Guide:
Dwemeris
Thoughts
"Speech"
"Dovahzul"
Warnings/Disclaimer: see chapter 4
Chapter Warning(s): Injuries. My interpretation of TES Philosophy.
A/N: Message at the bottom, plus a little extra I hope you'll all like!
ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY HELL YES!
Last time… Not that I'd know she'd say that, because she can by secretive if she wishes to be. Not that I'd ever forget just who ran throughout the frozen wastes, on the way to the College, with me on her back and an Altmer she hated at her side as her sole protection.
Chapter 51 – Road to Recovery
I wake up regretting all my life's choices.
Well, in cases such as this, 'waking up' as a concept is not what should generally be used. 'Regaining consciousness' is, perhaps, a far more apt description of my current situation.
Either way, everything hurts and I feel like I'm dying.
Not daring to open my dully, painfully throbbing eyes just yet, I simply lie there, trying to analyse my state without alerting anyone who might be nearby – and without aggravating what is sure to explode into a pounding headache the second I try to think any harder than I do now.
I am reclined horizontally, arms loosely at my side and not wearing my armour. Though the cold nipping at my nose doesn't bother me as I'm entirely covered in layers upon layers of blankets and fur, stifling against my skin, clammy from a barely abated fever.
Overall, I feel much like I've been filled with lead – with my muscles weak and trembling, my limbs heavier than stone and my dry throat protesting at every intake of frigid Winterhold air.
On a slightly brighter note, the stiffness that has plagued me since leaving Ivarstead is gone, and for that I'm grateful.
My hands and feet, hard to move as they're covered in bandages, tingle lightly, warmly, a sign of the salve that surely contains fire salts that the bandages prevent from staining the blankets.
Oh, I must have gotten a bit of frostbite. It's beneath my notice to note a lack of feeling in my toes and fingers these days, but perhaps I should have been more careful.
My entire shoulder is wrapped in a thick layer of linen bandages, also, reeking strongly of potions and healing ointments, the whole area throbbing with a dull ache, spreading out to my chest and upper right arm. The linen goes all the way up to my neck, my mouth tasting of a sour honey infusion and, right, of course, I did overuse my Thu'um, so a sore throat should have been expected.
The taste is a pleasant surprise, though, as it partially covers up the sewage-like results of bad dental care that show after a few days without at least rinsing with mouthwash.
Rolling onto my uninjured side, I let my mind wander away from the topics I should be worrying about.
I hear the muted voices of people rummaging about, talking amongst each other amiably – at least I know I'm not with the necromancers anymore, they would not have taken care of me. I suppose I'm at the College, then. Thank Meridia for small mercies.
It's warm. I'm comfortable. My mind doesn't work enough just yet to work through everything that has happened in the past days. Blissful blankness, easing in the lack of worry, encompasses me as I doze lightly, for once not in a state of stress or fear.
Despite the dull ache, it's absolute bliss.
After a while of musing absently, a new sounds breaks through the cottony, half-dozing haze I'm in: prim footsteps on the stone, approaching the room I'm in before a door opens and the sounds suddenly gets a lot louder – I believe there are several people entering, coming up to the bed.
I mumble something incomprehensible that might have been a 'good morning', throwing one arm to cover my eyes as light floods behind closed lids, torches being lit around the room.
"I can see that you have awakened, Dragonborn."
Comes a woman's voice, high-pitched and lilting, breaking the silence with all the grace of shattering glass. "Do you think you can sit up for me so I may check on your bandages?"
Considering it for all of ten seconds, I only curl deeper into the protective, warm cocoon of blankets. I mean, I COULD, theoretically, just sit up in bed, but that would mean facing the frigid cold air outside of my little piece of paradise, and I don't think so.
Almost as an afterthought, I curl my bandaged fingers around the edge of the furs, to prevent them from being pulled away from me and exposing me to the cold, cold world. A second voice, to my dismay, joins the first: "Fjaldi, do not act like a petulant child, everyone has been worried about you. Let the healer Marence see to your wounds."
It's Ondolemar.
No. Fuck you, I'm staying in bed.
I huff. "Five more minutes."
"You have been in a healing sleep for three consecutive days already." Comes the short, snappy retort. I don't care.
Just want to sleep.
"…Ten more minutes."
And apparently, there's more than two people in the room, though I swear up and down that I could care less.
A soft snickering breaks the disbelieving silence that follows, followed by an oh-so-familiar and very much welcomed voice interrupting the other two as they try to persuade me simultaneously.
"Step aside dears, Dragonborn expert coming through!" My ears twitch in curious apprehension as I recognise Marcurio's signature smugness.
What is he up to?
…Do I want to know?
A warm hand lands lightly on my cheek, the thumb drawing small circles on my face just below my eye before the mage tucks away a strand of stray hair behind my ear, brushing the twitchy appendage thoughtlessly as he pets my hair. "Fjaldi, love, you should really let Lady Colette look at you. We're all waiting for you to get back on your feet!"
He called me what now?
Cautiously, I crack one eye open, tilting my head a bit and peering at the smiling mage bend over me with a scowl on my face. "Curio." I mumble, before coughing a little, waving away his concerned hands as I curl up even tighter, my lungs screaming at me not to speak. I speak anyway.
"There are days where, where a person has to consider a… thing. It goes: 'Am I willing to put up with this shit today?' I say 'No'. Fuck off." A resounding quiet follows my biting commentary, my scratchy voice helping me to get the point I'm trying to make across.
Marcurio merely chuckles again as if I hadn't just cursed at him, going back to petting my hair from where he'd frozen halfway through my sentence. I squeeze my eyes shut again, nestling deeper into my blankets, the continuous playing with my hair lulling me into a sense of contentedness I don't remember feeling, ever. The only things that would make this better are a lack of pain and a-
"So you'll not want that boiled crème treat, then?"
"…" I should have known that he wouldn't play fair.
As if to accentuate his statement, my traitor of a stomach growls loudly at the thought of the red, gooey goodness. Adding insult to injury, the mage proceeds to magic up an actual dessert from within the folds of his robes, neatly packed, holding it teasingly out of reach when I attempt to make a grab for the treat with a growl.
My eyes flash dangerously at the … at my boyfriend, before I roll back onto my back carefully, resigning myself to my fate.
It's not for him, really, I just want the food.
"Help me up." I mutter sullenly at him, allowing the mage to support me as I sit up slowly, drawing in a sharp hiss at the stab of pain piercing my shoulder through gritted teeth. Marcurio holds me gently, grinning smugly from ear to ear at the exasperated, disbelieving scowls we're getting from both Healer Colette and Ondolemar.
He hands me the treat, and I unwrap it carefully, stuffing it into my mouth without heeding my manners as the sweet scent assaults my nostrils and I'm brutally reminded of exactly how hungry I am. I'm still not happy about giving in to the mage so easily though, he's going to be insufferable about it for weeks to come.
Colette draws near quickly, handing me both a highly concentrated potion of Regenerate Health and a bottle of Nord mead. "To wash down the medicine," she explains and after polishing off the boiled crème treat I down both bottles, one after the other, with a grimace.
I pass the empty glass back to Ondolemar, who simply sets them aside before charging a healing spell, Colette is already unwrapping my unoccupied hand. Neatly closed scabs and angry red skin soon become visible, the tingling turning into a full-out pins-and-needles feeling as the College mage proceeds to carefully wipe away the excess of the dark purple salve, Ondolemar healing where she goes.
Second stage frostbite. It will blister painfully for a few days, but there'll not be any permanent tissue damage. I conclude calmly.
The process is repeated for my other hand, and my feet – covered in open blisters I hadn't even noticed and broken-off nails, are rewrapped gently under my scrutinizing gaze.
It looks more painful and ugly than it feels.
The same rule doesn't go for my shoulder. When I'm given a piece of leather to bite on, I take a deep breath to brace myself, clamping down on the item with all I have.
"You don't want to see this just yet." Ondolemar advises grimly, and I nod solemnly before burying my face into Marcurio's shoulder, the Imperial having shifted to the other side to better support me without being in Colette's way.
It hurts like a motherfucker.
Still, I keep myself strong, only the occasional whimper escaping me, luckily without nobody commenting on them as I don't think I could have kept in a cruel retort in the pain.
…
After I'm all back in bandages, panting slightly from the exertion of not screaming, I decide I might as well get started with what I came here for, since I'm sure as Oblivion not going to fall asleep now.
"Is Lydia alright?" I ask softly, leaning heavily against Marcurio's chest in a strange déjà vu of the disaster at Mzulft, though now at least I've gotten proper treatment for my injuries.
Similarly also to Mzulft, said injuries are going to leave permanent scars.
"She is quite well, actually, if angry with you for neglecting your own health in saving her. One of the mercenaries is apparently an acquaintance from Whiterun. They often hold joint training sessions, attempting to educate some of the mages here to better familiarize themselves with weapons outside of their spell repertoire. You'll not join them until you've recovered, of course." Ondolemar informs me warningly, seated on the only chair in the room, Colette having left already to tend to another patient.
The Altmer turns the page of the Restoration book he's reading, clearly wanting me to rest rather than sit up and talk for longer.
Playing with the blankets pooling at my hips absently, I hesitate. "You two carried me here, didn't you? I'm sorry. I underestimated the threat and brought you both in peril." The ex-Thalmor shakes his head with a small smile on his face, even as Marcurio's arms squeeze ever-so-slightly around my waist reassuringly.
"Do not fret about our wellbeing, Fjaldi. As I remember it, both your Housecarl and I followed you out of our own free will." His face falls into a reprimanding scowl as he looks me over.
"Rather, worry for yourself for once – not only did you endure and survive what should have been a lethal hit, you were traversing the deadly, frozen wilds of Skyrim with Rockjoint hampering your every move. You would not be with us any longer had we had any less capable aid in saving your life." His voice is bland, but the leather creaks under the tightness of his grip.
In typical Thalmor fashion, he shows no other outward signs of having been concerned at all.
Ah. That explains the stiffness. It had been getting worse, but I never figured I could be ill. I don't get sick very often.
"Right, sorry." I apologise again, looking down at my fiddling hands pensively. Then I swing my leg over the edge of the bed, with the intent of standing up.
Ugh. I need to get to the Arcanum. If there's no gods-be-damned Dovahzul dictionary, which I strongly suspect there won't be, I might as well get a head start on writing one as soon as I can move my fingers properly.
I also need to find a lead to the Elder Scroll or Fal Zhardum Din. Where's my stuff, anyway? My axes are by the door – ah, there's the knapsack too. I wonder if that helmet was delivered to the Jarl yet.
Will Onmund be available to hear me out? I might as well as for sanctuary for Ondolemar while I'm here.
I'd need my armour first. Can't go out into the cold without that.
But before I can do much beyond getting my second leg off of the bed, Marcurio drags me back in, holding me in a fond, but unwavering hold as I try to wriggle free.
"You are not leaving this bed." He snaps, drawing his legs up on either side of me, effectively caging me in fully as Ondolemar sends a Calming spell my way.
Forcibly, I feel my muscles relax, slumping in a boneless heap against my mage's chest, though my mind is still running ten miles a minute. "I have things to do, I can't sit around and wait!"
Quickly, I inform Marcurio of what I'd learned in his absence, but rather than the Imperial letting me go, he sighs heavily and leaves me alone in the bed, a firm hand on my chest cautioning me against getting up. He frowns worriedly, and I find I don't like it when he does that.
"You will stay in bed, and I will get you the stuff you need from the Arcanum, if it can be found, alright?"
I grumble darkly when he pulls the covers back over me, but I can't stay mad at the worry and care in his every move towards me.
"Alright? Trust me, you'll not want to faint outside the door – Onmund has some news for you."
"What news?" I ask grumpily.
He grins mysteriously. "Oh… You'll figure it out. Soon. For now, can I get you anything?"
"Fine. Bring me paper and ink if there's no Dovahzul translating guide." He relaxes marginally, and I lie back down, the covers now more stifling than pleasant, I almost feel trapped in a sense, not being able to do any of the things I want because of my mortal body's shortcomings.
Once Marcurio shuts the door behind him securely, Ondolemar claps the book shut, setting it aside and crossing his arms at me. One elegant eyebrow rises.
"So. Him?" I stare at him blankly, not finding what he's getting at. The Altmer's lips twitch, curling upwards at the corners ever-so-slightly. "He is your lover? The Imperial Mage you set loose on me with his endless questions, back in Markarth?"
He's trying to change the subject, I can tell. Ugh, fine, I'll play along. And somehow, through the pain and the worries, I manage to drift off to a light doze again, silence falling in the room until Marcurio bursts through the doors, arms filled with writing materials and a few books floating after him.
"I didn't find a translating guide, but Urag said the College was willing to pay you for any material you give them, to make up for the lack in the future. At least it will keep you busy. Oh, and there's a guy up north, Septimus Signus, a genius who studied the Elder Scrolls and went mad because of it. I brought a book he wrote, maybe you can make out more sense of it than I could on the first read. Also, I got you some…"
As the mage prattles on, he hands me the book by Septimus Signus. A lead. A lead to defeating Alduin at last. A determined smile settles on my face.
It was about damn time.
…
'Ruminations of the Elder Scrolls' is a fascinating read.
Marcurio nor Ondolemar believe me when I mention it two hours down the line – the book is more of an extended mental rant, really, far shorter than most other pieces of literature I've gotten my hands on.
But it goes so much in depth that even Dwemer would be stumped at the first attempt to make sense of it. Which makes it a challenge. Which makes it all the more fun to learn to understand, obviously.
"There is no way of understanding it. That book is nonsense, as to be anticipated from a foolish genius studying the Elder Scrolls without a proper medium negating their highly magical, extremely dangerous and violate side-effects." I snicker at the affronted look on the former Thalmor's face.
"Oh, it is merely hard to get. When you truly read between the lines and try to focus on the bigger picture, at least some things start to become clear."
I flip back to the very first page, pointing at a few sentences absently as my mouth catches up to my mind – I'm talking several miles per minute, but with how my thoughts are whirring and racing it feels like every intake of breath is a waste in my excitement over what's a venerable treasure trove of information.
Funny how even the most advanced scholars today seem to dismiss this work.
Perhaps, then, there is a certain understanding my people had, a naturally occurring type that the other races did not develop. After all, we did built a sort of manner to solve the issue of reading the Scroll directly and translated it later.
Or perhaps I am the one reading into this too deeply.
"There's a general theme to this apparent madness, see? Signus, in his brilliance, manages to capture the all-encompassing nature of an Elder Scroll through encompassing all of nature. As my people conceived it, at least, the world is built mainly on five pillars: the elements, those being earth, water, fire and air, and lastly, there is the Aether, the realm of magic,which are all interconnected. Here, look at the third, example. It clearly relates to earth – see how he talks about being underground…"
As I continue to ramble happily, sharing all that I've gleaned with the only two people in Skyrim I could possibly expect to understand me, Marcurio and Ondolemar's eyes grow sharper, and they eye the text warily.
"Hold that thought. Let me see that paragraph for a second." Marcurio mutters, leaning over me to read along.
"Hmm…" Ondolemar hums, toying with his glove as he stares into the distance, the book in his lap forgotten.
"So, by that logic, the stars would be the fire example? Does it have something to do with those 'towers' mentioned in the Old Texts?" Marcurio muses absently.
"Ah," Ondolemar nods in agreement. "The towers could, indeed, have something to do with this conception of the elements in relation to the Scrolls. The Red Mountain, or Red Tower, in Morrowind might signify the fire example, then. It is an active volcano, after all."
"Close enough to what I was thinking." I agree, getting really fired up now, because in all my time here, in all what I'd gathered in knowledge and wisdom, I had not even dared dream I'd find a close equal to my mental speed in a human, or another elf not a Dwemer, for that manner!
"Now, consider this… See, the Adamantine tower…"
We spend until late at night discussing the book by Septimus Signus, and even if the man is rumoured to be batty, I absolutely must meet him. I have more and more of a feeling that he will be very helpful in getting me to my goal.
A/N: Since this is the week of the ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY of Forged in Dragonfire, I have decided to give you all a little surprise! I've greatly enjoyed sending Fjaldi across Skyrim and describing his adventures, and I would like to thank you all for coming along for the ride with me!
That said, I've dug up a few short fragments and character descriptions from the very first chapters of this story, for nostalgia's sake! I wrote them to have a better idea of what I wanted Fjaldi's background to be – and now I've edited them for your reading pleasure! Childhood memories to commemorate a year's worth of story writing!
Guide:
~Short story title~
Fjaldi's thoughts
"Speech" (Dwemeris!)
Four Summers Old
He's four summers old, and Da and Ma are both home for once.
The standard, Dwemer grey and gold walls are immaculately clean, the blue lamps shining brightly onto Dad's messy stone desk. It's covered to the brim with books, parchment rolls and scrolls, charcoal nubs and inkpots. Quills are scattered randomly across the stone surface, one or two having spilled over the side onto the floor, adding to the faded blotches of ink that already seeped into the carpet long ago.
On the other side of the room is a sitting area, a heavy, intricate metal table with three seats next to a merrily burning fireplace. Ma is standing over a large platter, preparing a celebratory dinner because it's her only child's birthday. Under her breath, she hums a happy little tune from the operetta she visited not too long ago, about a Dwemer lass who fell in love with a noble boy cursed to be a wolf.
A young boy, wearing a blue tunic and happy grin, bursts through the bronze-coloured door, clutching something in his hands reverently.
On his heels is a Dwemer Sphere, joints whirring as it follows the child to keep it safe, as per its protocols. A lose bolt rattles when it turns the corner, but none of the occupants pay it any mind.
"Ma! Da! Look what I found!"
The Dwemer woman over at the fire chuckles and rises, dusting off her brown apron and wiping the flour off her short, sturdy fingers. Dark hair curls wildly in the firelight, held together by beads of steel and bronze mixed like marble. Two thick, well-kept braids frame the sides of her freckled face.
"Oh, Fjaldi! My, you're back early today!" She exclaims, reaching out to pluck her son from the ground when he runs towards her. The boy smiles, equally dark curls bouncing with every step until he's swooped up and set on broad hips.
"Aye!" He calls with a toothy grin, showing off the missing teeth in his upper jaw, two holes right next to each other. "It's shiny!"
His mother ooh's and ah's appreciatively, holding the garnet carefully and turning it in the light. "And just where did you get this from?"
The child fidgets, pulling at the edge of his tunic. "Well, there are new pipes being put near the Animunculi repair station, and this was in the rock so I asked mister Dwerg to get it out for me." She smiles indulgently, patting his head. "Try not to get too close to the workers at the pipes when you play, dear – it can be very dangerous! Darling! Look at what our boy has found!"
The Dwemer bend over the desk looks up owlishly, spectacles sliding over a slightly oversized nose partially covering intelligent gold eyes. His hair is kept tightly to his skull by clasps and the weight of the many intricately carved silver beads arranged in neat rows in both his hair and long beard, falling all the way down to his upper chest from his pointy grey chin. He seems to almost be drowning in his books and scholar's robes, but he smiles indulgently at the child nonetheless when he approaches.
Without hesitation, the boy clambers up, kicking off his shoes carelessly and settling on his dad's lap, curiosity for the contents of the desk overruled by excitement over his find.
"See? See? Is a gemstone!"
The Mer chuckles warmly, steadying his son securely when the boy nearly topples over in his enthusiasm. "What an excellent find, my boy! You do me proud." He laughs, praising the trinket. "Did you really spot this amongst all that stone?"
"Aye!" Fjaldi chirps, clutching it safely to his chest. "Is my treasure now?"
"Aye, it is indeed to be treasured. If you're this good at spotting metals and gems, my son, you may be cut from the same cloth as your old' granddad, Sait'iss protect his soul. He was a talented Forgemaster..." A dramatic pause follows as the Dwemerling waits with baited breath for the stories about his dad's family that usually follow.
"I suppose you might have some use for his heirloom…" The older Mer drawls, waiting for the boy to grow impatient.
"Aw, come on Da! Tell me a story!" The boy nags after a few more minutes pass in silence, tugging at his father's heavy robes.
The bead in his beard tinkle as Kvaldi laughs and dangles a wrapped package above his son's head.
"Ah! I suppose if you want a story, the present can wait…"
Similar golden eyes widen comically in alarm and Fjaldi lets out a shriek when his sides are caught in a tickle attack. "Nooo… I want the present, Da!"
"Say 'pretty please'!"
"Pretty please!" The second the package is in his hands, the boy scrambles from his father's lap and tickle-prone grasp, running to sit by his mother again, who merely cackles at the scene.
"For your fourth birthday, dear." She smiles, ruffling the wild head of hair when the boy pulls out a gold-coloured pendant, shimmering with an enchantment. For a little while, Fjaldi merely admires the glowing trinket with its engraving of an anvil on it.
"What does it do?" He asks curiously, turning large puppy eyes to his father, who stretches behind his desk and walks over to sit at the table as his mom puts the finishing touches on the food, the smell of venison heavy and delicious in the air.
"It holds the strongest fire protection charm your grandfather ever made." The bearded scholar explains. "He told me to pass it on to any children I had if they showed promise of becoming a fine smith or even a Forgemaster, just like him."
Carefully, Fjaldi puts the pendant around his thin neck, grinning with newfound appreciation as it settles on his chest, a bit too big on him.
"It's brilliant! Thank you ma! Thank you da!" He gives them each a hug in turn, and then lets himself be herded to his seat. His mother smiles lovingly down at him. "Now sweetheart, come on and eat! I spend too much time on this to let it grow cold!"
The two male members of the household exchange sly glances and Fjaldi bursts out in giggles before digging in with and obedient "Aye, ma."
One did not simply go against Saarimda of Nchuand-Zel.
…
Midnight Dreaming, Morning Dreading
He wakes up to a rattling sound, and sits up on his furs confusedly. Bolt, his Animunculi babysitter, is still inactive, softly whirring in the corner, so the rattling noise can't have come from him.
Curiously, Fjaldi steps out of bed, furs abandoned in favour for the cold stone beneath his bare feet. It's cold, it's midwinter after all and the pipes do not always channel hot water or steam. He learned about it in school not too long ago, his harpy of a teacher continuously nagging at them all on how grateful they should be that they do not have to stay out in the mountain air like the guards and travellers do, in the 'snow' and 'hail' that fall from grey clouds in the sky.
Fjaldi's never set foot outside of Bthardamz, but he think he might like to see the sky once instead of stone, to feel if the air is really as cold as the teacher claims it to be. Auntie Murid, at least, only ever complained about the sky, and she'd been all the way to Mzinchaleft so she'd have definitely seen it!
The door to his room, an unassuming wooden thing, opens noiselessly as his father steps inside. Bolt doesn't even twitch, as it senses no danger.
The young Dwemer however, notices that something is wrong.
"Da..? Da, what's wrong?" He asks, worriedly taking in his father's appearance: his haircut is fraying, sticking up at the edges, and the beads in his beard that he takes such pride in are all misarranged, haphazardly tucked into the black hair rather than in neat lines as ma braids them every morning. The usual scholar's robes are gone, having been replaced by much more fitting, thick fabric and a white wolf parka.
His eyes are wild and desperate.
Without hesitation, he draws his son into a tight hug, muttering under his breath so softly that Fjaldi has to strain to hear it, even as he clutches his father's clothes.
"Remember, my son. Everything I do, I do for us. I do for you and your mother. I love you. Please, please remember always how I love you."
A wet patch forms on the twelve-year-old's shoulder, and he feels his own throat constrict. Why does it feel like a goodbye?
"Da? Dad, where are you going?" The Mer wrenches himself away from his son with difficulty, and gold meets gold, one pair of eyes sad, the other mostly confused and hurt.
The soft, pained whisper of "Dad?" follows the older Dwemer out the door, which shuts silently.
It had to be a nightmare. He was just dreaming. Stupefied, and not knowing what else to do except wake up his ma who probably would be very angry this late at night, Fjaldi crawls back into bed, falling into a restless sleep after staring at the ceiling for a long, long time.
The next cycle, any Dwemer unlucky enough to be roaming the hallways near their family is spooked by a blood-curdling scream of grief as his mother is given the news that his father died in an accident after being called in for an emergency.
Fjaldi doesn't breathe a word. Deep down, he knows it isn't the truth.
Three years later, his mother can't stand the sight of their home anymore. She sets her son to training with an axe and starts making arrangements and selling furniture, sending a messenger to her brother.
Four years later, the duo leaves Bthardamz behind, travelling with a caravan to the nearby city of Nchuand-Zel. And Fjaldi sees the sky above him, stretching endlessly, and he knows it is under the sunlight, not the stone, where he is meant to stay.
…
First Meetings
The travelling had been harrowing, and he hadn't expected the bustling crowd in the city. Carriages and horses add to the sounds of people of all races – Bretons, Nedes, Ayleids, Nords, Dwemer… even a person or two that might belong to the Akaviri people!
The houses are made of sturdy Dwemer stone, through there are plenty of wooden buildings outside the walls and inside the city, of course, there's the marketplaces with their wooden stalls and tables and chairs outside of buildings.
Nchuand-Zel earned its name as a trading hub of all races. Saarimda pays the caravan leader with a sack of gold and profuse thanks before unceremoniously grabbing her son by the wrist and dragging him after her up several flights of stairs.
"Don't stand dawdling, Fjaldi, who knows what people here are up to these days. It's been many years, but I'm certain your bastard of an uncle will be found at the bar within the city proper."
The young Dwemer looks around, baffled. "…This is not the city?"
"Not really. Well, not the Dwemer part of it. This is the Outer City – for outsiders, other races, the likes. Only Dwemer are allowed into the deeper reaches. I'll show you what I remember, of course. But you might prefer to go with your cousin."
"I have a cousin?" He asks incredulously, dodging a wayward child several years his junior who does not have pointed ears and stares over her shoulder in her ratty dress. Quickly, he tunes back into the conversation, though he still feels those empty white eyes on his leather-clad back.
"Aye. My brother Sorthdvr married a lass called Shelta. They had a son, Mellte, but regrettably your aunt died of Blood Rot a few years back. Her body could not take the strain. A shame, a damn shame. She was a good Dwemer."
Ah, ma did tell me about her after the first letter. Funny how she forgot to mention I had a cousin. How old is he? What's he like? Does he know what his specialty is going to be?
"You'll most likely share a room." Before the teen could compute the statement, the duo entered the Keep and were met with the face of another teenager. Blue eyes that looked almost too pale for the dark blue skin are set above firm cheekbones and framed by lose, untamed curls just like Saarimda's, if a few shades lighter, in an unusual red hue.
He grins. "Good day! I couldn't help but note the travelling gear! Have you arrived today, by any chance? Did you see a woman with dark, untameable curls like snakes, broad shouldered enough to lift a bear, with a temper fierce enough to have the storms in the Sea of Ghosts pale in comparison?"
Fjaldi glances at his mother and lets out a guffaw of muffled laughter when her face indeed darkens like a storm at sea – form what he'd heard the sea looked like, at least.
"Did you get that description from Sorthdvr, by any chance?" She hisses, and it does look like her hair is frizzing and standing on end, like a predator poised to strike. The youth who stopped us immediately raises his hands in surrender.
"Aye, he's my Dad. He had some business over at the Sip 'n Smelt, so he told me to keep waiting here in case you arrived. That was… Maybe three hours ago?"
The Dwemer woman curses loudly, not caring for the attention she draws even as she brandishes her walking stick like a weapon and stomps down the halls, probably headed towards the aforementioned bar.
The unknown Dwemer turns sharp blue eyes back to the haggard Fjaldi, who really feels quite out of his element and would rather rest his feet. "So if that was my aunt Saarimda… Who are you, then?"
"Fjaldi dû Bthardamz. Err… You're Mellte?"
"I am!" he seems almost shocked that his cousin knows his name. Unless…
Golden eyes narrow in resignation. "Your dad didn't tell you about me, then? That puts us on the same page – my ma told me you existed five minutes ago. So… hi, I'm your cousin."
Mellte tilts his head, wild curls bouncing as he walks up to Fjaldi and circles him, seizing him up until he comes to a dramatized stop in front of him, bowing with a little twirl.
"Hi to you too, my mysterious cousin. Since our parents apparently decided we'd be better of getting to know each other without prior opinions, allow me to introduce myself: I'm Mellte dûn-ek Nchuand-Zel! Just Mellte will do, please and thank you. I'm seventeen winters as of the sixth of Sun's Dusk, I love leeks and pranks, and hate anything with chicken in it. Mom was a stonemason, dad is a Forgemaster. I've absolutely no clue what I'm going to do with my future except for tripping Kedd down a flight of stairs for insulting my dad on the way here. Any funny jokes or disrespect about his drinking habits and you'll regret it."
Fjaldi just stares at him with raised eyebrows for a few seconds before clearing his throat.
"Uhm… I'm Fjaldi. Sixteen as of the fifteenth of Hearthfire. I like… venison and reading, I guess. I hate people who try to push me into becoming a scholar like my dad. My mom is an Animunculi expert. I want to be a blacksmith of some sort, I suppose." A pause. "Insult my mother and I will deck you without hesitation."
He chuckles. "Now that I can understand." He makes a fluttery gesture with his hands. "But really. 'You suppose'? 'You guess'? Shy thing, aren't you? You seem alright, but that lack of confidence will be the first thing to go." He waggles his finger and links their arms together.
"Allow me to give you the grand tour, cousin! We'll make a proud Nchuand-Zel Dwemer out of you yet!"
It didn't seem like it at first, but it was the start of a bond that ran deep as if between brothers.
A/N: Interesting fact: Redguards deadass didn't exist in Tamriel yet at the time of the Dwemer's disappearance. They only arrived after approximately 100 years. I wanted to put them in the scene then went 'hold up I got to check this lore'. Apparently the Redguards had to flee a sinking continent in about 1E 792… and the Dwemer vanished around 1E 700. They never met.