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yansurnummu · 2 years

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A Variation of the Truth (3/?)

(1/2/3)

Auredil wasn’t always like this. He was a hero once, a good mer; but things don’t always go the way they should.

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After their last encounter, Lindir hasn’t seen Auredil in a few weeks. He tried not to let it get to him, he really did. But after the third week of no sign of him, he can’t help feeling like he’s being avoided. He sort of respects it, in a way; the mer can really stay out of sight when he wants to.

“You seen Auredil around?” he asks Fatima one night, down in the cistern.

“Not for a few days, no,” she answers, holding out her open palm when he approaches the bar. Lindir rolls his eyes.

“What’s the tab?”

“Eight gold,” she says and Lindir groans, digging through his pockets and placing the coins in her hand. “Ask Andarri at the docks. She’ll track him down if it’s urgent.”

“Ugh. Thanks, Fatima,” he gives her a nod, but still feels rather dejected as he turns to leave. He’d really rather not have to deal with Andarri.

“Oh, one more thing,” she stops him, and when he turns back she’s reaching for something under the bar. “I found a couple High Elves in town named Naemon, but none that fit the bill. However,” she pulls out a book, setting it on the bar. “I found something… wild.”

“History of the Aldmeri Dominion?” Lindir reads the title, giving her a skeptical look.

“Yeah, hear me out,” she chuckles, flipping through the pages before landing on a page filled in with a copy of a painted portrait. The painting appears to be a group of soldiers, in front of the wheel of a ship inlaid with an Aldmeri script. “So, these guys were a big deal, right? I mean, the Auridon Marines were like, super elite.”

Lindir reads the caption while she talks. 9th Squadron of the Royal Armada aboard the Grace of the Queen, 2E 582. Below that, there’s all the crew members’ names–

“Captain Auredil of Lillandril?” he says in quiet disbelief, and Fatima scoffs.

“I was getting to that!” she pouts at him. “Fine, just, look at him,” she points out the Captain in the portrait. He looks young, clean-shaven, long red hair pulled back away from his face. He’s lightly armoured in shades of gold, teal, and brown, his posture tall. It’s a bit of a stretch, but Lindir can almost see the resemblance.

“So, you think this is our Auredil? The guy who you’ve found sleeping under the docks with the rats? Who’s bar tab I keep picking up?” Lindir questions, his brow furrowed.

“Honestly, I dunno. But ain’t it just such a coincidence?” she argues, flipping the page to the next. “I only opened this book ‘cause I was revisiting the records about the Prince. The 9th Squadron was there the day he died, and according to this, their Captain just… vanished, a few days later,” she shrugs, shutting the book and sliding it towards Lindir. “And that’s kinda it. No more mention of him after that.” Lindir stares down the cover of the book for a moment, contemplating.

“What do you make of it?” he asks, fixing Fatima with a serious look. She sighs, shaking her head.

“Well, it’s a bit odd, honestly. These High Elf texts rarely paint anyone of authority in a negative light, so, to me, it seems… intentional? The way they’ve described his disappearance,” Fatima leans against the bar, her chin in her hands. “Like they tried to cover something up. My favourite example of this was Rilis XII,” she says tangentially, her tone becoming excited. “High Elves do this thing a lot where they say oh, yeah, he disappeared, died, whatever, when it turns out they were either into some really fucked up shit, or just didn’t live up to some ridiculous societal norm, and it’s always a lot of fun to dig up which it is.”

“Hm,” Lindir scratches his head, frowning. He barely even understands the politics of where he came from, let alone of a place he’d never been. It all seems very pointless and convoluted to him.

“Look, I know the look of someone drowning their sorrows in liquor; I’ve known that about him since the beginning,” she leans forward, her voice taking on a softer tone. “Lots of folks lost things in the war, we both know this. Your parents, my wife. Shit, even Andarri lost her eye on the front lines.”

Fatima takes a breath, frowning. “I don’t think it matters what they might’ve covered up. You can’t judge people based on where they came from, or where they’ve been. You have to meet them where they are now.” Lindir thinks on this for a moment, nodding.

“That’s… actually very insightful.” he comments, earning a shove to his shoulder. “No, really!” he laughs, and Fatima shakes her head, going back to tidying up the bar.

“You can take that with you, but it’s a loaner,” she nods her head towards the book.

“Thanks,” he tucks it under his arm, giving her a smile. “I’m gonna go before I feel the need to say something sappy.”

“Oof, yeah, go, please,” Fatima grimaces in mock disgust, shooing him away.

==================

He felt nothing, for the longest time. Had it been days, weeks, years? He couldn’t, for the life of him, recall.

Life – funny thing, that. He was dead, wasn’t he? There was a person, a dagger, a sharp pain, and then it was cold, cold, cold.

He could remember that much; a mer with pale blond hair, and a feeling accompanying him. Did he love him? Hate him? Fear him? He wanted to scream, but his actions felt foggy, his mind untethered.

There was a low, guttural horn, rhythmic as it echoed through stone halls and metal bars. There was a tall warrior, her grip on his arm firm as they ran.

Only a few of her words stuck with him. Coldharbour. Lyris. Molag Bal. Prophet. Invasion.

He could remember a creature made of bone, all wrong in its configuration. White-hot pain as it tore into him, pleading with Meridia to give him her aid to no avail. He needed her now more than ever, but she did not hear him.

Auredil awoke suddenly, his body wracked with pain. He felt faint as he tried to get up, unsure of his surroundings, trying to climb out of the cot he was in.

Panic began to cloud his mind as he hit the floor instead, staring at the ceiling, and he had the creeping realization that his right leg felt numb from the knee down.

He forced his gaze away from the ceiling, a whimper escaping him when he finally looked down. It wasn’t numb; it just simply wasn’t there. His breathing came rapid as he covered his face with a trembling hand.

He thought it had just been an awful dream.

“You’re up,” Auredil snapped his attention to the door he hadn’t noticed crack open in his panic. There stood a Khajiit he didn’t know, but thought looked vaguely familiar. “You have Raz’s condolences about the… hm,” he gestured, and all Auredil could do was stare at him, wide-eyed.

“What happened? Where am I?” he asked, trying once more to sit up. “Who are you?”

“So many questions,” he looked over his shoulder before shutting the door behind him and taking a step into the room. “This one does not believe we ever formally met. Razum-dar,” he held out his hand, and Auredil took it, wincing as he was helped onto the edge of the cot, steadied by strong arms.

“Auredil,” he offered as the recognition struck him. “You’re one of the Queen’s agents.”

“Yes, and you are the missing Captain,” Razum-dar left him to cross the room, seating himself in a chair. Auredil gave him a worried glance. “It’s been about two weeks since Lieutenant Cennewen reported you were gone.”

“Oh, Gods, Cennewen,” he muttered. He couldn’t help feeling like he’d made an ass of himself last time he saw her.

“She’s fine. Received a promotion, in fact,” Razum-dar assured him, but he couldn’t deny the guilt. “So… missing Captain falls from the sky into the sea. Care to explain?”

“I…” Auredil’s eyes fell to the floor. “I was in Elden Root,” he thought aloud, trying to put the pieces together. He remembered Naemon, a wave of nausea coming over him, his words stolen by the tightness in his throat. He heard Razum-dar sigh across the room.

“The Lieutenant told me as much,” his voice was sympathetic.

“There was… a woman?” Auredil stumbled, his eyes widening as he looked back at the Khajiit. “I died. Am I dead?”

“That is above Raz’s paygrade,” he shrugged, “you look alive enough. More so than when this one’s associate pulled you from the sea.”

Auredil could feel himself listing with only one foot planted on the floor, and for his own sanity, he dared not look back down. He lost himself in his own head for a moment, lamenting his situation. He couldn’t help feeling as though the mourning never ended.

“What am I to do?” he asked softly, and it was more rhetorical than anything. Razum-dar hummed, standing.

“You could always retire. Maybe open a vineyard in Russafeld,” he offered, his tone sarcastic as he paced, and Auredil grimaced at the idea. “Or, you can come work for Raz.”

“But…” he trailed off, not wanting to admit how useless he felt in the moment.

“You’ll have a prosthetic built. Give it a few weeks, you’ll be good as new,” he assured Auredil, coming to stop in front of him. “So, what say you?”

He looked up at Razum-dar. He supposed he didn’t really have any choice.

==================

Sometimes Lindir misses Valenwood. He misses the graht-oaks, the endless green of the jungle, the dense canopy above him. As a child, he would try to climb to the top, to get above it all, but it was always too far for him to reach.

He remembers when his youngest sister broke her arm falling from the base of one of those trees, how livid his mother was with him. He was always the bad influence, always getting into trouble.

Reaching the top is easier in the city, he thinks. He pulls himself up over the ledge of the roof without much issue, turning back to face the harbour. The blue is nice too, he supposes.

Sometimes he wonders what his life would be like had he stayed, had he not lost his home, his parents, his sisters. Are they rolling in their graves? Do they approve of the life he’s chosen?

It doesn’t matter to him, not really. He doubts he’d be happy as a Spinner, always staying in one place and telling the same stories over and over again. He thinks, hopes, they may have understood that. Their little girl growing up to be their son may have been a bit of a surprise, he thinks, chuckling to himself.

It doesn’t matter; but part of him wishes they could see him now.

His mind wanders back to Auredil, as he sits with his journal in his lap. Before he really thinks about it, he starts drawing an image of his face. He isn’t a great artist, not like Coralantar, but he supposes it looks like him. A little.

He sighs to himself in annoyance, resting his head against the heel of his hand as his eyes bear into the crude drawing. He’s in love with Auredil, isn’t he?

It isn’t something he wants to admit to himself. He just doesn’t fall in love with people. Besides, he doubts Auredil would feel the same, not with the way he’s avoiding him. Lindir probably crossed some line and fucked up his chances, like he always does. He’d never been very good at keeping people close to him. He was always too loud, too intense, too hot-headed. Not to mention all the partners he’d had who simply just didn’t care for what’s in his pants.

That always stung the worst, he thinks. He could try his best to be more gentle, more kind, but in the end, it’s always the thing farthest from his control. And with that knowledge, it’s difficult to want to try at all.

They can take him as he is, or not at all. He rips the drawing out, crumples it up into a ball, and throws it off the roof.

==================

It wasn’t nearly as easy a transition as Razum-dar made it seem. The trip back to Alinor took two weeks, where he spent his time mulling about the ship on crutches, entirely miserable.

He then spent a week in an apartment he was given on behalf of the Queen, a gilded prison cell where a physician would visit him every other day. He still couldn’t bring himself to look, even as they inspected his leg and took measurements.

It felt like an eternity before the physician finally returned, accompanied by a mage carrying some sort of heavy case. He didn’t really understand the mechanics of it even as they explained it to him, but he let them fit him with the new limb. It was some combination of magic and clockwork, the metal lightweight but sturdy, and he could see that it contained many small, complex parts as they assembled it.

For the first time, he looked down at it without anxiety. The mage clicked something into place, and suddenly he could feel it again. It was odd, different, but it was the first time since he woke up to it that he didn’t feel dreadfully hopeless.

He walked with a cane for another week, but he’d never been so relieved to be walking at all.

Soon, he ventured as far as the market, though he couldn’t help cursing the amount of stairs he’d never really paid much mind to before. He wandered through the shops and stalls, without any real intention besides getting out for a bit.

He passed a silversmith’s cart, the various pieces of jewellery glinting in the sun catching his eye. One piece in particular drew his attention, like it was something he’d lost long ago and forgotten about. It was a medallion the size of a gold coin, a faceted golden sun encircled with silver rays, hanging from a pressed silver chain. He’d seen it before, he could recall; it was the same design etched into Meridia’s statue he’d seen so long ago now.

Auredil paid the jeweller quickly and left the market. He walked down past the city gates, ignoring the way his injury began to ache. By the time he made it to the beach, he was leaning heavily on the cane, pushing past sharp bolts of pain with every step.

Finally, he allowed himself to collapse in the sand.

“Meridia?” he tried, his voice meek, clutching the amulet in his hand. “I know I angered you. I was so foolish,” he admitted, tears pricking his eyes.

The pain in his leg frustrated him to no end. He wanted nothing more than for it all to just stop. And he realized, if he hadn’t pushed her away, perhaps none of it would have happened in the first place. Perhaps he would not have lost all that he had to Coldharbour.

“I was wrong,” he pleaded, hoping she would hear him this time, “I’m sorry.”

He sat there in the sand for a while, resigning that he would not hear a reply. He cursed his injury, knowing deep down that he had pushed his body too far, and he would have to remain until the pain faded at least a little.

“My poor child,” he heard, and he gasped in relief. Through his wallowing, he had not noticed the warmth emitting from the amulet he held. “I so regret what he has done to you.”

“My lady,” Auredil breathed, “I’m so sorry. I did not mean what I said.”

“You have suffered much. I hope you see now that you need me,” her voice was softer, comforting.

“I do. I pray you can forgive me.”

“I cannot change what has been done. But I will keep my promise, if you keep yours.”

Auredil shuddered as the warmth washed over him, and he could feel that small spark of power return to him. His eyes widened as the pain in his leg subsided, overwhelmed by the relief of it. It wasn’t gone by any means, but it was reduced to a dull ache where it had once been a searing, sharp pain.

“Thank you,” his eyes fell to the amulet in his hand.

“Get up,” she urged, though not unkindly, and Auredil did, planting his cane as best he could in the sand to get to his feet. “You are my warrior, and I expect you to act like it.”

He nodded and straightened himself, like she was his mother reprimanding his posture. “I will call on you in time. Until then, continue serving your mortal Queen. Aid those who would fight against Molag Bal.”

“Yes, my lady,” he dipped his head, before sensing her presence dissipate.

His gaze found the amulet once more, and he almost felt as though she wasn’t gone entirely. He slipped it over his head, letting it rest against his sternum under his shirt, before beginning the trek back to Alinor with a newfound purpose.

#yans writes #elder scrolls online #auredil #lindir nightshade #fatima at bergama

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yansurnummu · 2 years

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A Variation of the Truth (2/?)

(1/2)

Auredil wasn’t always like this. He was a hero once, a good mer; but things don’t always go the way they should.

(View on AO3 for tags)

Lindir lets Auredil sleep. He’d never seen him so at peace; he can't bring himself to wake him. Over the next few hours, he begrudgingly takes advantage of the heavy rain, gathering a bucket of water to bring inside and does some much-needed cleaning while he’s stuck indoors.

He picks up Auredil’s disconnected prosthetic beside the bed while he’s tidying, with the intention of finding a better place for it than the flooded floor, but he inspects it while it’s in his hands. It’s a simple piece, a straight wooden peg connected to a brace that Lindir saw buckles in two places along what remains of his leg. The wood is beginning to splinter, and upon further inspection, he notices that it lacks any sort of cap at the foot to keep the wood in one piece.

Lindir sighs to himself, looking around the room. He’s no smith, nor does he have the tools, but he wonders if he has any way to fix or reinforce it, even a little.

After some rummaging, he finds a spool of cotton line. He wraps it and ties it off in a way that he’s sure will at least prevent any further splitting for a time, but comes to the conclusion that honestly, the prosthetic should really just be replaced entirely.

He looks across the room at Auredil’s sleeping form and frowns. The mer doesn’t have the gold for something like that, he knows. Neither does he, himself, though the fact that the thought even crosses his mind is a little alarming to him. Why does he care so much?

Auredil stirs, and Lindir realizes he’d been staring. But he doesn’t wake; his eyes remain screwed shut, his brow furrowed. Lindir figures it must be a dream, setting the prosthetic down on his cluttered table.

He mumbles something, his tone distressed. It’s intermittent at first, a twitch here and there, a muttered word or two. But as the minutes go on, he tosses, the words becoming clearer, louder, anguished.

Naemon is the name that breaks through before Lindir decides he should wake him.

“Auredil!” he raises his voice, grabbing at the mer’s shoulders. He startles awake, his shaking hands grasping at Lindir’s arms, eyes wide and breathing rapid like a cornered animal. “Hey, hey, you’re fine, you’re safe,” he says, uncertain, as tears well in Auredil’s eyes. His hands retreat from Lindir after a moment, and he looks away shamefully.

“I’m– I’m sorry,” he says, his voice strained and fighting back tears. “I didn’t– I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Lindir gives him a bit more space as he rolls over, moving to sit on the edge of the bed beside Lindir.

The way he says it has implications that leave Lindir staring at him, his heart breaking. Like the nightmare was an inevitability and he shouldn’t have succumbed to sleep, like it’s something he’s used to suffering, but always alone.

He doesn’t really know what to do with that, and he doesn’t quite know how to stop Auredil when he hastily fastens his prosthetic leg and stands, unsteady. He’s shakily muttering apologies and excuses the whole time, ducking under the low ceiling and door frame, and then he’s gone.

Lindir remains seated on the bed, eyes fixed on the space Auredil once was. He curses to himself, standing, regretting all the things he could've done, could’ve said, but didn’t.

==================

Auredil didn’t notice anything different, at first. He briefly wondered if he’d imagined it – the statue, Meridia’s voice – maybe it was all a grief-induced hallucination. But his company set sail for Valenwood in the coming days, and there was little time to ruminate on what had transpired.

Maormer pirates were always a danger on the Abecean Sea, but after the attack on Mistral the previous year, they had become bolder than ever. As soon as the fog rolled in during the night, he knew to sound the alarm. From the helm, he could barely see the foremast in the fog. The Maormer were upon them from the sea before he could even spot their ship.

His company were few, but they were skilled, and knew each other and their ship well. The pirates fought fiercely, but in the end, they stood no chance against trained marines.

“Starboard!” was the only warning they received before the ship lurched violently and the dreadful splintering of wood was heard. Auredil rushed over, leaning off the starboard bow, his stomach dropping as he caught a glimpse of massive silvery scales beneath the surface of the water.

“Serpent!” he shouted, and the crew hurried to take on defensive positions.

A sea serpent was not something they were prepared to face, and the implications of its very presence were troubling to say the least. Such a powerful creature was only ever under the control of a larger Maormer fleet. His crew had faced one before – with a flotilla. They were entirely on their own this time.

They manned the ballistae, but it was foggy and dark. Auredil called it out moments before the creature tore into the ship again, only a fraction of the bolts seeming to impact anything.

As it began to circle back around, he found himself fearful. With the ship already beginning to list to one side, he knew it wouldn’t last another hit. He glanced at his lieutenant to find her expression just as pale and uneasy. He wouldn’t let them die.

“Take the helm,” he told her before raising his voice, “Drop the sails!” She looked at him, confusion turning to alarm as he ran, spear in hand, and dove over the side.

He grit his teeth as the shock of the cold water came over him. His heart pounded in his ears as he was faced with the fanged maw of the serpent, sinking the blade of his spear into the roof of its mouth. It screamed out into the water, trying to snap down on him but to no avail with the spear wedged between its jaws.

If he could just hold it there long enough for the rest of his company to escape, he would be content with that. He thought of Naemon, of all the things he wanted to say but couldn’t. He thought of Lilanwe, and how he regretted never being there for her.

“You think this is the end? Fool.”

Meridia’s voice snapped him back to reality, and it was like a switch was flipped in his mind. He felt a surge of energy, and he held out one hand to the mouth of the writhing serpent. Light flashed, blinding, but he couldn’t look away or shut his eyes as the serpent screamed again, recoiling, the light becoming hot enough to burn and boil.

It was only his need to come up for air that drew him back from the now-still serpent, prying his spear from between its teeth. He grabbed at a piece of wood from the breached hull of the ship, grinning despite his predicament when he spotted them vanishing into the dissipating fog.

They tossed him a rope when he eventually caught up, having kept a lookout for him despite the odds. He could sense their burning questions, but they knew there wasn’t time for that now. There was no way they could make it to Haven with the hull in the state it was, but in conversing with the navigator, they determined they may be able to run aground north of Woodhearth in order to make repairs.

-----

“Are we going to talk about that?” Auredil paused, briefly looking back over his shoulder at Lieutenant Cennewen.

“What?” he replied, swallowing nervously, continuing their long walk to Woodhearth. He heard her sigh behind him.

“You know what.”

It was only the two of them. He knew he could speak freely with her, his second-in-command who had become a dear friend. Even so, it was something he, himself, had not yet quite come to terms with. He wasn’t sure where to begin.

“I mean,” she bolted to catch up a few steps, falling in line beside him. “You’ve done some reckless things, if I may.” He sighed, stopping and reluctantly meeting her gaze.

“You may, as always,” he said softly. She stared him down for a moment, nothing but concern in her young, half-Altmeri features.

“No one should have come back from that,” her voice was mournful, just above a whisper, and Auredil understood the underlying meaning; they had been prepared to lose him.

“I…” he considered his words, frowning. “I don’t quite know how to explain it yet, I just…” he trailed off, instead holding out a hand and producing for her a small globule of radiant light. “It sounds ridiculous, but something spoke to me. It gave me this.”

She regarded the light with wide green eyes, then shifted her gaze back up at him in awe. Auredil was no mage, his company knew, and the art was always lost on him. It was always his sister’s domain, while he was always more inclined to the martial.

He wasn’t even sure if it was magic. It looked like magic, but it didn't feel like it. As the light pulsed, it felt warm, like a miniature sun in the palm of his hand. And it came to him like second nature, an energy that, if he didn’t know better, he might say had always been a part of him.

“Then Auri-El has blessed us,” Cennewen muttered, awestruck.

“Perhaps so,” Auredil smiled back at her, but it was a little more uncertain. He wasn’t sure he wanted to tell her the whole truth.

As they walked, the scent of ozone put him on edge. There was a shout, and a flash of lightning further down the coast despite the clear skies, and he exchanged a look with Cennewen before they took off towards it.

They peered over their vantage point when they caught up, assessing the situation. It was a small Maormer camp on the beach, littered with the bodies of a half dozen pirates, a black-robed figure standing over them. They knelt down, searching for something among the carnage, and the recognition hit Auredil.

“Lieutenant,” he turned to Cennewen, “Hold here. Trust me.”

Cennewen gave him a nod, and he stood, moving around the rocks while she remained hidden. “Coralantar!” he called, and the figure froze.

For a moment, he worried he may have read them wrong, but their head turned to him and he could see the tension drain from their shoulders.

“Auredil,” Coralantar stood, giving him a curt bow. “It’s been some time. Apologies, you’ve caught me in a bit of a… hurry,” their gaze focused past Auredil, nervously keeping an eye out. Auredil turned around, sheepishly gesturing for Cennewen to approach. Coralantar eyed her cautiously but made no move to flee. “Woodhearth. Walk with me?”

Auredil could tell by the look on Cennewen’s face that she was apprehensive, but she followed his lead. Coralantar was a little quicker than them, a little more experienced traversing rocky shorelines and jungles, and would pause and slow their gait intermittently as if not used to travelling with others.

“Coralantar is an ally,” Auredil explained to Cennewen as they walked, “they saved my life in Mistral during the attack."

“Since then I’ve been bringing what information I can find to the Dominion,” Coralantar interjected from further ahead. “It’s easy to move amongst the Vipers when, well… I look like this.”

“Why attack your own people?” Cennewen asked, curious. Coralantar chuckled bitterly.

“That is a conversation we don’t have time for.”

-----

They made it to Woodhearth by nightfall with Coralantar’s guidance. The Sea Elf stayed outside the city limits, but gave them a heavy envelope to pass along to the Queen’s agents in the embassy. Auredil arranged for a repair crew to follow them back to the ship in the morning, as well as a courier to send word to Haven to notify them of their predicament.

Lieutenant Cennewen stayed at the embassy that night.

“They seem nice enough, for a Maormer. But I can tell you like them,” she had said, encouraging Auredil to go find Coralantar outside. Auredil fumbled, his face turning a shade similar to his hair.

His mind was brought back to the beaches outside Eagle’s Strand as he walked beyond the city, the last breath of the sun disappearing over the ocean. He found Coralantar a ways out, perched on the rocks, bare feet dipping into the water. They turned their head, giving a warm smile as Auredil approached, climbing over the rocks to sit beside them.

“Do you want to know why I’m working against them?” Coralantar asked gently.

“I’m curious, I admit, but… you have my trust regardless,” Auredil leaned forward to catch their eyes, but Coralantar’s gaze was fixed over the water, vaguely southwest.

“Pyandonea is a beautiful place. But the reality of it is so horrible and ugly,” they admitted, and the frustration was plain in their voice. “Do you know what it’s like to grow up being fed nothing but lies and propaganda? And worse, to believe them your entire life, even to the point of hating yourself?”

Coralantar looked at him then, and Auredil could see the pain behind silvery-white eyes before they sighed, turning away once more. “That’s the thing about propaganda, though, isn’t it? It’s often a small piece of the truth, distorted and wrapped in layers of fear and hate. You lot have your fair share about us, and the scary thing is, there’s a grain of truth to it. Our leaders want us to fight, and to hate, but… we have cities, like here. We have families, shops, farms, musicians, people who want change, but are suppressed and killed for it…”

“You still care about them,” Auredil realized, sympathetic. Coralantar gave a hesitant nod.

“I do. I love my people, misguided as they are. And I don’t know if I can make a difference, but I have to try.”

Auredil reached out then, carefully placing a hand at Coralantar’s back. They exhaled, melting and leaning into the contact, as if all it took was a touch to bleed out all their frustrations and anger. It surprised him how easily they curled against him, their head resting on his shoulder and a hand on the armour over his chest.

He wrapped them in his arms, his surprise turning to understanding in the knowledge that they had been alone for so long. Coralantar pressed closer, cupping his face in their hands, and his chest ached at the tenderness of it.

The soft lips on his felt like a natural progression, for he realized that they weren’t so different. He had been so alone, so isolated. In that moment he craved the physicality more than anything else — and as Coralantar kissed him hard, shifting to straddle his lap, he suspected they might feel the same.

==================

The Cistern that the Thieves Guild calls home isn’t the nicest place in the Landing, but it’s certainly the best place to find less-than-legal imports and good information. The constant din of running water is louder than usual, as yesterday’s rains flood down to this central point before draining out into the harbour.

“Hey, Lindir,” the bartender waves him down as he descends the stairs. “Got a fresh shipment of jagga from Vulkwasten today.” he matches her grin as he approaches.

“Oh, Fatima, no one loves me like you do.” he slides into a barstool, setting his head in his hands dreamily. Fatima laughs, turning around and taking a dark bottle off the shelf.

“Yeah, well, they’d be out of business without you. No one else buys this shit,” she sets the bottle in front of him, and he rolls his eyes.

“Sure,” he says sarcastically, popping the cork off the bottle. In truth, it’s not the best tasting liquor, but it’s a small reminder of the place he once called home. He sets down double what the drink costs and slides it towards her.

“What can I do for you?” she pockets the gold without missing a beat.

“I was wondering if you knew anyone by the name of Naemon around town,” he asks, putting the bottle to his lips. Fatima shifts her weight to lean on the bar, pursing her lips in thought.

“Naemon. Elf?” she scratches her head, and Lindir shrugs. “Can’t say I do, but I’ll put out some feelers. Give you some trivia for free, though,” she gestures excitedly and Lindir groans. “In the 570s, Prince Naemon was heir to the Alinor throne,” she starts, and Lindir looks back at her, his interest unexpectedly piqued. “But then, when the King died in 580, his sister, Ayrenn, came back and took his place. Now, officially, when the Prince died in 582 during the ceremonies in Valenwood, they say he was protecting Queen Ayrenn from a monster that attacked them. But, you know, people talk, and the rumours are that he probably betrayed her and was killed for it.”

Lindir’s eyes fall to the bar before him. “High Elves! They are so obsessed with image.”

If she says anything else before she wanders off to tend to another patron, it all just fades behind the noise in his head. Auredil mentioned a ‘prince’ in the past, but Lindir thought he was just taking the piss. Could he have been serious?

Lindir frowns. There’s no way, right? Auredil is a downtrodden mess of an Elf who spends all the coin he gets his hands on on liquor and moonsugar, who’d fight a hungry haj mota for a piece of stale bread. The thought of him brushing elbows with royalty is a ridiculous one, but one he lends more credit to than before. What if he’s telling the truth?

==================

“Captain!” Cennewen called across the tavern, and Auredil grimaced, downing the last of his drink. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” The room spun as he turned his head to look at her, and the half-sober part of him was grateful he didn’t see any more of his crew with her.

“Lieutenant,” he slurred, his hands shaking as he gestured to the chair on the opposite side of the table, “come, sit with me.”

“Are you drunk?” she hissed, incredulous. “What in Oblivion–” she cut herself off, snapping her mouth shut in an effort to avoid causing a scene, and pulled the chair around to sit next to him. “What in Oblivion happened in there?”

“I couldn’t–” he choked on the words. Everything was hazy, and he wasn’t sure what was real anymore. “He– oh, gods.”

Naemon.

They had all entered the Orrery beneath the Elden Tree. The Queen, the Prince, himself– who else? He couldn’t remember anymore.

Naemon turned on them, and it was all his fault. He should have been there for him, shouldn’t have left him alone in his grief.

Cennewen was looking at him with pity. Like he was a shell of what he once was, and all he was now was some great disappointment. She looked up to him, and all he ever did was let her down. He let everyone down.

Naemon turned on them, and the Orrery turned him into a monster. Auredil wailed and pleaded with him to no avail, blocking and dodging relentless claws and teeth.

He hid his face in his hands as he sobbed, like he had sobbed into Naemon’s lifeless chest only hours before.

-----

The next few days, he felt like a ghost. He hadn’t slept, he could barely eat. He drifted through Naemon’s memorial. They covered up the truth, of course — they had to. Prince Naemon died a hero, an honourable death protecting the Queen. Slain in battle against a monster.

Auredil couldn’t help feeling like he was that monster.

“I know you were… close, with my brother,” Queen Ayrenn found him after the ceremony, away from prying eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re…” Auredil blinked in disbelief, fumbling his words. “How can you say that? After what I’ve done?” He looked away, desperately fighting back tears. Ayrenn entered his field of view again despite his efforts.

“Because I know it haunts you, as it haunts me,” she says softly, her facade cracked by the dampness in her eyes. “And what you did, you did out of love.”

Her hand found his shoulder before she left him in the halls.

Love. She was right, wasn’t she? Auredil loved, and he loved deeply. He loved Naemon, and he couldn't see anything else.

-----

He was half drunk, again, when he stumbled onto the upper rungs of the Elden Tree. He stared down at the jungle a hundred metres below, his vision tunnelling, his body frozen. He could put an end to his misery, and all he had to do was take another step; but he was a coward. He had always been a coward, hadn’t he?

“Why do you cry, my warrior?” he hadn’t even noticed, the tears disappearing into the jungle below as they fell from his face.

“I killed him,” he choked out.

“In the end, yes, you did what you had to do,” Meridia cooed, “but the betrayer Prince’s fate was decided long ago.”

“Then what is the point of you?” he spat.

“I gave you power, mortal. So, too, can I take it away.”

“Then take it!” he spun around unsteadily, cursing when he remembered she was not corporeal. “I have– I have nothing!”

He fell to his knees, feeling almost childlike in his outburst as all he could do was sob. It wasn’t something he really meant, and he suspected, hoped, that she, too, knew that.

But Meridia was silent for a moment before he felt some unseen warmth envelope him, like an afternoon sun on his shoulders. And then it was gone, and he felt colder than ever. He whispered her name, and she did not answer.

He kept drinking into the night. He met a woman at some point; human, which he thought odd in these parts. She led him outside, but he couldn’t remember why. He must have blacked out at some point.

He remembered the rattling of chains. There were others, he thought, captured in the same way. Somewhere next to him, a young woman was crying, but he couldn’t focus his eyes.

They dragged him to his feet, but he still didn’t know who they were. He felt sick, weak, unable to fight as he was pushed down against cold, damp stone. He could make out a dark room, crates of something purple and glittering in low candlelight. His body locked up, held by some spell, panic beginning to bubble up in his chest through the haze.

There was a voice, speaking in what he recognized as old Aldmeris, but couldn’t understand. He was Altmer when he came into view, pale and gaunt, with dark clothing. He held a crystal in one hand, and a blade in the other.

The mer finished speaking, and plunged the blade into Auredil’s chest.

#yans writes #there's a lot of warnings i recommend clicking through to ao3 #suicidal thoughts tw #alcoholism tw #are the big ones #auredil #lindir nightshade #fatima at bergama #but yeah almost to forgot to post this here oops

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