The quaint belvedere seemed a lot smaller than she remembered. Those things were inconsequential to her, of course, but she smiled at the thought of how much grander it used to seem when she'd spend the winter months here.
But those times were in her youth. When the trees stretched upward for ages, and she'd climb to the very top to catch a glimpse of the infinite sea line, glinting under the aurora borealis. How her mother would scold her for sneaking out and not bothering to put on a scarf nor gloves. Now those once proud surrounding trees had fallen with rot, and some of the stone on the first level of the cottage began to crumble from the years of being weathered.
The air was crisp and cold, smelling of sea water and the heavy snow that hid at the edge of the clouds above. Frost's neigh made her lurch in place and snap back to reality. She grasped the key tighter as she unlocked the door, almost afraid that throughout the years it had forgotten it's pattern and the shifting plates wouldn't budge to protest her absence. The sharp click not only rang in her ears but bounced off the snowy ground and throughout the woods behind her. It's rusty hinges creaking as she pushed the heavy door open.
Bags that were once slung over her shoulders echoed in the thinly furnished hall as they thumped to the ground. The creeping darkness made her uneasy, so she made way to the curtains. Dust and sunlight danced on the walls as the red drapery parted. Sighing, she made a mental note to shake them out the following day.
She cursed at the stack of firewood and fidgeted with the matchbox. The fireplace cooperated with the reward of warmth licking at her fingers and cheeks. Her father's favorite chair still sat proudly next to it, just with a white sheet draping over. Removing it shared the same soft royal blue heirloom, it's sturdy wooden legs engraved with nautical scroll patterns. Her father made it look so comfortable but never cared to share. He would joke about how it wouldn't sit her comfortably for getting used to his rump over the years. She could still hear their giggles as it haunted the space around her now.
He used to be a sailor before the ache took over his hands and back. He looked like the typical old man now: scrunched over, cane and all. Ma swore she found the perfect canis root tea recipe to help ease it, but neither of them fell for herbal concoctions. Only salty air and water could do the trick. Papa knew that but his health wouldn't allow the trip out. That's why he insisted she take the journey out here.
After Demetri, time stood still. Her bed became her fortress of solitude, and the four walls of their room became her prison cell. She almost made it two weeks before the bed sores sent her down to the kitchen. When Ma came to check in, she took over with not even the slightest complaint. She gathered her frail daughter's oily and unkempt hair, hummed a soft tune, and washed her gently in the warm tub, working out all of the knots and minding the painful caters on her backside. It was like she was a babe all over again. Helpless and childlike in her dependence.
Whatever happens before and from this moment forward is part of the plan, Marina. Nothing ever happens in vain.
Words that meant little to her at the time began to make sense in the months following his death. Months came as quickly as the sun rose and set, and she finally found the strength to sell some of their things. The manors in both Riften and Whiterun, as well as his project just south of Falkreath. The horses from the stable were next to go. All except Frost, for he was Demetri's favorite. Oh the hell she got for all of it. But it mattered little in the end; she was the one burying him after all.
This feeling was unexplainable to the many who had questions and concerns. Marina had lost pets before, which felt just as equally humorous as it did awful to compare her late husband to her favorite cat. She watched her grandmother fall ill and pass on quickly after, even remembering the gratitude everyone felt that she would no longer suffer.
But this was different.
Her sense of comfort had died with him, but an overwhelming relief rose in it's place. And there it lay in a catacomb within Cyrodiil. Skyrim's hero had passed. The only time everyone seemed to share a common loss.
Her fingers massaged her temples gently, as if to break up the vexing thoughts.
Tucking the long black strands behind both of her ears, she decided to tidy up to keep her thoughts at bay. Though he had never stepped foot into this place, there was a strange connection to Demetri in some way or another. Like lighting the wall sconces as she made her way upstairs reminded her of the candlelight vigil held for him in Bruma.
It was as beautiful as it was simple. A painting he had modeled for sat before the closed casket. Freshly manicured vases sat at both ends, while a large matching bouquet rested on top of the sleek and large wooden coffin. A line longer than anything she had ever seen had formed, each individual eager to say their goodbyes.
So many people seemed shocked to put her face to the name. Equally puzzled at how a Dragonborn would consider putting a ring on anyone less than a higher class outside of his Imperial lineage. A seaman's daughter especially didn't fit the bill his parent's seemed to have had in mind, that being her first encounter with them. Their words were cruel but she swallowed them, along with the lump in her throat. Hurt people hurt people she reminded herself. Besides, it was too late to change any of that now.
In all that chaos, noise and over-exaggerated crying or shouting over one another, that was when she finally saw her. It was almost like Marina's sixth sense had been aware of her the whole time. Locking eyes as soon as she scanned the crowd. The haunting pain that danced around in them looked all too familiar. Tears spilling over emeralds and rolling down her blushed cheeks. Almost a reflection staring back. Even with the sea of people distancing them, Marina knew that look. She couldn't rip her eyes off of the woman, just as much as it was likewise.
The fiery redhead made her way through the crowd to stand in front of her: a broken heart in human form.
Hello Elisif. Her mouth said in disobedience. The look on the woman's face only verifying her suspicion. She felt brave in that moment. Marina took delight in how she shifted under her eye contact.
You know I lost my Torygg, so it's fair to say I know what you're going through. She had averted. As little comfort as it brings, Demetri truly was a good man who will spend his eternal rest in Sovn-
Marina could only keep her focus on the swollen stomach peeping through the lavishly embellished robe tied loosely on her torso. The High Queen stammered on in hopes to drown out the obvious truth that lingered over the crowded funeral. There had been gossip and talk of the Dragonborn's infidelity. Rumors that he had a woman in each minor town and major city. Marina was just the last to find out, it would seem.
Marina tried not to let any of it bother her. Conversation started as soon as their courtship did. But something about these jabs were different.
She sat most of her days away, reading or some other tedious task. Waiting as Demetri made her.
One of the chambermaids always spoke too loudly, but this time she listened. Overhearing something about how it was -- Right underneath her nose. But that's too busy buried in a book to sniff out the whoremonger.
Demetri hadn't come home, but there were already sightings of him in the Blue Palace's gardens. She had only suggested that there was another. His shoulders sagged and eyes widened when she asked who he spent time with in the Palace without her. It took nearly an hour of screaming back and forth till he admitted it.
No dish was spared from her fury that morning. A plate shattered so closely above his head that only for a split second did she think he could kill her right then and there. The rage in his eyes as he stared through her soul. Shaking hands debating whether or not to grip her neck and suffocate the life out of her lungs. Maybe she would finally taste the Voice that so many trembled in fear over.
In that moment she would've accepted any of it. For death would have stung less than his betrayal.
Any time after that it would be the same argument. Where have you been? Home. With her? No. Liar!
Maybe he was telling the truth that time. And if not, men lied when they were scared, or cared, she knew that from past relations.
Self righteous fabrications poured like mead over her deaf ears as he would pump inside of her. But only over the short weekends he'd finally bother to come back. She had made up her mind it was only a desperate attempt and haste plea to salvage the wreck that was left waiting for him. Marina cried into her pillow as he called out this familiar stranger's name in his sleep.
Everyone knew of his affairs. Solitude's potential successor rested under the bosom of a higness with the seed of a Hero...and there were many that anticipated it.
All except for the widow of the Dragonborn.