Miriam was seasonal. That was the best way to put her.
She had a particular way of carrying herself, to where she seemed as if she were a far-off dream that comes to you on a summer's night but yet so real. Martin guessed that the latter thought only came from the fact he could touch her skin. Soft. Really, really soft. And that soft skin had lovingly caressed his ears and ghosted over the bone of his jaw when he was a jittering mess, waling into the rough linen of her pants. Fingers entangled into his long matted hair, which had to have smelled horrible- he had to have smelled horrible to massage his scalp. All while her lovely voice cooed soft lullabies into his ear to rock him into sleep.
The next morning, when he drearily picked himself off of the cool earth, she had returned to her previous self, joking heartily about the events of Kvacth as if her tenderness only came with the stars. Their small night of intimacy left his memory. And for some odd reason or the other, he kissed it and held it close to his chest.
In her chest, what would he find? Coal or flesh? Miriam was so compassionate to him and the Blades, so vile to those she turned her nose at and uncaring to the people they passed on the street.
"An enigma," he muttered one day while reading in the hall. Barus had perked his head up from his daydream to look at him in confusion. He gave him a small smile and returned to his reading. "Surely that's what she is ." he finished in his head.
Miriam was never one for sleep.
They had spent the whole afternoon in a silent march towards Weynon Priory. The world around them was quiet but loud, with signs of life as it was still mid-autumn. Martin rode horseback. It hurt him terribly, but Miriam, who at this time he only referred to as 'Hero' due to there being a lack of name exchange, insisted that it was better than walking. That was the mode of transportation she took, however. Her defense was that it was "good for her legs."
Night came, and the tents were pitched up. As the one most accustomed to combat, Miriam took up the first shift of night-watch. He had no disagreement in that matter. Exhaustion crept upon him like a garden snake. As soon as he touched the bedroll, his eyelids heavied, and he was out for the night.
He awoke to the soft glow of firelight and the humming of his 'Hero.' He sat up, eyes still adjusting to the newfound colors and sensory. Then he walked out into the campgrounds.
The Hero sat on a flat rock. Her armor and sword were abandoned onto the grass next to her, showing off a shirt of chainmail that covered a messily stitched long-sleeved undershirt. Her hand, which held a rag, glided up and down the lute which had previously been strapped to her back. She looked intent in her work.
Martin walked up and tapped her on her shoulder. She kept on with what she was doing and spoke.
"You're up quite early. Bad dreams?"
"No. I just felt like getting up is all," he took a seat next to her on the rock. "You can go rest."
"I'm fine," The Hero said. "I'm accustomed to this type of thing, you see."
"A mercenary, I take it?"
"No, but something quite similar. And yet really different too," she plucked a string and sighed. "The damn thing is out of tune."
Martin looked at the lute. There were cracks in the side, and the dark brown color of the wood had started to peel around the edges where the Hero had placed her arm. "Where did you get it from?"
"I picked it up from a cursed den of angry hagravens and ravenous necromancers who were using it in a ritual aimed to conquer all of Tamriel. It has the power to turn wine into water. Quite the catastrophe if you ask me."
A sigh escaped Martin's lips. "You could have just said, 'I don't want to say.'"
"Yes, but that's simple, and simple is boring. And who wishes to be bored?" she said as she fiddled with the knobs that tightened the strings. "I, for one, think that every little waking and dying moment of my days should be filled with excitement."
Ah, she's just simple.
"So I assume that this whole situation must be a god's send to you?" He couldn't hide the mockery in his voice.
Her nose crinkled at the comment as if it were something foul. "Well, no. There are much more interesting things to be done than being a courier and an escort because Dagon is going off his rocker."
He looked towards the fire. For just a split second, he could see the darker shades of redshift like water and turn into falling stone. He turned away. "I suppose the Hero's journey is only exciting in tales."
The Hero shrugged. "That's every tale, dear priest. No one wants to be stabbed in the gut, no matter how much gold is dangled in front of their faces. Or maybe so. I think I've met quite a few fellas like that." She strummed the lute once more. This time its strings sounded regular.
"That was quick," Martin said.
She smiled at him. "I am quite a skilled musician. I've been playing for a while."
"How long?"
The Hero thought for a moment. "Ten or so years."
"And how old are you?"
"Twenty-eight."
Martin whistled. "Started in your prime, I see."
A laugh, hearty and wild, came from the woman. Martin looked at her with confusion as she wiped tears from her eyes. "Hardly my prime. My hands were like stone or old gears. Don't get me started on my damn fingers," She looked at the lute lovingly. "But it was fun, I suppose."
Martin shrugged. "A lot of things are when you first start out."
"So what about you?" The Hero asked.
"Excuse me?"
"I mean, how old are you?"
He shifted. "Why do you want to know?"
"Because, as I stated before, I am a bored and curious woman," she said. "You seem in the same rut right now, and we must travel with each other for at least another three days or so, so getting to know one another may make things less awkward."
Martin was silent. After some consideration, he spoke. "Alright," he said. "I am forty-two."
"How odd. Most priests I pass are all shriveled up like fall leaves."
"It is a long, long story," he hid how his body tensed at the comment by stretching out his limbs. "I'm not proud of my past."
The Hero clicked her tongue in distaste. "That's boring, but I suppose fair," the Hero replied. "Okay, so now you ask me."
"This one has been nagging at me for a while. It's quite awkward to walk around with someone whose name you don't know."
The Hero chuckled. "Oh, which one? I have gone by many, but my first was Miriam Toliar."
"Like the plant?"
"Yep, though I'm not sure if that's what I was named after. Knowing my mother, it's a coin toss between consideration and something the wet nurse came up with on the spot when I plopped out of her nether region," despite her words, there was still that smug grin on her face. "My turn again. Tell me about your mother."
"I'm kind of naive in that subject. The most I could say is that she was an Imperial."
"Dead or absentee?"
Throughout his childhood, Martin had never put much thought into his mother. He'd acknowledged that it was something he lacked, but so did other children. And some kids had mothers but no fathers.
His old man was a reclusive farmer. Secretive as Nocturnal and a mouth sewn together by steel thread. Martin did remember that the issue had crept upon him in his teen years. A group of friends had brought up the subject of parents. They went around the group, and even those who'd never caught a glimpse of their parents could make some vague guesses about what happened to them.
Martin had to stumble his way through that one. His cheeks were bright red as he danced around the answer.
When he got home and into the field with his dad, he brought it up in a roundabout way— the kind where you'd get some sort of blurry answer. But his dad wasn't stupid. When faced with the question, the man put down his hoe and looked at Martin. He replied most straightforwardly—
"I don't know," said Martin. "My father never spoke of her. I would assume 'absent.' There was never any memory of her around the house," he looked at the smoke as it flew upwards and touched the sky. "Though if your story is true, there was no 'mother' in that house."
Miriam stopped strumming and laid her eyes on him. An uncomfortable feeling arose from that look; it was as though she was seeing through him, not seeing him.
"What?" he asked.
"You look sad," she replied. "Tired. I can see the wrinkles on your face."
It was his turn to laugh. "Well, thank you, my lady. How very nice of a compliment."
"I'm being serious here," she got up from her spot on the stone and walked over to him. She yanked him off his log with one hand, causing Martin quite the start.
"What in Talos's name—"
"I want to show you something," she looked around the campsite and clicked her tongue. "This isn't a good place. Let's go deeper in the woods."
Martin yanked his arm away and stared at her. "In the middle of the night? Are you stupid?"
"No, I'm bored," she said. "If you're worried about danger, I could just take my sword."
"Aren't you tired?"
Miriam shrugged. "I can sleep anytime I wish. I just don't wish to now," she crossed the camp, picked up the sword, and returned to Martin.
"Are you coming?" she asked.
Another moment of hesitation. He turned to look at the fire and the tents and then back at her. Finally, he sighed and clenched his fist. After some minor magic, he opened his hand to reveal a ball of light that floated just above their heads.
"We should be quick," he said.
Miriam smiled. He noticed that was a cheeky habit of hers. "I always am."
They dipped behind trees and crossed small streams. They passed up caves and hills until Martin could scarcely see the campfire's smoke. Soon, the only sounds in the air were the intimate noises of their shared breaths and the small stirring of fireflies and crickets.
Miriam, for the only time in their journey, didn't speak. She was intent, walking through the woods as though this were her home. It gave him time to study her closer, to see the age behind a youthful appearance. It unnerved him. Made him feel weird. Made her look strange in the moonlight.
And it was void.
He filled it by speaking. A learned practice, something he'd picked up in his days mindlessly wandering the pews. "Are we almost there yet?"
"Just a little further," she said, kicking a pebble out of her way. "You feel anxious, priest."
"A woman leads a feeble man through the woods in the midst of the night. How could I not?"
She laughed aloud, giving quite the shock to Martin. "Oh, how scandalous!" she stopped abruptly in her walk and turned to face him. "You are feeble? How horrid for a king."
"Well, that's not something I planned to be," Martin replied.
"Most don't, I think, even when they try to. It's something that pops out of nowhere and jolts you awake," two of her long fingers fell upon his bicep. They pranced slowly up to his neck until he could feel the blunted tip of her fingernail dig lightly into the dip between collarbone and neck. They were oddly cold; a shiver flew down his spine. "like a spider creeping on your arm in the candlelight. It can happen, if you're lying in a cave, it's bound to happen, and you know it. But you still aren't prepared for it. No one is. No one likes that feeling that comes with it."
"You sound like you speak from experience."
"You could say that," she dropped her hand and latched it onto his. "Stick close now."
He was quiet for the rest of the walk.
When she stopped again, they were in a field. There was nothing exceptional about it, but an odd feeling of tranquility drifted from the butterflies and the bees that sat and lazed around bright flowers that still held the mildew of the morning. The stream led into a pond here. It reflected the light of the moon.
"This is it, dear priest!" Miriam said. She walked over to the lake, chucked her boots off, and placed her feet into the shallow water. She waved at Martin. "It's a bit cold but still good."
He was amused; he had to admit that, but mainly he was peeved.
"You led me all this way for a pond?"
"Well, it's better than leading you to a pile of horse dung, isn't it? Much better, I would argue."
"Shouldn't we be hurrying to the priory?"
Miriam shrugged. "Jaurffre can wait. A couple more minutes added to an hour won't change that hour. No, it makes the hour all the more sweet, I argue."
"You talk like a poet."
"And you speak like a necromancer who hasn't seen the sun for ages," she said. "Come now. Just consider it an indulgence."
He could taste wine. He despised it. "I don't like indulgence."
"Well, then consider it duty. You serve Auri-El, do you not? Wouldn't the old god want you to appreciate nature?"
"That's Kyne's realm."
"You think of it too simply, priest. Kyne is the mother of all trees and grass and roots and mushrooms, but Auri allows those things to grow. He allows time to pass so such things could exist and thrive in the first place, for better or for worse."
"That's an odd way to look at it," said Martin.
"No, it's an accurate way to look at it, I say," Miriam replied. She held out a hand towards him, an expectant look in her eyes. "Coming?"
For the second time that night, Martin grasped her hand.
Miriam spoke all her duties in hushed whispers.
The tavern room was small and cramped. They'd gotten it dirt cheap, however. Miriam wasn't lying when she said she could sweet-talk a daedra into a drink, and she dwindled down that old Imperial's price until Martin wasn't sure who was paying who anymore.
One of the things she managed to swindle was one free bath, which she 'graciously' gave to Martin after admitting he smelled of "ash and pig shit." He couldn't bring himself to take it as an insult, mainly due to him actually wanting the bath and lacking the energy to argue.
And so they sat in the room in relative silence. She whistled a tune as she languidly strummed the strings on her lute on a stool, while Martin took to reading a book on the bed to take his mind off the recent events, The 16 Accords of Madness . Not a pleasant read by any means, but it helped direct his attention elsewhere.
That was until the woman spoke.
"So priest, tell me. How are you feeling?"
Martin brought down his book only slightly to take a glance at her. She smiled slyly with a glint in her gray eyes and sat cross-legged on her stool while her bony hands gripped her lute- which rested on her knee -languidly. Her eyes swept over his laying form, making a note of whatever she wished.
"A fox she is. " Martin thought. Same tricks, same claws.
"Not indulging your patron when she just spent almost all her coin on a mere bath for you? What a cruel man."
"From what I heard, you weren't paying Mr. Garbison a single septim."
"Well, of course, I wasn't going to give him you as payment, Martin. You're kind of the cargo." An annoyed look from the reading man made her huff. "C'mon. You walked headfirst into that one."
He put the book down. The small momentum he had built up for reading vanished at the first syllable that came out of the Imperial woman's mouth. He laid back on the pillow. "I'm taking a nap. Wake me up when they bring the tub up here."
"Gosh, you're being such a grimalkin."
There she went again with her weird vocabulary. Martin had utterly no clue what that meant, but it took no wise man to see that it vaguely related back to the word 'bitch.'
He huffed. "Call me whatever you want, but I'm going to sleep."
"Fine, fine, do what you feel," Miriam said. "At least let me play you something? To pass the time."
Martin closed his eyes. "Go ahead."
He heard small scratched notes as she shifted her lute into position. Some minor tuning was done as she fiddles with the nobs at the very top of its long neck. Occasional strumming to check if it was turned right, and then a tiny tap on the wood and music.
In the first note, he had to admit he was instantly hooked. She played as though she was playing for the sake of a dear child. It was a soft melody filled with the feel of sitting on a hill in a forest facing the sunset to observe the evening stars that burned in their little circles.
He couldn't bring himself to sleep as it seemed to do so would be a sacrilege to the very concept of music itself. So what was to be a nap turned into silent admiration. When she hit her final note, she put the instrument down across her lap. She opened her eyes to be met with Martin's astonishment.
"You weren't bluffing when you said you were a bard."
Miriam laughed. "You flatter me, dear priest."
"Flattery isn't enough," Martin said. "Where did you learn to play such a tune?"
"Oh? I thought you weren't speaking. Come to think of it, I remember you insisting on sleep."
"Your song brought me right awake."
"Then I am honored that a simple woman like me could play a song that could bring vigor to even the grumpiest of men."
Martin frowned. "You're ruining it."
Her smile widened. "Oh, curse my mouth then." She got up from her stool and grabbed a book from the shelf. Taking her seat next to Martin on the bed, she scooted to just the edge to build a comfortable enough distance between the two. "I shall repent by silencing my tongue. You shall not harken to another word from me until tomorrow."
Martin sat, a bit dumbfounded at the situation. There was an awkward air in the room, one brought on by his own misgivings about the predicament, while Miriam happily read by herself. He wished to say something but couldn't bring himself to. It seemed impolite.
Luckily, a knock from the door sounded and broke his train of thought. Martin got up from the bed and opened the door. An Argonian servant brought in the washtub with the assistance of two Nords. Miriam instructed them to put it in the middle of the room from her position on the bed.
The two Nords left, but the Argonian hesitated and then quickly walked over to Miriam's side, slipped her note, and dashed out the door. He whispered something in her ear before he left, something that made her languid smile falter by just a hair.
"Are you alright?" Martin asked. Miriam nodded.
"Fine," she replied. She got up from the bed. Martin took notice of the dagger she quickly slipped into her back pocket. "I will give you some time alone. I shall be sitting in the front should you need me."
Worry pricked at his heart. "What if something happens?"
"Unless you want me to watch you bathe, you're just going to have to be content with screaming. Or stabbing. Take your pick. I will see you later, dear priest. Please take your time."
And with that, she walked out the door, leaving him alone. He dipped into the tub, letting the warm water loosen dirt and taunt muscles. A little thought popped in his head. He sighed.
"Mysterious, she is."
Weynon Priory, on the 3rd day of Hearthfire just in the eve, was when he saw her true fury. When he witnessed the quick flash of character as her hands clenched the shoulder of the terrified clergyman. Those wide, gray eyes reflected the flame of the burning building, consumed by the red that the assassin's used to hide their heads.
Had he not talked to her just a moment prior, indeed, he would've been tempted to jump off the horse into the safety of the woods behind him. To where those wild eyes couldn't reach him. But what stopped him was the hurt of worry that pinpricked his heart. What is to be the fall of men but not that? That same sensation made him hop off the horse to run straight for her.
"I-" he said, but Miriam cut him off quickly.
"Go take the horse and hide. Wait for me near the edge of the forest," she said. She didn't even spare him a glance. "I will try to find Jauffre as fast as I can, but-" she cursed, noticing some movement behind a nearby bush. Barley, Martin could make out the silver carcass of the assassin. Miriam drew her sword with one hand and pushed him behind her with the other. She never let her eyes off the hiding man.
Their eyesight brushed for a mere a split second, but that time was enough for him to realize his cover had been blown. He lunged forward, daggers glowing hellishly in the firelight. Miriam rushed towards him and raised her sword to meet his attack. Steel clashed against steel. The two locked in a stalemate as neither side moved their blade. Until the assassin suddenly stumbled back, eyes widened in shock and fear at something behind her. Before she could pull down her blade to finish him off, crackling cold sounded in her ear. The man tumbled to the ground dead, an icicle lodged in his heart.
Miriam whipped around to find Martin running towards her. He grabbed her wrist and held it tight in his hand, looking her arm and body up and down closely. The fear in his heart reflected on his face. "Are you hurt?"
"Martin, you need to go."
"I refuse." He said. Inwardly, he was shocked by just how resolute he sounded.
He could feel the tensing of her muscles from where he held her wrist. "I don't need aid. I'm perfectly capable myself."
"I didn't say you needed anything. But I know you could use the help."
"Heroics are for fables and fairytales. If you really wished to help me, you'd hop on that damn horse and go ."
"When was the last time you slept.?"
" What? "
"I said when was the last time you slept?"
"Martin, the priory burns to the ground as we speak. We can't keep this farce going on for much longer." She held up her wrist clasped in his hand. "Let me go."
He looked at the burning building and gritted his teeth. Thoughts danced in his head, something fierce.
Fuck, fuck, fuck it all.
"Fine." He dropped her wrist.
"Thank you," Miriam said. She started towards the building. "Now take the horse and-"
She didn't get to finish that thought before she saw a figure dash past her towards the burning priory.
If Martin could see her face, he would've seen about twenty different emotions ranging from variations of awe to confusion to finally fury morphing in her lips and brow.
He yelled back at her, already at the door of the building. "Come on, we've not much time! Jauffre is still in there!
"You stubborn- Martin!" she screamed before rushing after him.
He repressed a tiny ghost of a chuckle. Side by side, they slammed through the door just in time to save the old Blade from having his throat slit from the back.
Seeing Miriam slice a man's head off with a sword, seeing Jauffre stab a faceless figure in the gut, and dimly seeing a shade of himself using spells he had assumed he had long forgotten gave him such a feeling he thought he had left behind long ago, in days that tasted only of wine. Recklessness? Fear? Adrenaline? He had no clue anymore.
All he knew was that they were together, fighting hand in hand. And that made a small part of him feel such an intoxicating warmth.