#inigo is best bro and you'll never change my mind

[totally-not-deacon]

WIP Wednesday, baby!

Tagged by @throughtrialbyfire!! Gonna tag some fresh meat I haven't gotten to yet: let's go with... @watchyourdigits @sassenashsworld aaaand @obscene-beans if ya wanna go.

So I'm at a point where there's a LOT of spoiler-y type stuff, so I had to root around a bit. Fortunately my brain refuses to write in order, so I have a fairly long little draft of a scene between Marasa and Inigo planned for a later chapter! Most'll be under the read more:

I’m sorry, I don’t speak ‘knuckle dragger’. Could you repeat that?” Marasa’s chair slammed into the wall behind her as she shot to her feet. If this son of a bitch thought he could pull that on her…

“Easy, now.” Inigo’s hand came to rest on her arm. She glared up at the now smug-looking Nord in question, before she let herself be pulled away. One more word.

“He’s just some drunk snowback, I could take him down, no problem!” She slurred, easily just as inebriated, while tugging futilely in his grasp. Inigo nodded to Lucien on the way out, sure he’d let the others know where they were off to. So maybe he had a plan in case this happened, even ready to rent rooms elsewhere. They weren’t going to tell her that, of course.

“While I am sure you could, and I might otherwise encourage putting a racist in his place, we are in Windhelm.” He walked them through the crowd and into the frigid night air. “Why don’t we visit that corner club instead, before we end up visiting a cell.”

She deflated, sagging against him. Her breath formed soft clouds in the cold night air. “I hate this city.”

“As do I, but we are only here for the night. These people are not worth sitting in jail over, believe me.” They wound through the ice-slicked alleys, working their way back to the Gray Quarter. Footsteps echoed off the ancient stone walls making up the city, cutting through the silence. He was right, he usually was. He nudged her through the door first, the burst of heat welcome on her chilled skin.

She wasn’t too keen on this Dunmeri alcohol, but she nursed her drink all the same. There wasn’t anything she could think of to say, so she remained silent and scowling at the tabletop.

“How are you doing?”

“I…” The question caught her off guard, eyes meeting his. Her mouth hung open. How was she doing? What she was doing, sure, maybe even why sometimes. She could answer those. But how… “I – I don’t know.”

“You have been through a lot recently. I do not blame you.”

Her frown deepened. How was he always so… understanding? It frustrated her to no end. Just... how did he do it? A tiny part of her wanted to reach out – to crawl from her own throat, thrashing and screaming to the world. She swallowed, feeling it growing.

“It’s just…” She should keep her mouth shut. “A year ago I was just another broke sellsword. Just another someone trying to run from themselves, right? I was alive, but that’s it. I just was. And I was okay with that, I think. But now…” Stop talking.

“Now, what?” He asked gently, encouraging her to finally begin to open up. He knew she needed to, it wasn’t healthy for anyone to bottle their emotions up so, and she was certainly an expert at it.

“I don’t –” She could feel her face heat up, her eyes begin to sting. It didn’t make any sense. Marasa buried her face in her hands. It was ungrateful, undeserving. She wanted it all at arm’s length and a tight embrace. Fingernails bit into her palms. “I don’t know what to do with it all!”

“All I’ve ever done is follow orders.” She continued, her mouth moving before she could think to stop it. “That’s all I’ve ever done – and now this? I’m supposed to be some kind of leader?An icon to a people that would rather see my kind slaughtered wholesale!”

They wanted her to be a hero.

She wasn’t. She never was. “I thought I was getting better. Or at least learning to ignore it…”

“And then…” Her voice wavered. The bite of shackles, the damp stone walls. She rubbed her wrists subconsciously, unable to actually say it aloud. The bruises may have faded, but the wounds inside still lay open and festering. She thought she was going to be sick. “And then everything came back.”

Inigo opened his mouth to respond, but she was on a roll. “But at the same time I have all of you. I have a house – an actual house! I’ve got friends…” More. She choked. “And I don’t feel like I earned a single bit of it.”

I shouldn’t even be here.

“My friend…”

Her voice lowered, alcohol blending the edges of the words together. “Half the reason I don’t go home, y’know. Did you know how proud my father was? When they shipped us off to Auridon… Did you know he congratulated me? Do I look like someone to be proud of? Look at me!”

“It feels like they wanted this, sometimes.” She hugged herself to the point it hurt. “They wanted a hero in the family more than a daughter.”

An arm wrapped around her shoulder, drawing her into a hug. She sighed, letting her head drop froward. “Sorry. Dunno where all that came from…”

“Do not be sorry. Every one deserves to have their voice heard.” Inigo assured her.

“Would you like to know what I see?” Marasa shrugged, no longer trusting her voice. She’d said enough already.

“I don’t see a hero.” Despite her own feelings of the term, it would still somehow sting from anyone else. “And I see that you are very scared. You are scared, and like a cornered animal – sometimes you lash out.”

“Way to cheer a girl up…” she mumbled.

“And I see someone still standing despite it all.” He continued. “I do not see a hero, but I do see a strong, courageous, and incredible friend.”

“So cheesy…” A small smile played on her face and she elbowed him in the side. She sniffed, quickly scrubbing at her eyes.

“No, that would be your pack after visiting the market this morning.”