She's the most meticulous person he's ever met, is Clelia. The old manor's virtually spotless—something that's struck him from the beginning. Every minute object is put where it's both easily accessible and pleasing to the eye. It's nice to not have to rummage through dozens of drawers for the pincushion, or to have all you may need at your disposal upon entering your room after a tiring day.
He's got a sneaking suspicion it's not merely a matter of convenience, in her case; it runs much deeper than that (everything always "runs deeper than that" with anyone, after all—one of the first lessons a priest and healer is required to understand). Very few things are secure and predictable for the Dragonborn when, first their country, then the whole damned world, are vying for their aid—to find even a semblance of equilibrium, she has to have order in her immediate vicinity, at least.
There is nothing symmetrical about her, inside or out, from her slightly crooked nose to the sharp edges in her heart—yet she strives to achieve symmetry with all her might, and it would be pitiful if it weren't so incredibly laudable.
That, or he's starting to lose it, which may be just as likely, considering.
"When should we go? If we leave soon, we'll be able to catch up with them, they can't have gotten far," he asks while she runs her fingers along the bindings of her scroll collection, perfectly aligned inside one of the display cases.
"Let them go. I'm not sure I can stand being near that bastard right now." She sends a little smirk his way. "Much too sleep-deprived."
"Four heads are better than two," he tries to counter, remembering Illia's frightful expression—We'll only be gone for a few days—the way her arms had clung to her sister's neck like vines—
"True, but I do think we can manage without them—argh, damn it all," she exclaims, taking in his panicked expression, "don't tell me that's what she's...She has, hasn't she? That girl, I swear..."
"You know very well you would have done the same."
"Obviously."
She pauses, then adds:
"A lot, lot worse."
She stands there, lightly biting one of her fingernails in thought, then heaves a deep sigh.
"Fine. We leave tomorrow at dawn. Just to assess what we might be dealing with, and if it ends up looking a bit too problematic, we go to the village and fetch them. That's reasonable."
"It is. Thank you, my odds were beginning to seem somewhat shaky, there. I shudder to think how Lilly would've reacted had we completely left her out of this."
The short laugh that escapes her at his sombre musings should not make his heart give that strong a lurch. Yet, for that single moment, she looks like herself again, and it hurts.
"Fearsome little thing, isn't she? All right, then, let us see...I'll...I'll go to the store to inquire about the new blade oils I've ordered. You may wish to take a look at those spell books in the meantime, there must be something that can help us—you're the only magic expert left in this house, so, good luck."
"Well, if you put it like that," he can't resist teasing her. "Though, Clea...?"
"Yes?" she says, rubbing her temples.
"Are you sure you don't want to go ahead with this as soon as possible? I mean, can you..."
"I've been this way for weeks, Erandur, one more day won't kill me, I promise," she murmurs fondly. "I have some of Milore's draught left for tonight, and it'll do."
It probably won't, but he can't really argue with her on that front. Nevertheless, come sundown, he feels the need to ask her whether there's anything he can do to help; she turns even paler and hesitates only for a second before denying vehemently.
"It's been better already, now that you're here," she whispers, dusting off an intricately carved cuirass with practised ease, and how can the tone in which she says it not be worth every single moment of doubt, denial, and remorse?
It doesn't help that he thinks he can hear the sound of soft steps coming up and down the stairs for long after she's wished him goodnight, leaning on the door frame of his (her) room.
It turns out calling this place "the outskirts of civilisation" didn't quite capture the essence of it, since they've been walking for Gods know how many hours, without encountering any manner of civilisation to speak of. Attempting to distract himself from the frigid winds and the deeply unsettling noises echoing on the barren plains when he least expects them, he tells her something he's been dying to for months:
"I'm not sure if you're aware, but I've spent a significant amount of time in garrisons around Skyrim and even Cyrodiil, without the level of...literacy among recruits ever striking me as terribly high. Yet here you are, sending me those letters, and I can't help but wonder—where did you learn to write like—well, like that?"
"Oh," she says, narrowing her eyes, "you have my father to thank for it."
"Your father, the captain?!"
"That's the man."
"I'd imagined, from the little you've told me, he only sought to turn you into the perfect soldier, and kept you doing military drills twice as long and difficult than those meant for the rest of your peers."
"And what do you think my time was being spent on when the drills were over? Oh, no, I required much more than weapon and endurance training, if I was to someday take over his position, which absolutely everyone expected me to do. He tutored me in history, geography, classic military strategy, and, most importantly, encouraged me to read anything I could get my hands on; though that was much more about me standing out from the others than anything else."
Huffing, she begins to fiddle with the buckles of her gauntlets.
"I was his only child, therefore, his only chance of proving that his family was as far from being a failure as it could possibly get, and proving it to everyone; most of all, to my mother, who'd vanished a short while after having me, and whom my mere presence reminded him of constantly. At least, that's what I believe."
As ever, he lets her speak, unload the burdens she's been hauling with her for so long, she's on the brink of allowing them to become a leaden pedestal.
"You know I'd barely made it up to Praefect, before I ran away and the whole Helgen debacle happened? Father was furious. The good Captain Raffaele Orsino, snubbed out of a centurion position solely by his own reluctance to submit to the general's whims, had a daughter who did not even get close to matching his combat prowess by the age of twenty-four? But one who could recite accounts of famous battles at three in the morning, or draw comparisons between virtually any work of Breton poetry from the early Third Era and contemporary Redguard epics. That, she could most assuredly do."
She stares ahead as if seeing the past unfold beyond the swirls of ash dotting the landscape.
"When Alduin attacked, I saw the opportunity for what it was and slipped away in the commotion. I could not resign myself to the life that had been set for me—yes, a marvel of an excuse, wasn't it? Went straight to the Rift, where I knew I could make myself disappear. Came across a decrepit tower in the woods, and then, all of a sudden, there was something to live and fight for: a friend, who became my family. The sister I'd always dreamed of having."
"Has your father not tried to find you, afterwards? I find it hard to believe."
"No idea. The only piece of information I managed to dig up on my way to Whiterun a few weeks later was that he'd been killed in action; a band of necromancers near Ivarstead, twice his number of men. Some scouts found the piles of ash where their camp had been."
"Near Ivarstead...Stendarr's mercy, he was getting close to where you—"
"All right!" Clea raises her voice, then takes a deep breath and looks at him apologetically. "He likely was. It's no use dwelling on it now, though. We're almost to the mountains, let's carry on for another hour or so, and then we'll find a place to rest."
"In all honesty," she speaks towards the campfire as the sun sinks below the horizon, "all that reading and writing finds a way to be useful, every once in a while. Do you realise how doomed I'd be if I couldn't keep up with my dear brother-in-law? His suggestion to hurry and leave for Cyrodiil would've otherwise come within...let's see, a few days, perhaps?"
She snorts.
"Luckily, I've managed to shut him up more than a few times since we moved to Raven Rock, in case you were wondering why exactly he was being so nice to me back home."
Lounging on her bedroll, she stares wistfully up at him, and he finds himself pinned into place.
"Also," she says, "how could I be ungrateful when my letters worked? You came. Maybe the captain had been on to something, after all."
He will not ruin this right now. He refuses.