ScribeRim
A D Gray-Man x Skyrim Crossover
4th Era, Year 187, The Pale
Bookman was an old mer and the harshest cold of the Pale and Winterhold's wild mountains always did a good job of reminding him of it. He was lament to say he couldn't help wincing a little bit at the creak in his joints as he pushed through the snow, and the fact that he was neither the tallest of anyone in either human or elf kind made it no easier.
Weary eyes turned skyward as snowflakes continued to fall, gentle in their descent, but only adding to his troubles nonetheless. He was getting too old for this, especially for continuing his work at such an old age without any sort of students to pass on his work. He was, however, without any suitable students.
Those of the College were comparably young to him, but still old enough that retraining some of their skills and habits, to say nothing of their other interests, was a task he wasn't keen on undertaking. Perhaps he might find someone far younger in other settlements, but parents were often protective of their young and wary of strangers, and to even those who knew him, wary of the dangers outside their villages.
He supposed his easiest option would be to travel to Riften and see what untapped potentials Honorhall might have there. Surely even Grelad the Kind must feel overwhelmed at times of all her young and orphaned charges, and glad to find one among them a suitable caregiver to take them off her hands. One less mouth to feed. Certainly it would likely be better in her eyes than them falling into doing work for the local Thieves.
He supposes he's lingered already in the cold too long, continuing his path up the snowy hill between the rise of two jagged peaks. Just beyond the slope of Wayward Pass would be Nightgate Inn, a far more forgiving distance than heading all the way to either Windhelm or Whiterun to finally warm himself and sleep somewhere he might actually awaken the next morning.
The arch of the pass's zenith provides some relief from the wind, and Bookman takes his while to observe the frozen skeletal remains of an ancient traveler that he has passed many a time heading to and fro the ancient Dwemer ruin of Alftand, keeping eternal vigil in honor.
It's a moment that he pauses, over the remains and in observance of the small stone shrine to Arkay. While never one who would be caught devoutly attending any of Skyrim's many temples to the Divines, be it whether he accepts Eight or the Nine that Men believe so strongly in, neither is he one to take for chance the ill-fated hazards of the climate. He wouldn't necessarily call it faith so much as insurance. He loses nothing for giving a moment of attention to the supposed God of Life and Death, but perhaps he might gain an extra year for paying proper reverence every now and again. The irony of such a shrine placed beside a frozen skeleton is not lost to an old elf's eyes.
"Blessed Arkay, please grant me safe passage from the north, that I might continue my work until I have a worthy heir who will see it continued through many ages following mine."
Respects given, in word or in silence to both Arkay and the traveler in rest eternal, his sights turn to the other side of the pass, a far easier path to traverse, but still hazardous all the same with the slickness of frozen earth.
The journey, slow-going as it is, is ultimately worth it once the glittering, half-frozen pond and solitary inn finally comes into view, it's thatched roof buried as it is. What he notices most is the smell of smoke wafting in the air, only faintly traceable through the bitter, frosted wind. Far behind the lonely inn stands more jagged mountains climbing far into the sky, none moreso than the towering behemoth that is High Hrothgar and the Throat of the World standing between Whiterun and The Rift.
Nightgate is a considerably small inn of typical cobblestone-walled design, tucked away amongst snow-covered firs, glistening snowberry bushes, and half-buried mammoth bones poking out of the snowdrifts, and the first impression of the inside is equally as humbling.
The apparent size of the place is nothing worth worrying over when the heat from the fire and smell of fresh baked goods, cooked meats, and spiced stews reaches the senses however. Somewhere underlying that comes the familiar scent of garlic, dried frost miriam and elves ear so common in Nord homes. Less welcomed is the slow, thawing realization of cold still nipping at his fingers and face, and once again Bookman is reminded of his age with a reluctant sigh.
The innkeeper, an older man by Hadrig sporting a long scar and a blind eye to compliment his rugged beard, welcomes him in with curt friendliness and vague familiarity.
"Welcome. Feel free to take a seat by the fire. I'm sure I can still find a clean mug around here somewhere for something warm to soothe you after your journey."
"Thank you," Bookman offers roughly, immediately scouring the room for a chair to pull up beside the fire. When he finds it, he makes himself at home. Nightgate doesn't have a large hearth like many of the other inns, but anything is better than being exposed to the elements at this point. A quick glance tells him that among the other occupants is only a dark elf, probably a mercenary by the looks of it, and an aged, grumpy breton. "I would very much appreciate it. Some stew if you would as well, any kind."
Hadrig nods understanding and stands from where he had been leaning over the counter, calling over the rickety wood railings of the stairs leading to the second level underground.
"Boys! We have a customer! Dish up some of that hunter's stew."
There's a soft thunk somewhere, which Bookman's trained ears immediately identify as a book smacking shut, unmistakable with how often he himself has delved into literature of all manner. Its followed by the light thump of two pairs of feet hopping up the stairs, in a flash of bright orange hair the dark can't quite hide even in the deep shadows of the dancing firelight.
Bookman appraises the two who appear, both young males, probably breton if his eyes have yet to fail him. Oddly enough, they're identical in appearance, all the way down to their closed right eyes, but their left eyes are contrasted in sharp, intelligent green. His first wonder is who and where their mother is. They're not familiar from any previous visits, albeit it has been quite a few years, and there is no local woman he's ever seen here that he could make a guess at having had them by looks alone.
They watch him back with an almost unnerving dualty, almost like a mirror of the other, but there's something about the way they look him over in bold inquisition that he decides he likes. Just as quickly as they come to give him his bowl of stew, they're gone again towards the stairs, and yet not once do their eyes leave him, especially one more than the other. He wonders where they're off to in such a hurry, and then he remembers the sound of a book. Perhaps they have an interesting story to get back to, which must mean they can read, or at least try to.
"Are those boys yours?" Its very blunt and direct, but Bookman has never been one to mince words on meaningless chatter.
"I suppose you could say that," Hadrig hums. "I've let them stay here the last couple of years, help with things at the inn here and there, but they're not my children."
"Is that so?" Bookman humors, pausing to sip down a spoonful of his food before deciding conversation would be a good way to pass the time while it cools anyway. "I'm guessing from how you speak of it that they aren't children of your relatives either."
Hadrig seems to catch on that his interest isn't merely idle curiosity for curiosity's sake.
"A traveler brought them here a few years ago, found them out in the wilds while they were hunting, near-frozen as wee babes and brought them here to get them warm. They've been here ever since then, and I've let them stay until they're old enough to go out on their own, maybe pick up work as apprentices to someone in Windhelm in a few years' time."
Bookman nodded his understanding. They were still very young, easily told by their size, but there's still something admittedly skittish, he'd go so far as to say reminiscent of feral to their mannerisms. He wouldn't say Hadrig was any sort of cruel to them, but perhaps not overly familial and attached either. More that he was offering temporary shelter to a few stray cats until they're fit to leave again, especially with the harsh north being so treacherous a place to merely send them out on their own.
"If you're not terribly set on having them stay past a couple more years, then perhaps I would be doing you a favor in taking them further south with me. Somewhere with better opportunities than out here." He's not entirely sure yet if they would be fit to take on being his apprentices, either now or in the future, but perhaps his small prayer to Arkay is being answered more readily than he would have anticipated.
"Well I certainly won't complain, but I'm not their father. I can't force them to go with anyone they don't want to, and they've already got a few promising options to think about in Windhelm. You're free to go down and discuss it with them if you wish."
Bookman nodded his understanding. It was as he suspected then. While perhaps not exactly eager to be rid of them, he wasn't reluctant either. It was a matter he didn't care to either solve or hinder at his own expense.
Taking his while to warm up and eat first, Bookman took up Hadrig's offer to see the two, heading down the stairs. The space below was lit by the glow of an oven, wafting the scents of fresh bread and pastries. Off to the side of it was a table, holding a few plates of fresh goods and a couple of books.
It took only a moment of looking and glancing around the other side of the oven to find the boys curled up together in the corner behind it, backs pressed to the warm stone with a book open between them.
Bookman didn't interrupt at first, instead walking to the larger wood table to take a look at what choice of literature they had to peruse. Among them, he found The Madmen of the Reach, Report: Disaster at Ionith, Troll Slaying, Fall from Glory, The Great War, and Rising Threat Vol II ; all titles he was familiar with. While there were far more difficult reads among Tamriel's literature, many of which Bookman had had the pleasure of delving into in his time at the College's Arcaneum, they were certainly nothing easy to read and understand for children who could be no older than eight at most.
"Tell me," he interrupts, though it's not much of an interruption from what he can tell, each of their single eyes already on him. "What book are you reading now?"
They give each other a silent glance, as if wondering whether to even humor the old High Elf with their time, before looking back at him and shrugging.
"Th' Bear of Markarth," one of them answers. He seems the bolder of the two, if anything were to be told between them, and he thinks it's probably the one who was watching him more intensely than the other before.
"And do you know what it says?" Bookman inquired.
The same boy who answered nodded his head, while the other merely watched Bookman curiously.
"I' talks about Ulfric Stormcloak an' when he attacked Markarth t' take it back from the Forsworn natives that lived in the Reach, an' that's how Skyrim got to be stuck in a Civil War 'cuz Ulfric demanded free Talos worship 'fore he'd give Markarth back to the Empire an' made the Aldmeri D'minion mad 'bout the White-Gold Cucordit."
"Concordit," Bookman corrected. Still, for what youthful lack of more difficult words the boy had, Bookman had to admit that he was just a touch impressed with how quickly and easily the boy recited the contents of the book. "And you read this all by yourselves?" After all, he could simply be repeating what he was told the book talked about, but somehow Bookman didn't think it was only that.
"Mhm."
"I see…" Bookman hummed, turning his gaze to the stacks of books. "And all of these as well?"
Both nodded at his inquiry, the other one who remained silent sitting up a little more attentively.
"Do the two of you enjoy reading and learning new things?"
It was the second boy who answered him, this time with a quick nod and a slightly friendlier glance than the other.
"My brother and I read all sorts of books. We've read those ones at least a dozen times an' a bunch more in Windhelm when we go down there t'help make deliveries an' things."
Bookman hums at the boy's enthusiasm, and notices how sharply the other keeps his eye on him.
"If you've read lots of books, then you probably know what a scholar is, correct?" It might not be an accurate guess, but he hopes so. It would make explaining himself much easier.
"A scholar is some'on' who reads a lot an' sometimes writes books on things they know about 'at other people don't, isn' it?" The two glance at each other as if to reaffirm this, the more enthusiastic one nodding with a smile before they return to looking at Bookman.
"That's correct. A scholar is someone who studies and learns all about the world, often about mysteries ill understood by others, who crave new knowledge and discoveries. I'm only one of many who has devoted their life to this, and I'm wondering if perhaps the two of you might be interested in doing the same with your lives."
They blink at him in perfect unison, glance at each other again, and seem to give it a moment of serious thought, as though the possibility never occurred to them, but neither did it cross their minds they wouldn't want to.
One of them, the more enthusiastic, nudges the other in the ribs as if to say we have to do it, voice coming in a whisper that isn't quite quiet enough to conceal.
"Can we really?"
The other hums under his breath, eye downcast at the floor for a moment, then back to Bookman in question.
"Aren't scholars all old, stuffy guys?"
Bookman could almost laugh. Such blunt statements that could only come from a child.
"A scholar is anyone who wishes to learn the world the way no one else does and see things never seen before, and then show their findings to anyone who will pick up the book they've written about it. The sooner you start, the wiser you'll be when you're old."
"It is fun being smart…" one of them mutters under their breath, and receives a soft elbow jab immediately after.
"So how d'we be scholars?"
"First," Bookman begins, "You find yourselves a teacher."
There's a small pause, and then, "And that's you?"
"If that's what you want me to be."
"And then what?"
"Then, I teach you things no one else can, so that you can go on to see and learn things no one else before has. Do you wish to become my apprentices and see all the secrets Skyrim has to offer?"
There's only a moment of hesitation, exchanged glances, gnawed lips, before they come to an unspoken, mutual decision and nod.
"We do."
"Very well," Bookman nods his approval, and silently thanks whatever Divines or Daedra decided their meeting should happen. "Then I accept you both as heirs to Bookman."