#not mysterium xarxes in the end

[osteichthyens]

i live

hm. should i get a new tattoo or kill myself

[sunflower-pancakes]

After a long day of translating the Mysterium Xarxes Martin is simply too exhausted to walk and often ends up falling asleep at his desk so the hok likes to pick him up and carry him to his bed where they tuck in him so he could rest. Martin notices this habit of theirs so there's times where he pretends to fall asleep at different places just so he enjoy the feeling of being picked up and carried by them. The days are long and grueling, but as long as he's in his beloveds arms then everything feels like it's going to be okay, even if it's only for a moment.

[larkscribbles]

A Septim For Your Thoughts

[AO3] [800 words]

The priest softened the break in conversation with an over dramatic narrowing of his eyes. “I don’t think it’s coin, but please, do correct me if I’m wrong. If the Blades should need to consider paying you, that is.”

Martin Septim inquires about what drives the Hero of Kvatch.

The wind whistled cold and loud around Cloud Ruler temple. The din produced by the Blades’ training was almost entirely drowned out. She hadn’t heard his approach.

“A septim for your thoughts?”

The Hero of Kvatch straightened up, heavy armour clanking. “That’s an interesting way of coping with your predicament.”

Martin laughed softly at this before leaning on the rail next to his friend. “Not an intentional pun, mind you. I’m still getting used to the idea of it.” He continued, smile failing, shifting to something more reflective.

“I wasn’t thinking.” Avery declared loudly.

Martin should avoid too much introspection; with the mental toll of reading the Mysterium Xarxes, portals to Oblivion itself opening up everywhere, and the stress of finding out you’re the last heir to the Septim dynasty? She feared for his health. Not that she’d admit it aloud.

As soon as the words had left her mouth, she was once again struck with how inarticulate she was. Before gaining the title of Hero of Kvatch she’d never particularly bothered to socialise with people past a certain extent, the positive reputation of her newly-earned title did little to aid this. Nothing to exploit or lose, a simple mercenary at heart. This approach to life had begun to show its flaws. Especially in the middle of a world-wide disaster. Someone more charismatic might have been better suited. Then again, would they be a competent fighter as she? Sword sharp, words blunt.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Martin’s well masked confusion, only betrayed by a quirk of his eyebrow.

“I was observing.” She gestured to the training in an attempt to save face. The Septim follows the imperial’s line of sight and nods understandingly.

“May I ask you something? You don’t have to answer, obviously.” Martin glanced sideways, meeting her eye. Avery’s face scrunched, trying to search for an indication of where this is going.

“Very well.” She relented.

“What drives you?” Do you have an aim in life?”

The woman snorts at this, not exactly what she would consider a prying question. Although her answer is not the most moral, she is at least honest enough with herself to know what it truly is. And given Martin’s vague allusions to his history he would not be one to judge so harshly.

The priest softened the break in conversation with an over dramatic narrowing of his eyes. “I don’t think it’s coin, but please, do correct me if I’m wrong. If the Blades should need to consider paying you, that is.”

“Power.”

“Power?” He echoed, brow furrowing. “That’s quite vague and likely dangerous. To what end?” The priest consoled himself with the idea she didn’t seem like the type to jump at any opportunity for it, as wilful as she usually was.

“I…” her eyes found the mountains, she focused on gathering her words. “To be able to do what I want.”

“With power comes fame and responsibility-“

“I don’t want fame.”

“Are you sure, Hero of Kvatch? Would you rather be emperor instead of me?” He smiled dryly.

“I do not envy you.” She mirrored the expression. “With power comes attention, good and bad… but I do not care about recognition as much as I desire… freedom. I do not wish to be subservient to anyone. My choices must be my own. I want the power to carve out my own path. I don’t want to be…”

She lowered her gaze. Weak. Unable to act. Unable to fix things. Unable to protect. As she has been on many occasions; recent occasions. The emperor’s assassination. The Grey Prince. It was never enough. Fate was cruel and she wanted no part in it.

“So you desire freedom.”

“Perhaps.” She sighed, flexing her fingers as if to alleviate the awkwardness she felt. “I was never cut out to be a philosopher. I think and then I just… do.”

“Well whatever you do, be careful of how you go about this pursuit of power. And by The Divines, please don’t meddle with daedra.”

“More so than I’m already doing?” The poor joke doesn’t disguise how Avery was unsure to appropriately respond to the genuine pain behind his words.

“Yes, I suppose that's all I can ask.” He deflated, eyes downcast.

They settled into silence until Martin inclined his head towards the heavy set of stone doors.

“It’s cold out and you look like you could use some rest.” He rubbed at the sides of his arms to drive the point home.

Avery mirrored the action, wrinkling her nose.

“Us both with your eyebags.”

“There’s soup.”

“Good. All this introspection has made me famished.”

“Not whatever adventure you’ve just been on?”

“I’ll tell you about it when we’re inside - when I’ve got this aforementioned soup.”

“Fair enough.” He rolled his eyes. “I will hold my enthusiasm.”

The pair hurriedly retreated to the main hall, into the warmth and hushed whispers of Cloud Ruler Temple.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s note: Howdy folks! This has been sitting in my drafts for a while and I figured no good sitting there so I polished it up and posted it! I did write it months ago, having freshly finished oblivion and before retconning a few things about my hero of Kvatch so if there’s an inconsistency I apologise haha. (Also it’s my Hero of Kvatch and I get to sloppily foreshadow someone’s descent into madness.)

[chivalryisalive]

1. Pen (No Paper) - The Mysterium Xarxes

For this project I used a pocket-sized red journal.

In Pen (No Paper), I was tasked with coating an object in the blank ink of a pen that the class was given. I chose to drench a little red journal in the ink that I had because I wanted to symbolize how some of the darkest moments our lives have to offer: are where a lot of our character and understanding of situations comes from. I was robbed in December of 2020 and initially looked upon the misfortune with vengeance, but by further reflecting on the situation instead of acting out of the heat of the moment; I realized it taught me a valuable lesson about not being too trusting of strangers, and to - in that instance - sell my laptop somewhere public and mutual: not at a park, late at night that I hadn’t even known personally.

2. Color: Body and Environment - International Love of the Body

For this segment I used the different poses of my body along with the color and orientation of the FIU campus surroundings.

The basis of “International Love of the Body” was to reflect myself doing poses within and around different structures on campus off of glass doors and other reflective surfaces. I find it fascinating how these reflective surfaces mimic reality, so I demonstrate that by posing between metal pillars, around a mic-speaking device to give off the illusion of wearing a mask, and a lighting screen device looking as if I’m on a merry go round. This project goes to show that the angles by which a picture are taken can change the meaning and direction a perspective can take. What surrounds a person or other objects may alter its interpretation as well.

4. Color: We Call it Brown (I had to include some of the projects out of order because I was unable to add text under the image for #3 - Color Swatch.

I don’t recall this one.

5. Color: Color as Brand as Meme

N/A

6. Camouflage/Dissolve: 10 In-Between Spaces

For this one I used the art room as well the outside area surrounding it.

In this project I scouted the different parts of the room that would be suitable as an in-between space to put my coated cereal box in. I wanted to find a space that met the criteria but also challenged the likes of depth perception and a conventional in-between space.

7. Camoflauge/Dissolve: Process

The process for #7 involved a cereal box along with painting materials used to prime and then coat it in an additional layer of white paint and other colors used to blend the box into the chosen background.

8. Camouflage/Dissolve Final:

The final product, was meant to blend into its background seamlessly. But I took a different approach, and that was to cartoonize the transition between the pipe in the background and the cereal box in front of it.

9. Everyday Monuments - 10 Objects

We were asked to bring 10 everyday objects into class without any context for suspense. Some of the objects I remember bringing along are a mini green fidget spinner, the mysterium xarxes, along with other little trinkets measuring 3 inches or less.

10. Everyday Monuments: Process

I started the process by molding the chicken poultry wire into a finger spinner shape, which was then complicated by the fact that I would have to create a frictionless mechanism for it to spin with. I then opted for a marker design, which I didn't end up finishing because I didn't believe it was an embodiment of my capabilities.

3. Color Swatch - Shadefull

For Shadefull I compared the tones of color on myself with a fallen piece of tree.

With Color Swatch I decided to compare the tones of black, white and “brown” on myself to that of what was on the fallen piece of tree. Both contain natural aspects - besides my shorts; but in different forms. On a deeper note, it speaks to how a person may venerate the same ideals or concepts as say an object in the environment while coming from entirely different places. This ties into the importance of relatability and how it can make a person feel. At least if I were to say the same colors I were wearing in my environment or somewhere else, it would give my clothing - for example - more significance.

[elderstrolls]

Top 2 Things A Silencer Shouldn't Say To Someone They Worked With Once Five Years Ago

[kagrena]

tea

The Mysterium Xarxes. The Mysterium Xarxes. Encrusted in letters that are drawn all over the skin of sacrifice, pages woven of the will of Lord Dagon, rippling with power, ripe with potential, the wounds yet to be carved into Tamriel, “We shall script the divine, through shed blood and cleansing fire –” the words still rattle in your head “–shall be reckoned through the violence of the dawn to come–” that Mysterium Xarxes.

It’s not held sacred in a torrent of fire and rage. Instead, it’s sitting on a stone table, looking small, in this too-long too-wide too-empty temple hall dedicated to some nonsense dragon-god, all-adorned with detailed Akaviri-style carvings of some righteous battle scene whose name has been forgotten by anything except musty historians, sickening and ostentatious next to an unthinkable daedric artefact, a real and dangerous unthinkable daedric artefact, sits cold and small in the hands of the last living drop of the Emperor’s bloodline.

You wonder whether a fiery hand will rise up through its pages and drag you down screaming.

Martin, for his part, appears oblivious to this very real possibility, but you have learnt not to make assumptions on his behalf, not since he tore a scamp straight in half with a firebolt on your winding way up to Bruma. He is busy contemplating. Pausing. Turning a page forwards. Turning a page backwards. Mumbling. Nodding, occasionally. Making an occasional, quick note into a small leather-bound book he can slip in the inside of his robes. Perhaps he is dissecting it carefully. Perhaps he is leafing through it like a borrowed recipe book. You can’t tell. You have circled him twelve times. You have shifted out of your chair. Into the chair. Onto the floor. Into the air. Legs up, hands down. Then back in the direction of gravity. You then circled thirteen times, for extra caution. Each time, you’ve made twelve different patterns in the overly ostentatious and excruciatingly detailed Akaviri-style tiling, which you think depicts the end of the world, or perhaps the sundering of Akatosh, you can’t tell, not even when you squint, what the meaning is. Esoteric akaviri symbolism is not your forte. (Forbidden Daedric magic is your forte). You spin around. You consider, briefly, setting all your hair alight. Then the wobbly feeling scrunching up inside of you lets you breathe for a moment, and you do something rational. You turn to Martin.

“Do you need…. ah, help?” 

“Help, Ysamyne?”

There’s a strangled pause.

“I have a lot of expertise,” you add. “Considerable expertise, in this area, that is.”

Something softens. “Ysamyne, I have no doubt regarding your abilities. But I believe it was you who suggested that this research could be of particular risk to a former–”

“I know. I know – I know – I…” Long sigh. Deep, strenuous breath. Blink rapidly. “I’m just not used to it. Not used to.” You pause. Gesture emptily. Gesture at the way your insides bunch up. Gesture to nothing at all. “This.”

Martin looks towards you, too kindly.

“Ysa–”

“Martin. Is there anything I could do. Literally anything.”

He pauses. Features cross into frown – briefly, before clouding again. “Well, I suppose…” 

“Martin.”

“I wouldn’t want to send you on an errand I could easily do myself, it’s such a menial task–”

“–I don’t care, Martin,” you cut in. “I really. I don’t care.”

He looks at you.

“Ysa, it’s… it’s more of the principle of the thing, I’m not anywhere close to being, well, the Emperor–”

“Martin. Come on. Please.”

Someone swallows. Perhaps it’s you. Something’s stuck in someone’s throat because there’s a silence and it’s too long, before Martin takes a long breath.

“I suppose… well, I suppose, Ysamyne, you could make me a cup of tea.”

You blink.

“A cup of tea.”

“I… Yes? A cup of tea?”

It wasn’t a question. You don’t know why he made it a question. You want to rub at your temples. Why did he need to make this needlessly complicated.

“A cup of tea.” You say it again, quietly. “A cup of tea. Yes. A cup of tea. I can make a cup of tea.”

“Ysamyne. Please. It’s really not necessary, really, I am perfectly capable–”

“I’m going to make you a cup of tea, Martin.”

And you stride towards the kitchen, your back that bit straighter. You are going to make a cup of tea. An excellent cup of tea. You just need – What do you need? Leaves, obviously. Tea comes from a tea plant. You’re not a simpleton. You used to watch Mother, back when she was still trying to drag you by the collar from stopping you squeeze out the hatch for the half dozen crows she kept, brew a pot of tea with a practiced hand, carefully measuring spoonfuls of tea leaves as the water had just stopped to steam, a great delicacy, an alchemist’s artistry. You were an accomplished alchemist yourself, of course, Mother had seen that you had half a dozen recipes for sickly poison reeling through your head before you hit sixteen, and not just nightshade and bloodgrass too, but dragon’s tongue nectar and fresh strawberry leaves and golden apple peel. Which wasn’t helping. You were not trying to poison Martin. Poison was complicated.

A cup of tea? Simplicity. You, however, have a knack for making things extraordinarily complicated. Which works for intricate summoning rituals, less for basic domestic tasks. 

Tea. Simple.

You swing open every cupboard door in the kitchen. It’s all empty, of course, there weren’t even ghosts left in this place. There’s still crumbs of things left in the pantry, though, and that’s where you find a bag of dry leaves stashed in the third left bottom shelf, which you presume is tea, you suppose – you suppose, because you haven’t had a nice hot drink in a long time, haven’t you? Did anyone ever offer to make you a cup of tea? A sobering thought, you think – no, this isn’t the time to think, you have a task at hand. 

You look at the bag. Dry. Measly. Withering. You take a bite of one, just in case it’s something else, and it’s awfully bitter, and not much else. You decide this has to be tea. Mother would have drunk nothing else – nothing, except perhaps the tears of her sworn enemies, so she claimed – a dark jest, you had thought, but trust mother to be serious about idle threats of vengeance, especially about tea. You don’t recall her drinking anything else. You don’t recall her eating much of anything, actually – it strikes you, perhaps she skipped her meals to make more for you, to make sure you weren’t ever in hunger? Starve herself for an ungrateful weed to grow –

You bite your lip. It’s dry, and it almost bleeds, in the cold.

You think you understand the next stage. You need a pestle and mortar. A mortar and pestle. And you need water, and it needs to be hot, and you set a blue flame alight beneath a rusted kettle, and while it begins to whistle you begin to grind, but how much should you grind, and where do you put the leaves – there’s a filter, but does it sit above to soak, and your water is bubbling and that’s good and you wonder whether it was three minutes or five your mother left for the tea to brew, perhaps it’s different based on if the water is hot enough but if it isn’t hot enough will there be enough flavour, you don’t want it to be tasteless, your water is bubbling out of the spout and boiling over and maybe yes perhaps you should leave it to soak – yes, you need to leave it to soak, it’ll stop it from being too dry, so you pick up the leaves – the water’s on the floor and it’s scalding – and – and – you ground the leaves too finely and it’s all slipped through and you’re there – fretting, trying to pick out bits of leaves from scalding water because you don’t even know how to make a stupid cup of tea, you imbecile, you utter fool, you stupid – to Oblivion with this – 

You freeze the pot. You freeze the pot until it’s ice the whole way through. And the pot shatters. 

Shit.

You sit on the floor for a minute. Your burned fingers running through your hair, wet.

You’ve made a complete mess out of everything, haven’t you, Ysa?

Ysa. Martin’s name for you, you’re using. It sounds wrong, the way it rumbles in your head, though.

Ysamyne.

Something quick and flung-together to throw away after used, a nonsense name, an impossible person. But he kept on to it, though. Held onto every syllable. 

It sounds wrong, the way it rumbles in your head. So cold. 

When you pull yourself up, so that you’re just about standing, you begin melt what’s left until it’s warm enough, and you dump what you can gather of the leaves in another pot. It hardly matters now, and you know you want it to taste of something rather than nothing, so you suppose, well, ten minutes, if the water’s cooler, it needs more time to steep, surely. You know that’s stupid, and wrong. You don’t care. You’ll heat it up at the end.

It doesn’t matter.

You offer Martin tea, from hot to cold to hot again, in this little grey cup and saucer that you’d found at the back of this cupboard along with a bunch of dusty tableware which might as well been from the Reman dynasty. Crumbling antiques. Perhaps it’ll taste of dead history. Or perhaps it’ll taste of nothing at all. 

He takes the cup, and sips it. There’s a pause.

“Ysamyne, this is rather… well, it’s bracing.”

If Martin has noticed the scalding on your fingers, or how much you’re trying to hold in all that damned shaking you’ve started doing, he’s kept it all to himself. 

“It’s... not too bland?” 

“Oh, no,” he says. “No. Definitely not bland. Rather far from bland.”

You nod. “Well. That’s good, then.” 

You don’t – you’re not sitting down. You’re standing there – like you’re waiting. Except – you’re not waiting for anything. And you’re trying not to shake but you’re still shaking, still, in your fingers and your boots and your smile you’ve tried to stitch-on here, paste onto your face like it’s not all a stinking disaster, is all lop-sided and there is something wrong, something very wrong, you think, with you, and you’re thankful you’re not holding the tea-cup because you think it would shatter, shatter –

“Ysamyne?”

A hand almost touches your shoulder, but it’s a touch too hesitant. It hovers, uncertain.

“Ysamyne, you don’t – it’s – it’s just a cup of tea – it’s – um, I’m not very good with this, with... um.”

“Martin.”

“Yes?”

“Just... let me lean on your shoulder. But don’t look. Don’t let anyone look.”

You begin to spill. You begin to spill over and flood the floor and part of you wants it to be loud and thunderous, a storm of yourself, all the wind and all the rain, howling –

– but really, you’re barely more than a girl, who hasn’t yet learned how not to cry. It’s an ugly, wretched sight.

He doesn’t even take a glance. But he does wrap an arm around you eventually, holding on just gently, but just firmly enough, as you cry into his shoulder.

——

(“We’ll make another cup. Promise. I’m actually not bad with tea, myself. I could even show you how.”

“Oh, piss off.”

It tastes delicious, of course.)

——

< Prev | Directory | Next >

[foulserpent]

one cool idea i had that also goes a long way towards justifying my oblivion timeline taking like, a year from kvatch to the ending. is that the mysterium xarxes ritual is actually a gruellingly long and methodical affair that requires MONTHS to fully accomplish 

so like every night youre doing some fun chanting and sigil drawing and bloodletting with the lads and etc

[nightingaletrash]

I had a super random thought that is seriously unlikely to ever play out but...

what if in the Q4 DLC/Epilogue questline, it’ll turn out that we need Four Ambitions to stop Dagon and the Vestige is made one to make up for Destron’s death? we know that the Vestige has often needed artefacts of great power to defeat their more powerful enemies - the Lights of Meridia to destroy the Planar Vortex, the Amulet of Kings to stop Molag Bal, Dawnbreaker to stop Nocturnal Namira, the Mask of Alkosh to stop Kaalgrontiid etc - and while we have the Mysterium Xarxes off the bat, the Xarxes is more often the way to accomplish the means to the end, like reaching Camoran’s Paradise to retrieve the Amulet of Kings, and to allow Calia and Sombren to make Vandacia vulnerable to being killed.

So what if, in Q4, we discover that having the three remaining Ambitions isn’t enough. We need a fourth to stop Dagon’s plans for good. Sombren uses the Xarxes and discovers the ritual that turns a person into an Ambition, and the Vestige is the ideal candidate because of their Oblivion Weirdness. There’s added risk of giving Dagon exactly what he needs, and there’s a chance the ritual could go wrong, and they would need to gain the power to imbue in the Vestige, but things could be desperate enough that they’re willing to try ala making deals with Clavicus Vile and Mephala in Summerset.

again, I know this is all Super unlikely and we won’t know anything for certain until we’ve seen some of the Q4 DLC and met the Fox, but I like writing about my random ideas. If I’m right, awesome, if not, it was a fun idea to toy with.

[sigil-stone]

i see dad!martin au, and i raise you: kid!hok.

maybe they’re not like, a kid kid. maybe they’re, pre-to-early teens.

there’s lots of ways for a kid to get in trouble, especially in the city. it’s no wonder they ended up in prison, really.

then, in comes uriel, who sees this kid, realizes they have the fate of tamriel in their hands, and just very quietly goes.

“well. fuck.”

main quest proceeds as normal - uriel dies, hok has the amulet, kvatch is attacked.

they tell salvian matius they want to help close the gate. salvian tells them to get back to camp, it’s far too dangerous. Local Child Proceeds To Race Into Oblivion Gate, Somehow Doesn’t Die

once they’re at the temple, martin is fiercely protective of them, often trying to ensure that someone else goes instead of them - of course, the hero gets sent anyway

but, oh boy. if you think martin’s protective of them ...

they hear someone doubting martin’s place as heir and proceed to nearly stab them.

maybe the hero’s parents are alive and well! martin writes to them as often as he can, assuring them that their child is in safe hands ( even when he doubts it himself )

or maybe the hero’s an orphan. in which case, martin immediately begins to fill that role

baurus teaches them how to fight!

baurus also fills the role of a parental figure -- he and martin have a time trying to calm down the whirlwind of chaos that is the hok, though

the hero gets in arguments with jauffre. a lot.

when they have to infiltrate the mythic dawn, it’s ... surprisingly easy for them

they try to read the mysterium xarxes. martin is, appropriately, horrified.

when they get in trouble, baurus confiscates their weapons (or spellbooks if they’re a mage)

they plead with martin to get them back

.... this is just a martin x baurus parenting au.

[druidx]

The Argument

Context: Martin feels useless, trapped in Cloud Ruler Temple. Genderless!HoK is feeling their mortality, and how little they matter in the grand scheme. Everyone is tired and at the end of their tethers. This results in explosions. This doesn't really have anything to do with anything aside from my desire to write a steaming argument. It might get a comfort follow-up if I feel like it. (Read on AO3)

Warnings: Lots of shouting; referenced injury

"I just wish..." Martin sighed, pausing while wrapping a bandage around my arm to rub his eyes with a wrist.

"What? What do you wish?" I snapped. I was so tired I couldn't think straight. My skin buzzed and stung with every movement. I'd run out of healing potions, had no time to make more or been near anywhere to buy. There hadn't been any good campsites either for me to rest and regenerate magicka. And dear Martin had simply sighed then got to work when I showed up broken and bleeding, deep cuts held together with strips of stolen curtain fabric and a splint of rotted crate planks. He'd exhausted his magic too in fixing me up, resorting to bandages and dressings. So here we were, sat astride the same bench in Cloud Ruler's Great Hall, running on whatever dregs come after fumes.

He finished tying off a bandage and sat back, his expression peeved. "I just wish you'd be more careful." I choked out a laugh. "You think this is me not being careful?" "Well, it would be nice, for once, if you weren't bleeding out when you returned to the Temple." He pursed his lips, frowning at me with an air of one biting his tongue. I knew I shouldn't ask. The minute, sensible part of my brain was begging me to let it go, to curl up in my nest by the great fire and just go to sleep. Asking could only bring disaster... But since when have I ever listened to my own advice? "What is it?" I asked. He shook his head, lank locks coming loose from his hastily tied ponytail. "No, please," I said, that still functioning part of my brain wincing how sarcastic it came out. "Do regale me with whatever words of wisdom you wish to impart about my process trying not to die." He raised his eyebrows at me, chin tucked down. In response, I tilted my head, raising my eyebrows expectantly. "Very well," Martin said, his tone clearly telling me I'd asked for it. "I was merely considering suggesting that the next time you leave, perhaps I should accompany you-" My eyes grew wide. "No!" "If you'd allow me to finish-" I reared back. "Absolutely not! That is-" "It is a reasonable suggestion-" "It's the height of foolishness!" I said, standing to pace. He twisted on the bench to follow my irate movements. "If you cannot keep yourself healthy-" "You are not leaving here." "Yes, because here in my gilded cage I'm doing so much good!" Martin said, giving a flip of the hand. "It's too dangerous-" "I can look after-" "You can't. You don't know what it's like-" His voice rose. "How could I, when you don't tell me-" "It doesn't matter!" I yelled. "I am expendable!" Martin sat back hard, his spine hitting the table, a horrified expression on his face. "How dare you-" he tried to rally, but I rounded on him. "You are irreplaceable. You are the only one with the blood of Kings. You are the only one who can read that stupid gods-forsaken book!" I waved to where the Mysterium Xarxes sat on his desk. "Don't tell me you haven't thought of it. I am replaceable. If I let you go out there and you die on my watch, then it's all over. The world ends. If I die, another Blade steps into my place and nothing would change." "That's not-" "And if it bothers you so much, next time I won't come back bloodied. I'll go find someone else!" Hurt flickered across his face, but I was stalking out before it registered.

[yffresbeard]

If you still want asks, can you tell me what the everloving fuck was up with Pelinal Whitestreak?

Pelinal Whitestrake was an elf-hating cyborg from the future who ended up in Alessia’s time and became her general in the Alessian Rebellion against the Ayleids. He loved to murder elves as hard as he could, at the battle of Sancre Tor he shouted out Reman Cyrodiil’s name 2500 years before he existed, he was maybe gay or Alessia’s lover depending on who you ask and Morihaus sometimes talked to his severed head. Believed to be a Shezarrine but also associated w/ Akatosh.

If you require a “why”, just remember that this dude was born of the same mind that brought us Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes and also the 36 Sermons of Vivec so that’s why everything about him is entirely incomprehensible.

Send me a TES topic and I’ll talk about it. Or maybe meme.  

[nirnrootemporium]

The Priest’s Day

I don’t usually go in for modern AUs, but I was inspired by this art by @denythem , so here’s a little modern one shot!

At one time, what felt like an age ago, the soft, hooting cries of the mourning dove were pleasant to Martin’s ears in the first gold of day. Now they grated on him, like the cruel mechanical shrill of an alarm clock. He sat up slowly, letting the bed sheet fall from his chest. He couldn’t have had more than two hours of sleep. The Mysterium Xarxes was eating at him and he knew it. Indeed, he did want to decipher all the pieces needed to recover the Amulet of Kings, but there was something more sinister at work. He felt... obsessed with the thing. It called out to him in the night like a coquettish lover, tantalizing him with unspoken promises and ancient temptations.

He reached out to the bed side table for his phone. He only had a few notifications: two canned emails from mailing lists and a text from his bank about his account balance. Apparently, discovering oneself to be the long lost heir to the throne didn’t have any immediate monetary benefits. There was still no word from the Hero of Kvatch. They’d been gone for two weeks now and hadn’t contacted anyone at Cloud Ruler Compound in that time. Martin hadn’t lost hope yet, though he couldn’t be sure the Blades felt the same way. He’d heard their whispered conversations. While they all seemed to respect this hero who’d just appeared from nowhere, there was also a general sentiment of resentment. Why did this untrained stranger get sent out on the mission of a lifetime? Many wondered if the hero would even make it back alive.

He rose, feeling the slick, cool hardwood beneath is feet, and stretched his arms tiredly over his head, cracking and popping his joints. He felt a twinging pain in his left shoulder and carefully lowered his arms so as not to aggravate it further. An old injury from his days in the cult of Sanguine. That was a time he didn’t particularly enjoy thinking about, but still remained in the echoes and shadows of his every day life. Maybe someday his old sins would truly disappear into his past.

He dressed distantly, his mind disconnected from his body. As he wrapped the white band of fabric around his neck under the collar of his shirt, he wondered if anyone of the cloth had ever felt less like a priest than he did right now. He wasn’t helping his parishioners or spreading the word of the Nine, he was handling a dangerous daedric artifact that even he was barely able to keep from consuming him. This was not where his life was set to go, at least not by his own estimation.

As always, when he stepped out of his room, he was a little taken aback by the heavily armed and armored guard keeping watch at his door. The Blade carrying some kind of military-style rifle nodded at him politely and Martin forced a dim smile in return. He’d learned to distrust law enforcement over the years. Many of his parishioners had been brutalized by those meant to protect them, and though Martin was no lawyer, he’d found himself too often in the position of representing those who’d been wrongfully arrested. As for the watchmen in his congregation? He tried to remain neutral. After all, it was not his place to pass judgment, but he couldn’t quite understand how one could be both an enforcer of unjust laws and a person of faith to gods of mercy.

As he walked to the entrance hall, his thoughts were on those he’d preached to. How many had survived the siege? Did old Elenai make it out, even with his bad leg? How many children, whose sweet foreheads he’d anointed with oil and blessings at their births, had died horrific deaths? Lehan was a fast runner. He hoped she’d managed to escape with her baby sister in her arms at least.

Martin gritted his teeth as he settled himself at his table. These thoughts would get him nowhere, and he was likely to never find out what had happened to those he knew. Even though dealing with daedric evil felt to him the very antithesis to the oaths and vows he’d taken as a priest, he was helping his people still. With this work, he was avenging the deaths of his siblings, of the faithful and unfaithful alike.

He felt the presence of Baurus behind him and he nodded slightly, offering him a muted greeting, which Baurus returned politely. He reached out to open the Xarxes with a sickening mixture of animal dread, desire, and weariness. He felt as though he was allowing himself to be slowly burned alive merely by touching the thing. The hero of Kvatch must have the gods themselves inside them to have carried it all the way to Cloud Ruler with no apparent ill effects.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. Grateful for any kind of reason to put off the day’s torture, he slid it out and checked the message. It was from the hero. “I’m here,” it read. Just as he read the words, the great door at the far end of the room flew open, and there they stood, dirty and battered, but alive, and clutching a staff with cruel familiarity to him. It was a daedric artefact, and would work perfectly well, but the sight of it brought back too many unpleasant memories... the Sanguine Rose.

He stood slowly, really feeling his age. The hero entered quickly, almost at a light jog.

“Will this work?” they said, extending to him the staff. Martin exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Yes. Thank you. You have managed a great feat in retrieving this, and again in giving it up.” He took it gingerly and immediately set it down on the table, feeling from the moment he touched the thorny wood its ancient seduction. “Please hero, take a seat. You deserve a rest.” Martin lowered himself into his own chair as the hero lithely slid onto a seat across from him. They gazed at each other. “It’s good to see you again.” They smiled tiredly.

“You too. Do you have the next item deciphered?” Martin sighed.

“Nearly. I think I’ll need the rest of today to get through it. You should take that time at least to rest and recover from your journey, my friend.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing for me to do? I don’t like just sitting around for any amount of time.” He frowned, leaning forward towards them.

“I want you to come back alive,” he said firmly, “and if you are to do that, you must be properly healed and rested. Now get some sleep.”

“Well...  alright. I’ll see you later. Good luck with the Xarxes.” They rose and headed off to the barracks. Martin stared at the empty chair they’d been sitting in and wished dully that he could join them.

[ceasarslegion]

Martin Septim: If you so much as look at the Mysterium Xarxes, you will become evil. I have trained for many years to be able to withstand such a terrible book.

My HOK, staring at it for hours on end, not knowing what the fuck it means: the evil won't get me because I can't read it

[powerovernothing]

(A window into another time best left abandoned, another life filled with countless regret, and a moment not long before fate’s cruel hands brought forth an unbearable tragedy to unprepared shoulders. Part one of two.)

"Korbin, my dearest friend?" Martin calls in a voice just barely above a whisper as Korbin quickly slams down a wooden board to barricade the Temple of the One's main door from the threat of those that linger just outside in near unending throngs. He stands from where he had been kneeling against the concrete and calls to his younger brother more fervently in an attempt to gain his attention.

When at last he does, and Korbin turns to eye Martin curiously in regard to the sudden term of endearment being used, a tender smile crosses over the Emperor's lips that causes Korbin's heart to sink into his boots.

"...I know what I am about to say will be hard for you to understand, to accept, but even so, I need you to listen to me just this once."

However, Korbin merely step back, and away from Martin in the instant that he speaks. Because the smile that he carries is familiar, so very familiar, and he knows what it means. He knows exactly what it means, he knows what will be said, he knows what Martin will do without even having to state it aloud, and he didn't think such a thing would happen again, not this quickly, not at all, because he promised it wouldn't, he promised him, he–

"Although, before I think to do any of that, I want you to come here..."

Martin moves forward and wrap his arms around the back of Korbin's leather armor, as he brings him into a tender embrace. Just as he often thought to give to him whenever they were together in the aftermath of stealing the Mysterium Xarxes directly underneath Mankar Camoran's nose, just as he thought to give to him during that terrible, awful night when he hardly managed to make it into the main hall of a makeshift home before collapsing into a shameful heap when Lucien had perished because of his own lack of vision.

He remembers the comfort he didn't deserve, the promises that the two of them made about earning victory over the Crisis together, how he swore upon his life never to lose one brother in the same way he had lost the other, and would prove himself worthy to carry the title of the Emperor's Hero.

But now… Martin's touch is soft, and loving, and it resonates everything that Korbin always associated with Martin as he sinks into his arms, but he knows too well that it will not last – the laughter will turn to silence, his smile will fade just out of the corner of his vision, the affection will come to an end and in its place will be no more than a bitter emptiness – and suddenly every touch, every reassurance, is doing nothing more than ripping him further and further asunder.

Korbin latches onto Martin's shoulders in desperation and hears himself give into his barely contained sorrow. It was always easier with Martin, he could always be more open, more honest with his vast emotions than he could have ever been with any other soul.

"No, no... no, please. You can't do this, Martin," Korbin manages to choke out as the pain strangles his voice and the tears cloud his vision. He hears the screams, he hears the Daedra, he hears the dying around him, but all he cares about in this moment is his brother. His brother who is about to leave him. Just like Lucien did. And he will be alone.

Alone once again, and it will be all his fault.

He should have never brought him to the palace, they should have never gone to the city, they should have chosen to go to some other part of Cyrodiil instead, just as they had when they were venturing towards Weynon Priority together, they should have, they should have–

"Whatever you are thinking of doing, whatever you are about to try, you just... no, no! You can't stand there and believe that this is the only way! It can't be! There has to be something, anything, I–" He tries to pull back, but Martin holds him firmly in his arms. Somehow the touch makes Korbin's shoulders tremble, and suddenly he feels like a child again.

Lost and alone, the only comforts he ever dared to even remotely consider his safety stripped away, stolen away, gone, gone, gone, and leaving him drowning within the currents of a bitter nightmare.

But maybe, just maybe, if he squeezed Martin tightly enough, if he held him in his arms for a moment more, just one moment more, then perhaps he would wake up before it was too late. Perhaps he would awaken, and the Crisis would be over. Perhaps if he called out to those who had never bothered to listen to him before, perhaps they would dare to offer pity just this once.

Perhaps he will open his eyes, and Martin will be safe. Back in Cloud Ruler Temple, back at his desk in the middle of the grand hall, and reading one of those utterly confusing books far too late into the night, and then laughing in amusement when Korbin thought to sneak up behind him, and attempt to read over his shoulder.

Maybe then... he wouldn't break the very instant that Martin thought to pull away from their shared embrace.

As the thought crosses his mind, Korbin lets out a sudden loud sob and buries his head against Martin's shoulder.

"Just let it be me," He mutters in a desperate, oh-so naïve plea; hoping that Martin would hear him and somehow would agree. "Please, just let me do something right for once..."

And yet, Martin merely continues to smile. Running a slow, tender hand over the back of his friend's back in an attempt to soothe his cries, and then reaches the other up to bury it underneath the messy locks of grey that characterized Korbin’s hair. He knows that Korbin would not see his face as he performed such an action, and he is thankful. For he knows that, if he had, he would see his barely held back tears, and that would only make this so much harder in the end.

Martin breathes in, summoning as much composure as he can muster, and speaks above the horrors that echo outside the Temple of the One's walls.

The Daedra that run rampant, and chases down another helpless life that had no idea that such a night would be their last, the mangled, dying screams of innocent people – his innocent people – that he is unable to protect in the way a true Emperor should, and his and his brother's own heartbreak over the situation they have now found themselves in.

"I won't ask you not to weep, as I know what it is you must be feeling," He tells him gently, and does his best to hide his now falling tears in Korbin's hair. He will not break, he cannot; for if he does, he will falter, and he knows that his people, his loved ones need him to be strong.

"And I know that, you must truly loathe me for what it is I am about to do, but... even so, and as my final comfort to you, please understand that above all else...I truly valued our friendship together."

His voice cracks as he speaks the genuine, honest words, and he hears Korbin let out another sob in response. It's too late now, this needs to be said, it must be said, if only so that his friend will have something to remember him by, and not the pain, or the suffering that came both before, and what will surely come long after.

He pulls back, and touches both of his hands to Korbin's face, and slowly brushes his thumbs against his cheeks. "The time that we spent together throughout this terrible Crisis, when we found each other, and walked together as brothers... it was a gift. It was a wonderful gift, and no matter how short it was, or how many more moments we would have wanted to share together, in the end..."

He laughs weakly, and then allows his tears to fall, even as he continues to wipe away Korbin's own.

"It still meant more to me than you will ever know. It was a comfort in my truly darkest hours. You were – no, no, you most certainly are – a comfort, a blessing, and this alone is why I must do this," He adds firmly, and then softens once again when Korbin reaches to grasp his hands with his own. "For I cannot stand by and watch someone I love die to Dagon's merciless hand ever again."

And when Martin is done speaking his peace, when he begins to pull his hands away from Korbin's face, and Korbin lets another whisper fall from his lips. Begging him once more to not do to this, to let it be him, almost as though it is the only thing on his mind, and the only thing that he can manage during the nightmare they are both in – and yet is about to finally, at last, come to an end – he only shakes his head with the same gentle smile as before.

A silent answer of no, and I'm sorry at the same time, and suddenly Korbin is thrown back into the cruelest of realities, and far from the loving arms that held him together as everything began to crumble at his feet.

The reality in which he loses both of his beloved brothers – his family, his only family, the only ones that truly cared about him in this selfish world – to his own choices, his own foolish, so very utterly foolish mistakes.

Because he left Lucien when he surely needed him the most, and he should have stayed, he should have lingered for another moment more, just one moment more, he should have taken him at his side, and went to locate the traitor together, and he didn't, he didn't, and it was too late, and now... it is happening again.

Because he walked Martin to the Temple of the One, he barricaded the door, and he is unable to get him to listen, to understand, and he doesn't know why this keeps happening. He wants a second chance, he wants a do over, he wants to start again, and make it better somehow, but he can't, and he's trapped.

Trapped, numb, silent, and standing in shock like the worthless bastard that he is.

"Please, don't leav--" He begins to say, begins to scream, and reaches out his hand in the vain hope that he will latch onto his brother's robing and pull him back. To pull him into his arms, or toss him behind him, or force him to the ground so that he might take his place.

But as he attempts to do so, to finish his words, to beg him not to leave him alone... suddenly the Temple of the One's very walls begin to shake, begins to crack, and the roof above them both begins to crumble and fall around him.

How fitting a metaphor, how very fitting.

And yet even though he wants to laugh at such cruel irony and hope that perhaps he will be fortunate enough to have one of the pieces fall over him and grant him the mercy he so dearly desires and follow Martin wheresoever he will go – hoping that, perhaps, Lucien will be waiting there for them both in the end – he still steps back.

Taking his eyes off his brother for one moment, for one single moment, as the dust from the concrete slabs rise and cloud his vision, and is met with the cruel, monstrous eyes of Mehrunes Dagon himself.

The Daedra Prince of Destruction sneers down at him, as though his presence isn’t worth consideration – and truly why would it be to such a being – and then just as quickly as his eyes fell upon him, his attention is pulled away, and focused upon something else entirely.

Something else far more important.

Korbin flickers his gaze, following Dagon’s own, and hears shattering glass as his eyes meet, and he feels his heart fracturing in pieces along with the Amulet of Kings in Martin's hand. He tries to move forward, he tries to reach his brother, but flames envelope around the surface of where the Dragonfires should have been, and he quickly rises his arms in an attempt to shield his face from the heat.

He hears a cry of pain pulled from Martin’s throat, and he wishes for nothing more than to have the strength to move through the flames. To reach Martin, and pull him away, to pull him to safety, just as he did in Kvatch when they first met. And yet, despite his wishes, despite his hopes for some alternate outcome, some different choice, his feet simply refuse to move, and he does not understand.

If he was able to scour the very depths of Oblivion itself so very long ago, and pay no heed to the flame, the smoke, and the death surrounding him as he did so, why not now? Why can he not breach the barrier of flame, and change the tides of fate itself as Camoran thought him capable of?

Why does he remain in place, watching the sight before him without acting somehow? Why does he do nothing expect watch as Martin slowly fades from view, and from his life?

"Give me your hand!" Korbin suddenly cries out, the only thing he is capable of doing in such a weak, useless state of being, and yet in the moment he moves even an inch forward and attempts to reach his hand into the fires, Martin turns his head – as the flames dance over his body, and shift into a bright, far too bright, white light – and addresses Korbin in a fading voice.

"Forgive me, my beloved brother," He says, and smiles again, and it's too soft, too tender, and it makes Korbin's knees buckle, and causes him to collapse to the floor below. Still reaching, still hoping, yet ultimately all in vain.

"But, will you do for me one final honor? Will you promise that... when you look upon the first light of a new day, you will think to remember me?"

[dankar-camoran]

Your man, Mankar Cameron for the ask game!

I mean, everybody knew this is who I wanted asked of me most of all but THAT DOESN’T MAKE ME ANY LESS EXCITED TO ANSWER

How I feel about this character: Pretty obvious that he is my all-time favorite cult leader in all of TES (and we all know that’s not exactly a narrow category). Funnily enough, all my headcanons and opinions about him stemmed initially from me trying to reconcile Lore Inconsistencies regarding him being an Altmer when The Refugess said his mom was a Bosmer. Big shout out to Bethesda writers not knowing their shit, I wouldn’t be here without them.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: His WIFE (my OC), Ruma, who he named his daughter after when she died in childbirth, and who he dedicated part of the Mythic Dawn Commentaries to.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: Does Mehrunes Dagon count, or is that too easy? Considering all the communing that the two of them have done, he’s gotta be the mortal who comes the closest to ever truly understanding him, and he may even have some insights that could help Meridia out in connecting with him, in a whole “My Son doesn’t tell me anything, can you tell me why the hell he does some of the things he does?” kind of way.

My unpopular opinion about this character: Not unpopular as in “controversial” so much as “not all that talked about” but he’s gotta be the most successful villain out of all the TES games. He killed the emperor, set off the Oblivion Crisis, and after that, while he wasn’t planning to die, his death wasn’t the end of it: Dagon still broke down the barriers between realms, necessitating Martin’s sacrifice, and destabilizing the Empire and the whole of Mundus afterwards. Not bad for a non-God non-Dragon who can’t remember which Prince goes with which Plane.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: More explanation for what the hell was going on in his Paradise with his followers getting tortured in perpetuity. There’s his vague line he has about them being “tempered for a higher destiny: to rule over Tamriel Reborn” but other than that, it just feels like the writers telling us “You can tell he’s an Evil Overlord because he tortures his followers!!” I headcanon it as being more Dagon’s fault that Mankar’s, and that Mankar is cool with it largely because he’s extremely indoctrinated by that point, and all his messing with the Mysterium Xarxes and the Razor and other things has done a number on his mind, to the point where it’s not difficult for Mehrunes to convince him to do anything, no matter how odd.

[thiievesguild]

Hiya, if you're still doing these 100 ways to say I love you thingys, would you mind doing 7 and/or 57 for martin/emrys? :D -sleepingrathersoundly

thank u so much for sending this in even if it did wind up sitting in my inbox for like. 6 months on end ghfjdhgfd @sleepingrathersoundly

ao3 mirror / ‘100 ways to say i love you’ prompt list

Martin was no stranger to night terrors and the sorts of dreams that only left him wanting to drink to forget - his whole life he’d been plagued by them, and now that he had an understanding of his real parentage he had a feeling that was something of a clue as to why - but his mind had been even less kind to him than usual, and that was saying something, since Kvatch. Worse still since he began translating the Mysterium Xarxes. At this rate, just one thing after another, he genuinely wondered if he’d ever get a good night’s rest again.

    What time it was he couldn’t say - only that it was dark out, hours yet from the dawn at least, and though Emrys had made him retire that night earlier than he was used to, he felt like he might as well have gotten no rest at all. But a heavy body and heavier eyelids weren’t near enough to lull him back to sleep - a mind heavier still made sure of it, and when he got tired of laying there fruitlessly, mind reeling with scenes of Kvatch replaying over and over, the stench of smoke and burning flesh brought fresh again to his mind, he finally swung his heavy body out of the fine Emperor’s bed and sighed at its edge.

    His first instinct was to drink to forget and hopefully nurse himself back to sleep with something strong and burning. And then a rush of shame and anger with himself quickly followed that instinct; for years he’d been sober, since he left Sanguine’s service - since even before he took up the cloth - and it wouldn’t do to go breaking that streak now.

    But an empty room was doing him no favors either. Maybe the Blades weren’t exactly the company he had in mind, but it was better than toiling alone. And somewhere in the kitchen there had to be something a little less hard than a stiff drink that could lull him back to sleep.

    Martin didn’t expect to find his own knight sitting at the table in the main hall of the temple.

    “What are you doing up?” Martin asked softly; no gentleness in his voice could keep Emrys from nearly jumping out of his skin.

    “I…” As he struggled for the right words, Emrys looked remarkably like a child caught in the act of something he shouldn’t have been. But as the surprise faded from his face, and he forced himself to look away, weariness and heartache and - if Martin squinted - guilt, even, were all that were left, and Emrys just looked tired. He’d only just returned that evening, so that would be fair, but it was more than the bone-deep weariness of the road that he’d carried in with him. It was deeper than that, heavy bags of sleeplessness under his eyes, dark hair toussled and unrestrained curtaining down his shoulders, despair in green eyes duller than Martin remembered them.

    Emrys stared down at his flaggon for a long while - he’d had that same first instinct as Martin, it seemed, without the same reservations in acting on it. “Couldn’t sleep,” he answered eventually. “I… dreamed about you.”

    Maybe if Martin didn’t know better he’d prod. But the weight on Emrys’ shoulders and in his voice told him enough.

    “I couldn’t sleep either,” was all Martin replied, but his tone carried understanding, an intimate kind, that told Emrys enough, too.

    Martin crossed the stone floor of the hall quietly and found a place at the table across from Emrys, sagging into the chair with heavy shoulders of his own.

    “Can I get you anything?” Emrys asked; no exhaustion was enough to betray his duty, it seemed.

    “I don’t drink,” Martin reminded gently.

    “No, I know, but I meant-” Emrys floundered, just for a beat, but it took a moment before he resigned and settled on, “anything.”

    Martin only smiled. “No, my friend. I wouldn’t ask anything of you right now, not when you’re as exhausted as I am.”

    Emrys shifted almost uneasily - like he didn’t like that response, and Martin knew there was a deep-seated part of him that hated to be told to take care of himself when his lord needed tending to, or so he perceived - but any protests he kept to himself, for once, and for that Martin was thankful.

    “How much sleep did you get?” Martin asked, breaking the long silence that had settled between them. Emrys shrugged.

    “A few hours. I couldn’t say.” There was an undertone of not nearly enough to it. Judging by the fact that his flaggon was nearly empty, it had been even less than Martin. 

    He frowned softly. “That won’t do. Not with how rough it is to sleep on the road.”

    Emrys shrugged again, almost half-heartedly, and gestured with his flaggon. “This’ll put me to sleep just fine, I figure. I’ll be alright.”

    The prospect of being left alone when Emrys left - more than that, sending himself to bed alone - with nothing to keep him from toiling in his own thoughts really settled in then, dread coming with it. Emrys was a distraction. No, that wasn’t fair - he was a comfort. And he was someone Martin cared about enough to hate the idea of sending him off alone with all of his mind’s burdens, too.

    “The bed in the Emperor’s quarters must be far nicer than the one they afford you,” Martin remarked. Emrys caught his meaning - or at least, part of it - right away, straightening with surprise.

    “No, I’m- I’m not putting you out of your own bed,” Emrys replied firmly. There wouldn’t have been any room to argue about it, if that had been what Martin had meant. But the priest laughed.

    “There’s room enough for two,” he insisted, and tried not to laugh again at the way Emrys’ cheeks flushed and the knight floundered with realization.

    “I’d hate to inconvenience you.”

    “And I’d hate to be alone,” Martin replied, sobering considerably, his tone now remarkably grave. “I… have scarcely slept well since Kvatch,” he admitted, and looked away, like the pity in the knight’s gaze was too much. He could still see Emrys’ frown deepen out of the corner of his eye. “And the Mysterium Xarxes has been a heavy burden to translate.”

    “I’m sorry.” Emrys’ tone was heavier still with the weight of unspoken words, of the guilt he carried for failing to retrieve the Amulet of Kings in the first place - an apology not just for the fact that Martin was forced to carry the burden of translating it, but for the fact that, in Emrys’ eyes, it was his fault that it was even a burden to carry. And it was an apology, somewhere in there deep down, Martin knew, for the fact that he’d been dragged into all this in the first place.

    “When all of this is over,” Martin assured, “it will have been worth it.” And without really thinking about it, his hand went for Emrys’, resting on the table beside his flaggon, his fingers curling around ones worn and calloused. Whether it was for the knight’s comfort or his own, he couldn’t rightly say.

    “I’ll stay with you,” Emrys replied softly, voice scarcely more than a hoarse whisper. Tonight, Martin told himself was the unspoken word at the end of that sentence, despite the way his heart picked up at the tone in the knight’s voice that said forever.