leara’s fingers in greeting. “Leara, this is Julia, Jarl Elisif’s favorite attack dog.”

Leara snorted another laugh. Her hand in Julia’s, she was forced to turn into her other elbow.

“Now, General Tullius, that’s hardly fair!” Julia laughed. Exhaustion pinched her mouth, slipping between the laugh lines. “Her Majesty simply has some concerns and I have the means to make them heard.”

Tullius grimaced. So, the General’s relationship with Elisif and her friend was rocky. Interesting.

“Yes, well, a ballroom isn’t the place to get into the war,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I just saw Thane Erikur. I must go before he sees me.” There was a note of mutual understanding between Tullius and Julia. Leara vaguely recalled the name Erikur from the guest list at Elenwen’s party, but if General Tullius and one of Elisif’s friends wished to avoid him, it was probably best she do the same. But Akatosh, she thought as she recalled how she fled Casavir, but the number of people she was avoiding in this room was rapidly growing. Now all she needed was Elenwen or one of her lackeys to show up!

Speak of the Daedra. As Tullius retreated along the wall, Leara caught sight of Casavir’s tall figure cutting through the milling groups along the edges of the room, his eyes searching. “Akatosh take me now,” she whispered.

“Are you all right?”

Julia’s concern was unexpected. And painfully real. Leara smiled, pale and practiced. “Perfectly, I’ve just spotted my escort for the evening.”

“Who—”

“Forgive me, my lady. I took a turn about the room to ease my head before I could, in good conscience, return to you. It is not my intention to neglect your excellent company this evening.” With that, Casavir offered her a glass of rum punch. Julia gaped at him, which he staunchly ignored.

Wordlessly, Leara took the glass. Odd that he took a turn around the room. She didn’t recall seeing him and she should’ve. But whatever Casavir did with his time away from her wasn’t her business so long as he wasn’t ratting her out as a suspected Blade to the Temple and Thalmor.

Actually, she was probably going to need to watch him.

·•★•·

She danced the next set with Casavir. His touch burned uncomfortably through her dress and gloves. Her nerves were on fire and she felt too hot. Still, she kept her eyes on the paladin. She did not trust him. Unease boiled under her skin. Whether it was his objectification of her or some secret suspicion that he betrayed her, she couldn’t tell, but the sooner the ball ended and she left Solitude, the better. Paranoia may be hissing in her ear, but its presence was constant at her shoulder. Maddening at times, but it got her this far.

Casavir escorted her off the floor afterward, Leara snagging another glass of rum punch on the way to the chairs. Dinner and hot wine couldn’t come fast enough. Tullius was right: The punch was fine at best but not enough for someone who wanted to be anywhere else on the face of Nirn. She sipped it politely as Casavir went on about saving some lord’s daughter or niece from a charging minotaur during a hunt in the Great Forest. It was a very dry tale, almost as dry as the punch. Divines, and it wasn’t even dinner yet.

“Then when the knave had the audacity to take the poor maiden’s hand in his, I had enough. Brandishing my sword, I drove him off before he could plague her in her weakened state. The look of dismay she gave me afterward told me just how much danger I saved her from. She was insistent that she was perfectly fine, but after being thrown from the saddle because of a charging minotaur, there was no doubt her sensibilities were impaired. Her father would have rewarded me for the protection of his daughter, but I could not in good conscience accept such worldly trophies when I have pledged my life to the Divines’ service.”

Mara’s mercies, he droned on and on and on! Keeping an eye on him meant nothing if he bored her to death. At that point, he might as well kill her outright and do the Thalmor’s work for them. “And how does the Order reward such loyalty?” she asked.

“All that I have is the Temple’s, and all that is theirs is mine,” Casavir flashed her a dazzling show of teeth.

Her stomach flipped, souring. Whose money paid for her dress and gloves and all this ridiculousness?

“Oh, Leara! . . . Sir Casavir.”

As she was trying to decide whether or not to ask Casavir about the dress payment, Julia materialized at her side. Casavir clenched his jaw, but Leara beamed at the Imperial woman. And then her eyes met the startled face beside Julia, and Leara froze.

“Hadvar?”

“It’s you,” he whispered, wide-eyed.

Dressed in a clean uniform styled more for ceremonies than battle was the Imperial officer who tried desperately to save her in Helgen. She could almost feel her hand in Ralof’s as they made the mad scramble through fire and falling debris toward the keep. Screams and General Tullius’s commands filtered through the haze of smoke, but more than anything she recalled the pounding of her heart in her ears and Hadvar’s steady voice across the yard as he led that family into the barracks. He'd pulled her from Alduin’s path before that, before she knew who Alduin was and that the great doom of their time was at hand. She remembered his reluctance before when the Captain wished to send her to the block alongside the rebels.

He promised to send her remains home. To Wayrest.

She took his hand in hers. “It’s lovely to see you again!” she cried, ignoring Casavir spluttering beside her.

Hadvar’s grin was warm and shy and everything that Casavir’s smarmy face was not. Because Hadvar cared about people, not power or pretense.

“Oh, you know each other already!” Julia laughed. “I was hoping you could help me convince him to dance!”

“Julia, please—”

“That won’t be necessary, Lady Lastblood. I will be dancing the dinner set with the Dragonborn,” Casavir said.

Julia’s smile withered. Hadvar’s jaw tightened. Leara wanted to vanish. Feim. Zii. Feim. Zii. Feim—

“That’s a bit inappropriate, isn’t it, Sir Casavir?” Julia said, eyebrow raised. “After two dances, it’s hardly becoming for a man under such holy vows as yours to overindulge in dancing, especially with the same woman three times. Don’t you think so, Hadvar?”

“Yeah,” Hadvar nodded. His arms twitched as if he wished to cross them, but his hand was still in hers. She forgot. The hard stare he directed at Casavir was enough. “Taking up all the Dragonborn’s time when there are plenty of people wishing to speak to her isn’t a good look for the Temple, either.”

“It’s not something you should concern yourself with,” Casavir grumbled. “She’s my guest for the evening—”

“Yes, yes, but see, Hadvar and I are friends, and it’s been forever since we’ve seen each other!” said Leara, her grip on Hadvar tightening.

Hadvar blinked at her, then nodded. Beside him, Julia snickered into her glove. “Yes, you’re right. Actually, can I escort you to dinner?”

The vein in Casavir’s forehead was close to bursting, but Leara didn’t care. “Yes, I’d love that,” she told Hadvar.

A few moments later, the musicians sprang up a lively tone for the dinner set, a cheery Breton song usually played during spring festivals. Definitely chosen to work up the guests’ appetites. Her arm in Hadvar’s, Leara could feel Casavir’s black stare shadowing her as she went. Glancing over her shoulder, Julia’s reassuring wave was enough to send her off. Then the wave turned into a rude gesture aimed behind Casavir’s back. Leara choked on a giggle.

“So, Dragonborn, huh?” Hadvar began as they joined the line of dancers. “Was it your ma or your pa that was the dragon?”

Leara laughed.

·•★•·

Dancing the dinner set with Hadvar meant he escorted her to the dining hall afterward. Leara was relieved. Hadvar asked her about her time after Helgen, cleanly skirting around any mention of Ralof or the Stormcloaks, for which she was grateful. She told him about collecting bounties in Whiterun over the winter. Bitter work, but it kept a roof over her head. She didn’t mention the sheer whiplash she felt going from the anonymous comfort of The Bannered Mare to the spectacle of attending a Solitude ball as Dragonborn. Hadvar asked about Mirmulnir (“That first dragon,” he said) and what it was like to Shout for the first time. Saying she choked on ash and went deaf from the wind in her ears didn’t sound like a good answer. Instead, she told him how the Words of Power sang to her and begged to be inscribed on her soul. Very, very, wild conversation to have over clam chowder and roasted vegetables. More often than not, one of the women sitting nearby would pause their own conversations to stare at her over their glasses; the men were less subtle. Leara didn’t pay any attention to them. By the time dessert was brought out – snowberry tarts dusted in icing sugar – they were discussing High Hrothgar and the call of the Greybeards. Still, as open as Hadvar was to listening to her talk about being Dragonborn, there was so much she didn’t dare mention. Any connection to the Blades was naturally not made. Talos was also off the table; despite her inheritance of the Stormcrown, she wouldn’t risk a word of it when Casavir of the Imperial Weasel Committee was sitting several chairs down. The one time she dared to look at him, snowberry halfway to her mouth, his dark frown stilled her hand faster than any frost spell.

Hadvar asked for her hand in the after-dinner set. Too cold, too warm, eyes on her bare skin, Leara said yes.

She asked him about service to the Legion and how the war was going. As he spun her across the tiled floors, snatches of long nights camped in the weird of Hjaalmarch’s swamps and of scouting missions through the Pale Forest came to her through the swirl of music and movement. She’d thought dinner would be an improvement – when was the last time she ate, anyway? – but eating only made nausea roll through her, twisting with every twirl Hadvar led her through.

She kept dancing. To stop would call attention to herself, a negative, questioning attention. And it would hasten Casavir’s return to her side. Did he find a partner for this set or was he brooding somewhere on the sidelines? Gods, Bishop was right. This was a bad idea.

“Do you think you’ll sign up for the Legion?” Hadvar asked.

“Me?” Her voice was distant to her ears. She shook her head, squeezing Hadvar’s hand in hers. “I can’t say.” I can’t say the day I join the Legion is the day the White-Gold Concordat is redacted and the Thalmor help rebuild Cloud Ruler Temple while singing campfire songs with the Blades they’ve hunted for nearly thirty years. “Being Dragonborn is a full-time responsibility.” Not to mention she’ll probably die when she faces Alduin in Sovngarde.

Hadvar shrugged, and she almost asked if he thought she would die before remembering that hunting Alduin in Sovngarde was another topic she skirted around at dinner.

When the dance ended, he bowed to her, a soft grin playing at his features. “Thanks, Miss Ormand.”

“It’s been my pleasure,” she said, giving a shallow curtsy. Straightening, she swayed back. “I think I’m done for the evening,” she laughed.

“You do look tired, if you don��t mind me saying so,” Hadvar said, halting their retreat from the floor. “Do you want me to help you to a chair?”

“No, no,” Leara waved him off. “I’m fine. I’ve taken up enough of your time already.”

“It’s been fun,” Hadvar assured her. “And Miss Ormand, I just wanted to say, I know you’re not a lot of people’s first idea of a Dragonborn, but I think you’re the one we need, and that’s more than enough.”

Warmth blossomed in her chest. “Hadvar, that’s,” her words caught in her throat. She swallowed. “Thank you, really.”

Ducking his head, Hadvar said, “Don’t mention it.” Just like that, he left, and Leara watched after him.

“I must insist you share the next dance with me, my lady.”

Warmth blazed into fire. Leara rounded, insides rolling, to find Casavir leering over her shoulder. “Sir Casavir, please, I can’t dance with you.”

His too-pale eyes narrowed. “My lady, you are my guest for the evening. Isn’t it right for you to give your attentions to me? I was neglected during dinner, you know.” There was a soft purr in his voice reminiscent of a mountain lion.

“I’m tired.”

“You’re the Dragonborn, untainted by such mundane things as ‘exhaustion’,” he went on. “You are a fair woman, full of grace and power. It is only right for me to display your beauty before the elite of Solitude, where all of your virtues can be truly appreciated.”

Leara squeezed her eyes shut. She shouldn’t have come. She should not have come. Bishop was right. Bishop was—

“I’m here, darling! Don’t mind if I cut in, do you?”

Bishop was . . . here?

Opening her eyes, Leara felt her features slacken, though whether from shock or because somehow she knew this was how the evening was going to play out, she wasn’t sure. Probably both. Through the crowd of guests strode Bishop, but not Bishop as she knew him. Gone were his edgy dark leathers and muddy boots. In their place, he wore linen trousers and a navy quilted vest over white poet’s sleeves. In short, he looked absolutely ridiculous. The collar alone was a stiff, starched piece; she wondered how he managed to get it on. Actually, getting it on was probably why he was so late in coming. Where’d he get this stuff, a barrel behind the clothier’s shop? Strutting right up to them with a smirk, he waggled his eyebrows at Leara. “May I have this dance?”

“What are you doing here?” Casavir growled.

“Why, I’m here to rescue a flustered little boy from himself,” sneered Bishop. He jabbed a finger at Casavir’s oversized ascot. “Now get lost, Casavir. She’s mine tonight.” Bishop’s eyes were back on her in a moment, and the heat under her skin made her shiver. His fingers grasped her chin, firm and callused, and she couldn’t look away. “My, is it hot in here or is that pretty flush for me? That armor you wear doesn’t do you any favors. You look ravishing, sweetheart.”

Bishop’s fingers vanished from her as Casavir wrenched him back. “Bishop! Keep your filthy hands off her! An animal like you has no place with the likes of her!”

“Filthy? Ha! I didn’t get all cleaned up just for you to drag me through the mud!” said Bishop, shoving Casavir away from him.

One step back, two. She wouldn’t be the center of their argument.

“If we’re going to stay here any longer, I need to get drunk,” Bishop went on. “I refuse to put up with you sober!”

“It’s obvious a man like you was never fit for civilized society. Be gone and plague us no longer!”

People were starting to stare. Eyes caught and snagged on her, leaving blazing trails of curiosity and suspicion and derision across her skin. Surrounded by people, she was alone, an island in a choppy sea. It was like the performance in the Palace of the Kings all over again, except the storm was so much darker here. There was no safe harbor. No one was going to pull her out – she was stuck between Bishop and Casavir. At that, she shrunk into herself, her arms wrapped around her. Feim. Zii. Feim. Zii.

“Who wants to be in civilized society when its full of blind idiots like you? I’d rather choke on this damn collar!”

“That can be arranged!”

“C’mon.”

Like a soft whisper, Julia’s hand folded over hers and led her back from the two men. So absorbed in their cock fight, they didn’t see Leara retreat after Julia through the snickering crowd. The steady rainfall of plucked strings and the distant rumble of drums met her ears as Julia pulled her passed the musicians toward the doors.

“That’s so stupid,” she mutters. “Arguing like that in public! At a ball! But I expect nothing less from Casavir. I always knew he was a gross, chauvinistic pig!” Julia stopped just short of the steps. The sympathy in her eyes made Leara want to cry, but she just stood there, frozen. “I’m sorry your friend rose to his bait though.”

She swallowed, hard. “Me too.”

Julia placed a hand on her upper arm. Leara stared at it. It was supposed to be comforting, she knew, but it was hard to connect.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Julia was asking. “Tea? Wine? Sweet roll?”

Leara’s gaze slid over Julia to the musicians and their instruments. They were between sets, and several of them were taking a break. A trio was plucking a cheery harmony together on their lutes, accompanied by another on a snare drum, but the rest were either vacated, or their owners sat at rest beside them. Lutes, lyres, flutes, and whistles. A dozen different kinds at least; apparently the Merchants Guild weren’t ones to skimp out on good entertainment. No, the bright tunes and lively melodies, some Nordic and many cosmopolitan favorites from the Imperial City were the highlights of her evening. A bright patch of sunlight in a blanket of black clouds. And chief among them, curved and strung with grace, was her beloved—

“Harp.”

“What?”

“The harp,” Leara heard herself repeat. So close and so far. It has been years.

Julia stared at her, then followed her gaze over to the musicians, over their shoulders and music stands to the far side, to the harp. “Yeah, okay.”

“Oh!” Leara cried, not expecting Julia to pull her forward. Leara had a handful of precious inches on Julia, but that clearly meant nothing as Julia led her straight to the harpist’s chair.

“Having a nice night, Bragi?”

“As nice as can be expected,” sighed the harpist, a young Nord, his golden hair light and loose around his shoulders. “How’re you?” he asked, lowering his packet of sheet music. Then he did a double-take. “Oh, wow, I’m sorry, Dragonborn.”

Leara wanted to shrink back, but Julia’s grip stayed her. “This is Leara.”

Bragi bobbed his head, his mouth open. Leara offered him a weak smile in return.

“I was wondering,” Julia continued. “Do you think it would be okay for Leara to see your harp?”

Smothering a nervous cough, Bragi’s eyes darted to Leara’s gloved fingers. It was only then that she realized she was twisting them in the silk, and stopped. “Do you play?”

“I, I taught in High Rock, several years ago.”

“Really?” Bragi lit up. “Did you teach at one of the conservatories?”

“I was a private instructor,” said Leara.

Rising for his seat, Bragi stepped back. “Would you like to try something?”

“Is that a good idea?”

“The next set isn’t for another ten minutes,” Julia assured her, beaming like the sun.

“Please, it’d be an honor to have the Dragonborn play my instrument – if you want,” Bragi added, sheepish.

It wasn’t that hard to convince her. Once her gloves were off, Julia helped her shift her skirts so she could sit on the stool and still reach the pedals without too much hassle. Then she brought the harp forward, leaning it against her shoulder, and she embraced it. If the maple and Nordic carvings felt alien from the harps she’d held in the past, she didn’t care. A physical release eased the tension around her heart.

One of the flutists was whispering to the other. Leara didn’t pay attention.

“It’s been so long,” she whispered.

“Just start slow,” a nearby piper urged.

Leara plucked the strings. The melody wasn’t as tender as on an Altmer harp, but she could hardly expect that same level of craftsmanship in a younger race where the people had decades, not centuries, to perfect their craft. Another pluck, this time G, then half a scale, major than minor, C to D. Sweet and simple rudiments, stuff she ran over with her charge every day when she taught in Camlorn. Not dissimilar to the lessons she had in Alinor.

Her chest ached.

The last gala she attended in Alinor before the invasion of Cyrodiil, she played. The summer air curled through the open windows, carrying the fragrance of cherry blossom and petrichor into the diamond hall. She could still taste the Oleander wine and feel the brush of sunbird feathers against her skin. The end of Frostfall. Lord Varlarata was hosting the Lord Generals, and she was selected to play for the kinlords. Even then, she knew what was coming. She had to. More than now, dogging the World-Eater as she was, her terror strangled her. If at any moment, someone suspected she wasn’t who she said she was, that she was a Blades agent, then that would be hit. How terribly close she came to having her head join that of every other Blade sent tumbling along Green Emperor Way like a cart of spilled cabbages in the market.

The ring of fire in her black band glimmered darkly at her, as solemn and present on her hand now as then.

Shutting her eyes to the ballroom and the dancers, Leara was again in Alinor, afraid for her life and desperate for Elenwen’s approval. And she played.

There was the sea and the calls of a thousand birds. Auri-El’s dawn caressed the pearl-foam tide. An eagle soared overhead, and the Aldmere came. Breaching the mists of war and chaos, they brought golden light in their wake. Trills and quivering chords slipped in quick succession. Praises sung to the Ancestors, amen. High towers in crystal like stone and insect as glass rose, brushing the sky but never soaring high enough to reach back to Before. Beauty and loss. An accidental minor. Alas, they saw, the eagle would fall. There was no triumph. Bitter, bitter, bitter, harsh and biting, almost violent passages. Lamenting, because divinity was lost to devilry. Trickster foul and serpent cruel—

Pain bit at her heart, but she embraced it, pressing it into the harp.

Swelling crescendo, growing power. They were of Aldmeris. They would be again. Hope and purity rang high in the register.

“They want you to play one of Rolmelval’s pieces. You have the Dawn Comes Softly?”

“Yes, Mistress, but I—”

“Speak up, Vilya.”

“I’ve been studying Nibenaurio.”

“Have you?”

“Yes ma’am, and I was hoping—”

“We will see.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Chaos and divinity warred across the strings in turns fire and stardust. Steadfast one moment and crumbling the next. They were splintering left and right and left again. Leaving. Leaves falling. Descending notes in minor tears. Hold on to the past. Hold the major lift. Her nerves ached, her soul stung. The Aldmere torn apart, the song deconstructed. Aldmeris was lost in the dark, the dark ate the—

She flubbed a note, a sharp accidental in the major key where there was meant to be a dissonant minor. She sprung from there, a wellspring, and reordered the measure to fall back into harmony.

Can anyone bear the pain of a thousand thousand souls weeping in the dark? Lost children in the forest, untouched by sun, unseen by star. The warmth in the blood was gone.

Tragedy seized hope by the hand and spun betrayal just as fast as her fingers danced down the strings. The heart broke. Her fingers stroked a low dissonance.

The sea was still. The pearls were scattered. Dusk touched the waves to the south in a haze of white poison. Harmony lost, the blood, the strings hummed in discord.

Wander lost, wanderlust, alone but the memory endures.

Everything drowns in the end.

The jarring of the strings was so sudden, yet calculated in its own way as only understood by someone familiar with the Aldmeri notation. Leara eased her hands from the harp strings, stunned. A mixture of pleasure and astonishment struck her. She hadn’t played that since before the war.

Julia was crying. “Oh Kyne,” she breathed, hands over her mouth.

“Are you well?” Leara choked, then bit her tongue, the lapse into the lilt of an Auridon accent comfortable and entirely unwelcome.

Bragi wiped his eyes. “Please, please, if being a hero doesn’t work out for you, come teach to the Bards College. Headmaster Viarmo will take you on. We have a High Elven harp.”

Only then did Leara become aware of the clapping and gentle weeping around her. Easing the harp back in place, she found the guests gathered in the hall watching her, tears staining their faces. Some cried softly, others whimpered. A few were clutching their friends and sobbing, mournful.

And then Leara remembered exactly what it was she played. A song of hope and loss, for the Altmer it stirred their magic to take what once was lost. A horrifying thought, all things considered. But for the mannish races. Actually, actually, she didn’t think anyone ever played Nibenaurio for lesser mer, much less men. It was too much.

It wasn’t acceptable.

The nausea returned. “I have to go,” she said.

“What?” Julia cried behind her hands. Her makeup was smearing. Bragi’s cheeks were red. One of the drummers was hugging his snare.

“I have to go!” And Leara darted to her feet, toppling the stool in the process. She didn’t care. She pushed by Julia and up the stairs toward the entrance.

“Leara!”

“Dragonborn!”

Several varying calls trailed after her, but she didn’t stop. Out of the ballroom and down the corridor, around the corner and down the stairs to the lobby. She paused long enough then to fling her slippers from her feet, and then she was off, out of the Palace and into the night.

·•★•·

Bishop found her in the corner behind the changing screen.

Her katana in hand, she sat huddled against the wall, feet bruised and hands shaking. Karnwyr was curled beside her, his head in her lap and ears flat to his skull. She’d cut herself out of the ball gown, leaving a mess of frost-burnt velvet and netting in a pool beside the bed. She was cold, left in nothing but the corset and other undergarments from The Jewel, but she was too shaken to try and get out of them. She was so stupid. All this time, running from the Thalmor, evading suspicion as a Blade agent, and keeping to herself, and at the first opportunity to touch a harp, she played the one song that would raise red flags throughout the Embassy!

She wanted to disappear, Alduin and the end of the world be damned. Maybe if he consumed Nirn, then she wouldn’t have to worry about the Thalmor or Ulfric or anything because they would all be dead!

“Hey there, sweetness. That was quite the exit,” chuckled Bishop, leaning against the wall beside her.

Leara just stared at the window. Would the Thalmor come in through the door? Or the window?

“You had that paladin on his knees, there. Fell apart like an old woman right on the floor!” Quiet, then, “Sweetness?”

“It’s too much,” she whispered. “I can’t do anything right. They’re going to get me no matter what I do.”

“Uh, what?”

She blinked up at him. “The Thalmor. They’re hunting me, and now they’re going to find me.”

“Now hold up just a minute!” Bishop cried. Grumbling, he sat down on the floor, his knees touching hers. With a growl, he ripped his collar off and tossed it somewhere behind him. Then he placed his hands over Leara’s on the katana hilt. Hers were small and frail with ice; his were a giant’s in comparison. She’d never noticed. “So, the Thalmor are hunting you? You knew that. Are you really worried about them? You’ve got me to protect you, and you know I’m not going anywhere.”

Conflict tugged at Leara. Yes, he’d said before that he would protect her from the Aldmeri Dominion, but still, the threat of him betraying her to Ulfric Stormcloak as a former member of the Thalmor continued to simmer under the surface. Oh! She should’ve never gone to that ball! She should’ve listened to Bishop when he warned her off Casavir!

His head in her lap, Karnwyr grumbled.

“You were right,” she whispered. “About Casavir, the ball, everything.” Tears stung her eyes, but they did not fall.

“Yeah, I am, but as great as it is to hear you say that, I’d rather you not be hiding out in a corner.” He pried her frozen fingers from her katana. “Here, let’s set this down and you come to bed – fully clothed!” he added when the tears threatened to burst. “Gods, woman, I’d think you’d have more decency at this point!”

“I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” The blade set aside, Bishop skooched forward and lifted Leara into his arms. “C’mere, I’ll take you to bed.”

His arms around her back and under her knees, Bishop picked her up and toted her to the bed. Karnwyr grunted at the displacement, but followed after, hopping onto the foot of the bed. As he was letting go to set her on the blankets, Leara found herself tightening her fist in his vest. “Thank you for protecting me.”

A brief smirk, followed by Bishop pressing his lips into her hair. “Don’t mention it, darling.” He hesitated. “Do you really wanna sleep in that contraption?”

Leara shifted against the pillows, the corset’s boning digging into her ribs, suffocating. “N-no.”

Bishop nodded. “I’ll get my knife.”

·•★•·

Ruby droplets slid around the crystal bowl as she turned the glass in hand. The deeper garnets at the bottom winked delicious secrets of sun-ripe summers and natural magics. She watched them swirl and fold into the wine, slipping coolly beneath the surface into depths of rose and muscadine. She’d been nursing this same glass for two hours. Not an uncommonality. As with any task worth pursuing, a glass of Russafeld red required time and patience to parse out its secrets.

Not terribly dissimilar to interrogation, but far more pleasant.

There was a knock at the door. “Enter.”

“Mistress Elenwen, our agent has returned from the palace,” the young aid bowed.

Elenwen studied him over the pearl-toned mithril rim of her glass. “The ball was not scheduled to end until an hour ago, was it not?” And it was a two-hour ride on their fastest horses from the city gates to the citadel in the highlands. Elenwen did so hate when one of her agents disregarded her orders. It was already well after midnight. A few more hours of sleep would not soften her retribution for those who disobeyed,

Falcelmo bobbed his head. “It was meant to, Mistress, but I, it’s best if Hindalia tells it.”

There was a clink of crystal on oak as Elenwen sat down her glass. “Yes, I believe that would be wise.” After all, it was Hindalia who disobeyed.

Falcelmo retreated, and in his place, Hindalia strode in. She was tall, raised in the mountains of Firsthold and full of all the fire of someone who was promised the sky and forced to climb for it. More often than not, Elenwen appreciated Hindalia’s tenacity, but disobedience would not be tolerated.

“Mistress,” the girl bowed, her golden braid falling over her shoulder.

“Did I not give you express orders to remain in the Blue Palace until after their little circus shut down?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And yet you left before the festivities were over?”

“No ma’am.”

Elenwen didn’t pause, but she did raise a delicate eyebrow. “You will explain yourself.”

“Of course, Mistress,” Hindalia bowed again, humor pulling at her rose gold mouth. “They canceled it.”

She did so hate it when Hindalia teased out the answers. “It is late, Hindalia. I am not in the mood for your games.”

The smile never vanished. “It was right after dinner. They weren’t even halfway through the second portion of the dances when Jarl Elisif’s little friend, Lastblood, took the Dragonborn to the musicians. You’ll never guess what happened next.”

The half-written dossier in her topmost drawer whispered, as teasing as Hindalia with unlocked secrets and yet not so easily unlocked. Ancano’s letter was in there too. Elenwen leaned forward, gaze sharp. Was this another piece to the puzzle? “Hindalia.”

“She played the harp, and you know, Mistress Elenwen, I wasn’t expecting much when she sat down. I thought that Nord harpist was being sweet on her because she’s their great hero or whatever rot they spout, but no! It was,” for the first time, Hindalia’s face crumpled, the humor dim. Her green eyes were far away, reflecting the meadows and forests of Home. “I’ve not heard anything like it since I was a girl.”

“What did she play?”

Swallowing, Hindalia’s eyes began to water. “It aches to think of it. The Dragonborn played the Aldmere’Loren.”

Elenwen sat back. If she still held her glass, it would have fallen. The Aldmere’Loren. The Darkening of the Aldmer. How in Auri-El’s blessed name . . .?

. . . she used a spell I have only seen used by our own interrogators. Is she from the Justiciar’s branch? . . .

Ancano’s questions circled through her mind, coupled with the lament of the Aldmer.

Leara Ormand.

“You discovered why she was in the city?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Hindalia sniffled, sobering. “The Nords’ elders, the Greybeards, have called a peace council between the Imperials and rebels. She was ensuring General Tullius would attend.”

“Excellent,” Elenwen rose to her feet. “A meeting such as that will be a heated affair. It’s best someone is there to oversee the terms of the Concordat.”

“Ma’am?”

“We are leaving for Solitude in the morning, Hindalia. Tell Falcelmo to prepare our bags.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the girl bowed and was gone.

Elenwen stood beside her desk, her wine glass in front of her. In its depths she saw the Oleander Coast and another agent, quieter and yet not dissimilar to Hindalia. She could almost see the fine gold features in the place of the Dragonborn’s mannish face. It didn’t make sense, none of it did. And yet.

Well, whatever came from the journey to High Hrothgar, she would have her answers.

#oc: leara roseblade #last dragonborn #bishop #karnwyr #casavir #oc: kynadora lastblood #solitude #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim #fanfic #ao3 #grand crystal ball #mod post #i didn't know you were keeping count

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fullofgutsndopamine · 5 months

Text

Happy Holidays (let’s hope for the best)

tw/cursing, mention of negative body image, awkward first kiss (what's written on the tin), mention of past toxic relationship, hasan is a single father

more here

“Papa.”

Rory’s voice comes back half muffled, from being in between a mountain of his discarded date shirts.

“Yes, baby?”

a smile is evident on hasan’s face, as he turns away from the mirror and tries to button the buttons on the dress shirt again. his fingers shake, but he tries to ignore it.

“if you’re worried about it being weird,” she says, “i know how to help!”

“oh?” hasan laughs, taking a glance in the mirror before groaning, hating his outfit again, will need to change-

“Yeah!” she all but pops out from underneath the pile of clothes as hasan appears at her side, “show her the rock I got you!”

hasan misses being young, when something like who has the coolest rock can start or save friendships.

he laughs, and she sits on her belly, rests her tin fists on her chin, “You still have it? Right, papa?”

he rolls his eyes, fond on his lips, “of course i do. never go anywhere without it.”

he digs around in his black jeans for a second, produces a small gray pebble from the depths of his pocket, the kind Rory imagines goes on forever, filled with hard candy and receipts, small odds and ends for her to play with-

she squeals and sits on her knees, taking the pebble out of his hand, now smooth with age and time, finds himself fiddling with it when he’s nervous (which is often)

“my girl got it for me,” he leans in close, “can’t go anywhere without it.”

and puckers, kissing her on her forehead, and she erupts into a fit of giggles, uses her hands to push the curly hair away from her eyes. hasan is always trying to braid it, or tie it in piggy tails, but much like his own, it never corporates.

he crouches, “I gotta get dressed. Go see Sammie. Tell her Papa said you can have a cookie.”

and she gasps, her eyes light up and she runs downstairs, yelling Sammie’s name the entire time.

Hasan laughs, goes to shut the door and faces himself in the mirror as he smoothes his shirt down one more time before reaching for a sweater and putting it on.

another sigh, “As usual,” he says to his reflection, “this is as good as it’s gonna get.”

and before he can have any second thoughts, he grabs his cologne off the dresser, ignores the frame next to it, sprays himself with it, and leaves.

across town, you face the same dilemma.

“i just,” you sigh to your roommate, Addie, “am afraid wearing yellow and brown is going to make me look like Arthur.”

Addie snorts without looking up from her textbook, a pencil shoved through the bun on top of her head and one in her mouth, “I know your ass isn't talking about Arthur the fucking aardvark."

You huff as you play with the collar of the white shirt that peaks out from under the sweater, "He has a kid, Addie. He definitely is going to think I look like a kid's show!"

And you huff and shove the sweater off your head.

Addie rolls her eyes, shuts her pencil inside her textbook, "Wait here, I have the outfit."

And she doesn't wait for a response as she shuffles out of the room.

there's a little yelling and something that sounds like tugging, followed by a clash, but Addie comes back with a smile on her face, tosses you a red sweater, knit and cozy looking, that you catch with ease.

"Wear this," She says, sitting back on the couch cross legged, "It won't look like you're trying too hard, but also you won't look like a prude."

You huff but obey, tugging the sweater over your head and smoothing it down, thinking it looks good enough.

You can't let Addie know she's right. part of what being best friends is like, and instead say: "I do not dress like a prude."

and your met back with her laughter as you retreat to your room to finish up.

hasan is right on time, which surprises you for some reason you can't place.

past dates, they've pulled into your small driveway, honked the horn and waited for you to retreat from your house, but hasan instead parks on the street, kills the engine, spends two minutes trying to fix his hair before leaning into the passenger seat and grabbing the small bouquet of flowers he picked up for you earlier.

as he rings the doorbell and waits, hearing moving and yelling from inside, he considers faking his own death, or a sudden stomach bug, or maybe a call from rory-

he hasn't felt butterflies like this in a long time.

Addie throws the door open, which throws him for half a second as he opens and closes his mouth, considering what to say.

usually, he's good with words, a pro even, but something about you throws everything out the window-

"Well, well, well-" Addie smirks, leans against the doorframe and crosses her arms over her chest, "You must be hasan."

"The one and only?" It's a question, not a statement, but nerves gnaw at his belly, and anything witty he could say is gone, "You must be Addie, It's nice to meet you, finally."

He offers his hand and Addie bites her lip, as if she's about to awe, or say something, instead meets his hand, a hard shake back: "The one and only." She teases back.

Finally, hasan laughs: "Yeah, okay. I deserve that one."

You all but run into the entry, red faced and trying to button your jacket, "Sorry!" You apologize, knocking shoulders with Addie: "I hope Addie didn't bother you too much."

"Nah," He laughs, "I'm an older brother, I get it."

And as if he suddenly remembers the bouquet in his hand, he offers it out: "For you. You look beautiful, by the way."

"Oh," Addie calls from the couch, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "So he is charming."

your eyes go wide as you meet hasan’s equally as wide eyes, but he finds some confidence he didn't know he had, mumbles at you: "So you think I'm charming?"

A groan, and you tug at his hand as Addie takes the flowers from you, "You two kids behave. Get them home in one piece, hasan. I mean it."

and her voice goes from the teasing to a little harder, and he nods immediately: "Yes ma'am."

"We're leaving, Addie. Bye!"

and your bright red faced, yanking wilbur out of the door as he yells over his shoulder: "It was nice meeting you!" as you shut the door.

"I'm sorry about her," You sigh, the second the door is shut and you two have a second to breathe, "She means well-"

hasan laughs, thankfully, "I told you, I get it. She's fine."

And you nod, nibble your lip like you don't fully believe him, silence fals for half a second.

"You look beautiful tonight," he says gently, then shakes his head as if he said something wrong, "I mean, you look beautiful every night, but today especially. Not that today is-"

a gentle laugh out of you, and the anxiety hasan has melts away slowly, a litlte piece of unease falls off of him at the sound-

"Thank you, hasan." You say gently, "The flowers were beautiful."

He shrugs, as if it's not a nice thought, before he shakes his head, "Come on, it's freezing. We can go in my car."

hasan all but races to his car, holds the door open for you as you slide into his little car, before he shuts the door gently and all but jogs to his side of the car.

"Okay," he says as he buckles up, "I'm not one for bragging but-"

a small laugh out of you, and he continues: "but Rory says I make the best Christmas playlist so."

and he struggles with his phone for two seconds before a I'll Be Home For Christmas plays gently through the speakers.

There's no way he'd know, but it is one of your favorites, and it's oddly comforting.

"And," He continues, "Like i said, not a big bragger-"

"I can tell." you interrupt, teasing him gently.

"Thanks," he says without missing a beat, "homemade hot chocolate. rory insists its the best."

and he produces a small thermos, hands you a little cardboard cup, takes the lid of the thermos and pours, before he speaks: "With extra marshmallows."

You laugh, "So you were listening."

and he's all but beaming, "Always. Let's go."

hasan drives the entire time, going up and down these winding roads, points out his favorites, stops for you to tell your rating of different houses of decorations, the good and the bad-

by the time his phone rings for a third time, your face hurts from smiling so big at these stories wilbur tells

"Fuck." He sighs when his phone goes off a third time in the row.

"Seems like someone really wants to get in contact with you." You tease, hoping he picks up that it's teasing.

his smile shows he does.

"Fuck," He sighs, "it's Sammie, my babysitter, or i'd ignore it-"

he trails off, as if he's waiting for you to tell him to hang up, or ignore it, instead, you shake your head, "No, of course, get it."

"Hullo?" he answers, his voice gentle and low, shy.

He brings his fingernails to his mouth, and suddenly you realize why they're so short and torn at, bloody at the tips.

His voice gets even gentler somehow, "baby, I'm sorry."

You can't hear the conversation, but you wonder if it's rory-

you're proven true almost immediately, when he speaks again: "Okay. Lay down, okay?"

he pauses for a second, as if waiting for confirmation, before his eyes dart around, and red faced, he pulls the phone away from his mouth for a second, mumbles: "I'm sorry for this."

before you can see what he says, his voice comes into the car, gently, slowly, he begins singing: "Why are there so many Songs about rainbows And what's on the other side-"

he gets through the song and you try to busy yourself, to seem like you aren't enjoying the song as well, when he says a final goodnight, and red faced, turns to you:

"I'm sorry. I-I usually put rory to sleep, and this is the first time I haven't sung to her she-" he shrugs, "I dunno."

"You don't have to apologize," You say gently, "It's sweet. Youre an amazing father."

He snorts, as if he doesn't believe it, and there's some weight to it, but he shakes his head, "Come on, I saved the best for last."

and he grabs your cup, pours you one last cup of hot chocolate from his thermos, extra marshmallows, and passes it back before putting the car into drive, and starting the short trek

It's like a scene from a hallmark movie.

the car has been abandoned, this house has a little path in it's front yard, long and winding, a carasoul of teddy bears that moves, a Grinch cut out, lights dangle and dance from every tree- it's beaitful.

you both ignore how your hands knock into each other as you walk down the small path, find yourself standing in front of the lights that go from tree top to tree top, dance in the wind and criss cross across the street, connecting the houses to one another.

"God," You find yourself close to him, face red when you realize how close you two are, "This is beautiful, hasan. You did amazing."

And he laughs, leans in to move a piece of hair off your lip that the wind moved, when his hand lingers on the side of your jaw.

His face is close to yours, "I-is it okay? If I kiss you?"

A soft smile from you, "Yeah."

and look, it's your first kiss.

you aren't proud of how long it took you to get this, but you were always waiting for the right time, the right person, and it just never seemed in your cards-

until hasan came along

but as usual, your overthinking it. eyes closed, you tilt your head, and he must do the same, because next thing you know, you're bumping noses with him, a gentle: "Oh." from him

you're laughing, too hard to do anything for a second, and he's red faced: "I'm sorry. Fuck. I usually-"

"hasan?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up and kiss me."

He snorts, "my pleasure."

and this time, he gets it right.

#caroline writes #hasanabi #hasanabi x reader #hasanabi x y/n #hasanabi x you #hasan #hasan piker x you #hasan piker fanfic #hasan x reader #hasan piker fic #hasan piker imagine #hasan piker x reader #hasan piker

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