It is never silent, in the temple. The Blades sleep in shifts. Someone is always awake, always clanging swords, always polishing armor, always talking.
Always laughing. And then they see him, and then they stop.
Martin finds her outside, sitting on the wall, staring southwest. He’s never been very good at his cardinal directions, but both of them have remagnetized their internal compasses as of late. He always knows, now, somehow, in which direction it used to lay.
“I keep thinking it has to end, at some point,” she says without turning around. Her hands tremble in her lap. She has not stopped shaking since she came back at dawn from the latest gate. The starlight glints, deceptively gentle, off the metal shoulders of her ill-fitting, ill-gotten armor.
“One would think. At some point.” He sits beside her.
“When you are emperor,” she begins; he cringes, and she tightens her hands into fists, clutching the dirty white fabric of Kvatch. “When you are emperor, Brother Martin. You can't rebuild it.”
He stares at the horizon, eyes fixed on the same point that hers, inevitably, are as well. “I think,” he says with forced lightness, “when I am emperor, I will be able to do—whatever I want. Is that not the prerogative of the emperor?”
“No,” she says, so vehemently it startles him. “You can’t. It won’t—be the same.”
“Of course not.” He imagines he can see lights, lamplight in windows. (He can’t; even if there were windows left in Kvatch to hold lamplight, the distance is too great.) “But it will be something.”
“Name it something else.” Her voice has gone dull and flat again. Her hands have not stopped shaking.
Martin closes his eyes briefly, the memory of daedric fire lighting the backs of his eyelids. “Alright. Tell me, then, this new city with the bones of Kvatch. What shall we name it?”
She’s silent for a moment, and he thinks—it’s a stupid game, anyway, but then she says, “They’ll name it after you, of course. Martinium.”
He laughs without intending to, then rubs at his jaw, embarrassed. “I certainly hope not,” he says ruefully. “Perhaps we’ll name it after you. The city of Cadoret.”
For half a second he thinks she might laugh too. But she just shakes her head. “No, that would make too many capitals that start with C. Chorrol and Cheydinhal already outnumber most of the other letters. Bruma and Bravil. There is a dearth of M’s, though.”
“Very well, it will start with M. For Molly,” he says. “Not for Martin. I’ll have enough for myself by then.”
“You’ll rename the Imperial City, then, and that will be Martinium.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good name for a city.”
“Execute me for my poor taste when you’re emperor, then,” she says with a wry little smile. “Marton, with an O instead of an I.”
“Too similar. No one will ever be able to say my name without clarifying if they mean the person or the place. And I’m not sure it’s very tasteful to name a city after oneself, without even the pretense of altering it for some distinction.”
Her smile isn’t as taut. He considers this a success. “What will you call it, then?”
Pause. “If all I need is the M,” he says, feigning deep thought, “then, obviously, the perfect name would be the Mimperial City.”
She tears her gaze from the horizon to stare at him, aghast, just long enough for him to begin to be nervous, and then laughter, bubbling like a blister, runs her eternal tremor up her arms to her shoulders, tears in her eyes. She laughs, and she laughs, and then his own laughter dies in his throat as she lunges for the side of the wall and vomits over it into the bright snowy night below. “I hate it very much,” she gasps out at last, shaking worse than before. “I think the Elder Council will depose you for it.”
“Then it’s perfect.” He gets awkwardly to his feet, offering a hand. “You should come inside. It’s late.”
She looks at him, with her dark hollow eyes, ever bruised with too little sleep, and stands wobblingly on her own accord. “Brother Martin, Emperor Septim, priest and chosen of Akatosh,” she says, not unkindly, “it will always be late, I think. Your Blades will have found the next place to send me by the time we get inside.”
He smiles, feeling just as tired as she looks. “Molly Cadoret, hero of Kvatch, my friend. There are no barbers in the Blades.” He dips his head. “I hope,” he begins, then stops. Tries again. “I hope… I hope that, whatever else happens, when this has finished, you will be there to cut my hair.”
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tag game tag game tag game
tagged by @feelinglikecleopatra and it's been a MINUTE since I did one of these! Thanks 😘
3 ships: Everlark and Kanej are, now and always, close to my heart. Haven't devoted much energy to Reaperstang recently but they are also always there.
first ship: probably Everlark? I have no memory. Although I watched The Princess Diaries recently and was reminded that Queen Clarise and Joe are my entire generation's ACTUAL first ship...
last song: A Little Honey by Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats (a summer JAM)
last film: DIRTY DANCING because one of my housemates hadn't seen it. The sexiest movie ever imo
currently reading: officially I'm still reading Anna Karenina, but I've been on hiatus for a couple weeks.
currently watching: the motherfucking Toronto Maple Leafs games that's what. And an episode of The Office or Community between periods. Also rewatching Supernatural with my housemate
currently craving: Arizona Green Tea, perpetually.
~~~
Thanks for the tag Cleo! I'm tagging @im-doing-hot-girl-shit, @rosegardeninwinter, @the-sun-and-the-sea, @totchipanda, and @cameliawrites.
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