Minutes till dusk
He always hated parties, preferring the quiet of his study to the racket that usually comes with gatherings planned by Nords, and, he shuddered, Orcs. Not that he had anything against Grulmar and Serana, but he knew the races, it would be loud and Nelecar wasn’t a particular fan of loud.
But it was for Ronnie, so brave the loudness he would. And brave the cold. Seemed no matter what, no matter how long he had been in Skyrim, he would always be cold. He drew his cloak over his thin shoulders, a compulsory action.
Therefore, he did today what he usually did best at parties, find a quiet corner and sit, studying his surroundings and usually, mentally complain about them while he drank whatever they offered that he could tolerate. Fortunately, Ronnie planned the outside of his ‘stead well, there were ample places, many secluded corners to sit and just watch the world go by, and the views of said world were... breathtaking. Whiterun, the tundra, the mountains that bordered Whiterun and the Pale. All bathed now in the throes of a glorious sunset. It seemed to burn the sky with its colors, washing everything in its path and Nelecar caught himself flinching at the flashing memories of a certain burning sky that churned to the surface. The sky isn’t burning, Nelecar, they are not coming back, enjoy these warm tones for the beauty that they possess. Dagon does not own red and orange.
Nelecar took another sip of wine. Ronnie didn’t drink, but as was typical of Ronnie’s generosity, he always kept bottles for his friends that did. It was a decent vintage of Alto wine, more than likely procured by Guildmaster Nerussa as a gift, to stock the Mer’s cellar when she would come calling. He imagined Ronnie’s cellar was a virtual store of drink for his friends. It was a hallmark of Dusken hospitality.
You can take the Mer from Dusk, but you can never really take Dusk from the Mer, he thought, letting a small, knowing smirk find his features as he favored his wine. It had always been a more open city compared to other cities of Alinor, more accepting. Well, at least that was the way it was before.
He then surveyed his current surroundings. It was a humble ‘stead, not much to look at really, built in the typical Nord fashion with a large wooden deck and pathway in various stages of maintenance, a stable for his monster of a horse, a pen for goats, and three apiaries. Beekeeping, just like your Lenya used to, eh Ronnie? A little along the path was an abandoned mine that was converted to a guest home. To Nelecar, it actually looked more secure than the main house, more warm, more comfortable. And yet again, in typical Ronnie generosity, it was where his servant, a young lady, Farkas, and their baby, lived.
What struck Nelecar the most though, and what led him to his thoughts was the garden. All Altmer are avid gardeners, at least Nelecar had not yet met an Altmer that broke this established rule and if there was anything that pointed beyond Ronnie’s pale skin, beyond the strangeness that was him to his true Altmerness, it was this garden. It shamed a Nord garden for the sheer number of plants the old Mer had managed to cram into such a tiny space. And it shamed the Lustratorium of the College with its life. It seemed like every flower in Skyrim--Nelecar drew in a breath in surprise, even some from Cyrodiil, no matter how humble, how lowly, had its place in that garden. The collection of flora resulted in such a kaleidoscope of color that was almost as if Ronnie was trying to recapture in Skyrim the very hues of Alinor. The hues of the Tower’s Heart, Transparent Law, passing through crystal, Nelcar mused. That was it. The old Mer remembered the lights, the colors and while the humans would never know its grace upon the world, he’d know and that was enough for Ronnie.
The garden was in the fullness of Spring’s fertile embrace and its colors and scents assailed Nelecar’s senses through the waning light of the sun. Reds, golds, purples, blues, pinks, all colors nestled in a blanket of multitude shades of green vigor. Ripening strawberries, small, contained brambles of blackberries literally bursting with flowers, vowing in earnest to yield a their tart black-red berries when Summer came. He blinked, savoring it all like it was the best of Shimmerene wines. He had known the bleak white of Winterhold for so long, that color was fascinating to him, almost making him sick to his stomach whenever he would visit his homeland. This garden didn't make him sick, though, it was just...beautiful.
He let his eyes wander to the center of the garden, where grew, despite the established laws of Nature and the reality of Skyrim’s cold a sapling grape vine tree. It was strong and young, releasing its distinctive, spiced fragrance in heavy clusters of golden-yellow blossoms. The center of the garden and its heart. Nelecar let the smirk become a bittersweet smile, for now he knew the secret of Lucky Moons Mead, a mead he actually liked, watching the bees hungrily gather nectar from the young tree. Top that, Jarl Black-Briar!
The Garden’s Heart, a gift from Queen Calianwe Laurennayne, the High Kinlady. A late birthday present from over two years back, grown from his own Lenya’s tree at the grotto by the sea. Her tomb. A gift given when the Queen learned that the old Knight still lived and she stopped wearing mourner’s black. Nelecar then became their trusted messenger, and later on that Rain’s Hand, he gave Ronnie her message from Alinor, told him of the King’s tragic death, and then gave the tiny package that contained the seed. For his birthday. It was a simple seed, not the cloak, ring, and title Nelecar expected her to give, but Ronnie was not attached to such things. The seed, a simple gift that made those tired eyes mist with Memory’s tears, made him smile to the south and whisper ‘ah, dearest Anwe’. A seed of hope, of renewal, of possible rebuilding? Nelecar shrugged. Only Altmer get bent out of shape for seeds and flowers and add hidden meanings, symbols and whatnot to them. She was telling him something with that seed. Whether Ronnie understood her hidden meaning or not, it didn’t matter. The old knight, immediately planted the seed. And it was growing. In more ways than Ronnie could ever possibly imagine. Nelecar’s eyes found the other party guests laughing over a roasting boar. Humans did not understand such things.
Now he bore another gift from the great Lady. How radiant she had looked in his last visit, every bit of her ancient gold. Like Summer’s sun’s full and graceful rays. She was happier than he had ever seen her since her husband’s death. Happy how one is happy when there is great purpose in their lives. It was said that lately she delved deeper into her charitable works, upholding the traditions of her Order despite its dissolution.
And the gift? It was a gift so special that Nelecar nearly went mad from his desire to protect its fragility as he journeyed back from Alinor, admiring it as he held it in the cracks of moonlight that sliced through the darkness of the ship’s hold, watching the luminous crystal sphere shine. Hours it took too unlock it from its box and hours to lock it back up again, but it was worth it. To see it again. He had believed it lost. All who truly knew what Ronnie had gone through in his one hundred years of exile had thought it lost. It was what was always done to them. It was supposed to have been shattered. Nelecar’s own was stored in the Bureau of Praxis Regulations in Alinor, in a tiny box, in a vault, sealed, catalogued, and held, along with thousands of others. The Sphere House, they used to call it as a joke. Stacks and stacks of spheres, reaching as high as the vault’s ceilings, with only a small corridor for one to walk through to search for them when the time came... It was the law. Traded in for travel rights, for privilege in Alinor and outside of Alinor, an official letter of credit letting all Thalmor patrols know that they were counted among the accepted. Until they did something that was, well, unacceptable. His thoughts turned to Faralda and he then understood why she had wept bitterly upon receiving an official letter from home, why she had shut herself in her quarters for days, not eating, not drinking. It took the Dunmer Athis to get her to come out again and she was finally better.
Nelecar let breath escape his lips. For her involvement in the death of Ancano. She was not even allowed to make a case for herself to explain that what Ancano was doing was harmful for all of Tamriel really. It had simply been withdrawn from the vault and destroyed and she was now what she was. Nelecar thanked Auri-El that he had not received such a notice, but he had distanced himself from the affair. Lucky that you were not affiliated with the college then, aren’t you, Lecar? He was hired later, to assist Fallion who had replaced Phinis Gestor.
And Ronnie’s was supposed to have been shattered long ago. .
Only it wasn’t. It was whole, smooth, and utterly perfect, not a hint of repair, but pristine and Nelecar didn’t know what to think on that. It seemed that the great Kinlady apparently had one more secret. That she had kept it safe all these years. How she got it, she did not reveal, only that he was to see it safely to Ronnie. Her final message.
“It begins...”
Begins? What begins? Nelecar had no idea what she meant. What is beginning? What is to be done that Ronnie already hasn’t? Be flexible, be willing to move? Adaptable? The Kinlady certainly didn’t need to tell Ronnie that. He was already like a reed in the wind, bending, not breaking, whistling his songs as the air passed. He was sorely tempted to take it out again, to see how Skyrim’s sunset would render its beauty. Nelecar dug his fingernails into the flesh of his leg, squared his jaw and restrained himself. He had already disrespected the old Knight enough by touching it in the ship, but he couldn’t resist then. There was just something about it that was so strangely different from all the others he had seen and known in his life, maddening him like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, the difference eluding him. Probably getting that feeling because it’s Ronnie’s and you thought it was destroyed. He swallowed hard, blinking away the wetness of frustration that had gathered about his eyes. What did it mean?
So while they loudly gathered, drank, prepared food, chatted, betted on the arrival of an argonian, and laughed - damn your elven ears, Nelecar sat, watching bees upon a golden tree, lost in his thoughts, his visit here more than just a mere visit to send someone off to their possible death. At least, he wasn’t bearing a box of Larethian armor this time. A part of him was extremely relieved at that. It would have felt so utterly wrong. She knew now what Ronnie was, knew the great burden upon him. To have seen that armor being asked to be worn again would have been wrong.
A sudden flash of purple light made Nelecar look up. Another guest had arrived, brave enough to use the scrolls, it seemed. A tall figure, from the looks of it. Well, two figures actually. The first was the largest Eton Nir Mountain dog he had ever seen. It was practically prancing around his master, the shaggy black and tan fur shuddering under the bulk of the mastiff’s moves. Nelecar’s eyes found the dog’s master and he let himself smile.
By Xarxes the Mer had gained weight! Nelecar rose from his seat, his mouth hitting the floor. It couldn’t be! It has been what? Over a hundred years? Not since early 4th Era, when the Mer’s family was forced to leave the Isles with the fleeing Empire. When Summerset became Alinor. That’s how long it has been, old Nelecar.
At least they had escaped. At least they were spared the tragedy of Dusk.
The large mer was looking around the ‘stead, almost warily, his freshly buffed Imperial armor catching the sunset. The metal cuirass betrayed a bulging belly, no doubt refitted multiple times for his expanding girth. The legs were always like bloody tree trunks and were bare in the fashion of the Imperial uniform. Over one broad shoulder was slung a makeshift pack. Did he intend to stay a few days? Carried in the other arm, was - Nelecar’s eyes widened and then an eyebrow shot up - a puppy. An Eton Nir puppy held fast, its still blue eyes half-closed with sleep, its limbs dangling from the robust mer’s arm. A comely black and tan, just like the bear of a dog that was at the Mer’s side. Duskens and their gifts.
At Nelecar’s movement, the Mer’s head whipped in his direction, almost unison with his dog. And Nelecar saw it under the Imperial helmet, the hawk nose that was like a bloody stamp in that family. Dusk was in that Mer’s face. Nelecar’s smile grew.
“Old friend.” He said with a nod.
“Old friend.” Came the response, the voice merry just like he had remembered it from the family’s large parties.
“Been what?” Nelecar asked, walking up to the puppy and he caught himself chuckling at the silliness. He wanted to well, pet it…bah, but it smelled like urine! “For Ronnie?” He asked, throwing away his previous question as he wrinkled his nose.
“Over a hundred years, but I’m shit with arithmetic.” The Dusken answered with a half-smile. “Yes, for Ronnie. Go ahead, Lecar.” The half-smile turned into a playful chortle, his pale orange eyes dancing with mischief. How he looked like Ronnie’s father just then, it’s uncanny! “Touch her, if you want to smell like me. The wee bitch pissed all over my cuirass when I used the bloody scroll.” The Legate looked down at the now dozing animal. The perfect picture of innocent contentment. “She doesn’t give a shit, as you can see, but now I’m sporting one Oblivion of a perfume for this party.”
Both Mer released full-blown laughs. “Oh he won’t care, Sendil.” Nelecar offered, wiping the tears from his eyes, and giving the puppy a pat on the head as a reward for its ‘good behavior’. Disturbed, it woke and let out a yawned squeal and both mer heard a familiar snort followed by a unnirnly sqeak coming from near the ‘stead. Nelecar cleared his throat. “She won’t be the only pet in this house.”
The Dusken grinned naughtily. “I know.” They then clasped hands, the Dusken family’s preferred way of greeting, and Nelecar welcomed it, though he knew the old Legionnaire would leave bruises in his wake.
A flurry of black and white fur burst from nearby followed by a flurry of blue. The flurry of blue then abruptly tripped, but picked itself back up again and continued its manic run, arms flailing in apparent glee.
“BEEEEEG PUPPPPEEEE!” The little blue flurry squealed, making the large mastiff snort and wag its tail in excitement. The Legionnaire gave the animal a pat on the head. “Go on, Olaf, I know you’re dying to say hello.” They watched the mastiff bolt off to greet Ronnie’s husky and the small blue flurry. “What the Oblivion is that?” Fasendil asked, pointing to the blue creature. “Gobliken?”
“No, not quite, well, yes, in a way.” Nelecar began. “They are called Rieklings and hail from Solstheim.”
“You don’t say? And it speaks?”
“PUPPPPEEEE!” The Riekling screeched again when the mastiff head-butted him, knocking the Riekling flat on his arse. The Riekling then crawled on the large dog’s back and raised his fist in what seemed to be a battle cry to Nelecar. “AAAAAHHHIIIII! HOOOJARAKWAFALA!” Ronnie’s dog, Koor, howled in response and the mastiff barked loudly.
“At a limited capacity, but yes.”
“Sounds like gibberish, or me on too much mead, to me. What a funny little bugger.” Fasendil chuckled, narrowing his pale orange eyes as they watched the three play. The little beastie was using the mastiff as a horse and they were chasing Ronnie’s dog around the ‘stead, raising Oblivion with their noise. He nodded. “Well, it likes dogs, so can’t be a bad sort. Ha! Look at them play! Olaf likes him already and he’s a good judge of character.”
“Olaf?” Nelecar rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t tell me Olaf the--”
“Verily, the Dog. Aye, that’s right.” The Legate nodded with pride. “And Ysgramor is still kicking.” Fasendil made a sour face and rubbed his backside with his free hand. “Literally, still kicking, stubborn horse.”
It was good to laugh again. The Duskens of Ronnie’s clan never ceased to make him laugh with their candor. “The Companions will never leave your family. I remember every damn pet is named after the five hundred. I just can’t believe Nords had those names.”
“Atmoran. Olaf the Dog was Atmoran.” The Dusken corrected, giving Nelecar a wink. “There’s a difference. Ha! Should have you talk to Ronnie. ‘Scamp’s blood! The stories he knows now. He’s Harbinger, you know.” The Legionnaire was verily puffing up with pride now. “Just like Ol’ Henantier.”
“Prepare yourself.” Nelecar suddenly said. The Altmeri small talk was now over.
Fasendil deflated. “What? Why?”
“I’ve been told he’s lost a lot of weight.” He hated doing it, but the Legate needed to know. “I just wanted to prepare you that he may not look as we remember him. A lot has happened. He has also given the title to, I believe, Vilkas.”
“What?” Fasendil blustered. “That boy? I mean, from what Ronnie’s told me about him, he’s a good warrior and all, but Ronnie is Harbinger. He will always be.”
“Things change, Fasendil. He’s only being prepared.” Nelecar raised his eyebrows to drive his next point. “Like any Altmer would be. Thinking ahead, considering the future, instead of basking in his own glory.” That sobered Fasendil and the large Altmer was silent for a few moments.
“It’s a heavy burden he bears.” The Legate replied and Nelecar saw him straighten his own back. “But he’ll bear it with grace. It’s the way of our family.”
“I know it’s the Dusken way.” Nelecar let out a sigh. “I am glad you’re here. I think he needs family and personally, I am due for you two to beat the Northern airs out of me again.” He chuckled, but he knew he had destroyed Fasendil’s prior good humor.
“If I could follow him to Sovngarde, Lecar, I would, bearing a Legion of soldiers, to come to his aid. If I could summon the ghosts of Atmora and the spirit of Henantier to fight by his side, I would. I have prayed to Henantier, Lecar, lit candles, performed rites I haven’t touched in bloody years, since Red Ring, hoping that Ronnie would be given his strength.” The Legate shrugged and Nelecar saw the corners of the Legate’s eyes begin to mist. “But I can’t. I can’t fight this one for him. Sure, I can fight the nasty fuckers, have done so with my men and the men of my enemies, so I know what it entails, but for Alduin? He’s on his own and the Dusken in me hates it. The mer that has already seen him sacrifice too, too much so that you and I could live, hates it.” Sendil looked down and kicked at a rock, unconsciously rubbing the puppy still in his arms, like he was debating something, like something wanted to bubble to the surface. “We’ve heard rumors, Lecar.” The Legate spoke finally, quietly.
“About Ronnie?” Nelecar ventured. “The Legion? The Thalmor?”
The Legate nodded slowly.
“Well, we both know who he has killed among Thalmor ranks - good riddance, and we know at least some of what happened at the Summit. I would imagine Ronnie remains a person of intense interest, among multiple parties now. He gave us this truce, so all eyes are on him now. Has the General said anything specific?”
Nelecar noticed the Legate clench his jaw. “You know I can’t divulge that to you, Lecar.”
“Then there has been talk.”
“Have you been to Summerset lately?” Fasendil pressed.
“No.”
The Legate gave him a sidelong glance. “And you still stink at lying.”
“Oh, Fasendil.” Nelecar started and then let out a great sigh.
“Well, that’s got over two hundred years in it, doesn’t it?” The Legate smirked. “I’m starting to sound like that too when I sigh.”
“Decades don’t make much difference when you are past two hundred, Sendil. You know me well, don’t you, even after all these years?” Nelecar set down his wine, moved towards the Legate and picked up the puppy. “Here, give her to me, so you can remove your helm and then change your clothes. We’re at a party. He’ll want to see his cousin, not armor.”
“You’ll smell like piss.” Fasendil warned.
“I don’t care.” Nelecar replied, taking the animal. “Besides, we’ll match the Nords and the Orcs here.”
“Ha, aye, you’re due for a beatin’ that’s for sure, Lecar. We Duskens always smell great.” He then grew thoughtful and his eyes found Nelecar’s. “So you’ve been to Summerset…” The Legate let the statement stew while he removed his helm, revealing his weathered, battle-hardened face that was attempting to grow a beard, and sweat-damp blond hair. It was finally greying around the temples and had the more typical coarseness from Ronnie’s father’s side whereas Ronnie’s hair came from his mother’s side. The Imperial Legate tilted his head to the side and both mer locked eyes, Fasendil studying Nelecar’s face carefully. After a moment, he let out a gust of air, understanding. “Auri-El’s Bow. You do have news.”
“Yes, well sort of.” Nelecar replied, facing the sunset as he held the animal. “I still can’t make sense of it, so if you think it’s going to somehow turn into a profound advantage for the General, prepare for disappointment. It isn’t that way.”
Sendil grunted and Nelecar’s eyes scanned the horizon. Both Mer were lost by the beauty of it for a few moments. Nelecar brought the puppy’s head closer to his. “You are a very lucky puppy.” He murmured into its ear. “Did you see that black and white dog? That’s your new brother, because the Mer you’re intended for will adore you like a child. Dote on you and we’ll all call you Snowber--”
“Ah shit!”
A Nord’s voice.
“What?”
“He didn’t use the scroll! Shit!”
“HA! Pay up, Vilkas!”
“He’s damp as a dog, ha!”
“You need to pay too, Farkas.”
“Ah damn.”
“Of course he would swim, he is Saxhleel like us!”
“We didn’t swim.”
“That’s because I like magic, my sweet.”
Fasendil and Nelecar looked at each other, puzzled. “What is this all about?” The Legate asked.
Nelecar shrugged, still holding the puppy, not minding that it had taken to chewing on his slender fingers. “Something about some Argonian, a Goldpact Knight. They were betting on the method he’d use to get here. He received scrolls like the rest of us, but some are not as inclined to magic.”
“Oh Teinappa! I know of him.” Fasendil shook his head and kicked the dirt again with his boot. “Damn, an hour earlier and I would have been rich.”
Sure enough, they turned and saw a dark-scaled Argonian too, and ‘as damp as a dog’ was an understatement. The Argonian literally looked as if he dragged himself out of the river, his bare feet covered with mud and dust as he walked towards the homestead.
The Argonian looked around, just as the money was passed to a red-haired Nord who went by Erik Talon-Hand. The Argonian clicked with his tongue, shaking his head. “Xuth. Should have used the scroll…”
After Dusk
“You sure it’ll work my Thane?” Honthjolf asked.
Äelberon paused from his walking and turned to the lad. He shrugged, picking a stray wood shaving from his woolen shirt while he spoke and tossed it to the ground. He would need a bath, too much sawdust and metal. “I am not even sure. First there is the matter of asking Durnehviir if he would be willing to consent to the test. It involves a fair amount of humiliation and humiliation is something the Dov do not readily take to.”
The Whiterun guard let out a gust of air and Äelberon took it as a cue to continue onwards to the ‘stead, still brushing off errant saw dust. The forge soot would need to be washed off. He felt like changing, taking a warm bath and curling up to a good book and a hot tea in his favorite chair, but that was not going to happen. There was still work to do. It was just after dusk and he wanted to arrive before the night had completely enveloped the tundra. His head went upwards and his eyes found the stars as they walked. Bright and many, the moons shining. It was a lovely night, but he found himself chewing the inside of his lip, thinking about what he was planning, running through the process in his brain over and over again.
A test of the trap.
To attempt to capture Odahviing on a mechanism that had not felt a dragon’s strength in eons was ludicrous, even if he had spent the better part of his time back in Whiterun on the construction of heavy chains and the repairs needed to get the trap functioning again. New wood, new metal. It was a test of his smithing and his engineering skills and he was grateful that Eorlund, Alvor, and Adrianne were again able to provide assistance. Even Farkas had proven invaluable, the lad noticing a mistake in his equations that could have ruined the whole process.
A mistake that would have cost him weeks and wasted valuable, limited resources. He was making mistakes, despite all the renewed discipline, all the training, he was still the stupid mer who barely survived the Western Watchtower.
“But a dragon, my thane.”
The words brought Äelberon out of his thoughts and he gave his full attention to Honthjolf. “We will have one soon enough, Honthjolf. At least Durnehviir will not try to kill us. If it means seeing an end to Alduin’s tyranny, I think old Durnehviir will endure a bit of a humiliation.” He stopped again and motioned the hold guard to stop walking, his eyes scanning the ‘stead.
“Hmm, there are too many lights.” He observed, his eyes narrowing. “Too many lights for this time of day.” Äelberon sniffed and frowned. “Smell that?”
“Shor’s hairy balls! Do I ever!” Honthjolf smiled, his warm brown eyes lighting up. “Someone’s cooking something good up there.”
Boar, he recognized the rich scent wafting down from the path, roasting, smoking with spices. His guess was that it was a pit roast and his weak stomach responded to the scent with a pitiful growl, like a long suffering animal. How long had he gone without eating? Since this morning? No, you only took coffee in the morning and then it was straight to Whiterun with you. Greir would have the vegetable broth ready in the evening.
Äelberon felt an uneasy feeling build in the pit of his stomach.
They didn’t.
“Shit.” He cursed aloud.
“My thane?” Honthjolf asked. “Are we not continuing?”
“What is this? Why are there too many lights and why is there boar roasting outside my ‘stead?”
“Uh, ah, maybe Greir wanted to cook outside?” Honthjolf offered.
Bullshit. He let a hard scowl cross his features and blew air through his flaring nostrils. “I told her specifically that I was on a strict diet. A proven Altmeri diet to cleanse the body of toxins, practiced by the temple priests of my ancient Order--”
“Yeah, if cleansing means not eatin’ and drowning yourself in coffee’.” Honthjolf retorted. “Honestly, with all due respect to your culture, my Thane, I’d much rather have boar.”
He faced the boy. “You knew?” Honthjolf averted his gaze, which gave Äelberon all the information he needed. “Who?” He pressed, pushing the Nord’s chest with his pointed finger, while he raised an accusatory eyebrow.
“Ah, my Thane, don’t be havin’ me rat them out.”
“Them? So more than one, eh?” Got you! See, you cannot escape my supreme attention to detail!
The boy was now floundering like a fish on a hook. “Ah come on, I can hear your stomach from here, my Thane. I think it wants boar, not that vegetable whatnot you’ve been swearin’ on since you got back from Solstheim.”
“It is much healthier.” Äelberon growled and he thought to turn around, to go back to Whiterun. Go the Bannered Mare, you can ask Hulda to prepare the proper diet. He knew what this was, a party. This was not a time for parties, it was a time to prepare. He had had his fill of parties lately. Jorrvaskr, Dragonsreach and he suffered through them, brooded through them. Hated what they meant. Stop your whining, damn stomach, you are not in the right here. You do not understand that the body needs to be in peak condition to face Alduin, the trap needs to be set, and you cannot be soft at a time like this, you cannot give in to base needs, not when your vengeance is so close at hand--
It was vengeance, his dragon soul pushing him beyond his limits to ensure victory. To ensure that Adluin would suffer the way Zahnirbildaar had suffered all those years ago. He had the tools from Miraak, the pieces on the chessboard were set, and he was finally in a position to put Alduin in his place once and for all.
Or he would die trying and it would all end. No, it was not a time for parties. His body would grow soft on such distractions and it was already too soft, too old, too feeble.
Äelberon felt Honthjolf’s hand on his shoulder and the young Nord leaned in closer. “But it doesn’t taste as good. And the great snow bear of the ice flats doesn’t just eat plants.” The boy smiled. “He eats everything!”
“I cannot afford to do this to my body, Honthjolf. I need to be in peak condition. Don’t you understand what I am up against? I will be at the Bannered Mare, give them my regards.” He turned and put one foot forward, or rather backward, heading towards Whiterun.
“Don’t you dare take a step towards Whiterun.”
“What did you say to me?” Äelberon whirled around to face Honthjolf, feeling the uneasy heat build on his face.
At first, the boy shrank from his glare, scratching at his full mustache, but then he matched Äelberon’s scowl and straightened to his full height, his jaw jutting in defiance. He eyed Äelberon and the change in the lad’s expression spoke volumes. “When we faced that dragon together at the Watchtower, when I heard you pray to Kyne, I was struck by how much you knew of my culture, of my people.” He pointed to the ‘stead. “That there, the roasting boar, the friends gathered, is my culture and you, my Thane, are going to respect it.”
It was not the argument Äelberon had expected from the Nord. He opened his mouth, but Honthjolf cut him off.
“You will have a Nord warrior’s send off and no less.. You will rest, we will tell stories, sing songs, feast and we will…” His features softened and he gave Äelberon’s shoulder a squeeze. “And we will forgive you your milk drinking, but you will do this. You are such a Nord in so many ways, my Thane, please, don’t be an Altmer tonight.”
“I have chores to do.” Äelberon pointed out. It was true. He wanted the bath, the quiet reading, but no, he had to prepare for Urag’s visit. “I am expecting someone, I had made plans.. This will disrupt everything.”
“Well, now you can do them with juicy boar in your mouth and your hands sticky from all the honey nut treats. Now, c’mon. Can’t let them have it all.”
He sighed. “Fine.” But I’m going to huff and puff the whole time! Though he was certain his stomach verily leapt with joy. Stupid stomach. Weak.
They started walking again, but Äelberon still disliked the notion. Celebrate when I am victorious, not before. The “custom”, as Honthjolf put it, did not make any sense to him. I bet the lad made it up.
“Smile.” The hold guard commanded as they approached the walkway to the ‘stead. “You look like there’s a pole up your arse.”
Äelberon flashed Honthjolf a smile that was more like a grimace. “How is this?” He uttered through gritted teeth.
A hand smacked the back of his braided head, making him rub it and give the boy an incredulous look, his eyes widening. Did you just smack the back of my head? “The pole is still there, my Thane, and don’t worry, you’ve a hard head.”
Their stares turned into chuckles. Äelberon shook his head, surrendering. For now. “It is the Jarl, isn’t?” He asked, shaking his finger like he had all the answers. “Balgruuf planned the whole thing.”
“Among others.” The Nord nodded, a grin playing on his features.
He shot Honthjolf another look. “Others?” They could now hear the voices of the crowd, their laughter, the smell of the roasting meat intensifying, the smell of damp Argonian, of Nord, Orc, and Mer. How many were there? He hung his head as he walked, kicking at pebbles like he was a youngling of five all over again and part of him wanted to bolt right back to Whiterun. Urag was coming later, with a bevy of artifacts, things he would need to select to take with him to Skuldafn, he needed to get the ‘stead ready. Now was not the time to stop. Were Sharrum and Bataz even fed? She was constantly begging for food after the kids. His mind kept wandering, all the checklists he had mentally constructed in his mind were being displayed, big lists being crumpled and tossed away, new ones made...
He and Honthjolf stopped at the entrance to the ‘stead and he just stared at all of them. They had set up tables on his porch, chairs. His chairs, his tables. The porch that was now going to need a sound re-sanding for all those boots scuffing it up. Lanterns were hung and sprigs of spring lavender and dragon’s tongue decorated several earthenware jugs. The sounds of Jon Battle-Born’s music and songs filtered towards him. Out of nowhere, Koor bolted towards him and greeted him merrily, his tail slapping hard against his thigh, his tongue wet upon his hand. He rubbed Koor's ears, out of reflex more than anything.
“Hello, Snowberry.” Honthjolf smiled, patting the dog’s neck.
He was almost to the point of being overwhelmed, to the point of choosing to close off completely and disappear into his ‘stead. Gathered around the large cooking spit were the Jarl, Irileth, Farkas, Vilkas, and Aela. Tilma and Greir were putting the final touches on a great boar, its browning skin crackling and dripping fat to the fire. His stomach was now begging for mercy as the heady smell of roasting meat assailed his nostrils. They were all staring at him, so he averted his gaze towards something else.
His work table! Bloody Oblivion! He had projects on that very table! Schematics! All arranged in the proper order of priority. What did they do with them? On the table now were bottles of wine, Cyrodiilic brandy, mead, ale! His entire store of alcohol it seemed to him. Behind the table were several kegs of Lucky Moons and also behind the table was that little green Orc, making tankards and bottles levitate towards the guests. He followed the path of one drink, Argonian Bloodwine. Wait! He had only a few bottles of the rare drink, procured at great expense through Nerussa and that was only for when she came call--his eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw the tankard grabbed by a slender Argonian hand with a laugh.
The bottle was for when Seif-ij ever decided to come calling. And there she was.
“Ha! You are clever, Grulmar, little Seif is enjoying your tricks.” Her bright orange eyes narrowed and her tongue flicked over her teeth. “Perhaps you and I can compare magicks later?” She took a sip of the liquid and flashed her teeth in a satisfied grin. “He doesn’t take a sip of the stuff, but he sure does know what us Saxheel like.” She turned to her lover, the Argonian he had met at Proudspire who was ogling her in her dress. The Colovian styled dress that his Ana had adored at when they stayed at Proudspire, only the flamboyant actress had cut the fabric away from the neckline, because well, it was Seif and she liked showing her breasts. He was going to buy the original dress for Ana. The woman usually hated dresses, but she had liked that one. Not the in the brighter shades that Seif was wearing, or with the now-plunging neckline, but in a beautiful deep plum with black fur trim, handmade lace, and deep red stones along the belt he had seen at Radiant Raiment when he returned to Solitude to speak with the General about the Summit at High Hrothgar. She was with him and she loved the dress. He remembered how the stones had matched her triskelion ring. She would have looked like a queen in it. His queen. His Lady.
He never bought it. The Summit happened. The attacks happened. Solstheim happened and Ana never once complained, her worn clothes perpetually covered in the dust of travel, of hardship. But vengeance was so close at hand.
“Try this, Derk.” Seif-ij laughed, interrupting his thoughts.
“Ha! Better finish that bottle before Tipsy decides to show up. That dragon sure likes to try new things,” Grulmar laughed.
Seif’s eyes widened. “He now drinks?”
The Orc shook his head. “Only the dragon.”
Their conversation died away to be replaced by another and Äelberon’s heart didn’t know whether to rise or sink at the sound of the next set of voices. It was a quieter corner of the party, near the garden against the backdrop of Bataz’s constant fretting. She desperately needed to be fed with her new kids, but his eyes focused on the trio. They were so tall next to her, even though one was sitting, it was almost comical. All the more comical that two Altmer were speaking with a Redguard. Tavia wasn’t wearing her Vigilant’s plate, but simple robes, looking almost as if she was an apprentice at Winterhold. Tavia was admiring the garden and old Lecar was busying himself, being an Altmer, explaining something, Äelberon could not make out the words. Probably Altmeri gardening techniques. Off to the side of the garden, cheekily helping himself to Äelberon’s first crop of strawberries, sitting on a stump and rolling his eyes at Nelecar was Fasendil. The bawdy Mer, relaxed and already swapping out his Legionnaire uniform for simple clothes - he always fancied green, was laughing as he chewed, with a pile of berry stems on his even bigger belly.
Even his family had come. Only you don’t feel like a party. He had so much to do before Urag arrived. Alduin was a shadow that loomed over his soul, a darkness and their revelry only served to compound the contrast. It was making it worse, serving as a harsh reminder of what he would lose if he failed.
“Come on, my Thane.” Honthjolf urged, bringing Äelberon out his melancholy. The crowd became silent upon hearing his title and all eyes found him.
They cheered robustly. Loud, lusty cries of “Hail the Dragonborn!” and “Here here!”, raising their tankards or glasses in the air. Tilma ran to him, of course, and hugged him. It was quickly followed by the greetings of his Shield-Siblings, like a pack of wolves welcoming their alpha after a successful hunt. He let the jokes of Farkas pass through his ears while they embraced him and ushered him towards the crowd, closer. He let them guide him, and they didn’t even notice that his feet were dragging the entire time.
Then came the Jarl, also in common clothes, no less, with a bow and he bowed back, going through the motions. The bows turned into a proper arm clasp, the Nord’s blue eyes primed with drink. It was followed by Irileth’s respectful nod. Jon’s hand, Honthjolf’s hand. Hands on his shoulders, on his forearm, pats of encouragement, squeezes of friendship. Touching, so much fucking touching. Teineeva’s blue eyes boring into him from one of the tables. Observing while the others touched. Even he had come.
I want to be alone, NAALEIN, his soul screamed, Zahnirbildaar’s voice strong in his mind. I want my lair, I want my solitary mountain cliffs. I yearn for the snow of the Jerrals under moonless skies.
Too many hands on him and he felt his heart rate increase, felt the sweat breakout on his body, his breath quicken as his anxiety escalated. Their smiles, their breath, full of drink and food. His stomach turned and his eyes began to scan, searching. They mistook it for surprise and laughed. So much laughter, so much noise. Bataz was bleating for food, dogs were barking, the Riekling was squealing.
Then Tavia hugged him, followed by Seif. Fasendil came next, still with strawberry stems sticking to his dark green shirt. He came and clasped his neck and Äelberon’s arms were filled with the soft form of an Eton Nir mountain dog, a young puppy, the faint smell of dog piss finding his nostrils. He heard the words “gift”, “when you return”, “she will be a handful” and he nodded to all those things. Nodded to the words of Nelecar. Nodded to the words of everyone, only he was not listening.
He wanted to fly away, but Alduin had stripped him of his wings long ago…
His eyes finally found what he was looking for.
Soothing cool like winter’s peace, she had not approached him yet, her star eyes were on him, studying his face. And her face, ivory against the ebony of night, of all the faces there, seemed to understand his pain because at first, she was smiling like the rest of them, but then her smile faded. She looked to him then how she looked all those years ago when she first came to him, the thunder storm in her wake, her weeping rains, the hawks above her head, her cloak of deep indigo blowing, lightning in her ebony hair. He felt his mouth drop in awe at the vision. She wore not her usual rose today, but indigo. She wore indigo…
And she was beauty eternal.
“He’s definitely surprised.”
“Ha! For once no words, eh Ronnie?”
A hard slap on his back made him lean forward slightly, breaking his gaze from her. The anxiety renewed.
“Aye, we got him good.”
Laughter.
“Let’s eat then!”
More cheers and Tilma started walking back to the spit, followed by Greir.
They wanted to eat, they wanted to move forward. Bataz’s incessant bleating grated on his ears. Did they not hear her? Bataz was now drowning them out, growing larger with each passing second. She turned black and ominous, her black scales highlighted with the embers of coal fire. Bataz reached for the grape vine blossom tree with her maw and crushed it. Fire then leapt from her mouth and coated everything in blaze. Their bodies were now singed with fire and smoke, the stench of death. And yet they still laughed. The earth became charred rubble, the mountainside carved charcoal. All the good and green of the world, destroyed. Desolation as far as the eye could see.
The future.
And yet they still laughed.
“Well, Ronnie? Let’s go eat!” Fasendil laughed, making to take the puppy from his arm. New life. It would die too. He let it go back into his cousin’s arms.
“He’s still speechless! We got him so good this time.” Roared Vilkas.
The world changed back, the life and scents of springtime returning. Äelberon blinked, his eyes lingering on his Ana before they again found the crowd. And he played his part, giving them what they wanted, he smiled.
“Thank you.” He spoke warmly, but his soul was somewhere else. Soaring the skies of Keizaal, while his body was being led towards the roasting boar.
“You deserve this, Brother.” Farkas spoke while they all walked.
No, I do not.
“Do you not hear Bataz?” He heard himself say.
“That old nanny?”
“Ronnie, don’t fret over a goat. She can wait.”
“I should be feeding the goats. She has had kids, she needs food.”
“It’s just a goat--”
“I NEED TO FEED THE GOATS!”
The laughter abruptly stopped at his angry outburst. All noise actually stopped and for a second, he wanted it to be that way forever. To savor the silence. But their faces would not allow it, so Äelberon took a deep breath, shook his head, and waved his hand in apology. “I am sorry, please. It has been a hard day.” He added a sheepish shrug for good measure, sealing his pain behind heavy doors. Impenetrable.
It was a performance that even fooled his little Seif. It fooled everyone, earning him nods of sympathy and words of understanding, more pats and squeezes, more laughter, more promises of a good time, the prior tension diffused. Save from two. Grulmar said nothing, only observing silently from behind the work table, no longer pouring drinks. And his Ana's star-eyes were certainly not fooled. They glared, like two points of fire boring into his skull, her jaw clenching, and he felt the heat creep to his face, knowing that she was angry he was deciding to close himself off. She would have preferred the anger. In that way, she was much like Decimus. Anger was something, it was something that they could then talk about together, ‘hash it out’ as the Imperial always said. But so long as the others did not see, he was satisfied, and the Dov could get through this wretched evening.
He rested a hand on Farkas’ shoulder. “Please, carry on and start, but Bataz’s bleating is bothering me and I should check on the kids. I would ask you to do it.” He flashed a broad smile. It only made her more angry. Aye, I’m closing off, woman, get used to it, your fault for not leaving me alone, but insisting on this. This is time for contemplation and prayer, not for pleasures. You will understand later. When I come back, that will be the time I hold you again. I yearn for it, gods know I do, but I know my duty. The Dragon is right, I trust his whispers in my ear, his guidance. Aye, he knew now it was the two of them that planned this whole thing. “But, do we really want me spending the whole night healing your arse after Bataz kicks you?”
The crowd laughed, knowing full well that it wasn’t the first time Bataz had demonstrated her love of the Nord by giving him a sound kick. “I won’t be long.”
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