(note: this story contains some sensitive content but it is NOT the focus of this work! this story is rated M for the moderate horror factor and the fact I am writing several characters with PTSD and we're dealing with canon typical violence in here. Anyways, consider this chapter a taster chapter despite it being pretty lengthy, it's set up for the real meat of the story! Can't promise any sort of upload schedule so uploads may be few and far between, that being said, please enjoy my labour of love!)
Copper bloodied tang and rotting damp choke the air in a miasma of death and wretched suffering, whispers light as breath flutter through the tainted air from the tainted mouths of the shadowed cult thriving under the wan tainted candlelight, flames flickering slowly as if their waxen bodies breathed in sync with the living. The cold stone walls, silent and grey, bear great cracks oozing with moisture, moss thriving in the little dark spaces, are as much a prison as the rusted bars of the cell door, the weathered metal still strong despite its apparent age. Why ponder on the age of this fetid hovel? Why ponder on any fleeting thought? Everything, every tiny detail, overlooked by most, has been committed to memory. Every crack, every speck of grime, all the stalwart moss and the red pools of blood, bodies laid in pools of their own life. Everything in miserable place reeks of the most wicked of sins, of the foulest deeps. It permeates the air, the stone, all of it. Nothing is safe, nothing is sacred. A rhythmic drip drip of cold blood still flows from the last poor fool's flayed corpse is enough to stir the room's current captive into waking, the echoing sound cruelly stealing him from sleep's blissful embrace. The youthful mer, splayed on the altar like a pheasant ready for the pot, breath catching in his throat as he wakes, stuttering, knows not of his fate nor why he is held here, bolted down as a sacrifice to unnamed gods by an unnamed cult for unnamed perverse purposes. What he does know is that figures, about seven or eight, cloaked in languid shadows, flicker in the corners of the room, their black soulless eyes roaming over his prone form with little emotion save for both curiosity and judgment. They huddle in groups, like crows, voices like rough caws despite being little more than whispers, their cloaks and robes ebony feathers. A murder of cultists all talking as one voice, promises of power teasing them, perverting them into monsters wearing mortal flesh. The prisoner sucks in a sharp breath of rancid air, almost gagging on his own bile. This place has only ever seen death, this he is sure of, he can taste it. It is no place for the living. The room, the candles, the cultists, the altar, the walls all drip with it, crimson and weeping, dyed like a sunset over the Eltheric ocean that he can recall from his days of freedom. He shudders in his bonds, shackles jingling like bells, a cold dread settling over him as consciousness takes back full control.
An urge rises. Thrash, fight, fall into nonsensical madness, let it feast upon the rational senses left and thrush what remains into a bloody battle of gnashing teeth and cutting claws. But he can't do that. He can't go through that again, no never again, the mere thought sends more violent shivers through his pale form, what little sanity he has left crying for him to lay still and silent, to not attract more sinister gazes than what already lingers upon him. If they see any kind of pathetic weakness they'll cut it away from him with those cruel blades of ebony, glowing ruby under candlelight, their delighted smiles illuminated crimson. Chop chop chop, until all the parts of him that are mer are gone, leaving only bare bone and ribbons of tattered flesh, tortured body giving in to the cold call of the void at long last. What they cut from him, what their hands rend, will just join the rest of him on the ground that already seeps between ancient flagstones, joining the soil, flowing into the dirt far neath the tunnels and cells of this horrible prison. Maybe some part of him will make it back home, somehow, a vain hope but fools oft cling to flights of fancy in their final hours. No, the mer refuses to think like that, he refuses. Short breaths, closed eyes, he forces himself to calm, to quell his shaking, he doesn't want to lose anymore of himself, enough has already been taken. Silent. Still. He's still sleeping, still far from this world of stone and blood and chains and pain. There is no need to join the defiled dead this day, their souls have been twisted and perverted, wailing as if they are new born, suffering even after their bodies have been splayed around the altar for days, slowly rotting away, the stench unbelievable. Blue eyes refuse to open, to look upon the butchered flesh of fellow mer scattered like grotesque trophies all over the room, decorating the cultist's abode like a beast's nest, skulls still red, eyes still in their sockets. Don't look into their eyes, they can still see . Hands, wrenched over head, bound by cold rusted iron that cuts and makes the warm red come from the wrist tremble once again as he swallows down each bitter breath, memories replaying the whips and burnings, beatings and defilement. They like to play games, these men and women. Foul, wicked games they do and gods they hate him, they hate him so incredibly much it is without reason. He swallows the bitterness that rises in his throat back, sputtering, heaving, a soft whine tumbling from bruised lips. The quiet titters increase in volume and more of those so very empty eyes turn to look, panic fluttering in his chest like a bird desperately trying to flee it's cage.
If only he could fight back, if only he could show these wicked madmen whom they truly had chained to their altar. If he could there would be a reckoning the likes Tamriel had never seen before, there'd be nothing left, not a scrap, not a whisper. His own flames would lick at their skin, twisting their features into expressions of agony, as their flames had done his. He'd spill their blood if he had a blade on hand, slitting the throat, severing the spine, metal dancing over breathing warm flesh, their blood spilling over his weak hands. Do it quick, do it quiet, if only to avoid this cursed place from seeing even more prolonged sufferings than it already had. Such thoughts have plagued him for days… weeks? Not even the Divines know how long he's rotted down here in this grievous pit! Not that they care, not that they ever cared. Fuck the Divines, and the Daedra and all the other bastard gods too! All these thoughts, these violent delusions and he can't do a damn thing, not even move an inch, for he, as their prisoner, is bolted down to the altar, a fat swine fit for the slaughter, wounds aching with a burning almost kin to terrible fever. It'll never end, he'll never know peace from this, not even with all his knowledge and power. He knows the school of Restoration well, has studied it for years even if, as an assassin, he'd never need to rely on it. Damn it all he could heal himself if he just had the strength that they've bled from him, but he does not, all his years even less than useless. And he knows that even if he did have the energy for even a quick spell, that if he could ease his sufferings even slightly, the cult would fall upon him like starved wolves quickly undoing his hard work with a happy smile. What will it be this time, morbid curiosity asks. A knife to play on a breathing rib cage? Flames to scorch, skin bubbling as they run bloodied hands over pale gold skin? Or will their master come, lifting legs and smiling sweetly at as he takes him as if he were his newly wed bride? Anything but that . He'll take the beatings, the fire, the knives, just anything, anything in this whole world, but that. Tears trickle from his eyes, unbidden and unstoppable, the question of ' why me? ' echoing through his weary mind. What did he ever do to these people, these faceless shadows, to deserve this? Why couldn't he just die like the rest of their prisoners and be done with this all? An urge rises, an urge to scream.
It grows, the urge, breathing suddenly morphing into a struggle, sickness rising in his throat like a beast clawing to escape it's prison. Not only blood makes the air vile, his head pounding, his heart aching , whole body rejecting the stench of death. Everyone whom came to save him is dead. Everyone. Trained mages, soldiers, assassins, rangers and everything in between fell broken at the cult's feet begging for a mercy that does not exist. Everybody knows he's down here, in the catacombs of some crumbling fortress, waiting for the moment he will join the dismembered pieces of his allies on the sodden floor but nobody will come. They've learnt now, they know better than to try to save a lost cause. This fetid hole, Divines know what it truly is, will be his final resting place, with or without intervention. Ruin, fort, castle, temple, shrine, tomb. The tunnels run deep into the earth like the twisting bowels of a ravenous beast. Even if they do come back, by some miracle, they'll never reach him in time. Too slow, too far. His thoughts break down into madness looping over one another, over each other and in circles like a dog chasing its tail. Good, it's better than the sorrow and gnawing hunger, better than cold dread and mindless panic.
The thick air buzzes with incantations, almost song-like prayers that the shadowed group call out in vile reverence to a master he can't name, a master he doesn't want to name. With half a mind left, broken as it is, he can make guesses, many guesses and none of them good. But they're staring at him with those eyes like endless pits of darkness, staring deep into his soul like they can read every thought. He keeps his guesses to himself and bites his tongue. They want to flay his soul from his failing body with their piercing gazes alone, to suck him down into the void, hands dragging him down into the inky blackness, never to be seen again, almost like he never existed to begin with. All their eyes are dark as moonless midnight, never blinking, only gazing. The prisoner stares back, wide eyed and shuddering so hard his bonds rattle, metal clinking against metal, a stuttering mournful song. Fear is roused from slumber it's cold tendrils uncoiling spreading their chill through the captive's blood like poison. They know he's awake, well, it's likely they knew he'd rejoined the waking world. They always know. Everything, all the little details about everything does. The thought is not comforting in the slightest and only serves to quicken his laboured breathing, a pained wheezing sounding out. A rustling of fabric, the group closes in fast, surrounding their hostage with cold and unfeeling smiles, looking down upon the poor elf as if proud of the dread they inspire.
He hates their fiends only smile when it hurts the most. It's a message they're sending him, a decree making certain he knows today is one of those days where all he can do is screw his eyes shut and battle with breath, riding through the motions like one may wait for a storm to pass. He looks from face to face, gaze sweeping over the gathered, eyes pleading silently for some form of reprieve, for some form of mercy. But they simply stand there, politely grinning as if greeting an old friend. Footsteps echo in the distance, even and sure, never faltering, the cult whispering amongst themselves, knowing not what this coming means but reveling in it nonetheless. The imprisoned mer thrashes, a desperate need to escape clouding his senses even as those iron bonds tear cruelly into already abused flesh, a new trickle of warm blood flowing down pale arms, into filthy brown hair and over a tear stained face, eyes wide and fearful. Louder and louder the footsteps ring out in the silence, crashing like thunder, coming closer and closer until the sound is all consuming, the only thing occupying all of the poor elf's senses. Maddeningly wonderful, like a song building to its crescendo only for it to stop dead, an empty sense of something fluttering in the void it leaves behind. A single figure parts the crowd, their heads bowed, muttered blessings falling from each cultist's tongue. The figure moves with grace, black robes sweeping over the soiled ground as black as smoke and as heavy as an oncoming storm, a tired look worn on his sunken features, green eyes bruised and blond hair a tangled mess. Imposing, even like this.
The captive drinks him in, hate seeping into his marrow at the sight of this wicked man, fear slowly ebbing away under anger's burning heat. This fiend, this monster! He's had them fooled, all of them, since day one! Father always treated him as if he'd always been his family, like he'd known him since birth as his beloved wife had, and he in turn treated father in kind. Friendly banter over dinner, warm summer nights spent in the garden, sneaking treats before lunch with a chuckle and a wink. All that trust, that love and it's repaid like this . Uncle, he had once called the necromancer, family, bearing the same blood. How long has he planned this for? How many years has each friendly gesture been laced with dark desires? Every fond memory is tainted, black ink spilling carelessly over those cherished moments, even the ones the captive holds close to his heart. Baking sweets together to give to mother when she felt down, weekends spent sleeping over in his tower, uncle showing his favourite nephew his collection of magical items. Even the bad memories, of their fights, their argument when he followed in his father's footsteps, sting even more now, especially as he stares down upon the prisoner with a look of utter disgust. This was no spur of the moment decision, no sudden flight of fancy, oh no, this whole charade has been planned years in advance, he's been lying through his teeth this whole time. It's sick. It's disgusting. Why? The question yearns to be asked. Why him? Why now? Over and over again, bouncing off the walls, repeating endlessly with now answer in sight. It is madness that grips the necromancer, madness fuelled by hate, by fear. There is no other reason, there can be no other but it does not satisfy the question asked. A hand cold as bitter winter comes to rest above a beating heart, flesh feverish, a whimper leaping from the captive's mouth.
"Don't hurt me…"
Weak, small, his voice trembles like a child being scolded, how utterly wretched he sounds. Not a sound passes between them, even the cult fades away into the bleak background, the candles still flickering away. The necromancer gazes into his soul with those green eyes like piercing glass daggers, delving deep into the depths as if searching for a secret hidden there. A scowl, there is nothing else within, his captive but an empty husk, weeks of suffering tearing the youth down into a damaged mess of madness. With a sigh he pulls away, almost disappointed that this game has run its course, holding out his hand to the closest of his servants, a dagger of ebony placed into his waiting palm. An ugly sensation rises within the prisoner, something violent and desperate, a beast waking from slumber, starved and furious. Beyond furious. It wails out a battle-cry, seething with blood-lust, with the need to escape. He thrashes in his bonds again, more blood welling from his wounds, the rattle of the chains sounding like the chaos of war.
"You will pay for this treachery, you will! It may take months, it may take years but they'll find you and they'll kill you! Die you bastard, die! Die damn you, die, die!"
Rage is all he has left, it's the only thing he's been able to cling to for all the time he's been rotting down in the damp. So far it's kept him alive, these spikes of violence enough to frighten away the weaker willed cultist and keep them at bay but it seems this fury may come to be his epitaph. Anger is better than the fear, better than succumbing to the cold embrace of depression. The hot fury chases the numbness after those deeds away, an outlet for his agony, an outlet to curse every name he knows. From absent mother to careless father, selfish sister and cold blooded killers. There is no lover to kiss away the pain, to wipe the tears from his eyes. No embraces to warm his nights or soft words spoken in earnest. No, there is nothing. He'll die down here, like the rest of them, just another name on a list of many. Yes, they know he's here but every attempt has been met with failure. But these bastards will burn, each and every one of them, that is certain, yes, but it'll be long after he's already gone from this world, that too is certain. They will come, with torch and blade, with fury in their hearts, wearing death like a veil of smoke and they will reduce this place to rubble, wipe it from all maps, close off the tunnels. It'll be like it never existed, like none of this ever happened. No mercy for the guilty, no mercy for the sinners, only justice supreme. But the necromancer simply sighs, a icy hand caressing the prisoner's cheek, wholly unimpressed with his tirade and completely unconcerned with what the future may bring but wearing a soft look, one of fondness. He jerks away from the touch. Those hands have committed the most wicked of acts, he knows what they're capable of, has experienced what they're capable of and he will no longer allow such violation. He is no longer a child, he understands the gravity of what has been done in this place, it matters not either way, his fate is sealed.
"You've become much like that father of yours my boy, the same violent temper, the same severe stare. My what a little killer you've flourished into, trying to make him proud are we? Trying to follow in big brother's footsteps?," The touch is only light, his voice almost coloured by mirth but the captive can taste the bitterness under his words, "You should have taken my offer little songbird, you'd be stood by my side not on my lord's altar. A pity, you've always been skilled, always had a quick wit and a smart mind, much more clever than the rest of our kin, you could have been most beneficial to our plans. Ah, no matter, that was another you, still innocent and easily manipulated but now you've grown and gone and become sharp as a blade. It was a stroke of luck I even managed to snare you! Well, your usefulness has come to an end, a little too clever for your own good, not even letting slip one secret, could have saved your life my boy. Pity, pity I suppose you'll have to… ah what was it you said again? Die, damn you, die…"
An absence of cold fingers, the necromancer steps back black robes framing a body barely more than bones, skin pallid and eyes wild, insanity running wild through the man's shattered mind. This pitiful beast is not the kind uncle from the captive's youth, the one with the gentle encouragement and constant support, the one with the funny jokes and thoughtful nature, oh no, this man before him is infected. Infected with the curse of the Madgod. There it little time to dwell on that, the fondness leaks from the necromancer as he pulls a dagger from the shadows, the ebony blade glinting in the candlelight, it's shine as bright as the first rays of sunlight. A breath passes between then, the whole cult whispering prayers, their voices shrill as birdsong, almost musical and all speaking as one. One breath, two breaths and he's walking forwards again, blade raised high in one hand, the other weaving magic. Three breaths and he's almost there, eyes blank, mouth forming words the prisoner has never heard before. Four breaths and he's by the altar, the cult's prayers becoming feverish cries of ecstasy as they beg, no plead , for blood to satiate their grim appetite. Five breaths and the world is bathed in in an eerie purple glow, the colour like the last kiss of dusk before the black of night shrouds the world in its embrace of shadows. Six breaths, one hand plunging down. The dagger slices through flesh as if it were as thin as air, the blade digging through bone and organ alike, burying itself in a breathing rib cage, red fountaining out, the prisoner choking on blood and bile. He gurgles and screams, his terrible song filling every nook and cranny, every crack and chip, bleeding in between the stones, becoming part of the tombs, soaking in like the crimson that wets the ground. Struggle. The bonds still cut deep. Face now covered in the gore, tears not able to cut a path through the red. Black creeps in, slowly, slowly, glassy blue eyes staring up into the eyes of the necromancer, searching for remorse but finding none. Green… green like the leaves on mother's trees, like the grass, like the emerald on his ring, like his brother's eyes, the same shade.
Slowly his thrashing ceases, blood simply welling up and flowing freely down his beaten body, dripping onto the altar, onto the floor. Something is pulling him, pulling him down and outwards, towards something, a purple haze settling in over the world. Another spell? It's so hard to think now, thoughts sluggish, like running through mud, his body becoming comfortably numb to the pain, sound distant like swimming underwater. Is this what dying feels like? It's not so bad after all… Is this really all it is? A silent quick death after weeks of suffering, weeks of torture? What a laugh. Perhaps , he thinks in a state of numbness, as lightning rains down and flames set alight to all around him, metal clashing upon metal and furious screams fill the air, this is all some sick joke . Is it fate? Does this serve a greater purpose? What silly final thoughts to have, much like a child's ponderings on things beyond their ken. It'd be nice to see though if that were true, that this is ordained by the gods, fated to be by something greater. Gods rarely answer pleas for mercy, as if such a thing could exist in a world as cruel as this. There is no mercy, not here, in this moment. A thing like that couldn't survive long when people act like rabid dogs, determined to only cause suffering, cutting down others for their own gains. Mercy would be a failure within seconds, her kindness short lived and perverted into sinister shadows of what it once was. Bodies drop to the floor in heaps of black and red, heads torn from shoulders, flames burning them to ashes before glassy blue eyes. War is raging all around him but he can't feel anything anymore, he's too far gone, a blessing perhaps. Eyes can see little flickers of something, colours moving in the gloom, little glimmers of light twinkling like distant stars. He daren't blink. If he does, he's gone, slipping away into whatever waits beyond this . But there's that feeling again, like hands are reaching up from the void, bidding him join them in a parade of endless souls awash in pale lavender tones, bodies blinking in and out of focus, like ocean waves. An empty peace but does that matter? He'll take it, there's nothing else he has. The prisoner feels his heart stop, his breath cease, life snuffed out.
He watches the necromancer meet his own death, an Altmer with hair as black as ink tearing into him with a cry of anguish and betrayal. Their eyes meet for a moment, blue and green clashing, something between them singing, screaming , a bond impossibly strong like invisible threads of steel. It snaps as the necromancer hits the ground and life rushes back into him all at once, a torrent of sensations assaulting him from all directions. Pain, fear, light, cold, pain ! It hurts, gods it hurts so bad! Why is he alive, why is he alive ?! He'd begged, prayed for days to the Eight, to the Daedra, to Auriel and even Lorkhan at one point to be saved. This isn't salvation! This is agony, this is worse than anything that came before! What kind of cruel miracle is this?!
"Myrimae? Why is he screaming like that I thought... I don- Oh gods, oh gods ! ... We...we need a healer here, now!"
Someone fills his vision once again, fire and gold and burning like the candles, bright as the sun, their hands pressing on open wounds, their voice babbling senseless nonsense. He'd thought he'd die without sunlight, without warmth. Oh how he wishes to be cold again as those hands attempt to gift him salvation, searing hot, burning even. Garbled words spill from his mouth, hoarse and strange, nothing makes sense in this new existence he finds himself thrust into. He can almost feel the concern in the air, the worry, the panic. Let it end, let him rest! He continues to rant, unknowingly, without end until his voice fails, body growing weak again as whatever magic sustained his revival drains away as easily as water.
"How did you ever get into such a state, how did I ever let this happen? … You fool, you utter fool, you always get into such trouble, always making us worry about you, off on adventures. What'll be the excuse this time, I wonder? You can be so terrible a lying, or at least I thought so… you've had me fooled for years love. Don't… don't you dare leave me. Come now, open those eyes, wake up… wake up…"
Myrimae rejoins the waking world with a stuttered gasp, the iron tang of blood still lingering in his mouth, bitter and heavy, brow dripping with sweat, brown hair clinging to his fair golden skin. He blinks, slowly, blue eyes adjusting to the gloom of early dawn, the sun only just beginning to paint the skies in amber honey tones. A shiver runs through him, from the tips of his ears all the way to his toes, leaving him shaking even inside his roll and swaddled like a babe under many furs, and he knows it is not due to the chill of the Jeralls either. That was, well put frankly, bad. Perhaps the worst he's been since he was dragged away from his peaceful little life back in Alinor by a certain someone who absolutely just had to have a competent healer and would not and could not ask anyone else but him. What a pile of absolute, well, he's already spewed a heap of expletives about all this there is little need to dwell on it further. Hand on heart he feels his breathing even out, lets the lingering panic slip away back into the shadows whence it came. For a moment he simply lays in the gloom, letting the sounds of the camp wash over him like a warm summer breeze. Idle chatter, a crackling fire, soft wind rustling through the tents, feet crunching in the snow. Peaceful if not for the gravity of their duties. With an aching sigh Myrimae pushes himself up rubbing his hands over his face trying to wipe away the last dregs of his grogginess. Just a dream, just a nightmare, nothing more, he tells himself, this will pass in time like all things must. A foolish mistake with dire consequences that not only impact him but his work and therefore those around him. Look where it's gotten him… freezing his rear off in the ass end of Tamriel to start.
" Ah, I was wondering just when you were going to join me, my dear brother. Today is certainly not the day for you to be laying neath those furs until you pluck up the courage to face the chill."
Silvery white hair, not unlike the snow bathing each inch of earth outside the warm confines of their tent frames the pale golden, and slightly irritated, looking face of his brother Aetherian who gazes down on him with sharp green eyes like a bird of prey sizing up a mouse before swooping in for the kill. Ever so dignified even when fretting. Even when reining in his lightning like fury. Myrimae just sighs, running a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to untangle it and do away with the knots while he tries very hard to ignore his brother. Neither of them have a desire to address the issue at hand, even if it is inevitable that it'll be brought up in conversation some how. They're both tired of it, both know and understand what comes of it but neither are willing to stitch the wound closed and instead leave it raw and oozing, only festering the longer they let this problem run wild without supervision. But Myrimae knows, just like how Aetherian knows, that this isn't just going to be fixed easily, if ever, and yet they haven't even started trying. The questions have already been asked, again and again, repeating endlessly until Myrimae can remember each one by heart, can recite them back to himself, ask each and everyone in silence. He has no answers that he hasn't already given. The questions flow not just from Aetherian's mouth when he speaks in soft hushed tones, fear controlling his actions, causing him to worry, oh no. Father asks sometimes, as if he's simply confirming a fact, simply grasping the gravity of it all and mother may whisper a little something on it if she's brave enough. But it's not only them, if it were just his kin Myrimae thinks he could bear the constant interrogation! But it's not. It's everyone . Everyone always asks the same damn questions, over and over, until the words chase each other in dizzy circles, until his usual patient and gentle attitude is put to the test. Yes it's the same nightmare again, always is, and yes it's plaguing what should be a calm healing sleep, twisting it into a horror that leaves him with a sick feeling of ' did that really happen?' sitting heavy within. And again he tells himself, no, no , it couldn't have, even if the scar on his chest aches when he recalls the moment that blade plunges down, ripping through flesh and bone, pulling soul from physical form. It's trauma, from the accident. He's sick, it's all there is to it, he's sick and should be resting at home.
'The Accident', what a crass name to give his one moment of stupidity. A foolish attempt at magic beyond his level, or so he's been told, the event has been scrubbed from his mind like dirt from tiles, clean enough to eat from. What kind of misguided idiocy drove him to do such things, to vastly overestimate his skills as a mage and effectively ruin the rest of his life in an instant. Nothing remains of the once assassin he vaguely recalls himself being except trauma and a mind broken into shards of glass that can only reflect the distorted horrors of his dreams conjured to stop him facing reality. If his nightmares are like that he'd rather face the truth of his traumas than continue living in fear of each time he lays his head to rest. A sigh, the rustling of fabric and Aetherian kneels in front of him, brow creased in worry and nibbling at his lower lip as he does when pondering over a problem. Slowly, carefully, he reaches forward, as if dealing with a startled animal and places both gloved hands on his younger brother's shaking shoulders, a silent ask for him to raise his head. Myrimae knows what comes next. A tirade of nonsense or a stern telling off.
"Dear I know this is hard but this charade has gone on long enough. We cannot allow this to continue to have a negative impact on our lives. Come now, rise and we can put this whole sordid affair behind us." His tone is even, calm, as if he's talking to one of his agents, not his own flesh and blood.
"Right, uh, I'll be a moment, I had a nightmare and I just need to. Well, I just need to take a minute or so to get over it Aeth. I'll be fine."
Neither of them move, not an inch, Aetherian's disappointed glare burning down with the intensity of a hundred suns and Myrimae doing his absolute best to ignore it, gaze downcast and tilted away from his brother, even as the older mer keeps him in place. That gaze alone has reduced much more wilful subjects to whimpering messes and Myrimae does not fancy his chances should he meet his brother of even ground. He's shaken, from the visions in his dreams and from a small niggling fear squirming deep within that whispers uncertainties to him, that fills him with thoughts that today is going to end in disaster. He keeps his gaze low, fingers nervously playing with the sleeve of his tunic. Nobody has ever managed to wriggle away from Aetherian's grasp, not him, not his other siblings, not even their father if he's determined enough to give someone a verbal lashing, he almost feels pity for the prisoners they let Aetherian loose on. Almost. He chances a peek and he's wearing that look, a clear sign he is indeed in store for a taste of his fury.
" Myrimae …," Oh by the Eight, here it comes. He sighs, giving in and meeting his brother's glare head on, "You do know how I feel about this already, yes?" A nod, " Good . I do so detest early starts, especially if my agents , my own brother no less begin to test my already very thin patience. So get yourself ready and... oh."
"Oh?" That does not sound good, Myrimae braces himself for what comes next.
Those hands finally lift from his shoulders, black leather gently caressing his face instead, a softer, more worried look suddenly seizing Aetherian's features as he does so, soulful green eyes turning pleading.
"You've been crying in your sleep again, Mae, haven't you? Oh you poor dear! Let me get you a washcloth and some water so you can tidy yourself up!"
Oh no, not the sympathy, anything but that! Myrimae utters a silent plea, begging, for the love of the Eight, for Aetherian to go back to being mildly annoyed, he can handle annoyed! He'll do anything, just not the damned sympathy! Aetherian is predictable when his ire has been aroused, all barbed insults and wicked words, voice lashing out like a whip, every syllable dripping with venom. But he can be calmed, he can be fought. When sad? When worried and sympathetic? Divines what then? He turns soft, kind, will fuss without end and no matter what one does he just wont stop! Myrimae spent months resting and recovering from his accident while getting doted on by everyone, especially his siblings, and Aetherian most of all. He's sick of his sympathy and fussing. Being the youngest, therefore the baby of the family, they all feel the need to take care of him like one might a bird that tumbled from its nest, never mind that he very much has the ability fight off anyone who'd try to do him even the slightest lick of harm, thank you very much. But no, everyone has to fight his battles for him, everyone has to dote on him like a pampered pet. And Aetherian is the worst, inclined to dramatics that one, completely overdoing everything he pours his energy into. Myrimae recalls it vividly, back when he were laid up in his room, swaddled in sheets like a newborn. Fresh flowers everyday, plucked thoughtlessly from their homes, do you need your pillows fluffing? More soup? 'Need a hug from your dear big brother Mae? Oh wait injuries I forgot, silly me, perhaps something else!'. It was a nightmare, it was exhausting, never mind the terrors that lie in wait for him each night, eager to sap his strength by waking him into a sleepless dark. It was all wrong, he's the one trained in the healing arts, not his brother, being treated like a fragile babe goes against everything he's learnt over his years of study! Yes it's silly, perhaps even childish to think such thoughts but he knows how the injured and ailing think, understands them in a way Aetherian will never learn to grasp. Some want to be fussed over, usually the ones who don't need the help or are so damaged they seek comfort from anyone who is willing to give it while others will scorn any aid possible out of some lofty sense of pride. Mae is not one to beg for comfort he has no need of, nor will he ask if he truly needs it. He has no want to be waited on hand and foot everyday of his life, and he certainly has no want for Aetherian's fussing. With a weary sigh, he grasps his brother's wrist anchoring him to the spot.
"It's only another bad nightmare, I can wash my fac-"
"How bad is bad?" Aetherian cuts in, lacing his fingers with his brother and pulling his hand flush to his chest, tone verging on near frantic, his own hands shaking.
"It's not th-"
"How. Bad? Do I need to worry? Should I have you sent back to the Imperial City? Do you need help, someone to talk to? Oh by the Eight what am I going to write in my report back to your healers in Alinor?"
Oh what is the point? Aetherian won't calm his worry, nor will he give pause to listen to his brother's pleas. Myrimae sighs deeply, giving a small shake of his head as he realises there's no winning this, not today, not ever, and that's just how it is. The one thing he really doesn't want to discuss this morning is his nightmares, especially while the memory of the one he just escaped from dances behind his eyelids teasing him with those wretched scenes of depravity his mind conjures up from the depths. He still feels it, as if it truly happened, ghosts of feeling tickling his senses, like cold hands clawing at his insides sending sharp jolts of panic through his being, his chest aching. Dagger lodged in deep, blade slicing through flesh and bone, the heat of his blood rapidly draining as the blade moves every time he dares to thrash in those accursed shackles, a great red puddle forming around him. Uncle's hand caressing his face, a demented expression of something twisting his features from kindly and wrinkled to grim and unhinged, eyes wild as they drink in the carnage. He even remembers the other parts of it, how his bones were broken and mended over and over like some sort of game, a sick perversion of the powers he uses to better the world, one injury at a time. What a horrible, vile thing to create. Aetherian must sense his disquiet, clutching his shaking hand harder to his chest so that Myrimae can barely feel his fingers, his other arm wrapping around his younger brother's shoulders, offering what little support he can give. How could he dream up such a sick demented scenario? Was his trauma that bad that his mind had to create a perverse fantasy world where his sufferings were weaved into the most disgusting of acts, performed over and over again upon his already shattered form in order to hide himself from the truth? It's just not fair! Is it a metaphor for how broken he is by this? Myrimae doesn't know, no longer wants to know despite his ponderings on the matter even if it troubles him day and night, even if he can taste a kernel of truth in this nightmares. And he is troubled, greatly by that fact, not knowing why he'd wake in the dead of night, tears on his cheeks, sometimes screaming, sometimes silent but always, always shaking that wicked feeling fluttering in his chest telling him it was all real. It troubles him less now, after months of dealing with it, but he still wakes in a fright, blindly searching for the first person whose arms may offer him reprieve. Aetherian waits expectantly, soft mumbles of comfort piercing through his twisting thoughts, slaying the darkness that lurks there, dispelling the fog that surrounds him. If his brother is good for anything, it's drawing one's attention, even if he often shuns his aide.
"It was bad. Perhaps the worst since that first month, back when I couldn't leave my rooms, remember? You moved in with me, for a time." He sucks in a sharp breath, staring into those verdant depths, "I think I died? Yeah, maybe, I'm not sure. You were there, I think, father was too. It's rather hard for me to describe this whole thing but it's not much different from all the other nightmares…"
"One of those dreams again?"
Ah and there it is. That's all that needs to be said on the matter. One of those . Myrimae does appreciate Aetherian's caution, back in the early days the simple mention of the contents of his dreams could send him into a panic, near inconsolable and damn impossible for the healers to handle. But he's sick of it, sick of dancing round the question. It's always one of those dreams, why even ask? If Aetherian wants to invoke his wrath he's going about it perfectly because he's beginning to get seriously irked with all this needless chatter! One of those dreams , the gall! Why not ask the question they both know he wants to ask? Straight up, no beating around the bush, no sugar coating the details, just spit it out. Mae glares at his brother, hoping his blue eyes portray his fury, hoping he seems as cold as the snow outside but all he meets is apologetic softness, the knowledge that his brother knows he's annoyed his younger greatly. Aetherian does not look impressed with him, despite that, one elegant brow quirked, mouth pulled down slightly in an unhappy frown; he's thoroughly done with his baby brother's antics it seems and his only want for him to just let him help. Moody sod, he changes like the weather during the height of summer. One moment he's sunshine, scorching hot, pleasant on the skin, bathing the world in his love and joy but give him a second or so and he becomes a storm, tears falling like fat raindrops, anger lashing out like lightning, voice rumbling as the thunder in his tempest of violent emotions. Emotional and erratic. Myrimae supposes it runs in the family, he scarce keeps himself in check, coming to verbal blows with a certain someone more times than he likes to admit to himself. But Aetherian loosens his crushing grip on his hand, thumb tracing his knuckles absentmindedly, the arm looping over his shoulder a pleasant weight, it's hard to stay angry with him for long. Exasperated yes, but not angry.
"Mae, darling?" A quiet prompt, an urge to speak.
"Yes…" He finally replies with a deep sigh, leaning back, eyes towards the roof of the tent, "It was one of those dreams. It always is, you don't need to keep asking me like this."
"Well my dear brother if you didn't act so awkward and dance around your answers I wouldn't have to be so insistent in my questioning. You know that I must report everything back to our higher ups, especially since one of said higher ups is our own father, and you know that if I keep anything from the healers it could damage your health!"
Myrimae snaps his gaze back down to his brother's face, suddenly shoving his arms away and scooting backwards, Aetherian simply rolling his eyes at his childish behaviour.
"Mae, I understand it can be frustrating but-"
" Frustrating ? You think being asked to relive that terror again and again is frustrating? I'm sick of it, I'm tired of telling everyone the same things over and over think you understand but you don't, you can't. I know this is awkward for you, for everyone. I'm supposed to be an assassin, a spy, a thief, but I can't even lift a blade without feeling the need to heave and I don't even remember the accident. Aeth I don't want to just be another one of your assignments, I don't want to just be another thing to report to the higher ups." By the end Myrimae finds himself feeling empty, like a flood of emotions poured from him leaving him hollow on the inside but at least Aetherian has the humility to look a little guilty.
Aetherian holds his arms outwards, open, waiting, and Myrimae accepts this apology in silence, nestling up against his chest, listening to the soft beating on his heart. Shame colours his cheeks in blush, he shouldn't of shouted even if Aetherian deserved it. He was finally was able to express some of the violent emotions that bubbled neath a soft exterior of kindness and tolerance after so long of keeping quiet, he's getting sick of quiet. Father spent years showing him how to walk the shadows, how to slit a throat in silence, how to not be seen but he finds himself yearning for more than that. Yearning to shed his cloak of midnight and stand basking in the sunlight. Myrimae craves to be seen, to be more than just another blade in service to the Dominion. He refuses to be another delicate flower that needs watering, or a jewel to be polished to a shine, or even a trophy to be displayed in front of everyone and only displayed and dusted when needed. He's a person, with his own thoughts, his own troubles. Myrimae will not be another tragedy for his family to mourn, no he refuses. He came here, to the ass end of the empire to work, to earn his keep, even if he has to dip back into that languid darkness, even if his tongue must drip with lies once again. No more shall he sit on his rear and weep over what he's lost, no more shall he simply be another drain on resources complaining about his weaknesses all day long. Aetherian cradles him gently, softly humming a lullaby from their childhood and Myrimae thinks that maybe, maybe it's all right to rely on others, just this once.
"I was not aware you harboured such feelings, dear." A sigh escapes the older mer in the wan light of early dawn, "Forgive me for being so blind to your plights, and for drowning out your protests in favour of laying my own misgivings to rest when it is you whom I should be listening to." He pulls away, his warmth following leaving Myrimae shivering in the cool air, "You are no longer a child, even if I will forever see you as one, I cannot expect you to remain untouched by this world's cruelty. I miss the days where you would so eagerly seek out my attention, perhaps we will never return to what we had, I suppose I fear that change. Ah, but I've rambled enough!" He stands, all grace, long robes sweeping the ground as he rises tutting at the dirt, "Take the time you need but don't tarry too long. If you don't meet me in the main tent once the sun has fully risen I'll be back to collect you, dressed or not."
With a small incline of the head, Aetherian departs from their shared sleeping accommodations out into the world that only just begins to take on a sweet honey tint. A moment passes. And another. Myrimae flops back down into his furs and pillows a groan leaving him before he settles back to watch his breath make small plumes of white, like little clouds, in the chilly Skyrim air. It is much too early fuck such emotional escapades, especially while out in one of their secluded camps between Cyrodiil and Skyrim where their business could be easily made public property and he damn well knows Aetherian will have his head should any scandal be attached to his name, despite all the brotherly love he preached. There's nothing the soldiers loved more than scandal and a reason to make fun of the mages, especially those in power. He sighs watching his breath dance around the tent for a moment, letting his mind clear so he can finally think about much more important things, like today's assignment for instance. It's a couple hours ride down the mountains in freezing cold conditions, ice and snow making the trip treacherous not only for their mounts but for their guard as well. At this point Myrimae thinks that the Lady Ambassador should just go escort herself to the execution rather than call for aid from the Cyrodiil branch. Perhaps she is guided by a misplaced sense of pride, and a need to display her power over her province, not that any of them truly cared what she thought, they served Aetherian or the general and Aetherian has never much liked that woman anyway. Called her many insults both behind closed doors in private company and to her face, completely unrepentant. Incompetent was one such word he used, how dare she let those dirty Talos cultists run rampant, some influence and sway she had! Myrimae asks no questions on the matter, he's here simply to carry the potions and make the Ambassador look good, not get involved with politics and infighting, especially between a pair of snappish and foul tempered spymasters. He's experienced his brother's level of petty and heard his wicked insults first hand, if this Ambassador can go toe to toe with him, he greatly does not wish for them to be at each other's throats.
Best get up and get ready or he'll still be musing over their internal politics when a certain someone bursts back into their tent and gives him yet another ear full. If only he could just stay in bed all day and not face the winter chill but, alas, he does have a job to do so with a sigh Myrimae pulls himself free from his roll, dressing in his robes as quickly as he can and splashing his face with water bringing himself out of his sleepy state just in for for a pair of armoured boots clunk over to his dwelling and roughly pull open the flaps of his tent. So much for privacy. Dawn's wan early light floods in, bathing the interior in violent burning orange, glinting off the alchemy table so kindly shoved into one corner, green and amber dazzling in the gloom, cool air swirling around his feet. This is why he hates camping. No privacy nor respect for one's personal space and time, how ridiculous and utterly depraved, what he'd give to be in more polite company. The glow of the early sunrise gleams off the newcomer's gilded moonstone armour, a resplendent sight usually but now just blinding to the groggy healer, he calls himself lucky he hasn't got several lined up all suffering from various ailments, Altmer aren't suited to the cold. Myrimae rolls his eyes as he turns to shuffle his chilly fingers into his gloves lest this damned weather kill them off with frostbite while his visitor stands dumbly in the doorway doing a rather apt impression of the sun, copper hair almost burning like a flame. Clearly they know naught of manners, even if this isn't a formal setting it'd be nice to see if people could show some common decency. At the very least he could of asked before simply inviting himself inside with little ceremony! When the soldier doesn't move or speak his mind, Myrimae just sighs, a drawn out hiss of ongoing suffering, and turns back to the guest, a small frown twisting his youthful features. He does not need this, not so early in the damned morning and not after what he's just had to sit through with Aetherian! People do choose the damnedest times to trouble him with such trivial problems, why can't this sorry excuse of leftover supper do this later, at night, when they've concluded their business with the Ambassador?
"Do you need something Voriel or are you simply here to detain me from doing any real work today?" He spits his words with a sarcastic tone, blue eyes giving the best glare he can manage. This pest better not be here for a potion, they have only a scarce few left, not that any of their swordsmen use magicka potions, and if he thinks Myrimae is going to take the time to make more then he's sorely mistaken, the healer has not a thing to craft more with on hand, restocking is one of his jobs for today.
"Oh you wound me! Who says I'm after something, hmm? Can't I just come on by for idle chit chat?" Myrimae just sends him a glare, "Fine, I suppose there is something I uh… now don't toss anything at me I know I'm armoured but you have good aim and you'll get me right in the face if you do…"
"Hurry up, some of us have an actual job to do today."
"Yes, right. Well I don't suppose you have a potion spare, I know I know, we're really low but, you see, I've had this cough and-"
Myrimae just sighs and shakes his head, "You know we're out, save for magicka potions, you asked the same thing yesterday and my answer is still the same; no."
A cocky grin slides onto the visitors face, a sure sign that the redhead is up to mischief, "Then perhaps, if you'd be so kind, you could practice your spells on me and use those lovely hands, hmm?"
Ugh, is this oaf seriously trying to flirt with him, after everything he's done? And that smirk, that stupid smirk! Just because it's the one he uses to charm just about anyone into doing whatever he wants it does not mean it's going to work on him, oh no, not this time, he is still very much annoyed with a one Yvonril Voriel. Myrimae is not playing this game today, there's far too much to do, so Yvon can just go find another to work his special kind of magic on, not that it ever works on him in the first place. The poor thing sounds almost hopeful as well, his pleading golden eyes trying to evoke sympathy from the other mer in front of him evoking the image of a small puppy pleading for a treat. It won't work, not after what he's done. While he's been softened up, his days as a killer put to rest and he's grown a touch sympathetic, especially to the ailing, Myrimae was not tolerant with Yvonril with his honeyed words and wandering hands, especially the wandering hands. His laid back attitude only causes trouble for anyone who gets close, Aetherian despises him with a fiery passion and has far more to say about the soldier than he has to say about Lady Elenwen. And he has a lot to say about her. While, yes, he does agree with some of the insults his brother spews on occasion, such as the man fore him being a lazy slob who barely remembers to keep himself well groomed, there are things, that he daren't repeat, Myrimae fully disagrees with. If only he was actually taking his job seriously for once, he may actually show mercy upon the poor soul but, no , of course out of all the days for him to be playing his little games it had to be today. Perhaps, if this were any other day, he'd play along, teasing and laughing with Yvonril, perhaps even letting him off the hook. But now he was just an irritating nuisance. He knows he's faking this illness, it's plain as day, in fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he simply over indulged while round the fire with the scouts last night and is now nursing a rather acute headache. Those wood elves and cats sure now how to get a man wretchedly drunk, he'll never understand the appeal in that foul swill.
"I'm sorry but that'll have to be a hard no for me. You're not truly ill, I can tell. You're just doing this to annoy me, aren't you?"
"Perhaps… or maybe I'm after a little something else, other than your healing arts of course."
Clearly the man is simply looking for an outlet for his boredom and just so happened to stumble upon his fellow's dwelling, deciding then and there to make a bother of himself. And, well, if Myrimae is being honest with himself the distraction is appreciated, despite his previous conversation with his brother those nightmares, twisted and vile, will haunt his day. No matter, Yvonril will be getting no potions, no restoration spells, no mercy and certainly none of what he's actually come for. If that wretched heathen even thinks for one second he can work his charms on him then, well, he is in for quite a surprise. There is absolutely nothing charming about the rugged, handsome and incredibly flattering Yvonril, not one bit! Charm? Ha, hilarious! Everyone knows he's a rather charmless sod who does not understand, in the slightest, that perhaps the first words people don't want to hear in the morning when someone bursts into their tent is ' Hey want to taste the wine I drank last night ?'. Ugh, he's used that one before, how utterly graceless, and idiotic, like something like that is going to woo anybody, especially his fine self! No eloquence at all! If Yvonril truly wishes to woo Myrimae he'd know to write him sappy poetry, reciting romantic sonnets in the warm breeze of an Alinor sunset. He'd bring him flowers to cheer up his dismal little office, candies for them to share as they count the stars together, the whole works! Candlelight dinner with an ocean view, warm summer wind caressing the scene, hands held oh so tenderly as they stare into one another's eyes with adoration. Whispered confessions of love and- No! No he's not getting caught up in some flight of fancy today, too much to do, busy busy busy! Is it honestly too much to ask for a little bit of romance though? But Yvonril just smirks, basking in the golden sunlight, looking like a flickering flame. Those golden eyes roam over the dim interior of the tent and settle on the mage who turns to take stock of his supplies, trying to ignore the attention. But he just keeps staring as if he can see those tender thoughts written plain as words on paper, drinking them up like a fine wine. Myrimae scowls. Who is he to think that he could possibly know that he thinks of kissing him under the moonlight, that he dreams of dancing with him under the stars? Perhaps the person who managed to worm his way into his heart, even if he is utterly without what he's looking for in a lover but, alas, he will have to address the situation eventually.
"Are you just going to stand there like a imbecile or are you coming in? Stay there long enough and you'll be answering to Aeth or the general." His tone is snappish but if he were truly angry he'd of sent Yvon away by now and they both know it.
The soldier simply shrugs, dropping the flaps of the tent casting the scene into darkness, the gloom a welcome change, "Your brother despises me enough without him catching me in here and I'm fairly certain I can handle the general. I'll just report him to mother and she'll be here in no time to scold him for being mean to his little baby brother."
" Please don't antagonise either of them today, Aetherian's already been fretting over me again and I've seen the general angry, I'd rather dance nude in a pit full of angry mudcrabs than get on his bad side." He shudders at the thought, got enough trauma on his plate to manage without adding getting nipped onto the list.
"Can I pay to see that? I'd pay to see that… well at least you're joking with me now, that's a good sign at least?" And there's that hopeful tone again and the watery pleading eyes.
"I'm still angry with you."
Yvonril groans in displeasure, much like a child might when their mother has told them no for the umpteenth time, " Mae , tell me, what I can do to make this right? I've apologised, I cleaned up the mess, I fixed and replaced everything I broke and I am truly sorry. I know I shouldn't of done it in the first place and I should of remembered our meeting and I know I left you waiting in the snow for hours and I know I'm useless at this whole romance thing but I'm trying. I uh… when we reach the next settlement I'll treat you to something at the local tavern? I know Nord cooking isn't quite up to your level of fancy but…" He sighs in frustration, running a hand through coppery locks, "I really want to make us work."
"You always know how to convince me, don't you?"
"Is that a yes then?" And there's that cheeky smile again, lighting up those rugged features with the warmth of high summer.
Myrimae just sighs, "It's a yes, you can treat me to a sub par home cooked meal some poor tavern owner threw together but, and I'm saying this at the risk of sounding like a lovestruck fool right now, as long as you're with me I'll enjoy whatever it is we do."
"Oh be still my quaking heart!" Yvonril cries with dramatic flair, head tossed back and arm raised to his brow as if he's about to keel over like a frail maiden, "My dearest beloved does have a soft caramel centre after all, I was beginning to think that I'd have to kiss my way through that shell of yours."
It's too early, much too early, for a passionate tryst, and far too public, as if that ever stalled Yvonril's advances or deterred them both from plotting secret saccharine meetings under starlight once the sun went to it's rest neath the horizon, the darkness becoming an easy shroud to hide in. That is not to say that there have not been mornings they've tentatively spent tangled in bed, trying to keep everything hushed for fear of being caught in the act and heavens has that happened more than a few times. But here, surrounded by soldiers and robes alike, having been called halfway across the continent to the frozen peaks, is more daring and more troublesome than he believes he can deal with. Perhaps, if he were more foolishly brave he'd happily be a little adventurous. He is neither brave nor foolish and knows that even pondering on such a venture is a dangerous thing but he is is weak, and Yvonril is very convincing when he pleases, Myrimae can easily see himself giving in. The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying, sending his heart into a frantic flutter. What chaos would ensue if they were careless? How would they escape scrutiny since, after all, Yvonril is not the most stealthy of characters, clunking around in his armour and being a general nuisance. Well, there was that one time he had to clamber out of Myrimae's window when his dear mother had burst into his rooms in an excited flurry to announce her most beloved cherry tree had bloomed overnight and he just had to come see just how lovely it looked against the ponds in the light of dawn. He remembers the scene with fondness, memories tinted by pale humour, a small smile gracing his face when he looks back on how he dove to obstruct her view of the window trailing silken bedsheets behind him just so the redhead could make a speedy exit down the trellis and into the woodland. Poor mother would've dropped dead on the spot if she'd caught even a glimpse of them laid up together, basking in the warmth of late spring sunshine. Once again Mae reminds himself this is what he chose for himself, that this slowly flourishing love, despite what those close minded fools back home think of the matter, is something worth fighting for. Something worth his time and care, and he surely does have a lot of time on his hands now he's been forcefully retired from his previous line of work. Their people, overall, aren't quite fond of partnerships that cannot produce valuable offspring and Mae knows that's never going to happen between them, not if he lives for a thousand years. It's simply impossible , don't need to be a healer to know that, by the Eight you don't even need to be clever to know it. Yvonril seems oblivious to Myrimae's ponderings, simply making himself at home leaning against one of the supports, a look of boredom on his face like one may wear a crown as he inspects his gloves for dirt. They are so very lucky Aetherian is distracted with their travel preparations or this simple moment of nothing would become a moment of disaster very quickly. The soldier continues picking at a smear of mud, unconcerned.
"So…"
"So?"
Yvonril gestures with his head to the outside world, "What has the good lord been fretting over this time? You trip on your robe or something?"
"No. It was…" He sighs shaking his head, leaning back against the clunky wooden table one of the cats has been forced to drag up the side of the mountain, poor thing, "It was another nightmare."
"Hmm, I thought you looked like you didn't get much rest but I didn't want to say anything. You can be… difficult ." Before Mae can toss the closest item at him he quickly adds, "I mean I know it troubles you and I knew you were still annoyed with me so I decided not to bring it up and well, I saw Aeth leave and he always has that sort of expression on his face like-"
"Shh love, your rambling is rather unbecoming of such a finely bred mer such as yourself." Mae leaves his perch and gently wraps his arms around the rigid metal of Yvonril's armour in a light hug, his head resting on his lover's shoulder, "I understand that it's difficult for everyone to find where they stand with this whole ordeal, I struggle with it myself, but I don't want you to blame yourself for any of this. You're the last person I want to hurt."
A moment passes, the wind's distant howl and sounds of the camp the only sounds filling the tent until Yvonril lets out a weary sigh, his own arms pulling Myrimae as close as he can, moonstone and leather cold through the back of his robes, stinging like fire. An unanswered question lingers in the air but it gets brushed aside as if it needed to be voiced to begin with. Yvonril asks the question each time they speak, it's as familiar as his craft, and Myrimae always answers in the same manner, repeating it endlessly. It does not frustrate him as much as Aetherian's questions for his heart is open and tender, gently loved by the one who saved him from that chaos. Apparently, according to the healers, Yvonril had been one of the few to discover Myrimae in the aftermath, along with his brother and a few other select members of the Dominion, and had been the one to drag his limp bloodied form to the healers, kicking down their doors with the force of a gale. His wounds, Myrimae remembers his tutor saying, were the worst she'd ever seen and she was on the battlefield during the Great War. One whole big mess, Yvon had once called it. He takes no offence, he knows it troubles him more than he lets on. How many times has he caught him, head in hands, silent weeping shaking him to the core because, by the Divines, how could he possibly forget the sight of the one he loves bloodied and on the fringe of death? Many times. Too many times. Yvonril is strong so weeping like that? It makes him stronger, shows that he cares deeply, shows how much he loves and cherishes people he is close to, Myrimae admires him. But another question lingers, in fact, it's troubled the mage for quite some time, and he's not certain he wishes for it to be answered. How bad was I? My injuries, how terrible were they?
"Care to tell me more about this dream then? If you share the burden it'll feel all the lighter and I'll rest easier knowing that your shoulders no longer bear the full weight of it."
Myrimae sighs backing away from the embrace, running his hands through his already messy brown locks. He wants to know it all, doesn't he? Every scrap, every little fleeting thought that flickers in the gloom, dancing amongst the shards his mind has become. Picking apart the details can be difficult, especially when he doesn't know what's real and what is simply a figment of his trauma, manifesting in such a way that it exacerbates the already raw and weeping wound. He turns to his work, a line of blue potions sitting neatly on the table ready to be tossed into a satchel and strapped to the nearest beast of burden. An easy job. They've time to talk, at least for a short while, and he has time now to collect his jumbled thoughts, to pick them apart like tangled threads and examine them all, one by one. What is truth, what is dream, what hurts and what can he sweep to the side, easily ignored and forgotten. So in a small voice, he recounts the same terrible tale he tells each time he dreams, adding the necessary new embellishments to the ever growing nightmare. Like a beast feeding itself it swells, but it is always hungry and demands more and more sacrifices each time, spewing out a slew of vile visions. How much more will it consume before Myrimae finds himself but a husk, wandering through his day to day as a simple wisp of what he once was? He continues recalling his nightmare, faced away from his lover, eyes staring into the gloom but not truly seeing. The dismembered bodies are new, he thinks, they could have been bones last time, bleached hands reaching for the altar through the grime as if beseeching some unknown deity for mercy they did not receive but he's not overly sure, he doesn't dwell on such thoughts if he can help candles are new for sure though, last time it had been those glowing blue crystals found lighting the Ayleid ruins they'd seen throughout Cyrodiil, he doesn't know their name. Aetherian had handed him one, several weeks back, that a scout had plucked from a nearby ruin and he'd gazed in wonder at its beauty, marveled at its craft. Little did he know that soon that eerie blue glow would haunt his darkest hours. Last time the ringleader had been a wraith, this time it was his dead uncle. Once he'd seen his own face, staring down, cruel smile fitting oddly on his face yet looking right at home, as if someone had stripped away all his false personas and laid him bare, forcing him to see the cruel pitiful creature he was within.
It was simply trauma, from the accident of course, that was causing these nightmares. He's seen it himself in others, back when he was simply masquerading as a healer, and now that he's taken up the role officially he sees it all the time. Nightmares and trauma go hand in hand, those suffering reliving the moments that brought them to ruin, but just simple trauma doesn't make you cry yourself back to sleep the way he does. It can push you to crawl into your sister's bed, seeking her gentle voice to croon lullabies til' dawn colours the sky to the east but it does not destroy your relationship with her over a small disagreement, not does it tear your family apart in the way it has his. He had been helping rehabilitate soldiers from the Great War, had been speaking with them and letting them find in him a confidant. He's sat by many bedsides, listening to the soldiers recount what it'd been like out there on the battlefields, how the blood soaked the ground, how their friends, brothers and sisters in arms, laid cold at their feet. He never tells them he's been there too, only that he understands. It's probably best he can't remember his own trauma for living with the knowledge of it is a weight he can't imagine he can carry, alone or with help. His own recounting reaches its climax, Myrimae shudders as he remembers the all too real pain of that blade piercing though his very core, both white hot and cold as winter's breath all at once. He can feel it flickering, deep down in his soul for a moment, a soft sting rising up, hands shaking, voice breaking and then, all of a sudden, he's cut off, held close to a metal chest as his ragged breathing fills the morning air.
"Mae stop, stop. That's enough, please ."
And he's shaking too. Head to toe, from the fingertips that rest on Myrimae's back to his quivering cheek pressed into brown hair. And he's crying, golden eyes closed, desperately clinging on to his strong demeanour that slowly slips from his grasp like sickly sweet honey. He'd been there, of course he had, silly little Myrimae, the healers had said as much. Flickering memories trickle through the clouds of panic and worry, like fat raindrops, each splash a word recalled from his nightmare. Burning hands holding him close, desperate pleas for help, everything felt so real, and by the Divines he's beginning to think it may just of been so. No. No it can't be real, he tells himself, clinging on tighter, curling into the embrace, there's just no way. It was an accident, a foolish mistake that's dragged him into even more trouble. It was Yvonril who cradled his dying body in the aftermath of it all, kissing away bloodied tears, whispering broken prayers. He was the one who screamed, who begged for his salvation in that nightmare, that darkness even trying to sour their love. Of course he wasn't going to take this whole thing well, of course he'd suffer as well, how naive he has been to think otherwise. What if, gods forbid, what if Yvonril suffered with terrible nightmares too? The soldier always puts up a strong front, trying to protect everyone because it's his job never speaking about what goes on up there, just gentle and encouraging Myrimae to speak his mind, as if his pains are somehow more profound and worthy of note . It's his duty to fight, to be strong, to never waver but soldiers feel too, people scarce think of that, scarce think that they're little more than metal and a sword. But Myrimae knows, his arms hugging him back, as tightly as he possibly can, clinging on like he's lost at sea, tossed around by a raging tempest. Yvonril always tries to be strong for him, tries to make him feel better, well that just won't do! Myrimae is a healer, and it's his job to wipe away the hurt.
"It's over now, it's done. Whatever happened, happened, we can't change the past, we can't stop it. All we can do is go forward and try to heal." Gentle, encouraging, his 'healer's voice' as some have taken to calling it, so used to hearing him croon at the ailing.
"It's getting worse ." The reply is muffled, spoken into his hair rather than to his face, Myrimae simply sighs, he can't deny the truth.
"Often, and yes I have observed this myself, often things do get worse before true healing can take place. Perhaps I will spiral down to rock bottom and must find my way back up. Bones often must be broken again to heal properly. The road to recovery is an uphill battle in the rain, with no shoes on in the middle of winter and it's muddy. It's hard, you'll fall more than once but do you lay there, in the dirt, in the cold, in the storm? Or do you drag yourself back up and keep going, knowing that you're going to have to do that countless times?" A deep breath, and he pulls away, looking at a still teary eyed Yvonril who, for the most part, is trying to compose himself, "I am willing to fall, willing to slip and perhaps even slide all the way back to the beginning of my climb. Maybe I'll end laid up again, wrapped in bedsheets like an ailing elder but I know that in the end it'll be worth it. I'm just sorry you have to suffer too."
Silence. Then all of a sudden, Yvonril begins to laugh, staring as a small chuckle but quickly dissolving into breathless wheezing.
"You always know the exact right thing to say." His words barely make it from his mouth before he breaks down into another fit of laughter, "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm howling like a drunkard."
"You are a drunkard."
"By the Eight I love you."
Myrimae rolls his eyes, "Yvon I'm beginning to worry for you you know…"
Hand cup the healer's cheeks, his vision filled with a Cheshire grin, the sudden swap from sullen to joyous like a slap in the face. Erratic mood changes are just a part of Yvon's charm he supposes.
" I love you ."
"I know, I know."
"I love you, I love you, I love you, I-"
"You're not going to stop until I say it back, are you?"
A shake of the head, "Nope, and I can keep at it all day!"
Myrimae smiles, his lover's mirth infectious, "Very well, sir Voriel, I love you too."
And for a moment, he gives up on worry, for it is meaningless. He lets his fears, his doubts and all the pain that lingers melt away as dawn spills over the horizon, bleeding across the sky like a slit throat. For a moment, everything is right in the world, for a moment they can live in ignorance of the horrors that wait in the shadows. Like children they cling onto innocence despite throwing it to the wolves years ago and decide to thrive without.