#can you tell i am pre-emptively fending off the winter sads

[wispstalk]

land

Cloud Ruler Temple clings to the mountainside. At times it's as if the barren slopes are all that remains of the world, an island of cold rock drifting in some hazy void. All the rest, from the wind-battered highlands to the glittering Topal bay, seems burnt away— a dream forgotten with no one left to dream it.

Martin leans in a crenel, flanked by the two watchtowers. Up here the wind rides high and wild, plucking at the ends of his hair as it races by. First Seed can only charitably be considered a spring month this far north, but the brazier nearby fends off the chill, and Bruma Valley sleeps curled at the foot of the mountain. Tanis was right: this really is the best brooding spot in the whole temple.

A hand on his shoulder. Martin had been so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn’t heard anyone approach. Before he can rouse himself to turn, a slender grey hand comes to cover his eyes.

“Tanis, what—”

“What phase is Secunda in?” the Hero of Kvatch cuts in.

“I—” Martin lets out a soft huff of laughter. “I don’t know. I was… somewhere else.”

“I know you were.” Tanis lowers his hand and cups Martin’s jaw, tilting it upward.

Secunda full, Masser a waxing crescent. A cold, clear night, with high winds herding the clouds away. One seems to have strayed from the flock, however: Tanis nudges him with an elbow, proffering a steaming mug.

An alchemist never offers tea without some ulterior motive. With the coming of spring, Tanis has been plying the temple’s residents with “blood tonics,” whatever those are. But he has a mind for flavor: the bitter, earthy root is rounded out with fennel and cardamom, sweetened with honey. The warmth of it in his hand, the warmth of Tanis at his back, settles Martin back into himself. He breathes in the aromatic steam and looks out again with fresh eyes.

Up here the plants hang on for dear life. Tough, scrubby little things, huddled low in the hollows that pock the rough granite. Down the slopes their defenses thicken: evergreens bent into crooked sprays, their rugged branches bearing crowns of bright, tender green. The spruce buds are luminous in the moonlight. Evidence of another winter survived, another chance to jostle for a place in the sun.

“A prison with a view,” Tanis remarks, “but damned if it isn’t the best view in all Cyrodiil.”

“I've wondered what keeps you here,” Martin says wryly. "Moved up in the world from your dungeon cell, haven't you?"

Tanis slips an arm around Martin’s waist. “I like it here. More than I thought I would. I've seen every corner of this land of yours by now, priest, and it's a fine one.”

Martin breaks into a faint smile. “It really is.”

Far below them the forest spills down the mountain like dark velvet. Bruma’s watchfires are tiny embers in the coal-dark valley. He makes a note to come out in the daylight. Surely there is a stirring in the cradle of the Jeralls. Sun-starved residents baring their arms in defiance of the chill, farmers out to till the fallow fields. Here he is too high up to see the bustle, but he knows— despite all, the sun will draw them out.

He spent his childhood with his hands in the soil, his body tuned to the grand order of the seasons, his mind trained to look for the potential that lives in each tiny seed. Every stretch of land on which he’s walked has given him something to love. Tall reeds waving on the shores of Lake Rumare; dark-winged skimmers nesting in Anvil’s dunes; stubborn Kvatch in the hinterlands, perched proudly on its hill.

And yes, even here. The silent, remote immensity of stone, keeping vigil over the boundless horizon.

The mountain fastness seems less an island to him now. It settles, takes root; becomes part of a living, breathing whole. A land that goes on, and on.