#tinoryn/henon

[kettlequills]

the burning fire within

Henon's shirt rips while he is cutting wood. He takes it to Tinoryn to be mended.

My entry for TES Fest 21, prompts family and apotheosis. CW: referenced character death, fantastic racism - it’s set in Windhelm, you know the drill. I also wrote this in about an hour at 2am last night so, uh, enjoy. On A03 here.

Henon Virith was angry. Nothing new, that. He hefted the axe over his shoulder and brought it down with a satisfying crack. Two neat halves of firewood fell away to collapse perfectly onto the growing stack either side of the chopping stump. He swung the axe again.      Crack.    Again.      Crack. 

He could do this with his eyes closed. Sometimes he did, imagining sneering Windhelm guards under the axe’s blade. Imagined he’d found the insincere bastard that had come swaggering into the Grey Quarter one day, to inform    Henon his mother had been ‘found dead’.

 “Hunting accident, looks like, no sign of her partner,” the guard had said. Had the temerity to look at Henon softly. Henon remembered the words like they’d been burned into his soul.

 “My-”      Crack.     “-condolences-”      Crack.     “-lad.”      Crack.  

 Three more logs joined their split fellows. He rolled his neck until it cracked and kicked the piles in just the right spot to have them topple down neatly so it looked like he stacked them. Another log went on the stump.

 Henon had anger enough to fuel him for years.

 His next chop was powerful enough that his axe stuck into the chopping stump. Helon grunted. Placing one foot on the stump, he grabbed the axe handle and yanked. The burning muscles in his shoulders bunched under his shirt. He tugged, once, twice, then heaved as hard as he could. With a crunching rip, his shirt tore across the shoulders. The axe came loose.

 Henon bit down on his knuckled fist and the molten fury that ignited the sleeping fire in his body. Deliberately, he lowered the axe onto the stump. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled slowly through his gritted teeth, tried to remember the breathing exercises the Priestess had taught him last winter to control his anger. Henon inhaled, exhaled.

 Once. Twice. Three times.

 In his mind’s eye, he pictured the searing rage inside of himself as a bonfire. It would be wild, messy, sparks ripping off the crackling wood like arrows. Heat would roll from it like a wall, and the flames inside would laugh and leap like crackling tongues.

 “That sounds like a good fire, Henon,”    the priestess’ encouraging voice was gentle in his memory. “It’ll keep lots of people warm. But an unchecked fire will set beds alight at night. How much fire do you think we need right now?” 

 “Not much,” Henon muttered aloud.

 Henon imagined, carefully, lovingly, pressing soft cold soil over the edges of the fire, tightening its circle. He kept going, shovelling handfuls round the edges, shaping the fire he saw until it was bright and strong, but no bigger than a hearth-fire, banked and safe for the night.

 One final time, Henon exhaled, then opened his eyes. Calm settled like a blanket onto his stiff shoulders. Without the punishing ache of the anger he’d used to fuel himself, Henon suddenly became aware of just how sore he was, how sweaty, how his arms trembled with fatigue.

 He glanced at the sky. The sun was halfway down the sky, hovering almost directly over the Palace of Kings. No wonder. He’d been chopping wood for hours.

 Henon cast an eye over the piles of wood. His mind ran quickly over the calculations as he vaulted the ice-slick rail onto the steps of Candlehearth Hall. The sums came easy to him; he didn’t need to look twice.

 No Susanna to watch him today, calling laughingly for him to take off his shirt; he’d have to go in and ask for his earnings directly. A shame. Henon liked Susanna. Liked kissing her even more, when she leant down over the railing rosy-cheeked. She was soft, everywhere soft, like bitter anger had never found her. She made quiet animal noises, warm breathy sighs, when he touched her, her breasts, her hips, between them. It was fun, and casual, and she was always happy to see him.

 It didn’t take Henon long to collect his wages and stack the fruits of his efforts by the fireplace. Even sour old Nils was grudgingly silent at the amount, though the door closed on a snappish comment when he saw the rip in Henon’s shirt baring his shoulders.

 Henon jogged down to the Grey Quarter, letting the surge of annoyance work itself out through the drum of his feet on stone. He’d get his sparking shirt fixed. Nils didn’t need -

 Exhaling raggedly, Henon focused on the hearth fire, the little curl of smoke that would lick out the chimney. By the time he had made it to Avalathil Tailoring, he was clearer-headed.

 The tailor’s was poky and small, and the old sign’s paint was curling. Below it, a brazier sat, thickly fed with coals and fire-runes. Henon paused by the brazier, looking down at the soft red glow of the runes, and felt a little surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the brazier.

 Tinoryn. He always left a little flick, right at the end, like a signature.

 Henon went inside.

 “Welcome to Avalathil - oh, hi, Henon.” Tinoryn was bright and cheerful as ever. He bounced up from his stool behind the counter with a wide, infectious grin. “How are you? I thought you were working today. Did you finish early? I’ve heard the ships are coming in, they might want more help unloading if you want extra work. We’ve had two sailors already come in with mendings, and one of them mentioned getting a whole new outfit commissioned, if you can believe that!

 Apparently they went to Solstheim, you know, that island off the coast, you can see it from the Point when it’s clear out? Anyway, well he liked the look of the clothes they wear, and he wanted something similar that wouldn’t ‘have him freeze to death faster than a skinned horker’.”

 Something in him settled at Tinoryn’s chatter. He was always the same, always happy, always with a story to share. Henon found himself smirking as Tinoryn imitated the sailor’s dour tones.

 “I’d want to see that,” he said.

 Tinoryn’s nose wrinkled. “Eurgh! A skinned horker? That’s gross, Henon. It would be all wet and red in there, like muscles! It would bleed everywhere! Though I suppose they do have to skin them to get the furs off. But definitely not while they’re alive! That would be horrible. We      add    clothes, not take them away here. Speaking of,” Tinoryn’s smile, somehow, became even brighter, until Henon swore he could see each and every one of his teeth, “Can I do anything for you? Ruvene’s not here, so you just have me.”

 “That’s just what I want,” Henon said, and shrugged off his shirt. He had to wrestle with the buttons for a moment, and when he looked up, the highs of Tinoryn’s cheekbones had flooded with pink and his soft lips were parted. He didn’t react when Henon thrust the ripped shirt towards him, his gaze trapped somewhere at Henon’s chest. “Tinoryn?”

 Self-consciously, Henon rubbed at his chest. He couldn’t see anything there, apart from maybe a bit of sweat in his chest hair. Tinoryn was much more fastidious than Henon, but it was just      sweat.    Tinoryn’s attention made him feel odd, prickly-warm, like he wanted to square his shoulders and straighten his back. He’d been shirtless around him plenty before.

 Tinoryn blinked, then his eyes refocused on Henon’s face and he was back to beaming. “Yes! Of course, I’ll take that. Just another fix? Hmm, yes, you’ve torn it, right across the shoulders. Nasty! But it won’t take that long and it’s been dead in here today, all of our orders are all done that I can do without Ruvene’s permission, and you      know    I’ve read everything I brought. I have been so bored I started talking to the mannequin. I’m calling it Dolly. Because it’s a doll? Or a mannequin, I suppose. A doll for clothes. I can do it for you right now! We’ll have to add in a panel here for you if you keep broadening up though.”

 “Not now,” Henon interrupted uneasily, “Just - can you fix it? Like it was?”

 Tinoryn’s eyes softened. “Yes, just like it was. I know how important this is. It suits you, by the way. It’s the last one, isn’t it? From your father, Azura keep him.”

 “Thanks. And yeah.” It sounded a bit strangled, but Henon couldn’t bring himself to care.

 It was stupid, probably, but he trusted Tinoryn not to mess it up. Ruvene would have just added the panel to the back, grumbling at Henon for sentimentality. But of the shirts that Henon had inherited from his father, the others were gone, all torn, ripped, mended to oblivion by Tinoryn, or lost over the years. When he wore it, he thought of their shapes, how they were probably the same in the arm, but that his father’s wrists had maybe been thicker, because it was stretched there. Henon didn’t remember much of his father. Henon had not been that old when he’d been found dead on the docks, sitting on one of the crates he was meant to be unloading, frozen to death with a peaceful smile.

  “Uh, how much?”

 He fumbled awkwardly for his belt pouch, but Tinoryn was already waving him away with a sunny smile.

 “Ruvene’s not here,” he said conspiratorially, “No one will know, let me just fetch my needle and thread. Besides, no need to charge for such a simple fix.” He hopped up and rummaged around under the counter, fishing out a small wooden box with a triumphant, “Ha! There you are. I swear it hides… You know I can teach you to do this, if you want.”

 Slipping a silver thimble onto his thumb, Tinoryn pulled Henon’s sweaty shirt into his lap. He eyed the rip critically, holding the needle between his lips as he threaded it. Henon watched, impressed by his dexterity.

 “I don’t need to know,” said Henon dismissively. “You’ll do it.”

 Tinoryn smiled down at Henon’s shirt. “That’s true.”

 Henon rounded the counter and dragged Ruvene’s unused stool over with a clattering scrape of groaning wood. He slumped onto it and rested his tired arms on the countertop with a groan. Their knees pushed together under the counter for space, Tinoryn’s bony leg warm against his even through layers of clothes.

 “You don’t have to stay, it’ll take me a moment,” Tinoryn added, glancing at him from under his eyelashes as he stitched. They were thick and dark, curly like his hair.

 “I’ll wait,” said Henon. He didn’t have many other shirts, and besides, whenever Tinoryn’s bright eyes strayed to Henon’s bare torso, the tips of his ears flushed cherry-red. It made Henon feel powerful in a way he couldn’t describe, like how he felt when Susanna clung to him brokenly when he touched her. Like Henon was the only ship in a storm he had created.

 “Alright then,” said Tinoryn, and then he quieted, concentrating on his work.

 Henon fiddled with a coin as he waited, a septim from this morning’s earnings. It flew, golden gleaming, around his slate-grey knuckles, spinning over the countertop like he held it on an invisible string. Idly, he played a counting game with himself, one taught over long hours of solitary boredom.      One, two, three    spins to the right,      seven, eight, nine,    to the left, one flick up,      twelve.    Then back around again, adding each number of spins, until he tired of it. Numbers were easy, but soothing, too. They were predictable.

 He was beginning to feel tired, sleepy, even. His fatigue was catching up to him. The pressure of Tinoryn’s leg against his was comfortable, the sound of his breathing familiar. The shop was warm and quiet, a little dusty in places, with thick bolts of fabric hanging down from the walls. The mullioned windows were frosted white, dim shapes passing by and setting distant shadows to chase each other across the rolling hillocks of prepared cloth. Dolly the mannequin waited patiently in one corner, crowned by a glorious confection of gull-feathers and snowberries wrapped in stained jade silk, someone’s earnest attempt, Henon thought, at making spring into a hat.

 Henon flipped the coin into the air and caught it, a shining disc like the sun held between his thumb and forefinger.

 “Wow,” said Tinoryn from beside him. “How did you do that? That’s amazing! You just caught it, so fast!”

 Henon glanced over, and Tinoryn’s expression was unreserved and inquisitive, brilliant with pleasure at the trick. “It’s not hard,” he said, uncertain how to name the feeling that Tinoryn’s eagerness aroused in him. “You just, look, like this,” he demonstrated.

 “Can I try?” Tinoryn asked, eyes round, and Henon handed the coin over.

 Tinoryn made a valiant attempt at throwing the coin, but it hit his hand as it fell, rebounding sharply off his knuckle and disappearing into the darkness below the counter. “Ouch!” exclaimed Tinoryn, “Oh, that is      much    harder than it looks. You made it seem so easy! Do you want me to find your coin - oh-”

 Henon had already slid off the stool into a crouch, scanning the darkness for a glint of gold. He grunted, it was dark, and dusty under the counter, cluttered with boxes and cloth scraps. He spotted one or two needles, but no coin.

 “Here, let me help,” Tinoryn said above him, and Henon looked up at the gentle      snap    of fire crackling into existence.

 What he saw then arrested him completely.

 It was Tinoryn, just Tinoryn, but… Tinoryn was leaning forward on the stool, his boot planted on the floor to stop him from falling. Henon reached to touch his calf, felt the muscles engaged in supporting his weight through his trousers, and had no words for the nameless surge of feeling that pooled in his gut.

 In one hand, Tinoryn held Henon’s shirt, the other, a crackling fire spell, humming with magic and energy. He was smiling, as always, bright and soft, and the flickering firelight shimmered off his dark, curly hair, the hint of wetness on his lip. The ties that held his shirt (soft green, like grass) were loose, leaving space for the shadows of the fire to race over his collarbones, a smooth triangle of soft grey skin of Tinoryn’s skinny chest. Henon felt his mouth flood with saliva, felt the strangest urge to lave his tongue along the arches of Tinoryn’s collarbones, scrape his teeth over the skin until it reddened like the tips of his ears.

 Tinoryn’s eyes had always been bright, ever since they were children. It was one marker of being a strong mage, that slight lambent glow, like the magic couldn’t quite be contained within him. But now, they looked like the heart of a fire, or maybe lava, brilliant, burning, changing everything in its path. Like a beginning, like being reforged anew, into something divine, Henon felt blood rise warm on his cheeks, knew Tinoryn could see how it flushed his chest ruddy. He wanted -

 “I think I see it,” Tinoryn said happily, breaking the spell. “Down there, see, just under that - yes, you’ve got it, there!”

 Henon cleared his throat, feeling bizarrely awkward as he slipped the coin back into his pouch. It was just Tinoryn. He straightened up, stretching his back until his spine popped.

 “Thanks,” he said, “for the light.”

 “Thank you for the practice!” Tinoryn’s face lit up again. “I finished your shirt, by the way! All done, good as new.”

 Henon traced his fingertip over the mend. He could barely see it. Tinoryn had done a great job.

 “Thanks,” he said again, and reached out to clasp the back of Tinoryn’s neck, his thumb pressing into his curls. They were soft. Tinoryn’s neck was warm and solid under his palm. “It looks good,” Henon added, not wanting to be churlish, but as he stared down at Tinoryn he was not quite sure if he could even remember what the shirt looked like.

“Oh,” said Tinoryn, and his hands clenched oddly in his lap like he was holding them down, and his face flamed red. His ears were pricked forward though, clearly pleased. “It’s my - pleasure, Henon, really.”

 “Say,” said Henon, “you want to get out of here? I reckon we could go and nail some helmets with rocks down in the training yard round this sort of time.”

 Clearly tempted, Tinoryn bit his lip. Henon watched his teeth press down on the soft flesh and catch on tiny ragged edges of skin, saw how it made his lips flush pinker, saw the wet dart of his tongue. He tightened his grasp on Tinoryn’s neck, thumb smoothing down his hairline, feeling the tiny feathery hairs there tickle his skin.

 “I can’t,” said Tinoryn, sounding truly disappointed. “I have to watch the shop for Ruvene.”

 “Alright,” shrugged Henon. He grabbed the edge of the counter and heaved himself up to sit on it, grinning at Tinoryn’s delighted surprise. Now he was here, Henon found that he didn’t particularly want to leave. After all, the tiny tailor’s shop did have      something    in it that held his interest. “Guess I’ll teach you that coin trick while we wait.”

 Tinoryn’s radiant smile in answer was more than enough.

[kettlequills]

do you have a tes oc?

Thank you for the ask! I have... so many. I'll only go over the most important ones for now lol but if anyone has questions I'm more than happy to elaborate.

First off there's Laataazin, my main LDB. Laat actually has their own OC profile posted already, so I'm just going to link that. They're an amnesiac Imperial soldier who hates killing dragons and uses sign. They're also agender and apparently exclusively attracted to old and amoral mages.

My alternative Dragonborn is a little Dunmer girl named Olvyn. Olvyn is native to Solstheim, and orphaned by Miraak's call (her mother was already dead, her father, who was a reaver, died in an attack on the Tree Stone). She is around ten at the time that the events of the Dragonborn DLC start, and Miraak's cult quickly pick her up. Miraak eats her dragon-soul to escape Apocrypha. Olvyn sustains herself off of soul gems. She grows into a terrible brat and occasionally starts rebellions to annoy her adoptive father, God-Emperor Miraak. She is also trans and a big old lesbian. In the universe where Laat is LDB, Olvyn still joins Miraak's cult as a spy and thief.

Tinoryn Othravel is one of my OCs, one of the main characters in these two fics. Tinoryn is a young Windhelm Dunmer who aspires to be a mage, and is rather a chatterbox. He works as a tailor and is best friends (in love with) with Henon Virith, a troubled Dunmer OC also from Windhelm who has been orphaned by war and circumstance. Henon is surly, and embittered by the treatment of the Grey Quarter. Henon is bisexual, Tinoryn is gay.

Rina is a Breton wizard who becomes Archmage of the College of Winterhold. She is deeply attached to and in love with her flame atronach, who she is convinced is the same one every time, and largely studies Conjuration in an attempt to learn how to make the summoning permanent. She reportedly found her way to Winterhold after becoming very lost on her way to study magic in Auridon. Rina is asexual and missing one foot.

Venfokest is an ice dragon who allies herself to Laataazin after they spare her life. She begins using she/her pronouns after a long friendship with Aranea. Venfokest was blinded in the battle with Laat.

CANNOT believe I almost forgot my beloved, Sinawen. Sinawen is an Atmoran Falmer from the days of the Dragon Cult, and is, coincidentally, Miraak's mother. She worships Hermeaus Mora and Mara, and has a couple of children that die horribly. She manages to outlive Miraak getting sent to Apocrypha, and is promptly burned alive for his crimes. She is a kind, no-nonsense sort of woman, vaguely prefers hanging out with trees to people. Sinawen appears in this fic.

[kettlequills]

this is quickly becoming. the softest thing i have ever written.

hhh kinda want to write a sequel to that soulmate fic

[kettlequills]

all that is and has been

"The past is the beginning of the beginning and all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn." - H.G Wells.  Every winter, Aranea comes down the mountain. Prompt: dawn, for TESFEST.  On A03 here.

They get younger every year, Aranea thought, watching the guide from Windhelm picking his way with great concentration up the snowy slope to Azura’s shrine. At the foot of the stone steps, he pumped his arm wildly, and shouted something that was immediately snatched by the wind. Even from this distance, Aranea could picture perfectly the expression of consternation on his face, hidden mostly though it was in the hood of his thick fur parka.

Aranea exhaled a sigh and put some water on to boil. She dusted off and set out her spare stool for visitors. By the time he had puffed and struggled his way up the steps, the water was ready.

“Priestess!” he called, voice bright and eager with the strength of youth.

Wasted on the young, Aranea thought, sprinkling leaves into the cups. She eyed him critically. Pinched red cheeks on either side of a proud nose, eyes hidden smartly under Nordic snow-goggles to protect them from the snowfall. The boy was young, but not too young, she judged, and added a small dram of Cyrodilic brandy. The snow wasn’t too bad for this time of year, but it was the thick, fluffy flakes of endless autumn snow, and cursed cold.

Aranea greeted him, wincing a little at the creakiness of her voice. It had been a slow spring and summer. Only a few visitors, in all that stretch of time, and none the one Azura had told her to look for. She had not spoken for months.

“My name is Tinoryn,” he told her, a few sips into his tea. “I work for Ruvene, at Avalathil Tailoring.” He wiggled the hood of his parka. “I made this,” he added, proudly. “But I’m going to be a mage, anyway. Once I’ve saved up enough for the College.”

Ah, thought Aranea. This one would be pestering her to teach him magic all the way down the mountain. She would not deny him. Being able to afford the College’s fees was a distant dream, no matter if his sewing skills were clearly quite good. Fur was a Nord’s business, and there was not much of a market for traditional Dunmeri silkweaving in Skyrim. But he would serve his community well.

Perhaps Aranea would speak to Ambarys and Ruvene, if this aspiring mageling showed promise. It would not be the College, but Aranea had time enough for teaching, if he could be spared. It had been a while since one of their own had taken to the magic arts, and Aranea could not be there to offer Azura’s blessings and healings all year.

And the road grew ever more treacherous.

She pondered this as she worked, readying the shrine for her long absence. It would, after all, be a death-sentence to attempt to stay on the exposed mountain-top throughout one of Skyrim’s brutal winters. Instead, Aranea did as she had always done, and when the autumn snows began to crown Azura’s head thickly, she awaited a guide from Windhelm who would escort her to stay in the city during the cold months, in exchange for blessings and healings. Once, that route had included Winterhold, but Aranea had watched, brutal in her isolation, the vast majority of Azura’s faithful there along with the rest of the town crumble into the Sea of Ghosts during the Collapse. The outskirts of the town remained, and of the people Aranea had served, only those few that had listened to Aranea’s vision-driven warning and moved to Windhelm.

Tinoryn chattered happily without her input, telling her about the Windhelm’s Dunmer anything he thought relevant that she had missed during the spring and summer. Aranea was not surprised to learn of increasing attacks from the city’s Nord population, nor of the fires that had raged across the docks from mismanagement and unvented angers. It would be a lean winter. It was always a lean winter.

“Shall we go?” Aranea said, halfway into one of Tinoryn’s stories about one Henon Virith valiantly fighting off an improbable number of guards, evidently the troublemaker of the Grey Quarter and Tinoryn’s personal hero. To his credit, Tinoryn barely blinked before shouldering Aranea’s entire pack (she watched, bemused, and wondered what they were feeding tailors these days) over the shoulder that did not carry his own, and bounced off.

He started then on the story of the passage up, and Aranea allowed his voice to fall into a soothing murmur as she focused on putting one foot in front of the other. She had walked this path many times, but Skyrim was a country of bitter winds, rock and snow, and held little love for those who would stumble on her paths.

They took the carriage from Winterhold, bartering passage crammed in next to a friendly courier and a dour carriage driver, squeezing their legs over locked crates that Aranea suspected contained soulgems from the subtle hum she could feel, grinding its way through her teeth into her skull. Tinoryn distracted himself thoroughly with the courier, to Aranea’s relief; she had already spoken so much in the gaps Tinoryn left in conversation that her throat ached.

It was a weary, travelsore and head-pounding priestess of Azura that made her way, Tinoryn quieting in sight of the guards, over Windhelm’s ice-choked bridge. The city of stone was redolent and packed, but the guards held sharp new weapons, and wore armour so polished  that they shone like gems in the snow. There were more horses in the stables, meaty, Rift-bred creatures, and Aranea spotted scaffolding supporting the construction of a new parapet with a flicker of unease. The people they passed were ragged as ever, but there was a strange, martial air flickering in Windhelm’s braziers, carried on lips down from the Palace of Kings.

Unbidden, Aranea thought of a troubling vision she had received, some years ago. A young Greybeard-come-soldier, sweating and afraid with his wrists bound in Altmeri-gold, a voice, syrup-soft, speaking of holy wars and dying traditions. It was not one she liked to think of. Skyrim did not need war, and the young jarl had never cared greatly for his elven population. The tightening of purse strings would choke the Grey Quarter first.

Sometimes, Aranea wondered why Azura sent her the visions of great and terrible things she could no more prevent than catch a single snowflake in a blizzard. She doubted it was intended to be a torment. The Twilight Lady’s mystery was wondrous, but at times, Aranea thought that the grief of mortals was as foreign to her as her thinking was to them.

Still, there was plenty enough grief in the present without needing to borrow trouble from tomorrow.

The streets that led down into the heart of the Grey Quarter were damp with melted snow. Barely had they taken a few steps when a little girl raced up to them, crying out Aranea’s title. Despite her long resolution to the service of Azura, Aranea felt a tug in her heart at the round red eyes that did not quite yet fit in the girl’s skull, long ears too heavy as of yet to lift all the way up, though the little girl was very clearly excited. Her ears were covered with little knitted caps laced to the one jammed firmly on her head, warding off the cold.

“Hi Priestess!” She beamed. “It’s Nepha! You were at my birthday last year! Twelfth of Sun’s Dusk! Will you come again this year?”

Bless the child for her prompting, for Aranea had not recognised her at all and certainly could not have named the date she was born. Though, if it was Sun’s Dusk, she had likely assisted in the delivery. Little Ulyn Andules’ babe, perhaps? She recalled vaguely Tinoryn mentioning he’d found a new wife to mother his little girl, of all the half-sparked reasons to remarry. But, by the Reclamations, Aranea remembered delivering him. Had it been so long?

I love them all, but the years do blur together.

“Azura’s Star, child, you have grown so tall! And I shall certainly hope I get your invitation.” Wincing at the ache in her knees, she bent to squeeze Nepha’s cheeks, making the little girl giggle and twist away.

“We should get you down to the cornerclub, Priestess,” Tinoryn said, looking up at the sky. Shadows were beginning to gather across the long wavering lines of orange and pinks washing the snowy rooftops. “And you, inside, Nepha!”

Nepha stuck her tongue out at Tinoryn. She proffered her arm to Aranea. “Let me help you go! The streets are really slippy here.”

Aranea weighed up the benefits of asserting her independence and ability to walk unaided over the benefit of encouraging the child in her attempt to offer sincere and honest help. Truly, Aranea thought, if she had not lived atop a mountain for the past few months, she might have found the slick streets hard enough to navigate to be grateful for the help. The gutters cut down the sides of the streets were overrunning.

Aranea took Nepha’s arm, and they set off again.

The temperature increased sharply the moment they left the Nord-dominated parts of the city, heading into the close, smoky corridors of the Quarter. Tinoryn relaxed, loosening his fur parka and beginning to smile in earnest now he was home. People hailed them as they passed, but thankfully between Nepha and Tinoryn Aranea did not have to speak at all, only smile at their eagerness to greet her.

Just as well, for the air was unexpectedly sticky and humid from the great braziers that lined every other step of the street, lit by the whispers of fire-magic every Dunmer carried within them and absolutely essential to surviving in a cold land like Skyrim. Aranea added a gift of fire-runes to those she passed, a curious Tinoryn watching, driving the heat from baking to sweltering. The heat was welcome after months at the cold shrine, but she could feel sweat beading at the nape of her neck under her robe.

“The greatest principle of destruction magic,” Aranea told him softly as she dipped her fingers into another clay brazier’s embers, “is that it is no more destructive than a hand. The limit is your will, and the scope of the energy you are willing to give to see that will done.”

She was pleased, though, to see the braziers well-tended even without her help. It was important for Dunmeri children to be raised around fire, important for them still as adults. A cold Dunmer was a dead one. Their ancestors walked their hands through ash to kiss their fingertips in flame. It was their birthright just as much as it was a need. In Morrowind, there had not been braziers of open flame waiting for curious hands to reach and play; there had been little need, the land was warm enough. But the Dunmer of Windhelm had had to grow resourceful, and reliant upon the fire they carried within themselves just as much as the heat of the sun and sear of coals.

Aranea’s pride for her people warmed her spirit just as much as trading the freezing wind of the exposed shrine to Azura for the tight, smelly Grey Quarter warmed her bones.

The New Gnisis Cornerclub was unchanged, and the gladdest sight of all. Aranea quickened her steps, eager to see her old friends again and take the weight off her aching feet. The door creaked as it always had, and the light from beyond that threw upon the gleaming stone was orange and tinted with laughter and clinking bottles.

Aranea sent Nepha off as they went in, cautioning her to go straight to her father. Tinoryn behind her, Aranea turned, and almost immediately walked directly into the arms of Ambarys Rendar. He had come out from round the bar and as he enfolded her into a hug, he called greetings to them both.

He was solid, and Aranea could smell the spicy alcoholic scent of his wares in his smock, the rasp of his stubble across her cheek. She met his eyes, and they crinkled as he smiled at her, deep and unreserved. And if the pleasure she felt bubbling from some secret place was all the sharper for the months since she had seen him last, that was no one’s business but her own.

“How was your journey?” he asked. “No trouble from those braggarts at the gates?”

“Ambarys,” Aranea chided softly, and he only smiled, but this time it did not quite reach his eyes.

“It was good, sera,” said Tinoryn obliviously, “We took a cart from Winterhold, the driver was nice enough to wait! The snow was bad though.”

“Not too bad,” Aranea contradicted. “Still, I’m glad to be in the warm and dry.” She let her eyes slide to the stairs, and Ambarys chuckled, poor humour forgotten.

“Come, let’s get you settled, priestess,” he said. “I’ll take that, boy, go along now and get yourself a drink from Malthyr.”

Tinoryn flustered a bit at this abrupt dismissal, but at Aranea’s nod he surrendered her pack to Ambarys and went.

“He’s a good boy,” Aranea told Ambarys as they went up the stairs, “wants to be a mage.”

Ambarys snorted, not unkindly. “A good heart, but better off keeping his eyes on the road.”

“I was thinking…” Aranea hesitated behind Ambarys as he searched his belt for the door keys.

Ambarys half-turned to look at her, surprised. “Come on, that boy up the mountain? He’d talk your ear off in a week and himself to death in two. Ruvene pays him half as much for keeping the customers busy while she mends as she does his sewing.”

He unlocked the door and gestured her in. Aranea kicked off her boots and went gratefully. The bed was simple and small, but it was a luxury after months of a bedroll on hard stone. She sunk into its embrace gratefully, groaning her relief. She flexed her sore feet and cast a half-hearted Restoration spell.

“Won’t it get busy?” Aranea asked. Audible through the floor was the creak of the door and the hum of voices as those who had spotted her outside filed into the cornerclub, flagging Malthys to bring them drinks and food while they waited.

“Malthys can handle it,” said Ambarys. “They’re just eager to hear you speak. I can send them away though, and leave you to rest …?”

Aranea smiled at him tiredly. “Sit. It’s nice to see you. And let them stay, I’ll go down in a moment.”

Ambarys settled her pack in the corner, then dragged a chair over. He rested his elbows on his knees and smiled down at her stretching over the bed. “And you, priestess.”

“It’s been a while,” Aranea said, mind returning to what they had been discussing. “But if you think Tinoryn’s not suitable…”

“It’s not that,” Ambarys dismissed the idea with a wave. He frowned at Aranea then. “Unless you’re thinking you need the company. I’d – we would love to have you for the rest of the year. You don’t need to live up there alone.”

“Ambarys,” Aranea interrupted him. “I must. I am a priestess of Azura, I must tend her shrine.”

“We could send people up, every month, week, even,” Ambarys argued, “You could just stay here. Just – think about it, is all I ask.” He raised his hands, seeing her exasperated look. “This room is yours for as long as you want it, whenever you want it, you know that.”

“I do.” Aranea could not resist a small smile. It was the same argument they had every year, and he’d yet to convince her. Ambarys deflated.

Closing her eyes, Aranea let the lull in conversation stretch into silence. The headache she had nursed during the carriage ride was increasing until it felt like daedra were knocking in her skull. Her skin was throbbing in complaint at the changing temperatures, and her stomach felt a little queasy from the altitude difference. They had not gone slowly down the mountain, and Aranea’s body, used to the icy, scouring winds and unyielding spine of stone, protested at the soft warmth of the wooden bed, the creaks and sighs of the breathing cornerclub.

Windhelm was a noisy city, even now, Aranea could hear yelling and clanging, even the rapid thumping of drums from somewhere and the stamp of feet, all almost drowned out by patrons shouting for Malthys’ attention and talking amongst themselves. Somewhere, a baby was crying. Smells roiled for her attention, the piss and ale scents worked into the woods, the unwashed bodies cramming into the bar below, the faint musty scent of the blankets.

It was all so much.

And underneath it all, iron and fire, and the invisible threads of gathering zealotry.

“Aranea…” Ambarys’ raspy voice was soft. She heard cloth moving over skin as he shifted, the minute creak of the chair. She hummed in acknowledgement. “Are you… well?”

Sighing, Aranea opened her eyes. She was tired. So tired. Every year seemed to press heavier on her shoulders. Azura demanded much.

But it was a balm to see him there, the wrinkles of his laugh-lines, wearying now under the weight of hard living, his dark eyes, as tender when he looked upon her as they were sharp at any other sight.

“I am,” she said. “But I hear… the winds of war are coming, Ambarys. I fear for the people.”

Ambarys hesitated. Almost nervously, he asked, “Have you seen anything from the goddess?”

Aranea looked away. She had not the strength to confide in him the dark futures she had seen, of the Grey Quarter in flames, grey bodies warped among the red snow, winged, impossible shapes soaring through the sky. “It may happen.”

Ambarys’ face settled into a troubled cast too familiar for Aranea’s comfort. “I don’t know what we will do if Hoag’s boy goes to war again. The Reachfolk massacre was bad enough…”

“What we always do,” Aranea said, taking his hand comfortingly. It was soft and dry in hers. Ambarys looked at her, his grey-red eyes searching. “Survive.”

A slow smile lifted his lips, warm and true. “Until the next dawn, then the next?” he said, repeating their old words, words she had said to him many times over many worries.

“And the one after,” Aranea confirmed, and his smile deepened until her heart ached. “The Mother of the Rose will guide us, as she always has.”

“It is good to have you back, priestess,” Ambarys murmured, tightening his grip on her hand when Aranea made to move away. Aranea left it there in his grasp, and his thumb swiped gently over the back of her hand. Fiery chills raced up her nerves.

“I should go to them,” Aranea said, meaning the people gathered downstairs waiting but unable to look from Ambarys’ eyes. A moment passed when she almost thought that he would refuse to release her, didn’t know how to quantify the feeling that inspired, but then all at once he had let go and stood.

The chair scraping on the floor spelled the end of their reprieve. Still, Aranea smiled at him as she passed, half for his tired eyes, half for the thawing knowledge that she would have all winter to see them again.

A ragged cheer arose as Aranea descended the stairs, blinking in the light. She inhaled, more than a little taken-aback by the solid wall of bodies that greeted her, heaving in through the ajar doors. There were more there that she could see, crowding in the street, pulling the braziers round to stand in a circle of warmth. A hush ran through them as she raised her hand.

Ambarys appeared at her shoulder, a bottle in his hand, wry smile on his lips. He offered Aranea a thick woven cushion in the Hlaalu style, and Aranea sank down on it with relief, right there on the stairs, where all might see her easily. Her old bones thanked her.

She sniffed the bottle. Sujamma.

“Thank you,” she said, and Ambarys gave her a mock-bow.

The crowd gathered round, eager faces shining in the warmth of the fires. Some she recognised, who called for her by name, she greeted with smiles. Aranea was surprised, but pleased, to see a few non-Dunmer faces in the crowd. There were one or two quiet Nords sweating in the heat, a few cloaked Argonians who had smuggled themselves into the city and whose scales gleamed like rubies in the firelight, even an Altmer, stood at the very back but clear towering over the others. It was always good to see more drawn to Azura’s teachings, and Aranea knew that if they had been permitted to know of her arrival, then they were trusted by Ambarys. She made eye contact with one of the Argonians and smiled.

As if sensing her preparation, the crowd settled after a moment, looking at her expectantly. Aranea breathed in, slowly. Teaching was tiring, true, and she would have preferred to rest, but she could not deny those who had such a hunger for what she had to say.

She took a sip of sujamma to wet her throat, and began.

“Lady Azura is the patron of dusk and dawn…”

[kettlequills]

ocsssss: soskro, mirdein, henon, rina, tinoryn, kharzak, cinnsu, and elentully. I'm not creative with faces rip I tried

[kettlequills]

some ocs (in brackets are the guys that are background only for now)

Soskro, Sadeni, Mirdein, Hakir, Hjoti, Sulis, Agata, Ulf, Drethys, Rofiik, Rufiik, (Amaryllis).

Viraneminwe, Sindor, Faseladil, Caranye, Carmen, Anisse, Archilowen, Calana, Valiance, (Veracity), (Elsinanwe and Faemin), (Anyaneminwe), (Thaefin, Erephor, Aicelde, Tuiya, the Healer).

Tinoryn, Henon, Rina, (Ruvene Avalathil).

[kettlequills]

I'm pretty proud of my story titles for my entries for the summer fest tbh. they're kinda bops. positivity post oncoming

sahrotaar, ziil los dii du? taking a throwaway bit of dialogue and making it the resonant beat of a story. So proud of this story. I wanted people to think on some of Miraak's comments on Sahrotaar, which total to "can't believe You in particular betrayed me, you suck, and your soul is mine." Just , interesting.

the burning fire within? Relates to the spirit of the Dunmer, their fire magic, Henon's anger problems, AND his and Tinoryn's attraction to one another...

a wife to remember? Hilarious. Proud of that pun.

all that is and has been? I love the quote it comes from. I like how it feels , cyclical, like how Aranea comes and go each season, and calls in that pressing weight of time passing and the world changing, and the contradiction between feeling very much like you've seen it all before but also dreading the future.

how the dragon chases his tail? Love how this refers to like , the ouroboros nature of time. Its a circle! And legitimately a dragon chasing his tail in teslore lol. Also it makes me think of Miraak's discomfort with himself, always chasing some thing that he does not actually realise is attached, which is why he can never quite catch it. Also, baby dragons. Cute.