In this story, Isran has a son due a certain Dragonborn killing Grelod without even knowing about Aventus Arentino, thereby disrupting the timeline and opening the window of time that'd allow Isran to adopt a kid. His son is an orc named Saar, and you can read about how this came to be in my (shorter) story, "We Match". Farkas also has two kids; Frey and Sven, which are spoken about in my on-going story, In All But Blood.
Saar is sixteen, Frey is fifteen, and Sven is seventeen. Isran adopted Saar because he was the last kid who had been one of Grelod's charges that hadn't been adopted yet, and he wasn't adopted because he was an orc and everyone thought he was ugly. He's actually a cutie though and I love him. Frey was held captive in Robber's Gorge, beaten beyond belief and on the cusp of dying when Flynn and Farkas found him and nursed him back to health. Sven was the child of two Silver Hands, who beat him and forced him to do horrible things, who they found hiding from them in Dustman Cairn.
Okay, now go back and read the Author's Note. It's important. I know you probably skipped over the bolded words (I do that a lot).
The humidity in the Rift was nearly unbearable. The sticky air was hardly permeable enough to trudge through, and it seemed to condense on his skin as a film of mist that made him want to scream. Isran's lips curled in a small snarl as he stomped through the mud and tried to ignore the dull ache thumping in his skull. Damn the rainy season, and damn Kyne for bringing the rains at this inopportune time. Isran was vaguely aware that he'd grumbled something about how it'd be easier to cut through the air with a knife at this point in his head, but he mostly ignored himself...provided that that was even possible.
"It is now," Isran mumbled under his breath, holding a hand to his temple as it throbbed indignantly.
He briefly wondered why he was thinking aloud but went back to focusing his attention on wiping the dew off of his forehead for the umpteenth time, figuring he'd deal with his slightly insane tendencies at a better time. Which was never. As he walked, he blundered over a tree root just in time for a huge wave of dizziness to wash over him. Black spots danced in his vision and he stumbled forward, roughly clutching on to a nearby tree trunk for dear life. He breathed deeply and slowly, and he swallowed down the urge to vomit for the fourth time that day, sliding down the tree. 'C'mon, Isran. Pull yourself together...' He thought, leaning his shaven head on the bark of the tree. He could feel mud caking his ass and grimaced. That'd be a bitch to wash off after it dried, and now everyone would be able to tell he'd fallen over on his way back to the fort. That would be embarrassing, and there was no doubt that Flynn, one of his earliest (and most begrudging) recruits would antagonize him relentlessly over it. He wasn't keen on dealing with her obnoxious insults today, not when he was feeling like shit. His ears picked up the sounds of a gurgling river nearby and got an idea.
Surely a dip in the river to wash it off wouldn't kill him. It'd cool him off and wash off the stickiness of the humidity for a little bit. All he'd get is wet, and he could just tell anyone who asked that he'd gotten in a fight with a lone vampire who'd pushed him in. Flynn wouldn't tease him (much) over that. Yeah, that was a good idea. Waiting until the dizziness went away, he sucking in a loud breath and pulled himself up slowly, leaning against the tree when he felt dizzy again. Dammit, when was he going to get over this stupid cold? He knew it wasn't Sanguinare Vampiris; he'd checked to make sure otherwise obsessively, so he knew it wasn't serious. That didn't stop his body from acting like he was dying. He rolled his eyes at himself, idly acknowledging that being mad at his own body was stupid. He didn't particularly care though; he was Isran, and Isran was capable at being pissed about literally everything. Except his son. If anything even so much as poked his son, Saar, with ill-intent, he'd kill everything in the room and then himself. Nobody was allowed to hurt his baby or even breath in his general direction the wrong way, or he'd fuck them up.
Ah, Stendarr's mercy, he was such a doting dad. Disgusting.
'Shut up, brain. We can coo over my son later.'
River. He had to get to the river.
He stumbled off towards the source of gurgling water, nearly falling over in relief when it came into sight. He slipped and slid on the especially muddy river bank- thanks, rain! -towards the water. He squawked in the most undignified way possible as he lost his footing, falling ass over head into the mud. Well, more specifically, he fell flat on his back, which was honestly no better. The mud squelched comically as he landed, prompting a short laugh out of him. Stendarr's mercy, he was a fucking mess today. He laid there in the mud for a solid minute, laughing his ass off at himself, briefly considering making a mud angel. And then, he stopped short. He was laughing. That was never a good sign. Perhaps he was sicker than he thought. He sat upright, frowning at the mud that was slathered from his legs to the back of his head. Briefly, he thanked the gods that he'd shaven his head, because mud in the hair was not fun at all. His son had learned that the hard way a few weeks ago. Instead of standing back up, Isran just slid his way towards the river, figuring he was covered in mud anyway. There was no point in standing up. As soon as the cold water hit him, he hissed through his teeth. Fuck, that was cold.
He hung out in the river, not thinking about much for what felt like a very long time. He lifted his arms up and brushed as much mud as he could off of himself, letting his arms fall down limply on occasion when it got too hard to keep them upright. As he washed the mud off the back of his head, he acknowledged the dull ache that had been there for the better part of three days. He quickly got used to the cold water, leaning against a large rock that had been thrown in the water a while ago. He couldn't remember that well, but it might've been him who'd thrown it in the water in a fit of rage a couple years ago. 'Thanks for being pissed, past me,' Isran sighed in his head, closing his eyes. He focused on the feeling of the cold water softly running over him, nearly groaning at the pleasant feeling. He laid there, eyes closed for what felt like hours, until a sudden voice startled him out of his reverie.
"Hey! You dead!?"
What the fuck kind of question was that? Why would you ask someone if they were dead? What, did they expect a corpse to say some shit like "Yeah man, I'm dead as fuck." or something? He cracked open his eyes and sucked in a breath harshly. Holy shit, the sky had not been that dark earlier! He was shivering. When had he started shivering? He looked around for the source of the voice, and found a hunter looking over at him with barely veiled concern.
"Uh..." He wasn't expecting his voice to sound as scratchy as it did. "I'm fine."
The hunter held up a thumbs up. "Alright, good. I was just wondering if I would have to march my ass to Riften and report another corpse. You know how Maven Black-Briar is. Need a hand?"
"...Maybe?" Isran found his legs to be very stiff. "I dunno if I can get out of here, actually."
"How long have you been in there?" The hunter asked, trotting towards the river bank.
"I have...no idea. I think I might've dozed off." Isran admitted, wiggling his toes in his boots.
Okay, at least he hadn't managed to freeze himself.
The hunter grabbed his arm, hauling him up. "Shor's balls, you feel like ice. How'd you manage to not drown yourself?"
"I...divine intervention?" Isran supplied cluelessly.
In truth, he had no idea. Gods, how embarrassing would it have been for him to have died by drowning in a river because he fell asleep?
The hunter huffed a laugh. "Right then. Go home, man. I think you could do with some proper rest. Need a lantern? I've got a spare one."
"I could use that."
"Here you are, then." The hunter pulled a lantern from her bag, handing it to him. "Got any matches, or should I give you one?"
"I know a few fire spells. Thank you."
"Anytime. Stay safe. These are troubled times."
"Believe me, I know. Don't get eaten by any bears." Isran waved goodbye and trudged out in the twilight, lighting his lantern to combat the dying light.
He wandered slowly to the Fort, feeling more tired by every step. His head spun and he frequently found himself having to lean against many a tree to stop himself from falling over. He berated himself all the while for dozing off in the river. What in the name of Oblivion had he been thinking!? Icy water was supposed to lower a fever, but you were supposed to only be submerged for a little while; NOT a few hours. There was no doubt he'd inadvertently managed to make his fever worse. He grimaced; there was no point in lying to himself; he was really, really sick. He needed...he needed help. By the time he reached the crevice that lead to the Canyon, he felt very winded and he was shivering violently. The stale air of the cave didn't help at all. He eyed the lantern swaying in his hand, and put in down on a rock nearby. He didn't need it anymore; the torches in the cave provided enough light. His hand was tired anyway. After five minutes of the cave, he emerged into the canyon and nearly collapsed in relief, gulping down the night air. It was blessedly less humid, and he leaned against the jagged stone wall, sighing. He was home. He only had a few more minutes of walking and he could sit down. His head spun sickeningly and he swayed dangerously towards the left, his breaths coming out in short pants. 'Come on, you can do it. Let's go.' Isran pushed himself off the cave wall and stumbled towards the Fort, feeling worse with every step. For the second time that day, black spots swirled in his eyes. He choked back in a distressed sob, feeling humiliated that he actually wanted to cry. 'Almost there...' Gods, he was so cold. He could hardly breathe. He nearly cried in relief as he passed the barricades, which was super embarrassing to admit to himself. 'A few more steps.' Someone was yelling at him. His head throbbed.
"Isran!"
He tilted his head up. And there she stood; the bane of his existence herself, Flynnigan. Her hand was on her hip and her long, white braid swayed behind her.
"Where the fuck have you been!? We've been tearing up the Rift looking for your stupid ass! Your son's in near hysterics; I hope you're pleased with yourself!"
Holy shit, her yelling felt like fireballs were going off directly next to his ears. As he crept closer, he saw the pissed look melt off her face in an instant, quickly replaced with concern.
"Hey, whoa, whoa. You alright? You look like shit."
Even Isran could admit that 'yes' was not the answer here. "N-No…" He gasped out, falling forward before he could stop himself.
He expected to fall over right in front of her, but to his surprise she lurched forward and caught him before he could make his nose flatter than it already was. She supported him from under his forearms and pulled him towards her. His face fell right into his boobs, but he couldn't complain much since they were rather soft; a far cry from the firm skin he was expecting since they were rather small. Why was he thinking about boobs? 'Shut up hormones, I'm fucking dying.' In normal circumstances he was sure she'd punch him to the depths of oblivion, where he'd ricochet off of Molag Bal's head and be sent hurtling back to Nirn, for even looking in her chest's general direction. Instead, she pulled him close, rubbing his back. 'What the fuck' he thought. Surely she'd yell at him over this?
"Breathe, man. What's wrong? What hurts?"
'What the fuck' Now he was sure he was hallucinating; she was being really gentle. His head felt like someone had shoved it full of tundra cotton and was beating it with a warhammer. He could feel that his legs were about to give out. Everything felt so heavy. He couldn't feel his hands anymore. His face was cold.
"I…"
"What is it? Talk to me."
"I…" He gasped out, feeling himself shaking. "I think I'm gonna pass out."
And just like that, his eyes dropped closed and his legs gave out from beneath him. He distantly heard Flynn curse rather loudly before she supported the rest of his weight, not letting him fall. He was grateful for that; the ground was not soft. He felt the sensation of being picked up like a bride and felt Flynn running, slamming open the doors to the Fort with a terrible bang.
'How many times have I told her not to do that?' He thought.
And he knew no more.
Flashing lights, screaming. His father's face. Fire, smoke, so much smoke. His brother wouldn't get up. It wasn't funny anymore, Cyrus. Please get up. The monster people were cackling wickedly, their fangs glinting in the light of the big, bright moon. Their eyes glowed a sickly red in the dark. They were scary. Go away! His mother was trying to run. A shadow flitted from across the room and lurched on to her, consuming her. He couldn't see her. She was gone. His grandmother was desperately trying to fend off the monsters, screaming at every god she knew of for help. It wasn't enough. Kalmen from next door was screaming. Screaming at him with all his might despite the life ebbing out of him. "Run! I'll be okay!"
He rolled over.
His mother was screaming too. She was still alive!
"ISRAN! RUN! RUN FAR AWAY, AND DON'T LOOK BACK! DON'T STOP FOR A SECOND!"
She was still alive, but trapped. She was struggling to move, and he wanted to help her. She shooed him away. The desperation on her face was barely enough to make him turn away. He didn't want to. He didn't want this. But he had to. So, he had run. Run so fast. Faster than he'd run in his life. But he'd fallen, tripped over something and suddenly everything was dark. He couldn't breathe, and then he could. Dawn was beginning to paint the sky when just moments before, stars had been twinkling up above. His head hurt. He looked to see what he'd fallen over.
His father's waxy face was staring vacantly back at him.
His hand twitched.
The scream had ripped out of his throat before he could stop it. The ash of his home shifted in the breeze. He cried for hours, holding onto his father's hand. When he finally let go, something rolled out from between his father's fingers. A ring. His wedding ring. He'd been clutching his wedding ring as he'd-! The tears came back all over again. He took the ring and ran a piece of thin leather through it, typing it around his neck. It'd stay there forever.
His grandmother, his father, his brother, his sister, his friends, his neighbors, everyone was dead. He was only eight, but he couldn't just leave them there. For a week he labored, digging a trench. He dragged every body, tears never ceasing, and buried them all side by side. He spent days etching the words into the stone; "Here lies my family. Goodbye."
He let out a low moan. Someone was stroking his cheek.
He never found his mother's corpse.
There was a piece of scorched paper flapping in the wind beneath a rock. He didn't touch it. He left. He dredged as much water as he could from the well and filled as many waterskins as he could carry. He filled a bag with as much food as he could find. He packed away the little things he could salvage from the ash. And he left. For days upon days he trekked in the sand, an eight year old boy, all alone in the world. He felt as if the sand could have swallowed him whole. He almost wished that it would. The ruins of his village, his home became smaller and smaller. The dunes of sand got bigger and bigger. He was still crying.
He walked and walked and walked. He never stopped. Days upon days passed by in the blink of an eye, molding into one big horrible maelstrom of numbness. Only one thing was on his mind. One day, he'd avenge his family. He would not let this go unpunished. He was alone, afraid, and it was all their fault. He'd never forgive them. He'd never forgive those monster people. Never. He didn't know how long he'd been walking. He collapsed from exhaustion just outside of a big, pretty city. He could still remember seeing the word "Sentinel" written on sign just outside the city in great, big, blue letters. There had been a nice lady who'd helped.
Silver eyes like his. Long, white hair, but the face of someone young. Willowy, a kind smile. Looks like mother.
No. No. No.
She had a crooked grin and withered hands. Her face was stern but kind. Her hair was black and liberally streaked with gray. She had warm, brown eyes. She'd taken care of him. She was not mother, but she was nice. She sent him to the orphanage with promises of an apprenticeship when he grew older. Life was okay. No one adopted him; he was okay with that. The beds were soft, the people were nice. There were no monster people. He made friends. Celann and Tanek. Three peas in a pod. The pod burned. The orphanage caught fire.
He exhaled sharply, his eyebrows scrunching up. There was a hand on his back. It was so nice and cold.
He could still remember Tanek's terrified face and horrible screams. He was trapped under a burning pillar, dying, dying, dying. Just like mother. Celann was screaming for him to get out of there. Everything hurt, everything burned. But he stayed. He held Tanek's hand. Tanek was dead. Dead, dead, dead. Isran was dead.
He was not dead.
He was bedridden, burned, in pain, but not dead.
Why was he still alive?
Why did the Gods insist on keeping him breathing?
Celann was crying, so happy he was alive. He never left, he was always there, even when he wasn't supposed to be. He brought flowers. They were given a choice. They could go to another orphanage in Hammerfell or go to Skyrim. HE couldn't recall why, but they'd chosen Skyrim. They went to Honorhall.
Honorhall, Honorhall, Honorhall.
He groaned, shifting restlessly. He was afraid. The hand was still there.
He would protect Celann with his dying breath. He took the fall every time. He stayed in the dungeon. He took the beatings. He starved and bled. Sleep was no reprieve; nightmares plagued him every night, a mix of his family and her. He never got adopted. That was okay. His wrists had lines around them from being shackled for so long. He hated the dark. He hated closets. He hated skeevers. He hated the orphanage. He hated being an orphan. He hated being left alone. He hated vampires. The shackles were still around him. It was dark, it was cold. He didn't like the cold anymore. Why was it so dark? Why was it so cold? Why did he hurt so much? Grelod was here, he had never left. He was in the closet, she was whipping him again, she-
"Isran, shhh. It's okay, you're okay. Well, kind of. C'mon, wake up."
Who...?
He peeled his eyes open, nearly crying aloud at the light assaulting his eyes. Too bright. It hurt. Everything hurt. The light burned in front of his eyelids. Go away.
"Too bright?"
"Yes." Isran slurred a lot more than he thought he would.
The light lessened. He still didn't open his eyes.
"C'mon, show me those pretty eyes."
His eyes were not pretty, shut up, Flynn!
Flynn. Flynn was here. Flynn was really nice.
Flynn was scary.
Flynn could scare away the monster people.
"Keep them away from me." Isran mumbled, his words almost indistinguishable. Why wouldn't his mouth cooperate with him?
"Keep...who? Who am I keeping away from you?"
"The monster people."
"The monster people?"
"Their eyes are scary."
"...Isran, are you talking about vampires?"
A new voice joined in.
"He is."
He knew that voice.
"Hey, Celann. Did you bring the mountain flowers?"
Isran groggily opened his eyes. There stood Celann. He looked so much older. Why was he so old? There was mom, too. No. Not mom. Mom was gone. Who... was this? He had a name for her, but it was gone. Celann looked over at him. He looked sad.
"I did. Listen, uh...he called vampires 'monster people' when we were little. So, if he starts talking about monster people, that what he's talking about."
Not-Mom looked a little confused. "You knew him when he was little?"
"You kidding? We've been buddies since we were about nine years old. We split paths when we were twenty two, and we rekindled our friendship just a few months ago."
"Oh, holy shit, you two go way back."
"Yeah, but we did have that huge falling-out five years ago, so we did have a break."
Not-mom sputtered. "He's twenty-seven?!"
No, he was still fourteen. What was Celann talking about? No, no. He wasn't fourteen. He was...
Celann laughed. "I swear to you, he is."
"I thought he was at least in his late forties! Shit, he's younger than me! I'm twenty-nine!"
"He'd hit you if he knew you thought he was in his forties! What made you think that!?"
"All the stress wrinkles and the full fuckin' beard!"
He had a beard?
"...I suppose he does look really old. Don't you dare tell him that, though." a humorous lilt found it's way into Celann's tone. "He might start crying."
"What!? He wouldn't! This is Isran we're talking about!"
"Actually, he just might. Only away from people though."
"No way. You're pulling on my dick, man."
"No, it's true! In fact, I clearly remember that when we were nineteen, someone thought he was my dad, and I found him in the bathroom a few hours later in tears. When I asked him what in the name of Oblivion was wrong, he just went, still in tears, "I'm NOT OLD!". In his defense, he was absolutely fucking hammered, but it was still the funniest thing I've ever seen him do. Actually, no, I've got worse, but that's one of the funnier things."
Not-Mom paused for a very long moment before she said, "You've been sitting on this gold mine for years and you haven't told me any of it! I feel betrayed!"
His eyes hurt. It was too hard to keep them open. He closed them.
"If I did, I'd find out what my insides looked like minutes later. So, do me a favor and don't antagonize him with that!" Celann laughed heartily.
"Okay, okay. I won't. Still, I can't believe you've known him for so long. Tell me more about him sometime, yeah?" Not-Mom voice began to color itself with worry. "If he's calling vampires 'monster people', he isn't doing great, is he? He doesn't seem like the sort to be completely out of it unless it's bad."
It was hard, but he opened his eyes again.
Celann gnawed on his lip. "I can tell he's really out of it. I know you two don't exactly get along, but be really gentle with him. He had a rough childhood, to say the least. If his mind's stuck in that time, he'd going to be sensitive. Try not to make him burst into tears."
Not-Mom nodded solemnly. "Don't worry, he's sick. I'm never an asshole to sick people. I can recognize when they're already down. I might be a bitch, but I'm a bitch that plays fair. You can go ask Vilkas if you want proof." She huffed a humorless laugh.
Celann sighed deeply. "Okay. I'm really not joking, though. Be very nice." Celann suddenly looked a little torn, looking between Isran and Not-Mom. "He's going to be super pissed that I told you this, but he's all defensive around you for a reason. You uh..." His voice lowered. "You look a lot like his mother; he told me himself. And he lost her when he was really young, so he always gets a little sad when he looks at you. Since he expresses sadness through bitchiness, uh..."
"...Oh. Oh, fuck."
"Yeah."
Isran wasn't sure what they were talking about any more. All of it was kind of filtering slowly, but even with his head all stuffed with cotton, he got the vague sense that he should be mad. He wasn't though. His bed felt so nice and soft, and he was so tired. He just wanted to go back to sleep. His eyes fell back shut. Someone was walking towards the bed. They crouched down and rubbed his back.
"Isran, wake up, man."
It was Celann.
He didn't want to, but he tried to open his eyes. He'd do anything if it was for Celann. He had to keep Celann happy until they were out of Honorhall.
"Hey. How're you doing?" Celann asked, his eyes warm.
"Wanna sleep."
Not-Mom huffed from somewhere across the room. She was tapping something a lot. "That sure is a first, isn't it?"
Celann smiled sadly. "It is. You're pretty out of it, aren't you?"
"...Yeah."
Celann snorted, rubbing Isran's back. He looked almost sad when Isran's lips stretched into a contented grin.
"I haven't seen you this content in a long time."
"Yesterday was nice. Gr'lod was out all day."
Celann looked like he'd been slapped. Why?
The tapping stopped. "...Grelod? Did he just say Grelod?"
Celann's face was really white. "Stendarr's mercy," He breathed, "Flynn, does that potion help with delirium?!"
"Yeah, it should. Why is he talking about Grelod?"
Celann looked over at Isran with a frightened expression. Please, don't be scared Celann. I won't be in the closet for a long time, I'll be fine, honest. Please don't cry. Grelod doesn't hit that hard, it's alright. Her hands are frail and gnarled anyway, do you really think those can hurt me?
"Flynnigan, please. I don't want him to have to remember right now."
The tapping came back. It was faster. Celann stood up. He was leaving. Please don't go. Don't leave me alone in the closet. I'm so afraid of the dark.
"...No." It came out as a whimper.
Celann turned back to face him.
"No...what?"
"Don't...don't go. Don't leave me too."
"Isran, shhh. It's okay, she's not here, she's-"
"...Please."
Isran's arms felt so heavy. He could barely reach one out to Celann. Celann stared at him, looking so wounded, so sad. Don't be sad, Celann. I'm in here for you, to keep you safe. Don't cry over me, I'll be out before you know it.
Not-Mom hissed at Celann, "Shor's balls, Celann! Fucking hug him or whatever, don't leave!"
Celann slowly leaned over Isran and crawled into the bed. He laid behind him and placed an awkward hand on his shoulder. No, not enough. Isran rolled over to face him and tucked his face into Celann's chest. It was warm. It wasn't cold anymore. Celann stared at him for a very long moment before he ever so slowly wrapped his arms around him. Isran sighed, relaxing. This was good. He was safe. He was finally safe. When Celann was with him, Grelod couldn't touch them. The tapping stopped second that dragged by felt like a year, but they were years in which he was content. He was happy. Celann was here, Celann wasn't going to leave him too.
A cold hand touched his back.
It was her hand. Gnarled with age, going to pull him over to beat him again. He hated her hand. He hated her. He cringed away from her touch.
"Here. I can't get good leverage from where he's laying. Help him drink this."
It was not her voice.
Celann held something to his lips, murmuring, "Drink."
He drank. It was sweet. He felt better almost instantly.
And so, clarity hit him like a horse-drawn carriage.
Holy fucking shit. He was not at Honorhall, he was at Fort Dawnguard. Grelod was dead; had been for a couple of years. He wasn't fourteen, he was twenty seven. He had a beard, for Stendarr's sake. And...Celann was holding him. Right in front of his sworn enemy/friend, Flynn. Flynn was NOT nice and NOT his mother! Humiliation washed over him like a wave of ocean water and he couldn't help but bury his face in Celann's chest. That made him feel better, and realizing that this made him feel better made him feel even more embarrassed. Celann rubbed his back. It felt so soothing and so mortifying at the same time. He had no idea what to do with himself. Flynn began to rub his back too. What the fuck was she doing? She should be yelling at him. They should be exchanging insults, like they normally did. Not this. Anything but this. This was so different, so foreign. What was he supposed to do here!?
Oh, sweet Stendarr, Celann had told her about the bathroom-crying-thing!
That motherfucker!
"Celann." He tried his hardness to growl, but to his utter mortification it came out sounding like a whine.
Celann mistook this for him crying out and hugged him tighter.
"It's alright. We're not at the orphanage, you big idiot. You're safe, so am I."
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh, Stendarr's hairy armpits this was fucking humiliating. It was even more humiliating that he found it so...
So nice. He hadn't been held like this in a very long time. It was really soothing, which was super embarrassing to admit to himself, but it wasn't like anyone else knew what he was thinking. And he was really tired...Fuck it. He was exhausted, so pride be damned, he relaxed. Fighting vampires and being paranoid could wait just this once. Celann was a capable fighter and though he'd be damned before he'd say it aloud, Flynn was extraordinary; like a murdering machine. That was kind of scary to think about, but at least he knew she'd be able to defend the fort if shit hit the ceiling. Swallowing his pride, Isran curled closer to Celann.
This isn't going to last.
His heart ached.
Good things never do. You don't deserve this. You're a monster.
He wanted to cry. He pushed the tears away. He was a grown ass man. No more tears; he'd cried enough to last a lifetime in that abominable closet. His skin crawled. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his wrist. The scars hadn't faded. Stupid shackles, stupid Grelod.
"Flynn, this is going to be a really weird request, but could you join us in the bed?"
Oh, good gods.
"Why?"
That was a good damn question.
"I'm not going to lie to you. You are a force of nature, an honest to gods one-woman siege. I have never seen anyone like you, and I doubt I ever will. You're like...inhuman. There's something ethereal about you."
"Okay? That's really flattering and all, but what does that have to do with me joining you two in the bed?"
"Not only are you a horrifying force of nature, but all of your friends have told me that you're great at cuddling."
Stendarr's mercy.
"Oh. You've been talking to Vilkas and Farkas a lot, I see."
"Yeah. They've said that whenever you cuddle with either of them they feel incredibly safe, protected even."
Oh. Oh no, Celann. For the love of Stendarr, don't fucking say it. I will murder you. Not yet, because that'd give away that I'm actually lucid, but I will fuck you up.
"Basically, Isran sleeps a lot better when he feels safe and protected. As much as he hates you, it would help. Vilkas hated you and he said you still made him feel secure." Celann paused. "I think he could do with some good sleep for once. That's why he's constantly cranky; he sleeps bad. He actually has nightmares a lot."
FUCK YOU, CELANN!
To Isran's utter horror, Flynn slowly crawled into the bed behind him. He tensed on reflex. Flynn chuckled lowly, and rubbed his shoulder with...with way too much gentleness. For the love of Stendarr, please hit me or something. Anything. Holy shit.
"I guess I can deal. He still feels pretty warm. Did he doze back off?"
Fuck. He quickly closed his eyes.
"...Yeah, probably." Celann hummed a moment later. Phew.
Wait, he was still pissed at Celann.
"Y'know, he actually doesn't look that old when he's sleeping. Maybe I thought he was old because he just perpetually looks pissed off when he's awake."
Oh. She'd thought he was in his forties! He wasn't that fucking old! He was not going to cry, though. Unless he got drunk tonight, which...he damn well might. After a situation as mortifying as this, alcohol was the answer. He'd have to lock the door though; he couldn't hold his alcohol that well and he didn't want a repeat of what happened when he was nineteen. Gods forbid it wasn't Celann who walked in on him this time. The only two people allowed to walk in on him while he was drunk off his ass was Celann and his son. Briefly, Isran wondered where Saar had run off to, but he didn't particularly care. He knew Saar wouldn't leave the canyon...probably. Unless he was somewhere making out with Farkas's brat-child, Frey. Making out with Frey and losing his innocence.
Fuck. Maybe he should go check on Saar. His baby was not losing his innocence on his damn watch.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say he looks constantly pissed off because he hates everything. Literally. That wall? Fuck that wall. That one particular rock? That rock is dead to him."
Fuck off, Celann. He liked rocks. In fact, he had a collection of pretty ones under his bed. Not that he was going to tell Celann that, though. Saar. He was thinking about Saar.
"Where's my boy?" Isran croaked, startled at how dry his throat suddenly felt. Still, someone had to go check on his kid.
"What?"
"My boy," Isran stressed, frowning. Who the fuck else would he be talking about other than Saar?
"Saar?"
"Yeah."
"He conked out an hour ago; I put him in bed. Don't worry about him."
Oh, good. He wasn't making out with Frey. Unless... "Frey?"
He could hear Flynn's smirk. "They're cuddling."
A million warning bells flashed in his head.
"Holy shit they're having sex." Delirium forgotten, Isran squirmed in his bed and tried to twist away from Flynn and Celann.
"Isran, they're fifteen and sixteen, they're not banging. Leave them be, you cock-blocking lunatic!" Celann pinned him to the bed.
That was a good point, but he still wanted to make sure.
"Isran, look. I'll cast a detect life spell and I'll see their silhouettes, and tell you if they're sleeping or not. I'll even make the spell audible so you can be sure I'm not fucking with you." There was an audible spell being cast and Flynn tensed a little.
That was NOT reassuring.
"Flynn?" Celann asked.
"Okay, so, they're not fucking, but they're uh..."
"Flynnigan." Celann hissed.
"Uh, alright, um...Isran, don't get mad but they're totally making out."
Holy fuck, he was going to have a nervous breakdown.
Celann sighed loudly. "Isran, I'm glad to see that you've at least kind of shaken off your delirium, but go back to sleep, you bedridden idiot. What are you going to do, crawl over there and whisper-yell at them because your voice is too weak to yell properly? You can't protect him forever, let him be a love-struck teenager and leave him be."
Dammit. If Celann was trying to reason with him, he was actually serious.
"He's got a point, hun." Flynn patted his shoulder. "I'd stop them, but I love both of them and I don't know who I'd yell at. Just rest, and I'll tease them relentlessly tomorrow. Maybe I'lll throw some lubricant at them."
"Don't fucking do that, you crazy bitch."
"See? You're feeling better already, you fucking jackass."
"I hope you choke."
"What am I going to choke on? Your dignity as it escapes you with every passing second?"
"Choke on my fucking dick, you heinous bitch."
"I can't choke on something if it's small."
"Both of you, shut the fuck up and go to sleep." Celann grumbled, kneeing Isran on the side gently.
"Sorry, Celann. He makes it too tempting."
"I don't care. You said you wouldn't be an asshole while he was sick."
"I did say that, didn't I? Ugh, fine. But just so you know, I don't sleep."
"Great. I'm not even going to question that. Isran, sleep."
"Fuck you." Isran hissed.
"In your dreams. Shut up."
Isran's lips curled in displeasure but he relented, curling towards Flynn's warmth. Perhaps there was a seed of truth embedded and Vilkas and Farkas's words; she was rather nice to cuddle with. He didn't feel much of this safe feeling either twin had reportedly mentioned before it hit him like a wave. A literal wave, though. The sudden feeling of utter security was so overwhelming he gasped, unable to even think of a snarky remark when Flynn chuckled from behind him because he was too caught up in 'what the fuck'.
Celann summed up his basic thoughts with, "Holy shit."
"Did you feel it?" Flynn asked softly.
He was unsure if she was talking to him or Celann, so he nodded just in case she was talking to him.
"I sure as fuck did. What...what was that?"
"A couple years ago when I first met Farkas, he nearly kicked the bucket. I saved his ass and we've been close as kin ever since. Farkas said that the safe feeling I practically oozed helped him stay calm and not go into shock, and because of that I decided that I ought to create a spell that allows me to literally push out that feeling of safety to keep people calm. In case you didn't know, I'm both a master illusionist and a healer. Some of my very injured patients tend to go into shock, and it's hard to drag them out of that, so I designed that to help with my healing duties."
Isran had to admit, he was a little impressed, but he would never say so out loud.
"That...that's incredibly useful. I didn't know you were a healer, much less a master illusionist." Celann breathed in wonder. "How did you learn to do that?"
"Magic is a wonderful thing."
"I didn't know you knew magic like that."
"There's a lot you don't know about me." Flynn shrugged.
"I'd like to know more."
"I guess that's fair, but ask Farkas. He'll spill a bunch of ridiculous stories about me."
"And you won't?"
"I'm not much a sharing kind of person."
"That's true. You're very reserved."
"And I am for a reason."
"And what is that reason?"
"Can't tell you."
"...Of course you can't." Isran sighed, rolling his eyes. "You never can."
Celann stared at him for a long moment. "You're one to talk, Isran."
He didn't have a response to that.
"Ooh, hit him where it hurts, Celann."
"Shut up, Flynn."
Isran heaved a sigh. "I'm going to sleep."
He ignored all other words (something he was amazing at doing) and closed his eyes. He registered a hand rubbing his back, but couldn't be bothered to figure out whose it was.
For the first time in forever, he slept well.