Author's Notes: A new look on a story taking place during ESO, filling in the expansive gaps of Darien Gautier's story and that of the Vestige, whose past is shrouded in mystery; weaving them together to create something a bit more full and somewhat endearing.
Ribbons
Chapter One
The mid-afternoon light tried its hardest to break through the muggy fog that gathered over Camlorn. It was a bit sticky and humid, as normal, but that did not bother young fifteen year-old Darien Gautier. He weaved through town as the day wore on, his pockets jangling louder and louder with each passing hour. The teenager stayed quite busy during the day with little to no supervision. Darien did odd jobs to pass his time; plowing little gardens, scrubbing Old Woman Skeller's large yard rocks for whatever reason she asked, and hauling the carts to the guild traders to finish a transaction for the brew-master, seamstress, and local grocer. Darien didn't much enjoy the work and certainly did not have fun, but he looked forward to dusk, when the hard earned money would be spent on crisp, cheap, foamy ale and a good time down at the pub. The fifteen year old, with his layered, boyish brown hair, gleaming chocolate eyes, and the beginning formation of a five o'clock shadow liked to think of himself as the life of the party. A stark contrast from his father who always carried an air of seriousness with him. Darien thought all hard work should be rewarded with an enticing fun time. His father, Sorin, however, believed a good job meant honor only. No reward. His father was a well-respected, well-trained soldier. Most of his career had been spent among the ranks of the Lion Guard and he now stood beside High King Emeric as a general. It was a tiring job and Sorin was rarely home, but luckily Darien had ways to entertain himself among the cobbled roads of Camlorn.
Darien passed through the large downtown plaza. Several cart vendors were packing up shop and folding away their meager little awnings that dwindled from seasons in the sun. He knew it wouldn't be much longer until the rowdy clubbers made their way to the pub and drunkenly challenged Darien to cards, a dance-off, or perhaps even a round of pool. Darien had been perfecting his craft of such challenges since he could see over the bar. Sure, many avenues lead to unfair advantages, "cheating" the drunken dolts would proclaim, but Darien's smooth and charming looks always got him out of it. It was their fault, anyway, for getting sloppy and missing Darien's tricks.
"Ah, Vasamha sees Darien making his traditional mosey..." The elderly Khajiit's braided beard swung as he closed a crate of fermented fish that wreaked of garlic cloves. It was a delicacy from The Stitches, he insisted. "Vasamha will not be fooled this time, so easily, you young trickster. Vasamha will pray to Sheogorath first and lay claim to tricks of his own to fool you with."
"That's a shame, old man," Darien grinned, tugging at the suspenders beneath his open vest. "I'm starting to believe I am of Sheogorath's seed. Maybe you're just whisperin' to me all your little secrets."
The Khajiit paused for a moment from hammering the crate shut, looking to the smirking young man very carefully. "Vasamha will not fall for your little spinner tales. You just want Vasamha's pretty coin purse he's worked hard to keep full since being just a wee cub. Vasamha is smarter. Vasamha gets wiser of you every time, young man. You can't outsmart us forever."
"I'll see you at the table, then," Darien told him, walking backwards with a cocky point of his finger. "The game tonight is rummy."
"Vasamha is not playing by your rules in the pub tonight, five-claw," The Khajiit let out a hearty laugh as he folded the shelf in on his cart and locked it, securing the many sacks of Elsweyr spices and pickled jars. "Why not play something normal? Vasamha likes the shiny Tales of Tribute cards."
"That's much too posh and novel," Darien waved his hand dismissively. "We'll talk after a few steins. See you later, Vasamha." The Khajiit shook his head as he watched Darien continue on his way, his hands dug into the pockets of his stitched trousers. It felt quite nice that evening as the golden rays pierced through the typical sticky fog that waned on from the nearby marshes and coastline. Darien was sore from his days work, but the chance to unwind at the pub always made it easier to loosen up. If all he had to do was run a few errands and do a bit of manual work, Darien gladly would do so every day for the rest of his life if it all lead towards an evening of party. Nothing enchanted the young man more than feeling like the king of the world. Evoking the eyes of every woman there, no matter how old they were. Getting sticky with ale as he arm wrestled dolt after dolt. The stinging sensation in his lungs as he released plumes of smoke from hand rolled cigarettes. Darien figured he was leading the ideal life that surely every man was jealous of. There was nothing more to it.
He whistled jauntily as he passed the nutty old woman who claimed the gods were on their way to rightly punish the world. There was the beggar that Darien always saw with a satchel filled with bread. The quaint little white buildings with their thatched roofs had smoke puffing from the chimney as the city began to die down from yet another busy day. Just at the end of the block was the beloved velvet flag indicating the pub. Darien grinned to himself, hoping Dosmer the Dummy was ready to buy him round after round. Darien had done well that day with his freelance work. Hauling the cart for the local grocer seemed most favorable. Old Woman Skeller was quite easy to please, too, with her loose hand in her coin purse as she demanded rocks to shine free from any moss. Darien just didn't know how people let themselves be miserable when they could let themselves be drunk. It made things much more easier.
From the alleyway suddenly burst a flash of a person who collided with Darien sending him onto his side. Immediately, the young man suspected robbery and scuffled his boots to the damp cobblestone. He grabbed thin, wiry arms and slammed them to the ground, straddling over the suspected thief. Darien had his fist reared back to knock their jaw out of line, but paused abruptly, realizing exactly who it was. Bright green eyes, opened wide and frightened stared at him. Beneath their small frame, a long fishtail braid the color of auburn leaves in the fall twisted across the ground. Immediately, Darien scrambled off from on top of them, offering his hands. He brushed at her long velvet sleeves.
"Aritel," Darien was breathless, feeling quite embarrassed. He noticed a basket of crumpled flowers on the ground and immediately began gathering them. "I didn't see you. What's the rush?"
The wood elf was somewhat flushed as she delicately brushed the basket of flowers while Darien placed them one by one together. "Murudius and Severia Atticus recently welcomed a new child. Severia was quite specific on the type of flower she wanted for the nursery. The deadline is today, but these flowers are so damned hard to find. They grow only amongst the fringing grass leading towards the white sands of the coast. I've been looking for days and only just found enough to fill a decanter for her."
"A job well done," Darien flashed her a pearly smile and she grinned warmly beneath it. Aritel Sidrian was a wood elf the same age as young Darien Gautier. She was adopted at birth by two Bretons that lived in town who claimed she was left in a small basket alongside a path in Grahtwood found during their travels. Her origins were veiled in mystery with no note left with the bundled baby and though her name was of Bosmer heritage, her last name often deceived people until they set their eyes on her. She had taken on the trade of flower girl at a young age. Flowers enticed her, calmed her down, and gave her a sense of purpose. She and Darien were in outlying social circles amongst the young people of Camlorn. Darien, in a way, found her mystique quite enchanting, though she was modest and reserved by nature. "Maybe when you wrap it up, you'd like to join me at the pub for a round... or four."
"Oh, no, I couldn't," She perked up, shaking her head. Aritel tucked a lock of hair behind her pointed ear. "You remember my father is ill. I must be home to help cook supper. The shamans recommended buttered potatoes. I cannot let Mother skin them all herself."
"Sweet, innocent Aritel," Darien sighed, putting his hands on hips. "Life cannot be all work and no play. It makes for a very dull mind."
"Well," Aritel tilted her chin up, pressing her flower basket to her chest. "We cannot all have the freedoms like you do, Darien. I really must be going. Severia is awaiting me and growing quite impatient her child has no flowers in the nursery." She began on her way, her boots scuffing against the glistening cobbled paths.
Darien let out a sigh, watching her auburn plaited hair drift after her. "A rain check, huh?"
"Call it what you wish," Aritel replied, looking over her shoulder. Despite the evident exasperation in her tone, she grinned.
/
The pub exploded in howls of merriment and discontent. Fists beat against the table, uncaring of toppling steins. The floor was sticky to the bar master's dismay. Darien leaned back in his creaky chair, a smug grin plastered across his face as he looked at his cards. Across the table sat Vasamha, who was desperate for redemption against the pompous, arrogant, and privileged Breton. The cards on the table, however, were not leaning in the old Khajiit's favor. Darien tapped ash from the end of his poorly rolled cigarette and lifted his dark eyes to pierce Vasamha. The elderly man nearly offered a snarl, but kept his face completely still. Smoke trailed from Darien's nostrils as he sat forward now, planting his elbows against the wobbly table.
"Let's just put ourselves out of our misery, eh, Vasamha?" Darien said, as if he was taking mercy on his playmate. "Whaddya say, cards up?"
Vasamha downed his stein in one foul swoop, slamming it to the table. "Vasamha does not understand! No matter how hard this one tries, the cards never play squarely. You must be cheating, five-claw. There is no other explanation to Vasamha."
"Me? Cheating?" Darien replied coolly, taking a drag of his cigarette. "How could I be? Our good chum, Dosmer, is shuffling and dealing."
"Vasamha smells camaraderie. This one thinks a deal has been made for this poor, ignorant Bosmer."
"'Ey!" Dosmer exclaimed. Around them, the onlookers chuckled and nudged each other. "Just because I am an uneducated Bosmer does not give you the right to call me ignorant! I'm what they call 'worldly'."
"Can it, five-claw," The Khajiit merchant sneered. "Vasamha cannot continue to let these misgivings slide, walker."
"Oh, you Khajiit are such sore losers," Darien scoffed, snubbing his cigarette out now. He laid his cards down. "Lady Luck has always followed me, that's all. Don't take it too personally, Vasamha." The Khajiit's dark eyes looked to the absolute win with a mixture of frustration and anger. Darien watched him carefully, playing it cool by languidly drinking his ale.
"Ah, but what is this, five-claw?" Vasamha lifted his snout, reaching for one of Darien's cards. "Tack, made to look white, right there in the corner of the card. Why, Vasamha has seen his day. This one knows when he's been cheated." His claw plucked at the corner of the card. "Just enough to let the dealer know which card goes where."
Darien suddenly felt all the eyes of the pub on him. All the burly men surrounding the table did not suggest jest. Darien looked between them all. "Obviously some problems with the deck, you understand. It's so hot and humid here, no doubt some growth from the lands!" Darien raked the coins on the table into his satchel. There was even a wedding ring. "This pub is so damn dirty all the time, that's just some gunk from the table. Come on, guys, would I have the patience to perfectly file down tack to the corner of the cards?"
"Depends on how broke one is, five-claw," Vasamha slammed his palm to the table, crumpling the card beneath his long nails. "This one suggests you put your false earnings back on the table."
"Well, you know me," Darien stood, swinging the velvet pouch in his fingers. "I'm a fair and honest man. I work hard throughout the day, just like you, my good friend. I'd never want to insult - " Darien gasped sharply in that moment, slapping his palm to his cheek. "By the eight! That man over there is trash talking Jone and Jode!"
"What?!" Vasamha leapt to his feet and gazed around the pub. "Vasamha will not allow himself to be fooled and talked down to all in one night!" The pub, however, grew quiet. Several of the unwinding men sighed, shook their heads, and pressed a hand to their forehead. Vasamha's head snapped about before he turned back to look across the table. Darien was gone without a trace. Vasamha let out a long huff, sagging his shoulders. "This one has allowed just that, hasn't Vasamha?"
"You shan't worry, Vasamha," Dosmer said cheerily from behind his stein of ale. "One day, that young man will get his come-uppance. It'll be so severe, it'll knock him directly on his arse! Then we shall have a merry laugh and take all our precious coins back."
"Hopefully that's soon," A Breton said from where he slouched against the bar. "My wife'll kill me when she founds out my wedding band is gone."
/
Darien's boots bounded against the dark cobblestone path. He panted and pumped his arms, sloppily leaping over a bench and nearly kissing the ground. Darien howled with laughter as he jumped up onto the edge of the fountain in a large plaza. He felt so daring, cocky, and over the moon. He had enough coin he wouldn't even have to bend over backwards the next day to make enough for his next escapade. Darien's brown leather boot kicked the surface of the fountain and he laughed out into the darkness as the cool mist dribbled over him. It seemed that his luck never ran out. Darien felt so high, like he could swirl up into the clouds and be completely untouchable. He continued beneath the lemony glares of candlelight withering away on the iron pillars. He knew at home there were a few more bottles of wine. It would be enough to carry him through the night since he'd have no reason to be up early.
When Darien pushed the front door open, however, he paused, not expecting to see his father at the small table in the center of the room, illuminated by the cackling fire in the hearth. Sorin was still in his armor, accented with gold shoulder protectors. His brown hair was unruly. He was sat at the table, tired obviously, as he forced himself to have a cup of honey milk and buttered bread before he sank down into his bed for the night. Sorin looked up, though, when he heard the door. Darien was the spitting image of his father, only lacking the distinguished wrinkles that lined his forehead and surrounded his chapped lips. Sorin's brown eyes only hovered over Darien before he shook his head, returning to his meal, his shoulders hunched. Darien was used to being asleep long before his father arrived home. He had truly lost track of the clock that night. His father worked long and tiresome shifts. Usually he was the first to greet High King Emeric in the morning and the last to resign from the guards well into the night. Sorin took a long sip of his milk, still not looking to his son.
Sheepishly, Darien set the jingling coin purse down on the table beside the door and meandered across the room, pulling a bottle of cherry wine down from a shelf cluttered in cheese wheels, loaves of brown crusted breads, sacks of rice, and a dirty mortar and pestle. He worked the cork off carefully and poured himself a glass. His back was to his father and he tensed when finally Sorin's voice was heard over the brewing hearth. "I thought maybe you'd gotten up early to do something honest... not still be awake, riding the coat tails of you nightly indiscretions."
Darien held in a deep sigh, gripping his mug tightly as he turned towards his father. He crossed an arm over his chest, taking a sip of the the tart beverage. He pressed himself against the low cabinet full of a collection of unused and ignored cookbooks. "I worked all day, I'll have you know. Old Woman Skeller's garden rocks are moss free."
Sorin looked to his gleaming buttered bread for a moment before he stood up, working on the belts of his curiass. "When will you ever do things with a purpose, Darien? You cannot spend your entire life doing things just so you can afford mead or a rubbery bar meal. You must do things for your character, to define who you are. I dislike what you're shaping up to see the world as. Your sixteenth birthday is rapidly approaching. What will you do with yourself?"
"I have time to figure it out," Darien told him, scraping himself a seat up at the table. "Gotta have some fun before I'm forced into barren professionalism like you. No offense."
Sorin hung his armor on the nearby rack, exposing his cotton tunic that was sweaty and rumpled. "You're far too old for all this play. You're making an ass of yourself on this town each and every day. High King Emeric is so kind and thoughtful with his words. But it's easy to tell he is disappointed in me as a father when whispers of your new deceptive tricks at the pub come around. I cannot have you embarrassing me any longer. Your mother would be displeased with you, too, after such a hard fought battle to even give you life."
Darien sighed, trying to continue sipping his wine and keep the buzz rolling. "Always gotta bring mom up to prove your point, huh?"
"Why are you like this?" Sorin approached the table, his dark eyes stone hard. "I have done nothing but try to prove as an example to you. You're nearly an adult and already you're a wasted, lazy drunk. I am not like the fools you pull the wool over so easily. I see your faults, Darien, even when you choose to ignore them. What will you do once you're a full fledged man with no concept of structure? Will you sink to only being a vagrant who floats about Tamriel, making their way through life in a practice that's not even honorable?"
"You're getting ahead of yourself," Darien knitted his brows together now, feeling a push coming from within his warm belly. He stood, placing his mug down. "I've practically had to raise myself while you're off making an invisible example of yourself. All I see is a man who is angry I found a loophole in an honest days work. I'll know it's my time when I'm ready."
"At the rate you're going, don't expect me to put any appreciative words in when you decide the Lions Guard is the only avenue you feel experienced to pursue."
"Did you stop to think that maybe I don't want to be like you?" Darien outstretched his arms. "All I see is a man who doesn't get to live. Your entire life is spent in servitude to a High King who probably doesn't think squat of you when you're not in eyesight. We live in a tiny cottage. I sleep in the corner of the kitchen, for gods sake. Maybe one day I will be a soldier. An honorable one. But I'll live my life on my own terms while you continue to spit shine boots that stomp on your very well being."
Sorin straightened his shoulders now and the two men held a tense stare, the sides of their faces illuminated in the licking flames of the hearth. Finally, his father's pursed lips moved. "One day, you will realize you're a man, Darien. And with being a man comes the responsibility of figuring things out. I only pray that when that responsibility is directly in your face, you'll know what to do. Otherwise, you'll get yourself killed in this merciless, confusing world we live in." And with that, he brushed past the table, his steel boots thunking against the wooden stairs as he took refuge in the small loft above. Darien released a breath he didn't know he was holding and he turned to watch where his father had gone, a pensive look on his face.