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ehlnofay · 1 month

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Summerfest day 3 - GHOST

On the hoary street outside Aventus’ house, the children are throwing snowballs.

It’s snowed thick the last few days, only coming to a stop late this afternoon, so that the cobble of the road is entirely hidden; the younger ones, all a little older than it feels like they should be, are shin-deep in it, wading with some difficulty, clothes freezing wet and shoes probably soaked through. It’s the proper kind of snow, clean and crisp and cold to the bone. It lies smooth and flat where it hasn’t been walked through and most of the streets visible from the upstairs windows still haven’t been shovelled clear. There’s meant to be a market today, but after this weather – roads barely traversable unless people start rustling up sledges - it’s doubtful it’ll go through. It happens. This time of year you need to keep your storeroom well stocked, else you’re shit out of luck.

(Once, there were no storerooms; Torr couldn’t tuck themself away until the blustering died down. He’d wear seven worn-thin layers and stick his fingers in his mouth when they started hurting and if it got really bad he’d find somewhere with Griss and Kyrri and Katla and whoever else he could grab and he’d beat down the door of whoever was least sick of his face at the time. The Cornerclub, if he thought it was worth appealing to Ambarys’ better sensibilities; the temples dotted around the city, though some of them were never very helpful at the best of times. They waited a blizzard out on Eirmund’s kitchen floor, once. Broke into a few cellars, a few abandoned buildings, a shop. It’s lucky they weren’t arrested twice as often as they were. They think they got by mostly on luck, some days.)

It's pretty, if nothing else; there’s nobody else out on the streets yet so it’s just the gaggle of kids in their tatty coats and cloaks and the ends of their tunics wet, breath misting in the air so visible it’s practically crystallised, shrieking and ducking and hurling damp handfuls of snow at each other, loose-packed and crumbling. It hits the walls, sometimes, and sticks dripping between the stones; seeps through their gloves, through their hose, and Torr doesn’t remind them to worry about frostbite because they know and he knows they know, but he thinks about it. Their own hands are still scarred, fingertips ever-flushed, knuckles tough and pitted. It’s hard to remember that things have changed, in some ways. Harder to remember they were ever different, in others.

They’re posted up watching against the chilled stone wall, hood pulled over their head to shield them some from the cold, hands tucked up into the sleeves of their thick wool tunic. (It’s nice. Bluish-purple – Babette picked it out, they think.) The kids are all yelling their heads off, which they suppose the neighbours must have gotten used to. Ambarys is stumbling like a newborn deer through the snow; Griss is darting this way and that, her red skirt fluttering like a flag behind her; Skygna has Gellir on her shoulders, a lump of snow held high in one hand and the other holding onto her head, directing her to charge around lopsidedly. A trio of the newer kids – they’ve been appearing more often, Katla said, since the fighting started, and Torr’s still not entirely clear on which is which – are trying to pile up a crumbling snow wall. Skrauti keeps careful to the porch, mindful of his foot and realistic about the strength of his boots and the real utility of his crutches in that sort of terrain, but he ducks around corners and keeps neatly compacted snowballs piled up in his arms. He darts around the corner, throws one that dramatically misses anyone that it might have been aimed at, and lurches out of view again before anyone can try to get him back. Gellir is bellowing, his little face bright as the sun. Skygna is laughing. She always used to be so serious.

So much has changed. So much has stayed the same. Same clothes, some of them. Same people, mostly. Torr watches, leaning against the cold stone wall, and tries to find familiarity in it. Fails.

(It should be familiar. They used to play like this all the time – Windhelm’s certainly got the weather for it, coated in snow for the better part of the year and not all that much else to do about it; the kids would sneak up on him, or on each other, try to dump a damp handful down the backs of their tunics or grind it into their hair. Katla always tried to get it straight in the eyes. Torr remembers back when Skrauti was new, how he managed to smash a hard-packed snowball through one of the rare glass windows in the Grey Quarter, how he damn near cried with guilt afterwards until Torr promised they’d scrounge up the money to pay for it to be fixed. Torr remembers how Chukka down the docks tried to figure out how to lob snow at them with her tail even though it didn’t have half the dexterity for it. Torr remembers Katla shovelling snow down her throat in response to some stupid dare and then shoving Talres’ face in it when he laughed. Torr remembers, Torr remembers, Torr remembers; but it’s like that’s all he knows how to do. Like he’s slotting it away in the shelves of nostalgia as it’s happening. Like he’s not really here.)

(He isn’t. Not really. Not like he’s supposed to be. Once, they would have been the one to start it, putting snow down Katla’s dress, on Talres’ arm, in Griss’ hair; it kept them all laughing, kept them active, kept them distracted. They were the best at those games, unbeatable, though since half their opponents were half their age having the best arm and the quickest dodge probably wasn’t much to brag about. They remember it all but they’re still leaning statue-still against the wall; trying to move feels like an imitation, unreal. None of it feels real. Every time Torr comes back here they feel like they’re dressing up in their own skin, carving the blood off their palms, trying so hard not to seem like they’re pretending. He loves the kids – he does, he does, he does; he would do anything in the fucking world for them. There’s not much left that he hasn’t already done. But there’s little comfort to be found here, these days, feeling slow and stagnant and ill-fitting. They want him here, though, all the same. So he visits. And he tries not to feel like he’s lying.)

Torr is lost, as he usually is here, in thought (he can’t get away from it – he steps through Windhelm’s ancient gates and falls backwards through time, falls backwards into his own head), so he’s not expecting impact, sudden and sharp, against his right shoulder. Just under the clavicle. Their clothes are thicker-softer-better here than they ever used to be, but even so they can feel the freezing shock against the scar tissue knotted over their joint – they’re reacting before they even begin to think about it –

Their head catches up to their body before they actually put a hand on their knife, but not before they’ve flinched for it, shoulders curled in, sinking their weight low, one foot shifting agitatedly against the powder-pit of the snow; then Torr blinks, remembers himself, remembers when he is and where he is and that there is a world past the sudden snap of vigilance singing through the thundering of his blood. Blinks again. Looks, over the muddy-trodden surface of the sparkling snow, to Griss; who stands with one arm still raised and one side of a smile pinned on. It seems to be caught in place halfway through slipping away. There is snow on Torr’s jacket sleeve.

(Once, keeping her smile in place was the entire pared-down goal of his life; Torr spares a moment to hate himself, acutely and utterly. Then he moves on.)

Torr knows the steps for this game; knows what to do; knows what they would have done, though not why it used to be so easy, or why it’s so hard now. Griss looks grimacingly like she’s about to apologise for startling them, which is so horrendously not how they talk to one another that the idea stings. Torr crouches – all their muscles still coiled, chest held tight, very unhelpful – to dig a handful of snow from the ground at their feet and fling it in her vague direction. She yelps and dodges with ease, but it fixes the look on her face; she sticks her tongue out at him and ducks down to build up another arsenal, and Torr shakes his head ache-inducingly hard and tries as best he can to wrangle his attention to here and now. The snow is painfully cold against his ungloved hand, but it kind of helps. Makes him feel like he’s here.

When Griss hurls another projectile at him, he has at least the presence of mind to sidestep; she cackles delightedly, and he smiles, thin and dirty-cold as the dusting of snow on his shoulder.

#not. enormously happy with this one #I messed with it so much I can't stand to read it anymore lol. it was way longer but I cut the entire back half bc it felt too...#rambly. pointless. I wanted it neater #I would have liked to refine those later bits and try to make it work but I would have needed more time to let it sit #ah well! c'est la vie! I'm sure I can recycle the rest (it's torr choking on guilt while eating. then choking on guilt while having #the barest bones conversation in the world)#(you get the gist)#tesfest24 #oc tag #torr #my writing #fay writes #microfic #the elder scrolls #tesblr #skyrim #tes

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