#obsessed with her tiny leaf hands holding that bowling ball

[rumor-weed]

Final lazy doodle:

Bob and Audrey besties? The dynamics haven’t been explored but I love that they’re just on a bowling league together and hang out.

[seydaneencensusoffice]

Day 2: Magic

   On the journey from Vvardenfell, by ship from Sadrith Mora to the northern coast of Stonefalls and then by silt strider south across the fungal plane, Araynys busied herself putting the finishing touches on her costume for the masquerade ball to be held on her second night in Mournhold. She had spent the past lonely weeks in the Dagoth stronghold working on it, first laying out the cloth – a slippery, shining silk dyed greenish-blue, the colour of a clear freshwater pool in the forest – over the stone floor of her room, and lovingly cutting and shaping it, then sewing the pieces together by hand with silver thread. She had sung, softly and only to herself, as she worked, and her song made the air around her ripple with magicka, drawing the stronghold cats to her to curl up and bask in the veil of serenity she had created unthinkingly.

   Now, in the hollow compartment of the silt strider’s carapace, concentrating hard to keep her stand steady through the rocking gait of the great arthropod, Araynys sewed the last of the beads onto her costume. They were tiny spheres of glass bought by the scoop in the nearby market; some clear, looking like real preserved water droplets, and others blue and green. As it grew dark, she conjured a glowing ball of light to float about the compartment while she sewed the beads onto the dress in dewy strands that made a soft clinking sound when the fabric shifted over her lap. She had designed the dress so that the beads would fan out around her as she danced; indeed, she had practiced, alone in her room in the stronghold, hoping that her provincial dancing instruction would be up to the standard of the royal court.

   When the caravaner brought the silt strider to a halt, Araynys alighted with a look of wonder on her face and brushed away his suggestion that she take a carriage to her destination.

   “I’ll walk, thank you,” she said, and set off with her trunk through the cobbled streets of the Resdaynian capital. She held her conjured ball of light in the fist of one hand, so that light seeped through her fingers.

   Although it was now evening, and this was her first visit to Mournhold, Araynys was not afraid; she knew that she could cast a shield spell faster than a thief could draw a dagger, and the main streets of the city were lit with enchanted lanterns. Besides, after two years of reading Voryn’s letters, in which he devoted pages of careful detail to Mournhold, its streets, its landmarks, and its people, Araynys felt like she knew it almost as well as Sadrith Mora, where she made frequent trips to buy fabric and alchemical supplies. She was thinking already of how she might contrive to stay in Mournhold beyond the single term she was to study at Shad Astula, the nearby academy of magic. It would certainly please her cousin, who had been trying for years to convince her to come to stay.

   Voryn lived in an upstairs apartment in the temple district, a short walk from the palace walls. Ever since he had become friendly with Sotha Sil and begun to advise the First Council on north-eastern Chimer politics, he had spent much of his time there, and Araynys was sure that she would recognise most of the most important mer at court from the vivid descriptions in his letters. Sotha Sil, a mage and scholar like her cousin, with a line between his eyes from his near-permanent frown; Almalexia, the warrior queen, who was both mighty and fiercely attentive to her subjects; the poet Vivec, whose very presence at court drove the more old fashioned nobles, obsessed with family and blood, mad; and, finally, Nerevar, who was only a soldier when Araynys had met him, years ago when he had come to win the Grandmaster’s support, but who was now the king. Voryn had devoted pages of writing to him alone.

   She was proud of her cousin and pleased that he had managed to escape the anxious, suffocating grip of his father for a promising career at the Resdaynian court, but she had felt his absence keenly over the past years. Out of the eight Dagoth children – four of them the sons of the Grandmaster, with Voryn the second eldest, and four of them distant Dagoth cousins fostered or adopted into his household – Voryn had always been her favourite, and she his. Thus, she was not surprised when she stepped into his apartment, and into his embrace, and felt immediately more at home there than in the place she had left.

   The apartment was small, just several rooms, and looked exactly as Voryn’s bedroom in the Dagoth stronghold always had: dark and cluttered with books and papers and the stubs of candles, melted in on themselves, with his harp standing near the sofa and an assortment of alchemical ingredients drying on every available surface of the living room. Voryn himself looked exhausted, his eyes bracketed with dark circles and his hands stained with pen ink, but he only laughed when Araynys admonished him.

   “Don’t they let you sleep, Voryn?”

   “There’s a lot of work to do,” he said, peevishly.

   She prodded his stomach, about to give a quick retort, but then paused and frowned.

   “Don’t they feed you, either? Come on, I brought some of that spice mix you like, from the market. We can make saltrice dahl.”

   Voryn perked up at that, and the cousins set about cooking their meal together, laughing and bickering and getting in each other’s way, just as they had done all their lives at home. They ate sitting cross-legged on cushions around a low table, their faces warmed by the steam rising from the bowls of spicy dahl in their laps.  

   “So,” Voryn began, speaking slowly and with care, “how is father?”

   “Fine… well, he kicked out another healer and we’re still waiting for the replacement to arrive, but other than that he’s fine. Your stepmother has been making him get out more. You know, I think he expects me to come back with a written report about how you are and what you’re up to. That’s probably why he let me come.”

   Voryn frowned. “You should feel able to do as you like, Rayna. You don’t owe him –”

   “I do. Gilvoth…”

   “Is dead.” A firm edge had crept into his voice. “I wish you would consider staying here, in Mournhold. I’ll be moving to a bigger place soon; you know there’s always room for you.”

   “I am. Considering it, I mean.”

   “Rayna…” Voryn took her hand and squeezed it in gentle reassurance. “You don’t need to feel guilty anymore. You never did.”

   She had to look away for a moment, dashing the back of her free hand across her face.  

   “Thank you, Vorya.”

   That evening, as she prepared for bed in Voryn’s study-turned-second bedroom, which was even more cluttered with books than the rest of the apartment, she found she had little need of her usual protective wards to soothe herself to sleep. Away from the miserable Dagoth stronghold, where Voryn’s surviving brothers fought like cats and the ghost of Gilvoth lurked behind every door, she felt more at peace than she had in years. She would stay. She had to stay – damn the Grandmaster to Oblivion.

   On her second night in Mournhold, before the masquerade ball, a transformation – woven with magic, paint, and costume – took place, and Araynys and Voryn became nereid and dremora. They stood together in front of the grand mirror in Voryn’s bedroom, she in her beaded dress and he in a hooded black robe embroidered with black thread, laughing as they altered their features with Illusion spells.

   “I quite like this look,” said Voryn, as he turned his eyes from gold to blood red.

   “Maybe you should make it permanent.” Araynys slid another pin into her hair to hold her leaf headdress in place. “You’d certainly turn heads that way.”

   “And who says I want heads turned in my direction, Rayna?”

   Araynys waved off his attempt at bland innocence. “Come on. He’ll be there tonight, I presume?”

   “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Now… let me do your hair. It should be blue, don’t you think?”

   “Fine,” she said with a sigh.

   Voryn hid a smile as he ducked behind her and began to work his spell, turning her long black hair, a distinctive Dagoth feature they both shared, cloudy blue.  

   Finally, as they stepped out into the fading daylight and made their way on foot to the palace, Araynys slid her arm through Voryn’s, and she knew that his smile was out of joy in seeing her so happy.

   “How do you like Mournhold so far, cousin?” he asked, and she laughed and titled her head up to the sky, where birds flew in a wide arc home to roost.

   “It’s magic.”

[lywinis]

okay christmas merlahad prompt incoming! harry has a mission on the 24th and Merlin is handling him. It's all really exhausting and frustrating but he gets it done and makes his way back to England. When he arrives at HQ in the early hours of the 25th Merlin is still about and waiting for him and they celebrate a tiny little christmas together in merlin's lab because they both don't have anyone to go home to. they are both tired and emotional...who knows what could happen?

AO3

[German Airspace, December 24th, 1989]

“That’s the last of it,” Harry said, placing the microficheinto its protective case. He closed the lid, glancing up at Merlin on thebroadcast screen. A new addition to the jets by the man he was currentlytalking to, the screens allowed for face to face contact, as well as thedisplay of blueprints and other documents. It had proven invaluable already.

“Good work, Galahad. I’ll see it filed properly on BoxingDay,” Merlin said.

“Nice to know even workaholics take Christmas off,” Harrysaid. He was on his way home, the mission wrapped up (pun certainly notintended) late on Christmas Eve and the jet ferrying him back to London. Hereached for the glass of scotch he’d poured after takeoff, his mission completedand that left him with one thing, and one thing only to do.

Get through the day.

Christmas was a difficult time of year for Harry, especiallynow. He usually spent it at least slightly drunk, as was the proper pastime ofall repressed English gentlemen, but it was getting old, rather quickly.

Merlin said something and Harry realized he hadn’t heard aword.

“Sorry?” he said, lowering the glass from his lips.

“I said you should enjoy the holiday. It’s rare you get themoff.” Merlin was typing, Harry could hear the click of keys over the connection.He wasn’t looking at Harry, focusing on what he had to finish. “I’m sureMorgana would like to see you before you do, however. She’s waiting for youbefore you’re completely through.”

“Of course,” Harry said. He had a nasty slice on the meat ofhis right forearm, something he’d stitched together clumsily, but of courseMorgana would like to see him. “I’ll pop ‘round medical and see her before Ileave the Estate.”

“Very good,” Merlin said. He inhaled, and reached for thescreen, which meant he was about to toggle their connection off. Harry dug forone last thing to say, something to breach the gap between them, the chasm wideand only expanding since Rhodes.

“Happy Christmas, Merlin,” he blurted, and immediately feltlike a fool. Merlin froze, staring at him, something flickering across his facebefore he carefully shuttered his reaction.

“…Happy Christmas, Galahad.” The connection dropped, and Harrywas alone.

------

Morgana redid his stitches, and now his arm was neatlywrapped and in a sling across his chest, his suit jacket draped over thatshoulder instead of being worn properly. She’d accepted his Christmas sherrywith good grace, grumbling that she was just glad he hadn’t gotten himself moretorn to pieces. He’d kissed her cheek and she’d swatted at him as he made hisescape.

He was hardly tipsy, so he couldn’t blame the glass ofscotch he’d sipped when his feet took him to the door that led down and intothe bowels of the estate, towards Central. Rather, it was habit that led himthere, wanting to see the man at the helm of Kingsman’s technological prowess.

Merlin didn’t much welcome his interruptions these days, andhe paused, knowing the cameras could see him. That Merlin could see him. Butthe question was—was Merlin even looking?

Harry placed his hand against the panel that would allow himaccess to the elevator. It was silly, standing in the sprawling estate’spantry, after all. No sense in hovering.

It got cooler as he descended, the below ground levels airconditioned to keep the servers cool. Harry suppressed a shiver. It had beensnowing outside, and the chill was noticeable to him. Still, better cool thanhot, especially in the case of the level where Merlin worked. Harry passed byblock after block of server racks, the low hum of the computers counterpoint tohis own breathing.

There weren’t any offices down here save Merlin’s own, and theworkshops here were private and belonged to the Kingsman quartermaster as well.They were farther down below the earth than any of the other Kingsman levels,and Merlin had taken great pains to secure the offices from all and sundry. Theonly ones he didn’t keep out were Harry, Morgana, Thomas, and—out of a bluntpracticality and a need to keep his position—Arthur.  He’d burrowed into the rock beneath the estatelike a vole once Arthur had given the go-ahead, as though to hide himself awayfrom everyone on earth.

Including Harry.

Harry knew he’d still be there, simply because he knewMerlin. The man was doggedly determined, hard working to a fault, and almostobsessive in his need for perfection. There was always some project or anotherto tinker with, and Harry more often than not had found Merlin at work, tepidtea beside his hand as he sketched blueprints, put together prototypes, orcoded a new function into the Kingsman tech.

He wondered why Merlin had never revoked his access downhere. Surely he had considered it; Merlin was the master of his domain, andafter Rhodes, he’d made it clear that he didn’t want Harry around. The thoughtflitting across his mind was enough to make the ball of misery in his chestthrob, and he shoved it away, lifting his left hand and placing it against theaccess panel.

The pad thrummed beneath his hand, and he could hear theclick as the heavy electromagnets holding the door closed released. Harryopened the door to find Merlin mid-way into pouring a drink, paused over theglass as Harry entered, the door closing behind him without a sound.

“You’re still here,” Merlin said, as though it were aforegone conclusion that Galahad should have whisked himself off home to hisempty flat and drunk himself into a stupor by now. (Mister Pickle was currentlyenjoying time with his mother. Since his father had passed, she’d doted on thelittle terrier whenever Harry needed to leave town for work.)

“So are you,” Harry said. He offered Merlin a one-shoulderedshrug. “I suppose this counts as a Christmas miracle.”

“Don’t be flippant,” Merlin snapped, then caught himself.His brows knit and he set the bottle of whisky to the side, capping it. “Apologies,Galahad. Is there something I can do for you?”

You can call me by myname, like you used to. “Er, no. I was popping by to…drop off a gift.”

“A gift?” Merlin seemed surprised. “I didn’t—that is, I—”

“I don’t expect reciprocation,” Harry said, his throattightening regardless. “I just…wanted you to have this.”

He held up the gift, a wrapped box set of Jules Verne, donein leather and gold leaf. Merlin had always loved science fiction, and as a manworking to make science fiction science fact…well. The old masters would alwayshave something new to show him.

He set the parcel on the edge of Merlin’s desk, retreatingback towards the door. Everything about Merlin screamed that he didn’t wantHarry near, that he wasn’t welcome—everything that was anathema to Harry aboutbeing around Merlin. There was a chasm of sorrow there that he couldn’t cross.Hurt, regret, things that should have been said but weren’t, things that werespoken that were better left unsaid.

Merlin frowned at the small parcel, wrapped in colorfulChristmas paper and decorated with a tasteful bow. “What is it?”

“A Christmas gift,” Harry said. “More than that, I couldn’tsay.”

“Cheeky.” Merlin snorted softly. “…thank you.”

It was more civil than they’d been outside of officialmissions in nearly a year. It might even be looked upon like progress.

“You’re welcome,” Harry said, just as softly. “Happy Christmas,Merlin.”

“Happy Christmas, Harry.” Merlin lifted his glass to him,but the silence between them stretched on. If Harry had been angling for aninvitation to stay, he wasn’t going to get it; strangely, he hadn’t been. He’djust been there to bring Merlin something that might please him.

Harry fled, both to save his pride and preserve the fragilepeace between them.

------

His townhome was just as cold and dark as predicted. Heflicked on the hallway lights, setting his carryon next to the door. He’d seeto it sometime before the new year. For now, he was restless, and there wasnothing open that would appease his restlessness.

Harry could pace his flat like an animal, but it was hardlygoing to solve anything. Perhaps another drink and then bed, before his mothercould ring him in the morning and demand to know why he wasn’t coming over for Christmasdinner.

He hung up his coat, scarf, and gloves, settling them at theirplaces on the hooks by the door, and then deposited his keys in the bowl on thetable nearby. He toed out of his shoes, not bothering to line them up. Instead,he left them haphazard in the hall next to his carryon. The sling had beendiscarded as soon as he was safely away from Morgana’s watchful gaze, and heslipped off his suit jacket, hanging it on the bannister knob as he passed.

It would keep.

He padded into the study in his stockinged feet, rolling hisshirtsleeves up and loosening his tie. His sideboard was small, but selectivelystocked, and he wanted to try that Macallan he’d been saving.

He blinked, however, as lights flickered on at his presence.Likely set on a motion timer, a small tree in the corner of his study—that hemost certainly hadn’t set up, his townhome was bare of even the smallest scrapof tinsel when he’d left—came to life, multicolored fairy lights and wobbly, almostlopsided decorations shone in shimmery foil reds and greens, with gold droppedhere and there.

Harry tilted his head quizzically, almost like Mister Picklewhen he was trying to identify if there were mice in the baseboards. Tinny Christmasmusic went through a slightly off-key rendition of We Wish You a Merry Christmas before falling silent.

He flicked on the overhead light, revealing the tree infull. Only about two feet tall, the star was listing to the left, as if someonehad fiddled with it until exasperation. There were two wrapped parcels beneathit, both addressed to him.

He should call Central. He should have Merlin scan thesebefore unwrapping them.

He should do a lot of things.

Instead, he carried the parcels to his desk, taking a seatbefore pulling the larger of the two towards him. Mulishly, he almost welcomedthe idea of someone attempting to murder him. It was essentially the story ofhis life at this point.

He ran his fingers carefully over the smooth paper,patterned in green with gold holly leaves. The ribbon came away as he pulled it,and he slit the paper where it was taped on the sides. A cardboard box wasinside, and he lifted the lid.

He found the softest cardigan he’d ever touched, the muted beigemaking it suitable to pair with almost anything he had in his wardrobe. Large,dark buttons brought it to a vee that would look good against the crisp white ofone of his button downs. He ran his hand across it, pulling the neatly folded itemfrom the box and holding it up.

A card fluttered from the middle of the cardigan, landing onthe desk. He picked it up.

Shame on you for not havingthis checked first. Good thing I beat you to it.

It wasn’t signed, but Harry knew the handwriting. The baresthint of a smile curved his mouth and he carefully refolded the cardigan,placing it to the side. The other gift was a bottle of cognac, one that Harryhadn’t tried. He looked at the amber depths, somehow not eager to get to thebottom of the bottle anymore.

He rose and placed the bottle on the sideboard, next to hisMacallan. He cleared the paper and the boxes away, depositing them in the binbeside his desk, and then gathered the cardigan and tucked it beneath his arm.

“…Happy Christmas, Merlin.” He flicked off the lights,heading upstairs to bed.

Perhaps he would take his mother up on Christmas dinnerafter all.