Chapter Text
Fari-al-Ilat’s strong, sore arms were finally able to take respite as she finished hauling her last log of the day. The wearied Redguard slumped into the seat at the front of her cart and hung her arms over the edge, with both elbows peeking out, waiting for her breathlessness to subside.
The cart was now heaved and heavy, and destined for Ivarstead, where Temba Wide-Arm, her employer, expected the timber for milling.
Fari beveled her head back to catch a glimpse of the birds passing by far above her. She found the little tufts of feathered nerves unsettling from up close. From far away, however, they were charming enough. Cute, even–though she'd never use that word. Now 'inflamed'... that was a word she could see herself using. She thought it made her sound smart (or, at the very least, in the loop). Yes. Her hand was inflamed from the blisters, and from the tiny cuts now pronouncedly peppering her arms, and, had someone else been there with her, she would've made sure to use that word to let them know that.
Not three months prior, Fari set out from Hammerfell, eager to experience all the places in Tamriel she’d only read about in books. She learned, in dribs and drabs, to expect hardship in her travels, but this latest work she'd taken on was grinding her down to a nub. The bracing, cold air of Skyrim was sweat-freezing, and the work of a logger required very different skills than those she’d been taught to hone from birth. Still, she was thankful to a traveler she’d met in Karthwasten for contacting Temba on her behalf to arrange the details of the job. Each time she swung her axe into a tree, and the resulting vibrations swung right back, Fari reminded herself of the sum of gold waiting for her once the timber was delivered. That sum of gold would see her through on her journey to Cyrodiil, to see the Imperial City.
With a sigh and a crack of the neck, Fari hopped off the cart to pack up her things. She soon discovered that the piece of apple pie she’d packed in her knapsack was being raided by ants who had no qualms about letting her know said piece of pie was no longer hers. With annoyed winces, she brushed them off and examined their bites.
Damn. I’ll have to make a stop in Falkreath to buy some salve.
***
Fari got lost only once on her way to Ivarstead, which she was quite proud of. Brought on by some bandits she'd spotted further down the main road, bandits whom she felt best to avoid, her detour along the winding dirt paths of The Rift led her to ruins unlike any she’d ever seen.
She found them decidedly geometric. Her eyes followed the square stone pillars up to the sky, their intricately adorned carvings and bronze-colored accents like flittering lace that dreamt of being solid metal. These framed the ramps leading up to the ruins' elevated cave entrance, which Fari was quick to inspect. She looked over at the setting sun, let concern gamble on her face only briefly, and began to lead Juniper up the ramp and inside, so they could both settle in for the night.
“It’s been a long day, huh, boy?”
Juniper snorted in agreement.
“You’ve more than earned your head pats and carrots today,” she crooned, as she placed the treat within his reach and stroked the spot between his eyes. Before long, Fari's bedroll called to her, and the sound of carrots crunching and fire crackling blended into one as she drifted off to sleep.
Distant chatter pulled her out of her slumber. Fari shot up out of her bedroll, alarmed, and discovered the voices were coming from deeper within the ruins. The fire smoldered. Juniper was still sleeping. She thought of sneaking out, but was certain the trotting would be heard from a mile away, more so with the strangers' voices growing louder. They were well within earshot then. A deep, quiet exhale was all she could muster before approaching the corner and peeking out at the group that drew near.
Soul gems overflowed from their pockets and shiny jewelry adorned their bruised bodies. It was a group of bandits returning from exploring the ruins. They started their own fire and gathered around it, letting the stories pour from their mouths as readily as cheap mead would in an even cheaper inn. Unsure of what else she could do, Fari sat and waited, resolving to watch them for however long it took until she could safely slip away. To her, there was no more grueling task than that which necessitated patience, but she was no fool. There were five of them and one of her; there was taking risks and then there was risking it all.
Eventually, three of them succumbed to the mead and lay snoring near the flames. Fari looked on, hoping the last two would do her weary eyes a favor and follow suit. No such luck. The bandits' chuckles grew into chortles, and the chortles blended into brief babbles of amusement as they waded through the shallow pool of their inebriation. They were lying parallel to each other on the floor then, on their backs, when their legs began to move of their own accord, weaving into each other as a sun-bathed snake slithers its warm self into the gnarls of the canis root. The Bosmer absent-mindedly played with her companion’s stringy, ashy brown hair. All the while her eyes watched not him, but the smoke rising from the flames to the ceiling above their heads. The glances of him she soon pilfered were furtive, forged in intuition. The Nord's only reply was that uneasy silence–that reverent temperance preceding the loss of pretense.
Fari was certain her own heart was beating no slower than the Bosmer’s when the elf put aside her mindless ministrations to carelessly comb her way through the depths of the Nord's hair. Suddenly, she latched on to its roots–coaxed a small grunt out of him from under her grip as he turned on his side to face her. His hand ventured down her abdomen, seeking to nestle itself between her thighs, a move she welcomed by gently hoisting her body towards him, placing his fingers comfortably within reach of her soaked smallclothes.
He set about the task of wetting her smallclothes further, rubbing the Bosmer’s unkept fervor as the light green skin in her face flushed an olive hue. Her fingers grasped at his scalp like they alone could keep the thin cries from escaping her mouth, though they of course could not. With her other hand, she put pressure on the Nord's chestplate, slightly pushing against him as the movements of his hand grew more intense for a good minute. With an eager frustration, she put an abrupt end to his work, and took hold of his arm. Swallowing him in a breathy kiss, she turned him onto his back and wasted little time in unbuckling the leather straps of his armor, which he helped her cast aside. Fari’s mind was quite concentrated on other matters when said piece of armor flew at her head, though she ducked just in time to let it clang against the weathered wall behind her.
The Bosmer's frail legs fought her as she rose. She slipped her smallclothes from her body, letting them cling on and on to that web of her excitement before it left her trembling skin. Part of her wetness dripped down onto the Nord's leather smallclothes, and he felt himself pulse within them–felt himself drawn to sit up and grab the Bosmer by her thighs. He brought her down onto him with commanding, aroused snarls, and her knees soft approached his hips, coming together to steady her before parting onto the floor at either side of him. Quickly unhooking his leather garment, she exposed him. Burying her face amidst his neck and thick head of hair, she backtracked her hips ever so slightly, and brought him inside.
As the sighs of the man and the moans of the Bosmer filled the chambers of the ruins, Fari watched on, entranced. They rutted against each other, every inch of their tense bodies a place for them to grasp in agony, every facet of their thoughts consumed with their feverish, clumsy, drunken coupling.
She bit her lip. The warmth within her grew unbearably demanding.
But it was no time to do what she felt like doing. The two bandits were thoroughly distracted, and so Fari gathered her things and ran outside as though the wind carried her, setting off to Ivarstead once more. The gold that awaited her there sat vaguely in some neglected corner of her mind.
Notes:
I feel like, in medieval times, it was weirder if you didn't do a lil voyeurism. What else could you spend your time doing? Tending the fields??
Chapter 2: The Mer and the Maid
Chapter Text
Traveling at night was a terrifying ordeal, even more so when venturing into the frigid abyss that was the wilds of Skyrim on a night when Masser and Secunda’s illuminating glow cannot be counted on. Their absence was a blight on Fari's eyes. As they tried and failed to orient her, shapeless figures flashed in her mind, appearing and disappearing in the dark that lay ahead, dancing at first in the distinct shape of something to be feared before melting into every other shadow in her and Juniper's midst. From the night's cradle arose one silhouette that made the noble steed stop in his tracks.
"What is it, boy?" came the whisper from Fari, who knew full well they both tracked the same creature with their eyes. A low hiss confirmed what the barely perceptible glint of fangs had made her fear. Her hand made for her scimitar, but the spider was upon the cart, upon her, much too soon. Beneath the wet breath of its grotesque mouthparts, Fari jerked her shoulders violently, attempting to free herself, the beast having arrested her arms under its weight. A sudden, swift kick from Juniper startled Fari, and sent the insect flying over and above her. She tarried not in feeling for and drawing her weapon, then turned to find the creature crawling back up over the logs of the cart.
She lunged toward it. Two missed swings were all the struggle afforded the spider before Fari plunged her scimitar into its thorax. She pulled her weapon, as well as a pained, plaintive cry, out of the beast as it expired. Apparently dissatisfied with the trouble it had given her in life, however, a green slime burst forth from the creature's wound, spilling all over the cart's cargo. The mere sight, never mind the sound, made Fari gag. She kicked its lifeless corpse off the cart and quickly slid back into her seat, commanding Juniper–as politely as one can command such a thing–to haul ass.
When the dim circle of light created by the cart’s lantern touched upon those all-too-familiar cobbles, Fari breathed a sigh of relief. The sun broke around an hour before the two arrived at the small settlement at the foot of the Throat of the World, where a guard stared her down as she approached on the path, and gave her a warm welcome.
“Stay out of trouble, Redguard,” he said, as he crossed his arms. Being used to such accusatory address when in roam in Skyrim, and feeling far too tired to fight him on it, she kept her reply short.
“I’ll be sure to. Would you happen to know where I can find Temba Wide-Arm?”
He paused for a moment while his tongue disinterestedly traipsed the corners of his mouth. He looked her up and down, then cocked his eyes at the numerous logs in the cart before putting them back on her.
“This is regarding, what?”
He was feeling cute. Fari was feeling significantly less so.
“I have timber. To deliver to Temba. The miller.”
The guard checked his surroundings before approaching the cart and resting his elbows on the front wheel. His eyes, barely visible to her through the holes of his helmet, were the most disconcerting, deep shade of cloudy blue. And they were clearly staring at her chest and face as he spoke.
“You know, even though you’re swimming in that bodice, I wouldn’t mind seeing you pressed up against Temba... that busty wench,” he bitterly added, and Fari instinctively recoiled, pausing every muscle in her face so as to avoid expressing anything, anything at all; she knew the kind of reaction he sought to elicit with his words. Nevertheless, the disgust bubbled within her, just as it had when she saw the frostbite spider’s entrails. She whipped the reins, leaving the guard behind, and composed herself as she stopped further ahead to ask for Temba at the inn.
Pushing the heavy wooden door open, an air rife with the scent of warm spices and toasted bread welcomed her inside. It was a quiet, typical morning in Skyrim, when most folks were already hard at work. Only the innkeeper was there to welcome her from across the room.
“Welcome to the Vilemyr Inn. If there’s anything I can get you, just let me know.”
While walking over to the counter, she counted out five septims. “Actually, could I get some mead? It’s a bit early, but, I’ve had a long night.”
Using the tankard he'd been drying not ten seconds ago, he tapped some mead from a nearby barrel and placed it in her hand. “Aye, I know what that’s like. Here you go. I’m Wilhelm, mind you.”
Fari smiled thankfully, raised the tankard, and, almost as soon as it met her lips, the drink had been devoured. He raised a curious brow her way as he went about his business.
“Thank you, Wilhelm,” she almost burped, as she set the tankard on the counter, and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “Could I ask you where I might find Temba Wide-Arm?”
“I know Temba. Lives here at the inn and owns the sawmill. She told me she was to set off to Riften today. Something about arranging a business deal.” As he spoke, someone else coming into the inn far behind her noticeably caught his eye. “Tell you what. Gwilin there is a good mer,” he said, pointing at the Bosmer, whose back was turned. “Works for Temba. He knows her business better than I. He can tell you more.”
Fari left the counter and sauntered over to the elf, who turned when he sensed her approach from the corner of his eye.
“Hello, my friend. What can I do for you on such a fine day?” chimed Gwilin. Fari couldn’t help but smile at that, and the kind-eyed Wood Elf gave a shy smile in response.
“I’m looking for Temba. Wilhelm says you work for her? Cutting wood at the mill, I’m assuming,” she commented, glancing at the axe in his hand.
“Oh! Yes. I do.” He paused briefly, but it felt rather unjustified. Shaking his head, he resumed. “Sorry. I was just… fixing the fitting here.”
She craned her head to look at the part of the axe he meant to show her. He'd wedged a small piece of wood in a tiny gap between the hole of the axehead and the handle, so it wouldn’t shift in place or fall off as he swung it.
“Looks solid," was all she could think to note.
“Feels solid,” he said, livelier than she, tossing and spinning the handle of the axe in his hands.
“Anyway,” she wished to stay on topic, “Temba?”
“Right, right.” He stopped playing with the axe, put it on the table behind him, and placed his fists on his hips so his arms sat bent. “I’m afraid Miss Temba is in Riften on business. Are you the logger her cousin in Karthwasten wrote about?”
Fari nodded.
“Ah, well, unfortunately, Miss Temba directed some rather… unsavory words at me, which she instructed I share with you upon your arrival.”
“Oh, Divines. I’m sorry.”
“Please, it’s of no matter to me," he shrugged, like it was water off a duck's back.
“Regardless, my apologies to both of you for arriving late. But, she must understand. These forests are so easy to get lost in, especially for someone who’s not from here.”
“Oh, are you from Hammerfell?”
Fari made a pout as she playfully lowered her face and cocked her brow at him, as if to say: seriously? He sheepishly nodded to the side and pursed his lips.
“Perhaps the scimitar and garb should’ve clued me in, huh?”
She let out a small laugh as she crossed her arms and leaned on a nearby beam, feeling comforted by his good humor as he chuckled along with her. Then there was a tiny moment of silence when the chuckles died out.
“Well, then,” he piped up, “How’s about we go have a look at the timber?”
Fari lowered her gaze, with her arms still crossed, then looked back up and nodded. She pushed off from the beam and headed toward the inn’s exit, leaving a respectable distance between herself and the mer, her eyes veering more than once toward his bottom as she trailed behind him. He was sweet. His eager brown eyes told her she could let her guard down. The view from where she was standing was nothing to scoff at. She soon found herself toying with the idea of having a bit of fun with him before taking her leave from the little village.
Chapter Text
Before she knew what had happened, she felt the heat against her thigh.
"Fuck!" Fari cried, and her hand darted to her mouth to obscure any further expletives. Gwilin whipped around to find her trousers drenched in soup.
"I'm... so sorry!" she said to the soup's owner, with an apologetic wave of her hand, as she tried to stifle the nervous grin that overcame her face. She hadn't been looking where she was going, and bumped right into his meal. The man returned a sullen look and left the table, grazing her roughly on the shoulder on his way to replenish his bowl. Gwilin's eyes gleamed with surreptitious amusement.
"Are you–" A small grin possessed him as he reassessed. "Well, clearly, you're not alright."
"Clearly," and she was trying to keep the wet fabric from clinging to her. Wilhelm was already shuffling over with a wash bucket and a rag to clean up the mess.
“How did that happen?" Gwilin wondered aloud, as he stepped around the puddle and gently drew Fari aside with him. She was grateful the question seemed rhetorical, because under no circumstances could she confess what part of Gwilin she'd been appreciating when she ruined that man's breakfast. He gave a warm smile as he gestured toward her clothes.
"You should change. If you want, you can go do that and I'll wash and hang those at the mill for you. There’s good sun next to the river.”
“No, no, that’s okay. I’ll bring them out." Her brow crinkled apologetically at his suggestion, and his mouth made an understanding expression.
“No problem. I’ll be outside whetting the axe, then. Wilhelm lends the inn’s washboard to anyone lodging here, for a few septims. Are you planning on staying the night?” came his question, and his voice rose with it just a little more than he meant for it to. Fari wanted to be polite, even though the soup was wicking its way to her boots.
"Mhm.”
“Oh, wonderful! The night’s sky in Ivarstead is a sight to behold. You’re in for a treat.” As he walked off, he finished speaking. “Meet me outside once you’ve prepared everything for washing your clothes; I’ll show you the best spot in the river.”
With a cheery gait, he swung open the door and headed out. The world was his oyster, alright, and it was also the recipient of every curse Fari could think to throw its way as she sped to the counter, sought out the washboard with Wilhelm, and paid for a night’s stay. In her room, she shed her warrior’s garb and draped a mustard-colored tunic over herself, cinching it around her waist with an indigo sash. She roughly braided her hair as she wandered outside, where she found the Bosmer sitting on a stump, grinding his axe with a worried look on his face.
“Is everything alright?”
He looked up. “I, uh, think your timber might’ve gotten damaged. I was looking it over just now, and the logs on top are crumbly,” he said, rising from the stump to show her, “As though they had wood rot. But, it’s strange. I’ve never seen green wood rot.”
“Ugh. It’s not wood rot, it’s… spider guts.”
Gwilin pouted his lips and furrowed his brow. “Oof. Ran into some trouble on the road?” He grabbed a large chunk of the wood and crumbled it in his hand. “I had no idea frostbite spider entrails could do this.”
“Neither did I,” she sighed, lowering the wash bucket she held against her hip onto the ground. “What am I going to do? Look at this. Half of it is unusable. Temba will never accept these.”
He glanced over at the logs, then back at her, and placed a brief hand on her shoulder. “Hey, hey. No worries, friend. Temba’s not expected back until the morrow. I’m here. What if… what if I accompanied you into the woods and helped you collect more wood to replace these timbers?”
Fari mimed like she was ready to say she wouldn't ask such a thing of a friend, much less a stranger. But then she caught a glimpse of his eyes, set ablaze by the delicate morning sun. They were warm just like it, too, and told her all she needed to know. He wanted to help. No more, no less.
She gave a smile and a nod, the first of which he returned in kind.
“But only because I could never collect all that wood in time by myself.”
“Of course. Who could?”
She picked up the wash bucket then, gesturing for him to lead the way to the riverbank.
***
The mill was a landmark within the small town. Its wide, imposing platform and ramp appeared to have been designed such that even the logs from the tallest possible trees could comfortably be fit and moved about within. Every child raised in Ivarstead had been told by a concerned parent to keep away from the razor-sharp blade of its whipsaw at one point or another. The rushing river’s constant collision with the mill’s water wheel surrounded the structure in a permanent mist that kept alive the soft, moss-covered skin it had acquired from years of operation.
It was precisely this mossy covering that Fari admired while she sat on the stool at the riverbank scrubbing her garments clean. Gwilin accompanied her from higher up; he was seated atop the mill’s platform as they spoke, legs dangling off the overhang.
“Miss Temba chanced upon its proprietorship as a young woman traveling here in Ivarstead. She came as part of a pilgrimage. Quite a few in this town might be surprised to learn she was extremely devout in her youth.”
“What do you mean?” asked Fari, as she wrung out a cloak and glanced up.
“People misunderstand Miss Temba. The stress of her work and the years have hardened her. Most of the townsfolk don’t see her as the kind of person who cares about others, much less about worship.” He paused, fiddling with a small stone in his hands. “But there was a time in her life when she had nothing but new places to see, new people to meet.”
“Sounds like she was in the same place in her life as I am.”
“Aye. But the Divines had other plans for her, it seems. Before she could make the journey up the 7,000 steps, a huge flood struck our little hamlet. This was before I'd settled here, mind you, but the others have told me the story,” he added, interrupting his own line of thought. “And she was swept away by the current. Beaten and bruised. She was bedridden for months. The previous owner of the mill took her in when no one else would. He tended to her, kept her company… he even kept her in contact with her family in Karthwasten, despite his old age. The day came when Temba was all better and he was the one who needed tending.”
He stopped speaking when he noticed Fari had ceased washing her clothes. She was looking back over her shoulder at him, listening intently.
"You know where I’m going with this."
“He wanted Temba to look after the mill after he was gone,” was her reply. Gwilin pursed his lips and gave a solemn nod.
“That’s…” Her mouth lingered. Whatever the thought had been, it escaped her.
“Do you think she did it because she felt indebted to him?”
“I don’t know. Could be. All I know is, in the time I’ve worked for her, she’s only become angrier. Embittered. At the world, I think.”
“Is that why you’re so patient with her? Even though she’s impolite to you? You know, the unsavory words you mentioned.” She resumed her laundering.
“It’s why I try to be a brighter person in general. I tell the travelers and the pilgrims that come through here that I’m so cheery because my father told me to ‘be whoever I wanted to be’ and ‘experience the world’ a long time ago. In truth, it’s because I fear that if I stop to think about the time I’ve spent here and my job too closely… I, too, might become embittered.”
Fari abandoned the washboard again. She slowly turned on the stool to look up at him. “Hmm.”
“What?"
“I’m not sure if this may mean much to you, but, if you've given this as much thought as I think you have… you don’t seem like the kind to grow bitter.”
His eyes hovered around the air, like he was thinking. He grew a little quiet. Fari jostled her hands onto her knees and spun around to face the river. "I wouldn't worry about it, is all I mean," she shrugged. Then she heard him hop off the mill’s floor, landing on the wet gravel below. Her wary eyes watched as he approached her, and planted his feet but an arm’s length away. She waited for him to say what he'd come down for. The words never came.
Instead, he asked if he could sit beside her.
"Your river, not mine," she chuckled. She found it difficult to organize her thoughts with him so close, even though he didn’t say much while she worked. He was too busy delightedly pointing out to her the tiny fish swimming in the water, and doting over the dartwings as they whizzed past them.
When she was done, he helped her lay her clothes out to dry on a pile of halved logs. They set about the task of clearing the damaged timber from Fari’s cart and carrying what was salvageable to the mill so they could venture into the woods. Just as they were about to leave, Fari realized she never formally introduced herself.
“Hey, Gwilin?” she asked, already seated at the front of the cart with the reins in her hands.
“Yes, uh…?” he began, cutting himself off when he realized the same thing. His squinty expression requested she help him fill in the blank.
“Fari-al-Ilat,” she stated simply, as she extended her hand to pull him up into the cart.
Notes:
I'm 100% a Temba apologist
Chapter Text
The sound of the cart’s wheels treading the loose cobblestones hid the grumbling of Fari’s stomach.
“You wouldn’t happen to have brought something to eat, did you?”
The question arose because they’d been traveling for many hours now. They’d crossed the pass between the Jerall Mountains and the Throat of the World, seen Helgen from afar, and were now south of Lake Ilinalta, almost right back to where Fari had been chopping wood the day before. She estimated it was a bit past midday, and cursed herself for only drinking a pint of mead before leaving Ivarstead. Gwilin dug around his knapsack for a good minute, then pulled out a green apple to offer her.
“Sure did! Here you go.”
She tugged on the reins to make Juniper come to a stop. As she plucked the apple from his hand, her fingertips grazed the edge of his palm. Gwilin felt the blood rush to his cheeks then. Rather than let himself lean into the pleasure of his discomfort, he shifted in place and indulged his curiosity about the ant bites he noticed on her skin.
“What happened there?” he asked, pointing at the back of her hand.
“That is why I had to ask you for a snack just now," she said, pausing to glance at the bites. "The ants here must be a third of the size of the ones we have in Hammerfell, but they sting like a scorpion. And they love pie. They crawled all over the piece I was saving, and then all over me when I tried to pick them off.”
“Ah, that’s unfortunate. But I’ve picked up a little trick from the Nords for keeping those ants away. Look.”
Gwilin pulled an olive-colored bundle from his knapsack. A sweet, distinctly boozy smell hit Fari, who put down the apple in her hand in anticipation for what he was about to show her. He unwrapped the bundle’s dishcloth, uncovering a pastry with shimmery, jagged, crispy-looking edges. Its center carried a fruity filling, and there was a little slice of Eidar cheese next to it, too. Fari gave a deep inhale to register its aroma. Her eyes grew wide, as did her hunger.
“Wilhelm taught me just a bit of Eidar cheese is enough to keep those pesky ants from climbing into your food. He says it’s because there’s something about the smell they just can’t stand.”
Fari could no longer hear him. The fruit tart had taken hold of her. Having noticed this, he moved it away.
“Fari, I know what you’re thinking, but, trust me, my friend, this is no ordinary fruit tart. Its saccharine perfume betrays the senses: there’s enough Bosmeri brandy in this thing to tip over an antelope. I can hardly take a bite myself without feeling its–”
Rudeness be damned. Her appetite took precedence. “Clearly you’ve never partied in Abibon-Gora on the First of Midyear. Give it here.”
“Fari, no–gah!” he exclaimed, dodging his arm as she lunged for it and missed. Next, he tried bargaining.
“How’s about you eat the cheese, instead, if the apple isn’t to your liking?”
She stared him down as she pounced again.
“Woah! Wai–no–come on–” he shouted, feigning his arm to and fro with each of her attempts to seize the tart. The cart shook as their scuffle escalated–as she leaned over to get some leverage–and the apple Fari had placed next to her rolled off the cart and down the path a bit. It was then comfortably within reach of Juniper, who voraciously sniffed the fruit before eating it in one bite.
Gwilin could feel the silliness of the situation getting to him. Fari was now practically crushing him under her weight, he knew his arms were too short to keep the pastry away much longer, and they were filling the otherwise quaint and quiet public road with sounds of their squabbling. All over a tart. A chortle brewed within him at first, which soon segued into a silent, chest-twitching laughing fit. Fari snatched the tart from him, content in her victory, but wholly unable to revel in it; he'd curled up and fallen on his side as soon as she'd taken it, waiting for the joy to leave his body.
By the time his laughter was nothing more than bemused cheeps, Gwilin began to notice something else had been stirred within him. Something tumescent. Between his legs. By looking down, his eyes confirmed what his muscles knew, and his anxiety swallowed him whole. Amidst his panic, Fari piped up, glancing over at the curled-up mer with a crumb on the corner of her mouth.
“Sorry for being so brash, but it’s been a full day since I last ate, and this tart is…” She gave a pleased sigh, then took another bite. “Oh, Mother Mara, I think I love this tart.”
He tittered in response, and quickly shifted his focus towards banishing his unwanted visitor. He crossed his legs and sat upright so he wouldn’t seem strange lying there, motionless, on the seat. Then he placed both hands on his highest knee, and looked on with concern for both himself and Fari, who ate the whole tart and had no idea what was coming. He figured she'd soon be so intoxicated, she wouldn't be able to count to ten, much less notice his misfortune.
As they rode on, Gwilin calmed down and, as he expected, Fari grew increasingly tipsy. Her grip on the reins became more relaxed by the minute, and she wouldn’t stop asking him questions and making kissing noises at Juniper.
“Gwilin, I was meaning to ask you. You–you’re a Bosmer. Yet, you had an apple and a fruit tart in your bag.” A sly laugh left her lips. “Heh heh, isn’t that against the Green Paaact?”
He decided to humor her.
“Some Bosmer might see eating plants as blasphemous, but I sure don’t. Every other culture in Tamriel tends the land and harvests crops. They seem to do fine.” He grinned. “And I’m surely not going to deny myself good food. To turn it down would be wasteful, don’t you think?”
“I do. I really do think.” She nodded excessively.
“Besides, aren’t there things people here in Skyrim have expected of you just because you’re a Redguard, that aren’t like you at all?”
As she put her hand on her chin to think about it, the horse veered to the opposite side of the rein she had released, compromising their path. Gwilin reached over and gently took charge of the expedition.
“Mmm, nope. Not really.” She proceeded to lay back and prop herself up by her elbow, with one leg bent and the other hanging off the cart. “My, uh, parents were merchants… raised in Taneth, and skilled warriors, who passed down both trades to me. I’ve never been able to resist a good party. I’ve read The Book of Circles dozens of times.”
She closed her eyes and grinned, imagining the warmth of the Alik’r desert caressing her skin. “And I love the sun. By the Divines, I do.”
Seeing her sit there with her eyes closed and a dopey smile adorning her face made his heart flutter. How heavily he lamented having to interrupt her.
“Hey, Fari, I think we’re here.”
“We’re where?” she asked, drawn out of her state.
“The logging site.”
Fari sprang off the cart and half-ran, half-stumbled toward the clearing. About two dozen tree stumps mottled the ground before them, which was carpeted in pine needles and small ferns. These same ferns also clung to the sides of all the trees, intermingling with the cottony hanging moss attached to their bark.
A ladybug flew past Fari. She gave chase. As she cupped and uncupped her hands, checking each time to see if she'd succeeded in capturing it, Gwilin unloaded the tools from the cart. His eyes couldn't help the occasional glance. Watching her weave her merriment into the forest's humid haze fostered an unusual joy within him.
Fari saw him looking over once she'd frolicked to the opposite end of the clearing, and gestured for him to join her there–an invitation he accepted as he carried the felling axes, the pulp hook, and the chains her way. The nearer he drew, the greater the exquisite detail of her braid and shirt sleeves became. They swirled and spun and came alive in the air each time her heel caught or her arms leapt ahead of her.
“We gotta get it, Gwilin," came her call, as he approached. "Come on, help me get this little guy!”
He knew this was no time for lollygagging. They needed to return to Ivarstead with enough time to sleep. However, he could tell Fari wasn’t going to be much help in her state, and thought what she was doing looked much funner than the chopping and hauling they would eventually have to get around to. He felt his grip on the tools–as well as his resolve to get to work–loosen.
He gave in. Dropped everything on the ground. He ran towards the bug, leapt like a sabre cat, and very nearly caught it.
“Haha, yeah!” Fari exclaimed.
He landed, quickly regaining his posture. They spent the next ten minutes in hot pursuit of the insect. In that time, Gwilin put on quite a show of his agility. He scaled the trees with ease, zigzagged around the stumps, and even hung upside down from the branches when the bug’s location necessitated it. Fari did her best to keep up on the ground. Though she was fleet of foot, the mer was like a damn monkey.
In between breaths, and after letting her torso fall back on a stump, she spoke. “I never had a chance.” She breathed deep. “You’re sober.”
He climbed down from a trunk and jogged over to her, seeming more clownish than he had before getting drawn into her hunt.
“Nuh-uh. I’m drunk on whimsy!"
She sat up in a small fit of chuckles. Gwilin crossed his arms as though he could keep the flattering energy Fari radiated with her bibulous laughter from reaching his heart. Hers was a new emotion altogether, like he'd only really learned what laughter was when he heard hers, and didn't wish to forget.
Suddenly, his eyes locked onto the ladybug. They watched as the creature hovered over Fari’s cheek, then gently landed on it. She hadn’t seemed to notice.
“So now you decide to sit still,” said Gwilin, shortening the distance between himself and the insect.
“What?” responded Fari. He pointed at her cheek with his irises. She just barely spotted the bug in her field of vision.
“Grab it,” she dared him.
Gwilin’s pulse intensified. He took a seat to steady himself. Even in her drunkenness, Fari sensed a change in him. His taupe skin flushed a medium, earthy brown, and his hand trembled as it reached over. She soon felt so self-aware at her request she could’ve screamed, but instead braced herself for his touch.
His hand was cold. The skin of his palm, no doubt calloused from years of axe-wielding, had a rough texture, yet was held against her cheek such that it felt like a feather. Carefully, he pressed it closer, immobilizing the ladybug, then folded his thumb over to pin it against his palm. Neither of them dared look at each other’s eyes. Instead, they both watched his hand until the moment he pulled it away, and Fari immediately stood up.
“Good job. You caught it. Can I, uh... see?”
He stood as well and extended his hand, showing the ladybug wiggling its legs in place. Truthfully, Fari didn't care to see it; she only wished to examine his hands up close, and imagine them pressed against her skin again. Feelings of anxiety flooded into her, as though he could tell what she was thinking, and she took a step back.
“I’m sorry. I’m really tired. I should–I should get some rest. I didn’t sleep through the night yesterday and now I’m feeling a little…” she paused with a strained look, having stammered through the sentence.
“Lightheaded?” he inquired.
“Yes! Yes, exactly.”
“That Bosmeri brandy is no joke,” and a hint of concern was in his voice.
“Right, right. So I’ll just go… lie down. In the cart. Keep Juniper company.”
She walked away quickly, leaving Gwilin standing next to the stump. He waited until he saw her climb into the cart from afar to begin the task of felling the trees on his lonesome. Daylight was waning.
Notes:
Gwilin getting hard from Fari pinning him and realizing he kind of loved it: 😳
Chapter 5: The Missing Peace
Notes:
[The first of a few "vignette" chapters. These occur roughly every five chapters, and can be skipped.]
Chapter Text
Crossing the southern half of the Druadach Mountains to enter Skyrim would’ve taken Fari almost a month without her beloved horse, Juniper, as a mount. As any purebred Yokudan Charger, he possessed a wide, muscular frame and large hooves that made traversing the steep, rocky terrain effortless. His thick neck was just the right size for Fari to tightly wrap her arms around when they descended particularly harsh cliffs, and his large nostrils were well-suited to both the arid, cold air of the mountain peaks and the dry, hot air of the Alik’r Desert.
Memories of the first few weeks Fari had spent in Skyrim trickled into her thoughts as she slept off the Bosmeri brandy in her cart, cradled by the breeze blowing through the needles of the trees around her.
She saw herself someplace that felt familiar, in the way doing a favor for a loved one feels familiar. A sense not of love, nor obligation, cloyed the air, but of something lost in their translation. Later, she'd recall there hadn't been any walls surrounding her. Only a tremulous, negative peace, and the person who either accompanied her through it, or was its originator.
The face of a friend. They looked back at her as though she had smiled at them.
"Look at me."
And Fari tried, but she was scared to.
"That's okay," assented the voice. They turned and began to walk, through what was supposed to be a hallway, and Fari followed as though she'd been taken by the hand. They sat together.
Her friend looked comfortable then. Whatever they'd sat in gave them the countenance of an overindulgent jarl, air of implicit divinity and all. But they did not loom or lord over Fari from their invisible mound of silk pillows and horsehair tassels. They were serene. If this friend of hers was in any way nervous, they were doing an impeccable job of hiding it.
Fari's seating accommodations must have been comparatively modest; she was restless, her back rigid with discipline, her hands folded fearfully in her lap. The friend nestled their chin onto their palm, and grinned at her as they spoke.
"I'm doing well."
Fari said something in reply. A question.
"Well, I just find what I'm looking for. And then I have it."
She said something else.
"Not really."
She nodded politely. Another question.
"Sure, you can help me."
And the friend reached for Fari's wrist, lifting and pulling it toward them. Their touch gifted her muscles with the tranquility that had been so far from her reach until then, and for a moment both of them moved in synchrony. When they let go of her, however, the uneasiness returned. She couldn't do it. She couldn't lower her hand, as they'd invited her to. It lingered just above their inner thigh.
She apologized excessively, embarrassed for feeling embarrassed; something about her mind being braver than her cowardly flesh.
"I don't mind," they interrupted, cutting off her self-indictment. Then they fixed their eyes on her, like she was still welcome to touch them if she felt it would put her at ease. "There are others," they mused.
But the part of her she wished she could cut away from herself wanted to be the only one. The only one...
"Fari!" scolded an incredulous voice, and peace truly fled the pair.
She stood to face this voice. It was her mother.
"What?" she responded meekly. Tears came to Isaf's eyes.
"What are you doing here? Why are you doing this?"
"I'm not doing anything..." was all Fari could think to respond, as she lowered her head. But she knew that wasn't true. What she'd been doing was everything.
"You were talking just like them. I heard you," she spat. The sorrow in her eyes vanished. Disgust soon took its place, and her mouth gestured accordingly. "I always knew there was something off about you."
"No, I wasn't, I'm not, I promise, I would never–" and she went on in this manner, trying to obscure the sun with a single hand, the pitch of her voice rising to new heights with each line she regurgitated, until the view of the back of her mother's head tired her, and her feet no longer felt the need to chase, and she finally turned her attention back to the person she'd left behind.
They were gone. She would not soon find them again.
She awoke calmly in the cart. She was tired, like she always was after having that dream. She rolled over and went back to sleep.
Chapter 6: To Shear and Shoot the Breeze
Chapter Text
Once Fari was fully settled in for her nap, Gwilin held up his hand to have a look at the ladybug. Watching it wiggle its legs in a fruitless effort to gain traction struck him. He mused for a moment that his struggle was not unlike the ladybug’s. That he was battling a similar force, a thumb, of sorts, that had delicately captured him, and did not allow him to take flight. When he raised his thumb, the insect righted itself and took off.
That marked the difference between the bug and himself, he thought. In its position, he was not so certain he would fly off, but instead seek refuge in the thumb’s comforting grasp; he would tolerate a momentary discomfort if it brought with it the promise of intimacy. And he had.
Those seconds when his hand was on Fari’s skin were all he could think about as he struck the trees with his axe. From where he'd drawn the courage to place it there, he was not sure. Every muscle in his body fought him every step of the way: pulling, tearing, gnawing at his will. He wondered if she thought his hand too cold, for he knew all his blood had drawn away from it in order to feed his nervous little heart. How enamored he was by the color of her skin, which he relived in his mind. It was rich in depth, like a dark red clay, yet shiny. Little patches on her cheeks and forehead suggested how often the sun had graced them. The rest of his afternoon was spent in this way, reveling in all the little details he had registered from their encounter.
***
The ten trees he felled had taken hours to cut down, but Gwilin was so preoccupied it felt like no time had passed at all. He looked up and noticed it was nearing dusk. He’d likely be working into the night.
He headed over to the cart to get his coat in anticipation of this, only to discover that Fari had commandeered it. It was much too small for her to wear, so she had awkwardly draped it over herself. The sight made him more than a little giddy. Fari shifted in her sleep, stirred by his suppressed chuckle.
“Hey,” she said, blinking to adjust her eyesight.
“Hello there."
She sat up. The coat fell off her as she stretched. She inquired about his conspicuous amusement in that slightly hoarse voice that persists after a good nap.
“What are you smiling about?”
“I wasn’t sure if you made the coat look small, or if the coat made you look big,” he jested. She glanced at the garment, then back at him.
“I tried to put it on, but I could hardly get it around me. And the arms,” she referenced both of his limbs with her eyes, “…your arms… they’re really short.”
“You know, Miss Temba says the same thing.”
“Woah," her head shot up, “It’s almost nightfall. How are we going to–”
She spotted the ten tree trunks which littered the ground throughout the clearing. She put one foot on the ground, and kept the rest of her body balanced on the cart as she turned and spoke.
“Did you fell all those on your own?”
“That I did. And, don’t worry,” he said, raising his palm dismissively before crossing his arms, “It was a breeze.”
“Still, I should’ve helped you.” There was a brief moment where she stole a glimpse of his hand, which was cozily ensconced in his bicep. Gwilin peeked down at it himself, then gave her a little smirk. The words came quick as her face flushed.
“It was a nice nap, though.”
“Don’t fret. You can still help me delimb, and cut the trunks into logs. I’m sure you’ll work better now that you’re rested.”
She made a little noise as she gave her final stretch. Taking Gwilin’s coat in her hand, she slid off the cart and offered it to him.
“Sounds like a plan.”
When they first began to shear the bark from the trees, a sepulchral silence accosted them. Fari soon inquired about the need for it, and before long they were both swapping stories amidst their grunts and the beads of sweat that born them. Gwilin recounted how he was deathly afraid of worms as a young elf, and that his father would even chase him around with one occasionally when he misbehaved.
“My siblings loved to tease me about it. We lived on a farm, after all, it wasn’t uncommon to stumble into a worm every now and again.”
“A farm in Valenwood?”
“Nope. I’ve never been to Valenwood, actually. Our farm is near a little town called Kvatch, in Cyrodiil, to the West. Have you heard of it?”
She shook her head.
“It was devastated during the Oblivion Crisis. Used to be a big city, back in its heyday–”
“Hold on, what would you do that merited being disciplined with worm-chasing?”
He responded with but a grin, mischievously declining to elaborate. In spite of his wiles, Fari carried on with her limb-cutting.
“You outgrew your fear, at least.”
“Bah, I was sixteen then. Still a child, after all. I had to get over it if I was to help my father with the farm work.”
“Well, I’ve been scared of wormmouths since I was a little girl.”
“You can’t compare being scared of a worm to being scared of a wormmouth. They have those teeth, and… those talons.” He gritted his teeth and grimaced at the thought.
“Sure, but, they’re not much bigger than a skeever. A few people in Hammerfell even keep them as pets.”
“Didn’t know that. I've only ever seen them in books. They look terrifying on paper. Are there a lot of them in Taneth?”
“I wouldn’t know. My parents lived in Taneth up until southern Hammerfell was recaptured from the Thalmor, but they moved to Stros M’kai right after, since the city was laid to waste. That’s where I was born.”
“Ah. What made you decide to come to the mainland?”
She paused.
“I’d lived on that island my whole life. As far as I knew, Mundus began and ended on its shores. So, when I turned twenty and became of age, I told my parents I was going to know Tamriel firsthand, starting with the rest of Hammerfell. Spent two years visiting most of the major cities there. I was in Dragonstar just before crossing over to Skyrim a few months ago.”
“You’re fortunate. My father would never have let me leave the farm to do that.”
Fari let out a little laugh. “Right after avowing my plans, my mother said there was no way I was going to travel through Tamriel all alone, and my father agreed with her. Later that night, though, he snuck into my room and woke me. He gifted me his garb and scimitar from his days of battling the Thalmor. Then, he gave me his blessing. All he asked was–”
She stopped herself with an irked grin.
“What? All he asked was what?”
“Uh, heh, he asked that I bring home an in-law… you know how parents are."
Gwilin gave a quick glance at the ground.
“My dad... passed before he ever pestered me over that, so I’m not too familiar with the feeling.”
She gave him a troubled look.
“Oh, it’s no cause for concern. He was old. I was thirty-five at the time, so I think he must’ve been about... two hundred and twelve? It was his time.”
“Wait, how old are you now?”
“Just turned forty-six a month ago. Wilhelm threw me a damned good party.”
“Wow. I mean, I knew elves lived for a long time. Still, it’s kind of shocking to hear and, well, see. You look so young. Or, you are so young, I suppose. Gah.” She was stumbling through her words. “I’m not being insensitive, I hope.”
“You aren’t... but I wouldn’t press the issue,” he falsely chided. When Fari’s face froze, he laughed to let her know she was in on the joke, and she breathed a sigh of relief. As did he. He'd succeeded in concealing how flattered he felt by her comment.
They continued their labor, making quick work of the timber, and taking the occasional break to horse around. Soon enough, and after the sun had retired, they had readied everything for transport. Fari lamented when the time came for her to take hold of and whip the reins that set them in motion. It meant she had to keep her eyes on the road when she knew intimately that they would've preferred to wander elsewhere. To Gwilin's slender neck, the sharp lines of his ears, the sly warmth of his smile...
Chapter Text
On nights like the one Fari and Gwilin shared on their ride back to Ivarstead, where the stars took center stage in the absence of the clouds, Fari remembered her mother. They were exactly the kind of nights she would spend resting her head on her lap outdoors, amongst the sands, near a warm fireplace, listening to her sing the stories most parents would tell their children in prose. Fari would provide the subjects, and her mother would improvise a story and an accompanying tune. She picked up this ability herself as the years passed, and, whenever she felt particularly lonely on her travels, she'd create melodies that harkened her back to Stros M’kai, and to her mother’s arms.
They did not speak much on the way. It was partly due to Fari being consumed by such thoughts, and partly due to the fact that Gwilin was exhausted from the day’s work. When they approached the stone bridge leading into Ivarstead, marking the end of their quest, he let out a yawn, then slumped over sideways in his seat. Eyes closed, he spoke playfully in a weak voice.
“I’ve died. I’m afraid you’ll have to carry me indoors.”
Fari let out a skeptical chuckle as they pulled up next to the inn. “Oh, will I?”
He nodded.
“Nice try, Gwilin. Come on, let’s go settle in for the night.”
As they drew near the inn together with short, heavy steps, the sounds of festivity became barely perceptible. Fari was enthralled by the mirth they carried, by their warmth and richness calling her as if by name. She swung the door open, and the thick wooden walls of the inn no longer shielded her from the bustling of its interior. A fresh-faced bard was inundating the cozy common area with a lively tune as folks shared drinks and tales in the tables on opposite ends of the long hearth. The drunkest farmhands, artisans and milkmaids raised their tankards and heartily greeted the pair as they walked by, eliciting smiles from them both.
Amidst the cup-clinking and scuffs of dancing feet on stone floors, they approached Wilhelm at the counter. He tapped two pints of mead from the barrel behind him as they came closer, and greeted them with gaiety.
“Ah! Glad to see you both return! Here, have some Black-Briar mead. Only three septims.”
Gwilin hesitated to pick up the pint, unlike Fari, who immediately took a swig, and dared him to do the same. He cautiously sipped from his tankard as he turned from the revelry to speak.
“Say, Wilhelm, what’s got everyone in such a festive mood?” he said, nearly shouting, so his voice could be heard.
“Fastred and Bassianus Axius are to be wed,” he shouted back. “We’re celebrating the beginning of their new life together.”
Fari set her empty tankard on the counter and motioned for Wilhelm to pour her another. “A wedding party? That’s great, I’ve never been to a Nord wedding party!”
There were stars in her eyes. Gwilin gritted his teeth and returned a slight frown.
“Certainly, I’m happy for Fastred and Bassianus. I’m just concerned about the noise, is all. I was hoping to get some rest.”
Wilhelm let loose a suggestive laugh. “You’re not getting any sleep tonight, my friend!”
Fari whooped at his words and carried her just-filled tankard over to one of the long tables, where she sat down and struck up a conversation with the people there. Gwilin looked down at his own pint and thought to himself.
Well, if I pass out, I can’t be bothered by the noise.
And down the hatch his drink flowed.
Gwilin was not like himself at all throughout the night. Normally, he would not imbibe more than one or two drinks, but he made a promise to himself early on in the festivities that he would share a dance with Fari before the night was over, and this required a form of courage he could not otherwise make course through his veins.
Meantime, Fari made her frequent visits to the mass of partygoers on the open floor, watching their steps with unflinching attention as she went about imitating them. She did so unsuccessfully, yet an unparalleled grace marked her efforts. Where the Nord dance required a sideways gallop, Fari followed along, wholly inimitable, her hips swiveling from side to side where others’ would remain fixed in place, her feet taking on a life of their own in lieu of keeping up with those beside her, and her arms swinging to the sides like daggers, their swift, jerky movements the lure that drew Gwilin's eye. There must’ve been thirty people packed in the tiny inn, but all he could see was the amber-eyed maiden who breathed life into the room with her being.
***
The party had persisted for a few hours when Bassianus politely asked the guests for a chance to speak. Everyone gathered in two rows on either side of the fire while he addressed them with his future wife at his side. Her arms sat wrapped around his waist. He'd laid an arm dotingly over her shoulder. In his left hand, he held two amulets of Mara.
“Thank you all for your attention. As is Nord tradition, my love and I will now burn the very amulets we wore when we still had not found each other. Let this signal the end of our quest for love, and the beginning of countless others."
The crowd stood silent as he handed Fastred her amulet, and both of them approached the hearth with the artefacts dangling from their fingers. They closed their eyes, silently recalling the aimlessness that once clouded their hearts, and then they were open again, and they'd released the amulets into the flames together, and they were basking in their light. The wood burned. Its errant embers lilted through the air. These surrounded them as their lips met, as each lost the other in their gentle embrace.
There came a brief cheer from the guests, who quickly dispersed. But the music did not resume, and the mead no longer flowed. Wilhelm began to straighten the chairs and collect dishes. Drunkards dutifully paid their tabs. People lined up to bid their well-wishes to the couple. And Fari was utterly puzzled.
She approached the bard, who was putting away her lute. The woman introduced herself as Lynly Star-Sung, and explained to her that once the couple being celebrated burns their amulets, it signals the end of the festivities.
“That’s too bad,” she began, breaking eye contact so her politely saddened eyes could gleam the ground. “In Hammerfell, wedding parties are a three-day event. And drinks are on the house,” she added, with a chuckle.
Lynly smiled, like the words had vaguely amused her, then shrugged. A few seconds of thought held Fari’s attention before she spoke again.
“Lynly, would it be alright for me to ask the couple if I could continue the celebration? To resume the music?”
“I don’t see why not. Don’t count on me to perform, however. I’m not against the idea. Just awfully weary from hours of playing.”
“I understand. It’s a well-deserved rest. Yours was a wonderful performance.”
“You’re sweet,” she beamed.
“I have an idea, though. Thank you for your help, Lynly."
Having gotten the couple’s approval, Fari ran over to Gwilin. He was twelve tankards in, which, for a Bosmer, was just enough to feel significantly swayed by the mead's charms, yet retain the urge to party.
“Fari! You danced amazing out there. Your move like a fish in water,” came his slightly slurred speech.
“Thanks. Gwilin, I have a plan, and I would ask your help.”
He tilted his head slightly to the side, then nodded.
“You see that barrel over there? It’s empty. Wilhelm tapped its last mead. I need you and him to bring it near the hearth and place it upright. Can you do that?”
Without skipping a beat, he rose from the bench and joined Wilhelm behind the counter. While they did as she asked, the guests’ attention was drawn towards the grumbles of the barrel being rolled over. They huddled near Fari as she removed her boots, and stared at her. She rose tentatively to address them.
“Hello, everyone. I’m Fari… I just wanted to share something with you all, as thanks for all you've shared with me,” she sported a thankful smile, “And as a wedding gift for Bassianus and Fastred,” she added, looking over at them.
“I wish to perform a dance from my homeland. From Stros M’kai.” She gestured towards Gwilin as he stood with his hand on the barrel. “Gwilin here –you all know Gwilin– he’ll be dancing with me.”
When she drew close enough that their exchange could be private, Gwilin inquired uneasily.
“We’re going to dance? Together, you and I?”
“Yes,” she responded, with false confidence. “You’ll be playing the drum, and I’ll respond to the rhythm you create.”
That would've confused him even if he weren't drunk.
“Fari, what, uh… what drum will I be playing?”
“The barrel. Duh.”
His face said "...oh!". Then it flushed with uncertainty.
"I don’t… I’ve never played a drum before.”
“That’s alright. I’ll teach you. Here.”
She took a nearby stool and dragged it behind him, then urged him to sit. Standing at his back, she took both his hands, placing them over the top of the barrel, with their palms facing downwards. The proximity of their wrists ignited their rapid pulses. She cupped each of his apprehensive hands in her own as she showed him the pattern to follow. Slowly at first, she guided him: right, left, right, left, right, right. Then, the motions quickened: Right, left, right, left, right, right. Almost whispering in his ear, she advised him.
“Use the tips of your fingers when you strike, and strike hard. You want a short, deep sound.” Her puffs of breath thrusted into his every pore. He gave a nervous, uncertain nod as she lifted her hands off him, leaving him in charge of the barrel.
“Remember,” she said, looking straight into his eyes as she pulled away into the open space ahead of them, “This dance is a conversation. Say something worth replying to.”
The percussive sound escaping the barrel was dissonant, at first. Fari humorously mirrored the discordant beats he produced while they adjusted to each other’s rhythm. Soon, they were in sync, and Gwilin’s drumming would correspond almost exactly to Fari’s body movements. He improvised his strikes well, she thought, but not well enough. No matter what he concocted, she was always one tenth of a second ahead of him, shifting her hip or stopping her leg just as he tried to pull the rug out from under her with his playing.
The hollow drumming rung out loud in the quiet inn as Gwilin sped up. Everyone watched them as if in a trance. Fari held in her hands an invisible skirt which she swam through the air with. She would hold it up high, then dip it so low it would almost touch the floor, then quickly right herself and dance in place, her feet hitting each note the dazed elf struck. The guests couldn’t believe what they were seeing. It was like she read his mind, or he read hers, though Gwilin knew it had to be the former. He may as well have been swept up in river rapids, at the rate his pulse was going in order to keep up with her. But the very water that threatened to suffocate him also kept him afloat, gasping for air, yearning for more.
Finally, he dealt a harsh blow to the drum, producing the thunderous noise that ended their dance. Fari gave a dramatic bow to accompany it, and held her position while she caught her breath. Gwilin’s head was ringing from the adrenaline. He swore he would pass out.
The crowd looked on in silence.
Recovering from her breathlessness, she leapt towards Gwilin and hugged him with boisterous laughter. Though he wanted nothing more than to hug her back, the extra heat radiating off of her was smothering him, so he just sat there feeling like a potato that was about to burst.
Only upon releasing him did it suddenly dawn on Fari that the inn’s patrons were no longer looking at them. Quite a few were gawking. Glaring, even. Her eyes began to well, and she felt herself become small.
Notes:
For those who are curious, the style of dance described in this chapter is based on a kind of music and dance called Bomba. You can two examples of it here: Link 1 (Instagram) Link 2 (Instagram)
I headcanon Stros M'kai as being situated in a similar cultural context as the Caribbean, so I just felt like it fit so well :D
Chapter 8: The Morrow's Mend
Chapter Text
Exhausted, Gwilin shifted in bed at the sounds of a large spoon scraping a pot outside his door. He furrowed his brow and slowly opened his eyes, his face still buried in his pillow. He became extremely aware of the fact he was awake, and sat up slowly, reluctantly. Somehow, he thought, he had made it to bed last night. Strands of his long, auburn hair obscured his face as he rose and used the wall to steady himself on the way to his door. Upon opening it, the smell of a hearty soup invited itself into his lungs. He rubbed his eyes, then brushed his hair back as they came into focus on Wilhelm.
His friend motioned for him to come join him next to the pot he was stirring. Gwilin ate straight from the wooden bowl Wilhelm had handed him; half-consciously sipped his soup as he sat.
“Good morning. Thank you,” he said, after getting a few quiet sips in.
“That was some show you and that Redguard girl put on yesterday.”
“Fari,” he nearly exclaimed. “Is she safe? D-did she get to sleep?”
“Yeah. She’s still sleeping. Over there.” Wilhelm pointed to the door of the room she had rented.
“That’s good.” He took another sip. A thought brewed on his face.
“How did I get to bed? I can hardly recall anything after Fari’s dance ended.”
“You passed out as soon as she let you go. You really don’t remember?” He let out a small laugh as he brought the ladle to his lips, as he ate directly from the pot. “She had to carry you to your room. I would’ve done it myself, but, it looked like she needed the excuse to get away from the guests.”
“How do you mean?”
“Not everyone took too kindly to your… dance.” Wilhelm struggled greatly in choosing this word. “It was strange. Like a Daedra had possessed you both. Didn’t look like everyone’s reaction sat well with her.”
“Oh, no. That’s awful.”
“It was,” said Wilhelm, turning his irises away. Gwilin furrowed his brow at him for but a moment. Then came the accusatory tone.
“Say what you mean, Wilhelm.”
“I just… it–it wasn’t dancing. It was like a ritual. Like you were both trying to summon Sanguine or something. It bordered on obscenity.”
Gwilin shot up out of his stool. “How can you say that?” he huffed. “Were you there? Did we see the same person perform?”
“Maybe it was different from where you were sitting,” replied Wilhelm, raising his hands to either side so as to avoid confrontation. He gestured toward her door as he finished speaking. “I didn’t mean to insult you, or her.”
He sat back down with a scoff.
“Gwilin, come on. I’ll even apologize if–”
“No, no,” he interrupted, as the irritation left his voice. "I’m sorry. I–I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”
They both ate in silence for some time, until the creak of a door drew their attention. It was Fari. Gwilin greeted her with a smile from where he sat.
“Morning," she said with a yawn. "You made soup, Wilhelm?”
He grinned and gave a single nod. Gwilin offered her some and served it up as she came over. She took the bowl, gave its contents a deep sniff.
“Mmm. Smells wonderful, Wilhelm. Thank you.”
Wilhelm gave some vague acknowledgment of her words, then promptly excused himself to do chores, leaving the two friends alone with the pot.
Fari brought the first spoonful to her lips. The soup flowed atop her tongue, soothing and replenishing. Its fat sought every corner of her mouth, fought playfully to subdue the freshness the dill kept pushing forth. But the pleasant warmth of it began to change. Began to move. Back, back into her head, all the way to her neck, then up behind her eyes, where the warmth became a heat that built and pooled, utterly demanding in its discomfort. She fought back her tears.
“Hey,” gently rose Gwilin's voice, "What...?"
“I heard you and Wilhelm. When you talked about me earlier."
“Oh,” he replied, turning his head away for a moment. “Then you heard what he said.”
Her lip quivered as she nodded and looked at the ground. Gwilin hunched over with his elbows on his knees so his head could meet hers.
“Fari, Wilhelm doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Do you know who he sounded like when he said all those things?”
She shook her head.
“Like every other person in this town. Like one of Ulfric Stormcloak’s cronies. Do you think the people here yesterday stopped for a minute before judging you to think about how politely you received their song and dance? Why couldn’t they do the same?”
She raised her gaze. Looked back at him with muffled dejection as her mouth tried to form the words.
"What got to me was that no one would say anything. They just stared, like they were waiting for me to admit it was all a big joke.”
Gwilin’s hesitant hand reached for hers, but she moved it away. He shrunk back a little, then rested both hands on his knees, squeezing them hard with his fingers as he spoke.
“I… loved dancing with you, Fari. The entire time, I could barely think to myself, my mind raced so fast, but, I knew would have danced with you until I could no longer bear it.” He let out a little laugh as his index finger sought out her chin–gently suggested she hold her head up to meet his eyes.
"And I did, didn't I?"
She lit up at his words, unable to remain sorrowful with that little grin of his looking back at her.
“That, you did," she conceded. "That you did..." Without warning, she stealthily pushed him, almost making him lose his balance on the seat.
“I thought you were going to have a heart attack and die right then and there.”
“But you still hugged me?” he whined jokingly. “I was suffocating, Fari. I could’ve gotten heatstroke!”
She suppressed her laughter as she brought another spoonful of soup to her lips. Afterwards, she set her bowl down on her lap, shifting towards him with uncertainty.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have imposed myself like that. On the guests, I mean. I loved dancing with you, too, Gwilin, but… we aren’t in Hammerfell. I don't know what I expected.” He listened solemnly.
“You know, I sort of had it set in my mind that, in my travels, if I ever needed a break from the ogling, or the talking-down, or any of the endless misunderstandings I felt at the hands of strangers, I could count on finding a fellow Redguard to talk with who sees things like I do. Whose experiences mirror my own.”
“I can appreciate that. Life here in Ivarstead wasn’t easy for me for a long time. Wilhelm and I are best friends now, but he didn’t trust me when I first got here. He wasn’t outwardly rude or anything, but he treated me differently. Like a thief... and a liar." He shrugged. "That’s what most people see when they look at us. So, whenever another Bosmer comes into town, we have a great time together. Go on a hunt, share a tart like the one you ate yesterday,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“But I was wrong, Gwilin,” she interjected, and she took his hand. “You’re nothing like me. I can’t imagine your life in Kvatch anymore than you can mine in Stros M’kai. Yet, you agreed to dance with me last night. You defended me to Wilhelm. Why?”
He knew why, but he couldn't allow the truth to traipse past his lips. He carefully thought through what he was going to say.
“Because I’ve spent the better part of the last day and a half with you, Fari, and you haven’t given me any reason to think you’re violent or barbarous or any of that other nonsense I’ve heard others say about Redguards. Just a little foolhardy. And a lot of fun," he added, all too puckish. He smiled as he leaned back into his chair, stretched his legs out in front of him, and rested his forearms on top of his head. “Also, I should hope I’m smart enough not to impose on you the kind of presumptions that’ve been imposed on me.”
Fari didn't respond. Instead, she nodded and continued to eat her soup, seemingly meditating on his words. Gwilin felt his anxiety creep up on him. He began to play with his thumbs. Occasionally, he’d look at her, but then stare at the fire under the pot of soup if she tried to reciprocate. A few minutes later, and he gave his shirt a sniff and made a face.
“Oh, yeah.” He nodded to himself. “I need to change. I’ll be back.”
He went into his room and shut the door. Fari breathed a sigh of relief. Gwilin’s words rang true to her, she was just glad she no longer had to pretend she hadn’t noticed how smelly he was.
Chapter Text
Gwilin retained his composure as he shut the door behind him. Once he did, he leaned against it and had a little fit, folding and unfolding his arms and bringing his hand to and away from his forehead.
“Oh, that poor girl’s nostrils,” he muttered to himself, disconcerted, as he began to pace the room.
Bosmer were known for being sleek and small-framed. How an unassuming, slight body like theirs could produce such an acrid odor was beyond him, but, as he came to learn once he left the family farm, any who spent more than a few hours with him as he worked would comment on it. Wilhelm was used to this, as was Temba, though she still gave him a hard time over it. When they were out in the woods, Kynareth’s winds were his saving grace. In the confines of the inn, however, he surmised it must’ve been a potent brew he concocted, indeed.
I need to bathe.
He shed his shirt, removed his boots, and pulled some fresh clothes from his nightstand. He felt calm enough as he opened the door to step out, but then his eyes met Fari's; her stare landed on him as soon as he emerged. She was not expecting him to be shirtless, and though she desperately tried to remain focused on his face, her eyes veered repeatedly towards his torso. She did such a terrible job of dissimulating this that Gwilin felt more than a little exposed. She wanted to turn away–not make him feel any more self-conscious than she already had–but her head and body were frozen, like an elk scanning nearby bushes for predators.
“I’m going to go bathe in the river. Um. Bye.”
And he nearly sprinted out of the inn.
Fari brought both hands up to cover her face as soon as he was gone. That’s how she got to feel how hot her cheeks had gotten from blushing. Before she could even scold herself for so childishly indulging her curiosity over Gwilin’s physique, a man burst through the inn’s door, startling her.
“Miss! Helgen’s been attacked! Burned to the ground at the hands of a dragon!” His exhaustion brought him to his knees.
“Woah, woah, woah. What?” she exclaimed.
“A dragon… it swooped down and laid waste to it all…” He couldn’t even lift his head to face her, his breathing was so heavy. “Almost no survivors…”
Hearing the commotion, Wilhelm rounded a corner and came near.
“Easy, now. Breathe, friend.”
Fari and Wilhelm tended to the man as he recuperated, brought him water to drink and bread to eat while he gathered the strength to speak again. The words he shared left them aghast. He was a traveling trader, he said, on his way to Helgen to try to sell some of his wares to the soldiers stationed there. He was denied entry by the Imperial guards at the gate, who mentioned some executions were underway. Just then, a frightful beast descended from the sky.
“It was black as unfathomable depths… so sharp it may as well have had knives at its back! The air from the flapping of its wings shook the trees with such violence. And when it landed…” he paused, evidently haunted by the memory, “...I swore the ground had opened beneath me...”
He knew the town had been reduced to rubble, and did not look back the whole way he ran to Ivarstead. His fear was too great; it felt to him as though the heat from the flames and from the dragon’s shouts had chased his back for miles.
Gwilin returned to find his two friends huddled around the stranger where he lay on the floor, with his head rested on a bedroll and his body covered with a quilt. He wrung out his hair and warmed himself near the fire as the three of them caught him up on what had happened.
“What should we do?” he asked, once they had.
“We can’t do anything,” replied Wilhelm, “Except hope Ivarstead isn’t next.” He then lifted the man off the floor, rose with him in his arms. “This man needs rest,” he began, as he adjusted his grip. “I’ll take him to one of the empty rooms so he’s not out here scaring away any guests.” And away he carried him.
Fari shifted on the floor, wrapping her arms around her right shin and leaning the left side of her body into the large, wide stone that separated the fire of the hearth from the inn’s floor. From where she was sitting, Gwilin appeared rather worried. She patted the spot in front of her.
“Come sit.”
He slid down onto the floor, brought his knees to his chest, and crossed his arms over them.
“What do you make of all this?”
“I’m not sure. Honestly, I thought dragons only existed in legends. I remember hearing a few stories in Karthwasten about dragons being spotted out in Morrowind, but, from what little I’ve read about the place, I assumed it was just some leftover anomaly from the fall of the Tribunal. Now I'm thinking it's no exception.” She lowered her head skeptically. “Assuming, that is, that his words aren’t simply the ravings of a mad man.”
“Oh, he’s telling the truth. I saw the columns of smoke to the Southwest while I was at the river. It certainly looks like they’re coming from Helgen.”
“Hmm. All we can really do is wait, then. Hope the Divines bear favorably over us."
“Yeah.” He furrowed his brow and looked to the side, producing a puzzled expression. “Say, I wonder where Temba might be. She was supposed to return near dawn.”
“What was she doing in Riften, anyway?”
“She was hashing out a business deal with the most well-known family in the city. The Black-Briars. You’ve heard of them?”
“Sure, yeah,” she turned her hand palm-side up, gesturing at him with her thumb and finger. “They make that mead I’ve seen being sold all over here in Skyrim. Even in the little taverns on the roads.”
“Yup, that’s them. Apparently, they’re looking to buy lumber for the meadery’s expansion. They need wood to construct the new boiler room, the brewing platforms, aging barrels, carts for transport… It’s a great opportunity. And it brings with it a lot of coin.”
“Which is good for you. And for me, now, I guess.”
“That’s if she sealed the deal, which I sincerely hope she did. Miss Temba doesn’t take her losses well,” he said, with a pout and a shake of the head.
Gwilin gave a brief shiver, as though he felt a chill. His hair was still damp, and there were little dark spots on his shirt wherever it had absorbed the droplets that he'd had all over his shoulders. He raised his hands above the top of the stone, at eye level, so he could catch the drafts of warmth coming from the fire. Goosebumps dotted his arms, drew Fari's eye as she watched the light dance across his weathered hands.
“You chose an awful time to bathe. This time of morning, that water must be freezing,” she said.
“Ah, it wasn’t so bad. Narfi was bathing, too. He kept me company,” he responded, his face and hands turned toward the fire.
“Narfi?”
“He lives on the other side of the river. Maybe you noticed him when you first came into town. He likes to stand near the riverbank and look at the water for hours.” He glanced over at her. “His sister went missing about a year ago. Poor guy hasn’t been the same since. All he does is ask folks if anyone knows when she’s coming home.”
Fari’s hands reached for her heart.
“Wilhelm and I are pretty sure Narfi’s sister is gone, y’know?” He shared a knowing look. “We look after him. Give him food and make sure his house is clean enough. He’s harmless, really. You should meet him before you go.” He paused abruptly, having distressed himself with the thought.
"If, uh, if you get the chance, that is.”
“Right. Before I go.”
She remembered with a somber spirit that her plan was, ultimately, to reach the Imperial City; to leave Gwilin behind.
Notes:
Narfi and Gwilin are bffs <3
Chapter 10: A Done Deal
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Gwilin and Fari spent the whole morning between the mill's whipsaw and the cart, halving and arranging the logs they'd brought. Neither of them knew for certain when Temba would return, and they didn’t want to be caught idling, when she did.
For Gwilin, who was used to doing such work by himself while Temba was off arranging business deals or doing maintenance work, it was a relief to be able to count with the help, even if it was from a novice. He was forthcoming in teaching Fari all those things Temba had only reluctantly passed on to him about milling. She was a quick a study–that much, he couldn't deny. She paid close attention, was more than willing to get her hands dirty, and asked questions every chance she got. It reminded him of what he was like when he'd first started as Temba's apprentice. Unlike himself, however, Fari wasn't afraid to interrupt him if she felt he was trying to explain to her something she already knew. She was blunt, but never curt. He liked that. Kept him on his toes.
Fari, meanwhile, gained a newfound appreciation for what he did, for the patience and focus it entailed. She thought it draining, hopelessly tedious work, which is why she wouldn't stop pestering him with questions as they did it. More than anything else about the way he went about his labors, she noted he had an exceptional eye for detail, was almost prescient in his ability to anticipate problems before they arose. She also noted how kindly he guided her in learning to do the same.
They were heaving a log up the ramp when Fari all but grunted through her words:
"You’ll never guess this one. What can you fill a sack with to make it weigh less?”
He gave as much of his attention to solving the riddle as possible, given the fact he was trying to control his breathing in his struggle to haul the log over to where it needed to be.
“Surely, you jest,” he said, and he gave a sharp inhale as he strained. “If you fill it with something, it has to weigh more.”
“Just give your best guess!”
“Alright. How about air? Is it air?” he proposed.
They dropped the log off their shoulders and onto the belt, letting it rumble into place. Fari activated the lever to start up the whipsaw, then brushed off her hands. The dust that came off them danced in the sun’s rays as she turned towards him.
“It can’t be air. Air has weight.”
“It does not!” he protested. “Our arms would feel like we were underwater, if it did.”
She sighed, then gripped her hand onto one of his shoulders. Applying pressure, she turned him so that a sun beam was clearly visible in front of him.
“Do you see the dust I just brushed off? Floating around in the air? And all those other little specks? They’re all really tiny, but they weigh something. And they’re part of the air. So the air has weight.”
Gwilin's eyes widened when he grasped what she was trying to get across. “Huh. You’re right. Well, I don’t know. What is it? What’s the answer?”
“Holes! The sack will weigh less if you fill it with holes.”
He covered his face with his hand, ran it down all the way past his chin, and chortled.
“I have more, if you want to hear.”
“Maybe later,” he declined, with a grin. He fanned himself as he shook his head. "The sun is not shying away today...”
Fari watched him reach for the little moleskin pouch that rested on his hip. His fingers briefly perused its contents and pulled out a woven band. As he flexed his arms to the sides and placed the tips of his fingers on his forehead, she half-turned away, giving him a feigned, unasked for privacy that he had no interest in maintaining.
Gwilin collected his auburn hair, ran his hands through it more times than he really needed to. His head lowered itself in a coy display of them as he tied it, his short, robust fingers deftly twisting the band, his wrist dancing around the mass of hair as he fastened it in place. Fari made every effort to pretend to look over the platform’s railing to the man standing across the river, but her eyes betrayed her ruse. She recorded every detail in her mind, down to the finger Gwilin pressed behind his ear as he adjusted his tightened scalp.
“Thinking about Narfi?” came his comment, and she realized she'd been caught in her endeavor.
“Mhm,” she quickly replied. “It’s… unfortunate, what happened to him. Maybe his sister really is still out there.”
“I’d argue against the point, but we just learned dragons have returned or, never left, I guess, so I wouldn’t rule out the possibility.”
Joy trickled across Gwilin's face when, from the corner of his eye, he spotted someone on horseback arriving into town. Even from afar, he'd immediately recognized the tall, dark-haired maiden leading the beast.
“It’s Temba!”
The pair ran down the ramp of the mill and trotted up toward the inn, approaching the town’s entrance. Temba continued onwards until she reached them. She eyed Fari up and down from atop her steed.
“You’re the logger Winifred vouched for?” she asked, matter-of-factly, as she dismounted.
Fari nodded.
“You got here late. We were supposed to meet the day before yesterday, in the afternoon.”
Gwilin's interjection was swift. “That’s true, Miss Temba, it’s just that Fari got a bit lost on the way, plus she ran into some bandits on the road.”
“That’s none of my concern,” she chided, turning her attention back to Fari. “Did you bring the timber?”
“Yes, I did. Gwilin and I were halving the logs a moment ago. We’re about halfway done.”
Temba unloaded a few parchments, wax-sealed envelopes, and writing materials from the satchel on her horse’s croup. “Good. Then you’re both fortunate.” She unfolded one of the documents and began writing with her quill, heading toward Fari’s cart. “Don’t saw any more logs, we’re going to need them whole for the columns.”
Gwilin lit up.
“…Columns? So the deal was made? The Black-Briar Meadery job is ours?” The two friends followed Temba as she moved.
“Well, it’s mine, but, yes. Served, signed, agreed upon. Whichever you prefer to call it.” She etched lines on the paper as she counted the logs in front of her.
"Yes!" He struck his fingers downwards against the palm of his hand once, producing a triumphant clap.
The Nord turned to face Fari without looking up from what she was writing. “You did good. Your cuts are clean, minimal damage to the sapwood. You brought more than we agreed, too. Don’t worry, you’ll be paid in kind,” she intermitted, “After the job is done, of course.”
One of Fari’s brows jumped up. Temba looked up at her without raising her head.
“That’s the way this works,” she said in a calm, settled voice. “You don’t get paid until I get paid. And I don’t get paid until the job is finished.”
“Eh, maybe you could walk Fari here through the plan?” urged Gwilin, noticing his boss’ words had left his friend tongue-tied. He placed a reassuring hand on Fari’s arm.
“I brought with me the instructions from the master craftsman. We are to cut the timber to their specifications, then transport the lumber to Riften. Once the delivery is inspected and everything is found to be in order, the payment is made. This is weeks of work, mind you.”
“I can appreciate what you’re saying, Miss Wide-Arm. It’s just… I don’t have much coin at the moment. I don’t think I can afford to wait that long, because of the rent at the inn and all.”
“First of all, you’ll be working with Gwilin and I these next few weeks, not waiting. Secondly… I’ll talk to Wilhelm at the inn. Make an arrangement.”
Satisfied with her answer, Fari directed a cheeky little smile at Gwilin. He glanced down at the ground with a gleeful grin as he rested his fists on his hips in that pose he so often assumed. Both of their anxieties had been assuaged, at least for the time being. They trailed behind Temba as she motioned for them to follow her to the mill so they could begin the lengthy task ahead, chatting excitedly all the while. Now they had nothing but time.
Notes:
damn what the hell is Fari doing working as a logger?? she should be a physicist or something... knowing air has weight and shit...
Also, Gwilin gets real excited over the littlest things
Temba's such a girlboss 🤪
Chapter 11: The Imperial Girl
Notes:
!! currently being revised !!
Chapter Text
There was a girl from a farm in Kvatch who, without fail, would go to the communal springs every morning at the break of dawn to collect water and refresh herself. She walked as an Aedric apparition would, her steps deliberate and airy. Her large ears and rosy cheeks stood out as her most impressive features–though her black, curly hair also made her easy to distinguish. This girl always stayed at the spring longer than she needed to, stopping to rest and play with the beetles that loved to make their home in the leaf litter. She would take off her sandals and sit, kneeling, for quite some time while she did.
The teenage damsel was unaware that she had not been alone in her morning routine in a long time. Young Gwilin, scarcely sixteen, would often sit and watch her with his leg hanging off a branch, from high up in his tree. His journal had been filled with illustrations of the girl from each of her morning visits. He loved how small she seemed in comparison to the ample pool and dense thicket that surrounded the clearing. Little notes were written around his drawings to this effect, many of which wondered if she thought the same of the little bugs she handled.
One morning, Gwilin’s father, Nindalion, served him breakfast in silence. The young elf found this strange. Before digging into his roasted sweet potato, he made an attempt to pacify the uneasy atmosphere he sensed.
“Dad, are you alright?”
“Huh?” His father glanced back from where he stood at the washbucket, rinsing the boiling pot he had used. “Of course, yeah. I’m good.”
Nindalion reached over and hung the pot on a hook just past the window, so it could dry outside. Tapping his fingers somewhat anxiously on the counter, and with his back facing Gwilin, he changed his mind. Chose to address him.
“I was just wondering… you know… what you’ve been getting up to each morning. For two months now, you’ve volunteered to go fetch water at the spring. You don’t let Greviil or Winthir or anyone else go with you,” he turned around, “And you always tarry.”
Gwilin hid his hands under the table and shifted apprehensively in place. “I don’t like it when Greviil comes with me. He shoves my nose in his armpit and talks a lot.”
His father laughed his deep and soulful laugh, then calmly approached the table and took a seat across from him. “You should let me know when he does that. He’s your big brother, and he’s an adult. He should know better.” Nindalion cocked his head to the side lovingly, tried and failed to read his son’s face, which was tinged purple by the early dawn’s low light. He laced his fingers together and let out a little sigh through his nose.
“You know what? Don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have made mention of it. You’re a big elf, now, and you have your own affairs to tend to. As long as you aren’t getting into trouble–”
“I’m not!” he whined.
Just then, his sister, Suri, came down the stairs. She picked up a plate from the table and watched Gwilin while she served herself a sweet potato and a glass of milk.
“You’re not what?”
“…Not going to be late. I have to go.” He downed his own glass of milk and ducked out the door.
***
At his usual spot on the branch above the spring, Gwilin sketched on the last page of his journal. This time, he decided to draw only her hair. He did his best to capture the girl’s ringlets faithfully in his drawing, but the distance between them made it difficult. He was squinting and leaning forward, trying to appreciate their details, when a sudden voice behind him startled him greatly. It made him lose his grip on the graphite, which hurtled to the ground below.
“This is what you’ve been doing each morning?” asked the voice. He flipped his legs to the opposite side of the branch so he could turn to face her.
“Winthir, go away!” came his harsh hiss. He looked down to find the girl had picked up the graphite and was inspecting it, evidently confused as to where it had come from.
“You can’t seriously be scolding me right now," she scoffed. Her eyes darted to his journal as she uncrossed her arms. “Let me see that," was all she said, before she snatched it from his hands.
“Damn it all, Winthir! Give it back!”
Winthir leapt down to the branch below, opening the book and eyeing its contents as she fled his reach. In a pitiful attempt to retrieve what was his, Gwilin followed her, but she evaded him skillfully. They'd descended to the lowest branch of the tree, about twenty feet off the ground, when Gwilin stopped to implore in a hushed, barely audible whisper:
“Winthir, please. You’re going to get us caught,” he stressed, articulating each word clearly.
“You don’t need any help getting caught, lover boy.”
Without thinking, Gwilin angrily pounced at her. Winthir ducked by rolling her body backwards off the branch, then hanging from it. Her brother hit the forest floor with a thud, just barely having broken his fall by turning in midair and rolling clumsily for a few seconds before eating dirt. She watched on with concern for a few seconds from where she hung on the branch, but when she saw Gwilin begin to slowly right his bloodied and bruised body, she climbed back up and made her getaway.
Gwilin was stunned and disoriented, but not enough so as to not notice the Imperial girl had dropped the graphite and was running away, frightened. The young elf seethed while he rinsed the blood off his legs at the spring as best he could, mumbling curses to himself under his breath. Filled with spite and little else, he set off to return to the farm.
***
Nindalion stood at the farmhouse’s kitchen window peering at the barley fields. This was the part of the farm one had to walk through to reach the trail that led to the spring. Gwilin would be coming from this direction. Against her will, Winthir was with him in the kitchen, seated at the table. She had her arms crossed, like the world owed her its presence. Anxiousness arrested her face.
Soon enough, Gwilin’s figure came into focus as he drew out of the woods. He trudged uphill toward the house with a furrowed brow and a wrathful pout. The water jugs draped over his back and shoulders weighed heavily on him, heightened his aggrieved countenance. He turned a corner at the kitchen door, and hesitated to enter when he saw Winthir was there. Stepping past the doorframe, he confronted her.
“You are such a witch,” he scowled.
“Gwilin,” interrupted their father, extending his arm toward him so as to prevent him from lashing out. “Please. Sit down.” His son drew a chair and sunk into it.
“Could either of you tell me what happened at the spring?”
“What, she didn’t tell you?” he snapped.
“I tried to get it out of her before you got here,” said Nindalion, staring her down, “But she refuses to tell me. Are you going to talk now, Winthir?”
She looked at Gwilin’s face and arms, noting the cuts and bruises, maintained a sheepish face, and said nothing.
“I can hear it all from your brother, or you can tell me yourself.”
“Gwilin’s in love with an Imperial girl,” she drawled calmly, locking eyes with her father. She shot a tiny, treacherous smirk at Gwilin from across the table. His eyes began to well. Enraged and frustrated with her seeming lack of remorse, he pushed his chair backwards violently as he stood up, then ran upstairs. The sound of his body flinging itself onto his bed was heard in the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Nindalion made his way up to his room. Gwilin heard him coming, and so sat up in his bed, facing away from the door. He wiped his tears with his hands and cleared his sinuses before his father entered. When he did, the mer saw his son turn his head to look at him. Seeing his reddened eyes ate away at his heart.
Nindalion pursed his lips and walked over to where he was. The journal was in his grasp. He let him take it from his hands before he sat down next to him, and waited to see if Gwilin would say anything, but the boy simply burst into tears again and wrapped his arms around his father’s waist. The old man cradled his head in his palm, letting his son dry his bitter tears on his shirt until he was finished. Gwilin’s voice trembled when he leaned back into place and spoke.
“Y–you saw my drawings, right?”
He nodded in response.
“Winthir was telling the truth. I’ve been taking so long at the spring each day because…”
His father put his hand on his shoulder. Gwilin closed his eyes with an exhale.
“…I sit on a branch and watch this girl. And I draw her,” he looked down at his thumbs as he brushed them against each other, “And I like her…”
Nindalion smiled sweetly. “That’s okay. Do you know her name?”
“Nuh uh.”
He thought about what to say for a moment.
“Son… I don’t wish to see you hurt. Your fondness for this girl? I understand it. You’re young and you find her fair. I remember being your age, though you may not believe it. I would spend hours while I worked or in my room fancying what my life could be like if I and the girl I was smitten with ran away together.” He paused. “And, in my case, it came to pass.”
The young elf looked up in surprise.
“Your mother and I, we left Valenwood together under the cover of darkness a lifetime ago. We were youngsters, just eighteen, and we had no idea what we were getting into. The woods nearly ate us alive on our travels. I was fortunate enough to be able to count on her archery skills for protection,” he chuckled.
“Despite all our hardship, we made it to Cyrodiil, and we built our life together. We had you,” he gave him a squeeze, “And your brothers and sisters. And the Divines’ bounties have never been foreign to us. Now, do you know why that is, Gwilin?”
He shook his head with his scrawny neck turned towards him.
“Because we cared a great deal for each other, certainly, but it was also because we were both mer. We knew, even in our naiveté, that we would grow into ourselves together. Lead a full life, at an equal pace. This Imperial girl, what kind of future do you envision with her?”
Gwilin gave a look of subtle betrayal. “I don’t understand why you want me to think that far ahead. I fancy her now. I-I could chance to confess my love for her. If she would have me, I will have acted on my feelings while they were fresh, before they simmered away. And I would enjoy myself, taking our love for what it is! What more matters?”
His father sighed and spoke most affectionately, his eyes drenched in concern.
“Could you withstand it, Gwilin? When you inevitably felt yourself drawn to another lady, an elf, and had to break your love’s heart because she’s too old? Or if she decided…” he notched his shoulders upwards, “She could no longer bear the thought of breaking your heart when she dies, leaving you when you still have half your life to live?”
He scooched away from his father, forcing the old elf’s hand off his son’s arm. Nindalion pulled away to give him some room, then gave his child one last bit of advice before he got up and left.
“This decision is yours to make. I couldn’t stop you from choosing her, I know that. I only ask that you think it through before you do. Ask yourself if there would ever come a time that you loved her so much, facing her death would eat you up inside. When that time comes, when she’s old and frail and you’re still young and strong, could you bear the guilt?”
Gwilin didn’t work that day, nor did he sleep at night. He wondered why Mara would place these affections in his heart if they were destined to cause suffering later on, should he ever act on them. He thought about what the girl’s curly hair would feel like if it were nestled in his hands. He debated whether he should say anything to her about how he felt. He agonized over the thought of her saying ‘no’, and then agonized over the thought of her saying ‘yes’.
Accepting that sleep was out of the question, the boy went downstairs and got a block of firewood. He brought it to his room and cut a large piece off, which he began to whittle. Sitting on the floor provided good lighting from the moons, so he could see each etch he made clearly. All the feathery wood shavings accumulated around his legs as he carved. His painstaking attention to detail yielded a formidable sculpture, in the end. The night was almost over when he finished sealing the wood with sunflower oil. He kept a brisk pace once he set off toward the spring again. This would be his last visit.
***
From high up in his tree, Gwilin kept watch of his carving. It had been sitting conspicuously on the stone he placed it on for about an hour. His weariness was warded off when he saw the Imperial girl coming toward the spring. She headed straight for the carving, which depicted a beetle, and picked it up to observe it. The girl looked in all directions before shrugging contentedly and placing it in her knapsack. Gwilin did not linger to watch her, as he once had. She accepted his gift, and, for him, that was going to have to be enough.
He never knew that, had he confessed his love, the Imperial girl would have turned him down.
Chapter 12: Before the Snow
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wilhelm allowed Fari to stay at the inn for free, at Temba’s request, because he knew the rooms would have just remained empty, had he not. Ivarstead never received many pilgrims once the change in weather rolled in; the past three weeks had seen the number of patrons sharing an evening drink together at Vilemyr dwindle, until one night came when it was just Wilhelm and Fari seated on opposite ends of a long table in the otherwise empty inn. Wilhelm was usually rather taciturn when it came to conversing with her, but they were both waiting for Gwilin while he retrieved some wood from the mill to feed the fire, and the silence–only disrupted by the occasional clink of a tankard or sip of a drink–was beginning to gnaw at them.
“So…” began Fari, holding her tankard between both her hands. “This mead. It’s… good. Spicy.”
“Yup. Got it delivered yesterday. Black-Briar mead.”
“Oh, is it?”
“Mhm.”
Fari took a long, self-conscious sip. She collected herself and sat cross-legged on the bench, so she no longer occupied most of it with her outstretched legs.
“Say, I’ve been wondering," she began, "How come you can sell this Black-Briar mead so cheap? It’s been nearly twice the price at all the other inns and taverns I’ve chanced upon in my travels.”
Wilhelm set his drink down and leaned in surreptitiously to speak. “Keep quiet about it,” a clandestine grin adorned his face as he peeked to the side, “But I know a Dark Elf in Riften who works for the meadery. He sneaks a few cases my way for cheap.”
“You should be careful,” said Fari, raising her brow. “From what Gwilin and Temba have told me, those Black-Briars mean business. Also,” she hesitated, like she was debating whether to say anything, “Please don’t say ‘Dark Elf’. Gwilin told me Dunmer hate being called that.”
“Bah, I call Gwilin a Wood Elf all the time. He doesn’t seem to mind it.”
“Sure, but, Gwilin is Gwilin. I think he said it bothers most of them because of a Daedric curse or something? I don’t know.”
Wilhelm cocked his brow and resumed drinking. He perched an elbow on the table and leaned back onto it as he spoke.
“You and Gwilin have been thick as thieves these past few weeks, you know that?”
Fari nervously stroked her braid with one hand, draping it over her right shoulder. “It’s only natural, isn’t it? We work together all day. Spend enough time with anyone, and you’ll befriend them.”
“This is different. You aren’t the first odd hire to pass through here. Temba’s brought in outside workers for big jobs like these before. Gwilin’s always been nice to them, but never rambled to me about their work together at the mill, like he does with you.”
She sat up straight, placing a foot on the floor on either side of the bench. After setting her tankard aside, she leaned in, wide-eyed.
“W-what does he say?”
“Dehhh,” he looked up and shook his head in an attempt to jog his memory. “There was one day where he mentioned something about, uh, how you like to tell riddles to him while you work…?” He idled with a strained expression, then snapped his fingers. “Yes, yes, I remember. He said: ‘You should’ve heard how she told it, Wilhelm. She was so proud of herself for how clever it was’.”
Despite herself, Fari felt her head grow heavy on her shoulders as she cherished the thought–that her silly riddles were of enough note to Gwilin that he'd share them with his friend later on. Her head hung low as she watched the rim of her tankard, a muted, giddy grin adorning her face.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think the mer was sweet on you,” Wilhelm laughed, as he lifted his tankard, “But Gwilin’s no skirt-chaser. He’s always kept his head down and focused on his work.”
Wilhelm rose from his seat, gesturing for Fari to hand him her tankard so he could refill it. As he did, the front door of the inn inched open reluctantly, and a near-deafening howling sound poured in from the outside. Fari rushed over to help pull the door open as Gwilin stepped in looking positively frigid. Lynly and Temba both tumbled out of their rooms, drawn by the noise.
“First snow's due any day now, I guarantee it!” he exclaimed with vigor, speed-walking over to the fire and releasing the wood in his arms into it. His lips flapped as he blew air between them for warmth, and he clutched at himself as he took a seat on top of the hearth’s stone. Fari strained to push the door shut while he shed his coat.
“By The Eight, am I glad we’re almost done with the wood-cutting. We’ll travel to Riften soon enough, and, with any luck, evade the snowfall.”
“Let’s hope we’re so lucky,” said Temba, crossing her arms. “You two just focus on finishing those mortise and tenon beams when I go to Sarethi Farm tomorrow. No idling,” she remarked harshly. “Wilhelm will let me know if you do. Good night.”
“Good night, Miss Temba!” responded Gwilin, whose color had started to return.
Lynly began to chat with Wilhelm near the counter while Fari went to join Gwilin at the hearth. A shiver he'd felt from the warmth of the fire at his back stiffened his nipples, and he folded his arms as she settled near him, in hopes of hiding them. He thought Fari looked wonderful even on a bad day, but as he sat there with his arms crossed awkwardly, watching the way the flames flickered against those pieces of pure hand-cut amber nestled deep within her sun-kissed skin, he thought his heart might never again find its rhythm. They looked back at him with a muted passion that made him feel he wasn’t crazy in thinking she felt a special way when she looked at him, too.
“Fari?” he piped up.
“Back from the land of the dead?” she joked, with her hands curled near the flames. “You just sat there for two minutes without saying anything. It really must have been freezing out there.”
He reached up and took her hand so gently she thought a bug had landed on it, at first. Fari looked on expectantly–watched him open his mouth to speak. No words came out. Pressing his lips together after having vocalized a sound so faint that is was like the memory of a syllable, he swallowed and turned her palm upwards.
“You–I… have a balm. For your hands. They’re so nice. I wouldn’t want them to get all calloused, like mine.”
Fari smiled knowingly, which only deepened his bashfulness. She placed her other hand on top of his, seized the opportunity to feel how cold and delightfully rough it was still was, like when it had graced her cheek all those weeks ago, and traced her fingers lazily over his knuckles, bringing an earthy color to his whole face. He felt his heart stir chaos, wrap its restless self around his throat. She met his eyes.
“That wouldn’t be so bad. I like your hands," was all she said, and he melted under her, blushed so hard he later marveled that he got the words out at all.
“Fari, would you like to go on an outing with me tomorrow?”
An 'outing'? she thought, bewildered. She was expecting him to make a pass at her; that's what she'd tried to nudge him towards. But an 'outing'... she wondered what he meant by that, and spoke a bit too soon for her own good.
“Gwilin, we have to work tomorrow,” she chuckled, like it was obvious, immediately regretting her choice of words, as well as her tone. But he didn't read too much into either. He took her at her word, leaned in to assuage her, spoke with an almost cocky whisper.
“I won’t tell, if you don’t.”
She quivered. His devilish smile pleasantly unsettled her, but her strength of temperance rivaled her strength of muscle, and her posture held steadfast. One would have never guessed the jumble her mind was in from her response.
“That sounds good, then," she assented, cool and commensurate. He pointed at her as he gave a little nod.
“Next to the waterfall. Tomorrow." He was bubbly, practically danced to his feet as he left her side. "I’ll see you there. Rest well, okay?”
He was halfway to his room when he finally turned to look where he was going, and clipped a table with his hip. Wilhelm and Lynly shrunk back and made a face, lamenting his misfortune. Not looking back for even a moment, Gwilin winced as he continued toward his door. A restless night awaited him on the other side.
Notes:
Fari's like "this dude gonna fuck me or what?" patience, babygirl. he needs emotional intimacy
Chapter 13: The Idle Truants
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A warm front passing through Ivarstead penetrated the walls of the inn that morning. Fari awoke from her sleep feeling suffocated by her woolen blanket. When she dressed herself, she chose to put on the sleeveless leather waistcoat she was so fond of; the cold had prevented her from wearing it for the longest time. Around her waist and thighs, she wrapped a bright ochre piece of silk fabric, which she fastened with a hexagon-shaped silver brooch. This makeshift skirt rested on her knee on one side, and up above her mid-thigh on the other.
Getting to the area Gwilin wanted to take her to involved quite a trek. He was awfully quiet on the way, like he didn't want to talk up the spot he'd chosen in case Fari wasn't all that impressed with it once they'd made it there. But even if the spot didn't impress her, Gwilin's impeccable sense of direction already had.
"Um..." he began, after stopping abruptly. He whipped his head around to look behind him for a moment, then looked ahead again. "Do you–Is this north?" He pointed.
"Southwest," said Fari. He blinked at her and made a face.
"Oh, no."
"What?" came her question. It begged him not to say what she thought he was about to.
"We'reee," and he drew out the syllable just to mess with her, "Not lost! We're here!"
She went to swat him, but he saw her coming. He hurried the basket he'd brought with him onto his head and ran to cross the river, urging her to give chase. The icy, knee-deep river water soothed her feet as she called out and laughed and splashed her way to him. It was his angelic face creasing with mischief from afar that drew her to that spot near the waterfall where he stood, on the very threshold of radiance, his warm taupe skin enveloped in the water's haze, the streaks of walnut in his hair enshrined and enmingled with the streaks of sunlight illuminating his eyes, his joy, his absolute elation at seeing her come close–seeing her want to be near him.
And she would've ravished him right then if he hadn't been hugging that basket so close against his chest, like a shield protecting him from his nervousness. He kept his distance from her, as a polite bird might, as she chose her spot to settle at the river's edge, then he undertook unpacking everything in a flurry, rushed to set out the various jams, the bread, the cutlery and everything else he'd brought along. Fari didn't wait for him to finish before she began her nibbling. Whatever mild annoyance he expressed at this only encouraged her to further intrude on his table-setting, and, besides the birds’ singing and the river’s rushing, their playful bickering and absent-minded snacking were the only sounds that filled the humid morning air for hours.
Those hours saw them share many things. A tasty venison sandwich was chief among them.
“Mmm,” swooned Fari, after taking a delicate bite from her little sandwich piece.
“Mhm,” he replied, with a full mouth, as he nodded his head.
“I don’t even want to take another bite. There’ll be less sandwich to eat afterwards, if I do,” she lamented.
A quaky string of laughter escaped Gwilin, whose curled finger hovered over his mouth, as though he were trying to keep its contents from bursting forth. From high up on her rock, Fari swirled her feet in the river, mirrored his glee. He watched her trace currents in the water from where he laid at her side, on his stomach, with his head resting in his forearms. Occasionally, he'd turn his neck to look up at her while they spoke, always careful to keep his sandwich in his right hand, where the waterfall’s mist couldn’t get to it.
“Not to be boastful, but you won’t find better venison this far north. This recipe,” he alleged, taking another bite, “Is infallible.”
“I won’t argue that." She turned her sandwich in the air. "What I'd give to be able to cook like this."
"It's my brother's doing. Mom taught him, he taught me."
"You're fortunate. My father thought it more important to instill within me the love of the blade." She looked his way. “Don’t misunderstand; I’m glad he did. I never would’ve been able to leave home by myself, otherwise. But," and she paused, "My mother makes this charred fennel goat stew that is just..."
Gwilin raised his chin, gazing up at Fari from the corner of his eye. She gestured dreamily with her mouth and her hand, reflected in them the pleasure she pulled from remembering the flavor of the dish. His lips curled into a smile. He offered her the rest of his sandwich, flipped himself over, promptly crossed a leg over his knee, and laced his fingers behind his head.
“You know, you don’t mention your parents very often.”
She shrugged. “I miss them. It’s easier for me to try not to think about how long it’ll be before I see them again.”
“Your thoughts echo my own," and he watched the sky. "It’s been years since I’ve seen my brothers and sisters.”
“Why don’t you visit? It’s closer from here to Kvatch than it is to Stros M’kai, from what you’ve told me.”
“Tsk. I have responsibilities in Ivarstead. The trip would take me at least a month. There aren’t many young folks here in town who could help Temba while I was away. I’d be leaving her high and dry.”
“You mean like we did today by coming here?”
A grin plastered itself on his face as he propped himself up on his elbow and raised his palm. “Hey, hey. That–that’s different. We’ve been hard at work these last few weeks. Who but us in this town deserve a rest?”
Fari chuckled. “This day would've been wasted hauling lumber at the mill, that's for sure.”
She pulled her legs out of the water, tucked them under herself. Her thigh came to rest near Gwilin's head, grazed his ear, and, looking sideways, he could see almost all the way down to her hip, until the point where the silk of her skirt forbade further visual inquiry. The heat from her skin joined the heat coming off the tip of his ear, made his head pound, his back tense. She watched his wandering eyes as he struggled to fix them on her face. Eventually, they landed on the sky again.
“I’m not sure why," he began, "But, recently, I’ve felt my work at the mill to be, I don’t know... odd?”
“How do you mean?”
Without moving his head, instead choosing to watch for a cloud that wouldn't come, he went on. “It’s just, we work twelve hours every day, and then we drink ourselves silly at the inn, and then we wake up and do it again. Lately I’ve gotten to thinking about how that’s been my life for the past ten years.”
“Well, why do you do it?”
Not long ago, the question would have stumped Gwilin. Presently, however, he knew the answer–she sat right next to him. But he also knew his complicated relationship with Fari demanded a more prudent response. One which he was accustomed to fabricating.
“It’s… steady work. And Ivarstead is a very safe place to live.” He glanced up at her again, made a valiant effort to maintain eye contact after having noticed the surrounding mist had formed the most tantalizing drops of dew on her thighs. Having swallowed the lump in his throat, he continued.
“Um, how about you? Why have you held out at this job for so long?”
What made his question a loaded one wasn’t that it was difficult to answer. It was just impossible for her to answer honestly at that moment.
She wanted nothing more than to admit it was him, a thousand times and through a thousand circumstances, he was the reason she had stayed as long as she had. But her longing to do so didn't come from the place she needed it to come from; it wasn't born of her desire to feel his shapely legs pressed against her own, or his burly arms tensing under her grasp. She was being bound to the boring little mill in that boring little town by this mer's seemingly endless charms. Confessing to that would've meant confessing to needing something from him that she couldn't even put into words, like she could "kiss me here" or "touch me there". His heat, his warm embrace, those she could've taken freely, and she knew he wouldn't have impeded her. But to be witnessed in the act of wanting something she could not have? Something he would not give?
No. The thought alone mortified her.
“Honestly?" began her half-truth, "I’m owed some coin. I can’t just walk away from that. I’m holding out for the hopefully-not empty promise that I’ll get paid when we’re done here.”
Gwilin stared back at her, amiably unconvinced. They weren’t the words he was hoping to hear come out of her mouth, but he couldn't be sure she wasn't feeling just the same way about what he'd said to her. Both of them stared back half-knowingly, the emotional foothold each had over the other now unspoken and overbearing.
Just then, the faint sound of thunder drew their attention upwards and to the south, at the sky over the waterfall. Grey storm clouds had gathered there, were barely visible from a distance. Gwilin sat up.
“Huh. It’s no wonder it’s been so warm today.” He looked at her, then back up at the sky. “Must be the winds blowing in from the south. Looks like they brought a storm with them.”
“We should head back to town. The river's bound to swell soon. It isn’t safe for us to linger near its edge.”
“Yeah. It’s past midday, anyway. Probably for the best that we at least get started on those beams before Temba gets back.”
He stood up in one swift motion, soon locked eyes with Fari, and realized he didn't have to tilt his head to meet her gaze, like he usually did. He could thank the terrain for this, for creating the illusion they were of equal stature. Neither of them moved.
“You should stay at this height," he teased, as he cracked a smile. "It really suits you.”
“No, thank you,” she said, rising from where she sat, looming over him with her brows raised in self-satisfaction. “I like being able to reach the top shelf at the inn. It’s where Wilhelm hides the birch cookies.”
“Oh, that fiend,” grumbled Gwilin. He threw his chin over his shoulder, watched her move behind and walk past him. “Is that where he keeps them? Because he knows I can’t reach?”
“Haha, yup!”
As they made their way back to town, the storm clouds dimmed the day, softened the sunlight until all that shone through the surrounding air was a pale, grey gleam. A light drizzle broke out when they were halfway there, which Gwilin didn’t mind. Any little droplets that didn't land on his snug trousers prickled his skin, cooled and condensed his nerves. The sky continued gifting him its thousand tiny kisses as he let his hair down, and Fari couldn’t resist glancing over, while he did. The peeks she'd catch of his hair, recently made stringy and dark by the rain, made her think of how well it framed his slender face. She wondered what it would feel like to bury her hands in it, supposed the cool strands would softly weave themselves into her fingers as she took hold of his head–heard his breath catch, felt his cheeks grow hot–and gifted him a kiss. Her hands twitched with desire at her sides, like dogs waiting to be let loose and roam. And she could feel they were about to pounce.
Notes:
"I'm only staying here because I'm waiting to get paid" mhm, sure. now tell me the one about the Argonian maid and the lusty baron
Chapter 14: Dead in the Water
Chapter Text
The drizzle was no more. A downpour now drenched them both, pelted them ceaselessly as they trudged through the trail. Fari had been so busy wrestling with her thoughts that she hadn't registered the precariousness seeping into their surroundings, as Gwilin had. A bolt of lightning suddenly broke in the sky, startled them both, struck through the heart of the cliff a few hundred feet ahead of them. Its thunder roared and rung out loud–accosted their ears like the cry of a pained beast. As if commanded by it, the stones tore and cracked off the cliffside, came tumbling into the river near the inn, shattered against the branches and boulders they caught on the way. The both of them hurriedly broke into a trot toward the mill, and Fari ran after Gwilin, reached him despite the soil slowing her feet.
“We have to move these beams!” he shouted, so his voice could carry through the tempestuous winds. “This rain is coming down too fast, the river’s going to rise any minute now!”
They leapt to the task, hauled three to four beams at a time into the inn, took each muddied step as though they waded through tar. Wilhelm was quick to prop open the door for them, and petitioned Lynly to help him carry whatever wood they could from the mill. The storm grew more restless by the minute; murky little streams that had begun to form in the saturated soil fed into the river, made it course unchecked, uncurbed.
As Fari and Gwilin crouched to pick up the last few beams, Gwilin froze. He shot a look over his shoulder, at the other side of the river.
“Narfi!”
He sprinted off the back of the mill’s platform, landing on the nearby pile of logs. Holding fast to one of the corner posts of the fencing, he reached his neck up towards the unforgiving sky, sought desperately to make out Narfi’s face over the torrential current. The rain drowned out and clouded his vision, but still he managed to spot him there, gripping one of his house’s columns for dear life as the water rose to his knees. His face sat distorted in unadulterated fear.
Fari rushed to join Gwilin. Her step landed squarely on a splintered piece of wood, which drove itself into the outer side of her foot. She fell onto her hands and knees–yawped in pain–before turning to examine and wince at her wound.
“Fari! By the Eight, your foot…” he remarked, as he flew to her side. She swatted at the air near him, like she didn't wish to be pestered, then she clung to his shoulder for support, got up with his help.
“Forget it, I’m fine! Help me move this!”
Gwilin watched her leap down from the pile into the rising water, which rushed by at her ankles. He followed her lead as she pulled one of the half logs from the heap and turned it so that it was perpendicular to the rest. She began to pull it over her head, and Gwilin scrambled to the opposite end of the log, counterbalanced it as she threaded it through her arms, passing it along above her head. Eventually, one of its ends settled on the wall of Narfi’s house, where the roof had collapsed, effectively linking both sides of the river.
She raised her hand so Gwilin could pull her up, then fell to her side on top of the logs and clutched at her foot.
“Gah!” she bellowed.
Her head threw itself back. She cinched her brows tightly, held her eyes shut in distress. Her next words had to force their way out of her.
“I can’t cross like this… You have to go, Gwilin.”
His eyes scanned her face. They were steeped with worry.
“Go on! Go! I’ll be alright!”
Not wanting to leave her, he stepped away with reticence until he stood at the beginning of the makeshift bridge. The water was up to Narfi’s chest now, he saw, and his grip on the column was weakening. He relegated Fari to some forgotten corner of his mind as best he could, tried to focus his energy on crossing the river.
He took off. Ran across the rapids with a series of quick leaps, stopping where the log sat a few feet above Narfi. He laid himself flat, on his chest, and extended his arm out to the poor beggar.
“Narfi! I’m here! Grab my hand!”
The rushing water buried his words. Narfi held his head low with a strained look, as though he wasn’t aware anyone was there. The violent downward winds the river created whipped Gwilin’s hair every which way, taunted him as he held every muscle in his body taut in agony.
“Narfi! Narfi!” he screamed, his arm held out with such rigor and empty hope that it became torturous.
His wide eyes watched one of Narfi’s arms slowly peel away from the column, yield to the force of the whitewater. The man held on for as long as he could before looking up toward the sky, giving a final glance to the world he knew he was about to leave. His child-like eyes met Gwilin’s for but a second. Gwilin lunged futilely in his direction, almost fell into the water himself, but his heart stalled, and his arm reflexively anchored him on the log.
His friend was gone. Lost to the river's current.
Gwilin let his hand droop down below. The water battered it relentlessly as the shock suffocated his every thought–as the man's last stare imprinted in his vision. But a flicker of a memory brought him back to himself. It was the sound he’d heard Fari make just before he crossed, rising in his ears.
He brought his arm back to his torso. He forced his eyes to look towards where he needed to return to. He felt too weak to stand, and so he crawled back over to where Fari lay at the log heap. Though she tried to rise to meet him, the shockwaves of pain from her foot hardly let her. Gwilin trembled uneasily as he pitched her arm around his shoulder, helped her down off the logs.
Wilhelm ran out and took Fari off his hands as soon as he saw them approaching together through the rain. Gwilin felt himself grow lightheaded as he neared the inn, and sensed the surge of strength that had gotten him across the river and rescued Fari dwindle. In no time at all, his knees met the mud, and he lost consciousness.
***
The four of them sat huddled around the hearth. For the most part, they hadn’t said much to each other the whole afternoon. Wilhelm would get up to go empty the buckets collecting water from the roof’s leaks every half hour or so. Lynly plucked at her lute to keep her fingers busy, and distract herself from the cold that was slowly encroaching in on them from all sides. Temba had returned an hour prior, wet from her journey, and was still trying to get dry.
Though Fari wanted to stay near Gwilin, where he lay asleep on the floor, she wasn’t supposed to move her foot off the table. She was fortunate Temba had dealt with her fair share of splinters over the years, and helped her tend to her injury. The swelling had gone down significantly thanks to this, as well as the Bosmeri brandy they'd poured to stave off infection. Fari wondered what Gwilin would say when he came to and realized they had used up most of his 50-septim bottle of liquor on sterilizing her wound.
Lynly was the first to notice Gwilin stir in his sleep, twinge the muscles near his eyes. She stopped plucking at her lute strings, rousing everyone’s attentions.
“Hey, look. Gwilin’s waking up.”
Fari inched her leg down from the table and hobbled over to where he was. She knelt at his side, rested both hands on his right arm, and gave it a squeeze. Crumbs of dry soil that had clung to his skin peppered the ground as he roused and meet her gaze. The sea of grief he had escaped from hours ago washed over him, and the misery brewing in his chest chose to manifest itself only through his eyes, which began to water. The rest of his face was stoic, unlike she'd ever seen it. She moved a hand up to his shoulder.
"Gwilin?"
His face broke then. Both his hands clutched desperately at her torso, and he pulled her into a hug that she hastened towards as she drew him up from the floor. His sobs made their bodies jerk and twitch, made the hollow of his chest contract inconsolably against her. “I couldn’t save him,” he wept, between shaky breaths, as he buried his neck in hers. “I couldn’t save him, Fari.”
“Gwilin, hey, hey, hey." Fari murmured, and her broken voice could think of little else to say. Lynly spoke from behind her.
“Gwilin, what happened to you out there?”
Despite the question coming from Lynly, he could only really bear to tell Fari. He drew back from her. His voice came dense and tearful.
“Narfi. I saw him. He was at his house. The river was lambasting him. I tried–” His breath faltered. “I tried to get him. I don’t think he could hear me…”
Temba shifted uncomfortably in her seat from the other side of the hearth. Her head faced one way, but her vision was fixed on another–on Gwilin as he spoke.
“Oh,” he exhaled, disheartened. “His face. Before the current took him. He didn't know what was going on. He was so scared.” His eyes welled, and he wrapped his arms around Fari again, forced a grunt out of her with his tight grasp. Wilhelm slowly approached the pair. He placed a gentle knee on the floor next to them, and a gentler hand at Gwilin's back.
“Are you saying Narfi is… dead?”
He pulled away from Fari and shook his head, agitated. “I don’t know, I don’t know. I’ve never seen the river like that before.”
“I have,” blurted Temba, and everyone's head turned to her. She hugged herself, held her damp sleeves in her grasp like she was upset no one had even considered what she was about to say.
“He could still be alive."
“That... may be true, but, there’s nothing we can do as long as the rains keep up,” were Wilhelm's cautious words. She shifted her head from what had been its fixed position, directing her gaze at no one in particular.
“I know.”
The quiet which had persisted for the better part of the afternoon returned. Fari and Gwilin lay next to each other. They whispered amongst themselves for about an hour before they both fell asleep on the floor. Lynly and Wilhelm followed suit, choosing to spend the night next to the hearth’s warm glow in lieu of resting in their own rooms, which were much chillier.
Temba, on the other hand, struggled to fall asleep. She only found her rest when her mind finally stopped pestering her with memories of the time she nearly died, herself. She remembered how helpless she felt when her body sat bloodied and broken on the boulder at the riverbank, waiting for a rescue she could not have been certain would ever come. The last thought that crossed her mind was whether Narfi was out there feeling the same way.
Chapter 15: A Grim Reminder
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Morning came much sooner than usual for the residents of Vilemyr Inn, who were all awake before dawn that day. Wilhelm was the first; his hospitable instincts had compelled him to make breakfast for his guests. Each of them rose upon detecting the soul-stirring scent of spiced, warm milk coming from the pot of gruel. Like ants, they all gathered around the counter, anxiously waited for their portion to be divvied out.
“Are we going to go look for Narfi?” asked Lynly, as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
Fari and Gwilin gave each other a tentative look, which they then shared with Temba. Everyone else soon turned their attention over to her. She put down her breakfast, and put up a light scowl.
“What are you gawking at me for?” were all the words her annoyance would permit.
“Nothing,” said Fari. “We just–what you said yesterday. That Narfi could still be alive. You said it like maybe you thought we should try to find him…?”
“We should.”
“Yes! Of course. So, you’re coming with us, then?”
She paused. Her eyes lingered over their faces, each of which told her she'd be leading the search if she said 'yes'. She rolled her eyes and nodded.
“Sorry, but, I don’t think I’ll be able to accompany all of you,” informed Gwilin. “I’m not, eh, in a–in a good way. If we found Narfi, and he wasn’t…” The thought died there. Fari took his hand below the counter.
“Don’t think about that. We’re going to find him. You can stay here.”
“Who’s going with you?” he asked.
Wilhelm twisted his neck uneasily. “I have to tend to the inn. Fix all the leaks, check for damage to the foundation, clear out the mud…”
“Yeah, and, I’m squeamish. I wouldn’t be much help, regardless of what state we found Narfi in,” added Lynly.
“So it’s just Fari and I, then?" Temba clicked her tongue. Her voice was clear and assertive, as usual. "Alright. Let’s go,” she decided, as she made her meal disappear, then made for the door.
Confounded, Fari gobbled up her food. She rushed out of the inn and barely made out Temba's silhouette in the early day's darkness; she'd already hastened down the same trail Gwilin and her had taken the day before. Fari ran to catch up with her, leapt over the cold, muddy ground and through the stormy stillness that still lingered in the air.
“Brrr,” she bemoaned, seeing her breath cloud in front of her. “We could’ve taken a moment to change before we left, Temba.”
She didn't respond. In fact, Temba didn’t speak to Fari the whole way unless it was absolutely necessary. She was too engrossed in their task. She'd check all the boulders and logs on their way down the riverbank, climb atop whatever vantage points she could to scan the landscape, listen attentively for a reply each time she called Narfi’s name. Her lips would catch–her breath, hold–each time she did, like she stood ready to let Narfi know help was coming if they heard him answer. Before long, they reached the area where Fari and Gwilin had broken bread the day before. Their eyes coincided on the opposite side of the river, just past the waterfall, where they both spotted him.
Narfi’s lifeless body laid caught at the base of a boulder, already in the early stages of putrefaction. The soft morning light caressed every corner of his mangled body, creating the jarring sight that forced beauty through where none should be welcome. Fari’s attention was drawn away from it at Temba's soft gasp.
“Temba?” she asked, shaking uneasily.
She wouldn’t even blink. Her pale arms were frozen at her sides. And so Fari moved to cross the river–to slowly approach and examine his remains from up close. None of his limbs faced the right way. Most of his clothes had been torn clean off. His skin was grey-blue, and it was his eyes, bulging out of his face, that most disturbed her. She placed a hand over her mouth then, feeling herself retch, sensing her stomach and mind revolt at every aspect of his contortion. Forced to turn away from the sight of him, she stooped her chest over a rock, relieving herself into the river.
“Please, Temba. I need your help," she managed, as she raised her head pleadingly.
Temba's eyes remained on Narfi. She sunk onto the riverbank with a thud. Fari went to settle at her side–felt that low rumble of nausea fade, as she did–and watched the sun’s rays emerge to bathe Temba’s pupils, bringing some semblance of life to her stare as they constricted. She thought soft for a moment, wondered what set of words she could string together to get Temba to return. But her better judgement won over. For a few minutes, they listened to the fish rise and dip from a pool on the river's edge, felt the water lave at their feet, let the sun crack its whip over their freshly-sweated bodies; saw life burst and teem and trickle its indifference around their friend's lifelessness.
Without warning, Temba gave a gentle tap on Fari’s shoulder, motioned for her to follow. As they worked to untangle Narfi from the boulder, each was careful to remove any twigs and leaves that remained stuck on him. They crouched together to take his cold hands and clean his fingernails. The dirt from them would cloud the crystalline current, swirl through it weightlessly before flowing past his dense flesh. With a solemnity Fari did not know her to be capable of, Temba drew a dishcloth from her satchel, and placed it over Narfi's face before they lifted him. She led them onwards with his legs, while Fari's arms bore the bulk of the weight of his torso. Time only made the walk back all the more laborious; if it wasn't the incline, it was the moist soil, or the matted hair on Narfi's face brushing against Fari's wrists, or that fetid scent which wafted from his mouth straight to Temba's feeble stomach. Regardless, neither let Narfi slip from their grasp, even momentarily, until they'd finally made it back.
“You stay with him here. Just while I go and tell everyone what we found. Alright?”
Temba eyed the spot Fari was referring to. She turned her head sideways to look behind her, and nodded.
When Fari reached the inn's door, she gave pause, and placed a hand on it hesitantly. There was no right way to say it. There was no right way to let Gwilin know his friend had done little but suffer after he'd slipped away from him. It wasn't his fault, Fari knew that. But she fretted he wouldn't see it that way; that he would try to place blame where none could be placed. She saw the burial that awaited them, and saw Gwilin burying part of himself alongside Narfi, like Temba seemed to have done so long ago. Embittered, she thought, and felt troubled to see the word hovering anywhere near Gwilin's name in her mind.
She pursed her lips, and made her hand push the door. Lynly and Gwilin craned their necks toward the sound of it creaking open from where they sat. As she drew closer and her telling stare met theirs, they both lowered their gaze. Gwilin let out a sigh.
“Where is he?” came his dejected words.
“Outside. Near the farm. Temba's watching him.”
“Let me just… go find Wilhelm, then.”
“I can find him,” said Lynly, as she stood up, with one hand on his shoulder. “If you want?”
Gwilin accepted her offer, thanked her with a grin, and she took her leave.
Fari quietly took a seat. She tapped Gwilin's knee with hers after a pause, gently urging him to look over. Her irises alternated between his eyes.
“How are you doing?”
“I’m better,” he said, as he nodded his head. “A little shaken, but, relieved. At least we know for sure.”
“I hope you don’t feel guilty. You did everything you could.”
“I know. I’m not.” There was but a hint of irritation in his tone, prompted by her presumption. Fari shrunk away, feeling a bit sheepish.
“No, yeah. I didn’t mean–I just meant, given what happened–”
“Narfi was my friend," he fumed. "I’ve known him since I’ve lived here. I knew him–who he was–before Reyda disappeared...” Then he stopped. Realized he'd raised his voice. Not a lot, but certainly more than he'd ever raised it at her. He got a little self-conscious under her gaze, and softened his tone.
"Sorry," he whispered her way, but he wouldn't look her in the eye. "I'm sorry," he repeated, more clearly. "Don’t feel bad."
For a moment, Fari wondered whether she had the right to ask the question at all. But that moment quickly passed.
“You sure you’re alright?”
He paused. A hint of a grin appeared on his face, and he spoke in sotto.
“I will be.”
“Okay... Temba’s still outside," she sighed, as she rubbed a hand over his back.
“Let's not keep her waiting, then."
The two headed outdoors, where they found Wilhelm and Lynly had already met up with Temba. They joined the group, cross-legged, on the ground surrounding Narfi’s body. They'd draped a blanket over him. With the dishcloth Temba had placed on his face still covering his eyes, he looked as though he were simply asleep, like he could rise at any moment to ask them if they'd like to come join him in watching the tadpoles swim along the riverside.
“We can’t wait for a priest of Arkay to come consecrate his remains," continued Wilhelm. "The cold is setting in. In a few days’ time, the soil will be frozen over. We won’t be able to bury him properly.”
“Then, we should do it as soon as possible,” said Temba. “Today, even.” Gwilin nodded at the suggestion.
“What about his resting place?” asked Lynly, whose eyes were still red and whose voice was still frail from her tears. “Maybe near his house?”
Gwilin looked over his shoulder, in the general direction of Narfi’s run-down home. “No,” he almost whispered. “There’s nothing but bad memories for him there.” After a pause, he continued.
“The woods. Just outside town. It’s close by. No risk of flooding there, so he won’t be disturbed.”
Everyone looked at him with uncertainty. Gwilin put a hand on Narfi’s forehead, carefully removing the cloth that had covered his face. He needed to see it. He needed to replace the last memory of it he had in his mind. However, the peace that he found irradiating from his expression clashed with the last look of fear Narfi had given him. Gwilin turned his head away, distressed at his thoughts, then swallowed to speak.
“I know. It’s not very traditional. But it’s the best we can do for him.”
And so they began to make the necessary arrangements. Wilhelm and Gwilin tasked themselves with finding a good spot to dig the grave. Temba looked through Wilhelm’s armoire to pick out some clothes. Lynly cleaned and tuned her lute while she thought of which song would be best to bid the beggar farewell. Fari helped Temba dress Narfi, and he was soon laid in the cart that would take him to his final resting place.
They lowered him into his grave. The bard's face swelled with tears as she performed, as the group dusted the man’s body over with dirt, and she did not stop until he had been completely entombed. They all stood around the fresh mound in silence for a few minutes. Glancing sideways, Fari could see straight-faced Temba whispering a prayer under her breath, and Wilhelm weeping in silence, and Lynly holding a curled fist over her mouth as the gentle sobs escaped her.
One by one, they each took their leave to return to town. Gwilin was the last to go. Before he did, he approached the mound and knelt before it, placing his hand on top. A shiver ran up his spine. In that moment, something told him Narfi was listening, and so he spoke.
“I hope you found Reyda okay, friend.”
Notes:
i killed Narfi for the plot bro i'm going to hell
Chapter 16: All Aboard
Chapter Text
The next few days of work had been very different from those of the past few weeks. Gwilin's mistakes had abounded. He’d drop his tools, miscount notches, cut at wrong angles, and his hands would slip while sawing beams. He found himself asking Temba and Fari to repeat themselves often, too, like he could hardly process any of what they said to him. His conversations with his friend no longer had the usual carefree air that made them her favorite part of the day. But Fari wasn’t deterred from trying to recover them.
“Hey Gwilin,” she began, as she cut a shaving off a baluster she was working on. “Why do chickens lay eggs?” Gwilin shook his head lightly, then looked at her.
“Sorry, what?”
“I’m–it’s, uh, one of my jokes.”
“Oh. Uh, I’m not really sure what else they would do.”
“Because if they threw them, they’d break.”
“Ah. Heh," came his painfully polite chuckle, and he turned back to his work.
Temba rounded a corner–walked past where they were, at the base of the mill’s ramp–and caught a glimpse of the wood Gwilin was working. Noticing that something was off, she dropped what she'd been carrying and drew closer. Gwilin looked up from where he sat to find her staring him down.
“Is this what you’ve been doing for the last half hour? The notches are facing the wrong way!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Temba,” and he lowered his head. “I thought–”
“You’ve rendered half a dozen beams useless just since yesterday. You’re lucky this one,” she inflected, looking at Fari, “Brought more wood than we needed, or we’d be out in the forest hauling logs right now.”
“Temba!”
She shot a look right back at Fari, who darted her eyes toward Gwilin and dipped her head with a firm, defiant stare. She was asking Temba to not come down so hard on him. Temba uncrossed her arms, reluctantly softened her expression.
“Just… get a new beam. We need to have this done by midday, or we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to bring the shipment to Riften. The agreement with the captain is for us to be at the lake’s edge by tonight.” And she left them. Fari turned to her friend.
“Gwilin, I’m worried about you," she half-whispered. "You shouldn't let her talk to you like that.”
“She’s right, Fari. I’ve been making mistakes left and right.”
“And why is that? Please, talk to me." Her tone was concerned, but uncompromising. "I know you’re still struggling with what happened to Narfi, I see you look over at his house ten times each day."
“I’m just sad that he’s gone, that’s all. Time will soothe me, as it soothes all wounds.”
“No. This is different. You’re so distracted." And then his voice became the uncompromising one.
“Leave me be, Fari,” was all he said, as he left to go fetch a new beam.
Fari sighed. An indignant annoyance lingered in her breath. She resumed her work, dampened by the realization that, in some matters, her playful tongue proved powerless.
***
They made decent time, in the end. It was high noon when they finished loading all three carts. Each was to be steered by one of them, with Temba leading the way to Sarethi Farm, where she'd arranged for them to meet up with the captain of the ship that would sail their cargo across Lake Honrich. After double-checking the sling that held the lumber in its place on her cart, she whistled and put her hand up in the air–called Gwilin and Fari to come over.
“Alright, you two. We’re going to be setting off now. Bear in mind the directions I laid out earlier, and stay close to me so neither of you get lost. I would be amazed, if you did. We’re moving much more slowly than usual because of how much lumber we’re hauling.”
They both nodded.
“Now, for security’s sake, I’ve asked one of the town’s guards to accompany us on the way to and from Riften. He’ll act as extra protection on the way there, but what's important is he’ll help keep safe from bandits and highwaymen all the gold we’ll bring back. Gwilin,” she looked at him with a hand on her hip, “The guard will ride with you, since you’ll be at the back of the caravan.”
“No problem," he replied. Temba climbed up onto her cart and took hold of the reins.
“Onwards, then!”
As Fari jogged over to her cart, she tried to catch a glimpse of the guard who was already seated in Gwilin’s. Something about his complexion seemed familiar to her. Looking back once she'd climbed aboard her seat, she got a few more hasty looks in before she realized Temba had already crossed the bridge leading out of town.
“Tsk, tsk. Let’s go, Juniper,” she commanded, gently swishing the reins.
***
They arrived at Sarethi Farm in the late afternoon. Temba dismounted from her cart and instructed Fari and Gwilin to sit still while she spoke to the ship’s captain, who awaited her with his elbows perched on the porch railing of the farmhouse. The man definitely had the look of one, was easily distinguished by his loose, white shirt–cinched with a wide belt at his waist–and his calf-height black leather boots. He and Temba embraced, then shared what seemed like a brief but playful exchange as they wandered back to the carts. Temba's voice became audible as they drew near.
“…so the journey was an uneventful one, thankfully. Save for the fine fox Gwilin hunted on the way,” said Temba, motioning in Gwilin’s direction. Gwilin waved and gave a grin. Rather indifferently, he showed off the pelt he had gotten from the fox, held it up in the air.
“Be careful as we head toward the shore,” shouted Temba, while her and the captain squeezed into the seat of her cart. “We’re going to be traversing some rough terrain. Unpaved trails, and so forth.”
Fari felt incredibly nosy in the hour she trailed behind Temba’s cart, heading south; she listened in on her and the mysterious man’s conversation the whole time. They were just close enough that their words weren't entirely indistinct, but she couldn't make out their context, tried though she may have. One thing she was sure of was that she’d heard Temba giggle more than once, and speak to the man in an uncharacteristically ditzy voice. The cart in front suddenly came to a halt, and made Fari realize that they were at the lake’s shore. The time had flown right by her. Then she became aware of the impressive vessel that floated in the waters in front of them.
“Kynareth’s winds! Is that…?”
Quickly, her feet met the sand. She sprinted past Temba’s cart, splashed through the shallow part of the water, and headed straight for the ship, approaching it in disbelief. Her lips formed an open-mouth smile.
“This a Yokudan dhow!" She pointed, as though it wasn't clear which of the many, many dhows in their vicinity she was referring to. "I–I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen one of these in over a year!” The captain laughed heartily at her words. He came down off the cart, moved with smooth strides to join her near the ship. She shamelessly hugged its hull, then pulled back and knocked on the wood, her ear perched in attention.
“Is this mahogany? It has to be.”
“Ha ha, indeed it is,” boasted the captain, the roguish tint in his voice clear and alluring. “You have a great eye, miss." He inched closer, careful not to get his boots wet, and offered his hand with a slight bow of the head. “I’m Captain Adélard.”
Still focused on the ship, she reached over and perfunctorily gave him her hand, shaking it with brevity. “Yeah, great to meet you. Fari Al-Ilat.”
“Ah! Temba, my dear,” he said, looking behind him, “You had not mentioned a Redguard would be joining us. I take it you are an expert navigator, as I am?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call myself an expert.” She reached up in her fascination, and stroked the pattern engraved on the dhow’s trim. “But…” She flashed a knowing smile.
Gwilin and the guard joined the conversation at Adélard’s back, beside Temba. The captain turned to face them.
“Hello!” he sang, with camaraderie. “Captain Adélard, at your service.”
“It's a pleasure,” assured the mer. “My name is Gwilin. This here is Beifar.” The guard waved at Adélard dryly, then sought to remove his helmet to get some fresh air.
“Hey, Fari,” cried Gwilin, who raised his voice and looked past the captain to meet her gaze, “What’s got you in such high spirits?”
“Oh, Gwilin, just look at it!” she beamed, as she waded out of the water. “I’d believe it if you told me it sailed out of Abah’s Landing yester–”
Her neck locked in place. Those cloudy blue eyes had landed on her, stared back in that unmistakably dismissive manner. It was the guard who had received her when she first arrived in Ivarstead. She had seen him around town, occasionally, in the time she'd been there, but she never confronted him about what he said to her that day. Now she knew his name.
'Beifar'. The man who looked at her with a permanent scowl.
“…yesterday. It’s, uh, a real work of Yokudan art," she resumed, trying not to be too glaring in her displeasure. Gwilin’s head shrunk back a little, and he furrowed his brow inquisitively at her.
“Come on. It’s already dark," urged Temba. "We want to get to Riften before dawn. Fari, get over here.” And she quickly obliged.
“Yes!” responded the captain. “We have much work to do. Pardon me.” And he leapt onto the net that hung from the ship’s bow, scaling it effortlessly. Gwilin was momentarily distracted by the sight–caught himself admiring the Breton's deft fingers as they weaved in and out of the net, and his jet-black hair as it fluttered in sleek waves against the moons.
Not long after they'd loaded the cargo and coaxed the steeds onboard, they set sail. Fari did her best to focus on helping Adélard with the steering. Gwilin did his best to try to get some rest. Each was more than vaguely inclined to occupy themselves with whatever they could to avoid the other. It was going to be a long night, regardless of whether they were successful in their endeavor.
Chapter 17: Warrior in Training
Notes:
!! currently being revised !!
Chapter Text
A lightning-fast shadow zipped between the limestone pillars of the house’s entrance. Bathed in moonlight, the child peaked her head out from behind one of the columns with heavy breath–observed the interior foyer carefully. All was quiet, all was still. She looked to both sides, suspicious of the ease with which she had made her getaway. Unbeknownst to her, a tall, brooding figure slowly creeped into the zaguan, and rounded a corner in her direction. Before she knew it, she had been scooped up and flung into the grasp of her pursuer.
The woman covered her in kisses relentlessly as the girl giggled in delight. It was her mother retrieving her after she'd bolted out of her bedroom, having refused to go to sleep.
“Mwah, mwah, mwah,” Isaf mirthfully exclaimed, as she alternated her hand between Fari’s cheeks, pressing on each one with her fingers, as though they were a pair of lips. The subsequent bout of laughter Fari fell into made it much easier for Isaf to toss her over her shoulder and head back to her room. She remained glee-stricken while her mother tightly tucked her under the covers, then licked her fingertip to extinguish the nearby candles' flame.
Only the moons illuminated little Fari’s bedroom then. She fixed her eyes on the glow they cast on her mother’s complexion, and saw them both reflected perfectly in each of her stunning, jet-black eyes.
“Mama?”
“Tell me, Little Fox,” she crooned, as she sat on the bed.
“What’s going to happen tomorrow?”
“Oh, I really couldn’t say,” she remarked, with a pout. “If only I were Akatosh, I’d peek into the future and tell you.” Fari giggled at the thought. Her mother, a god...
“No, no. What are me and Baba gonna do?”
“Start practicing your swordsmanship. You know that,” she chimed, as she ran a finger under her daughter’s chin.
“But I know The Book of Circles by heart. You read me from it each night. You said that was practicing my swordship.”
“Swordsmanship,” she gently corrected. “And that’s right, I did say that. And it was true.” She paused, then cradled her little hand. “Knowing is half the battle, Fari. Tomorrow comes the next part of your journey. It's just as important as the first part, and it'll be just as difficult in the beginning. But, remember the first maxim of Tirdas.”
“'The sword is the self. Its edge is the mind',” she recited. Isaf nodded, beaming with pride.
“You're ready, Fari."
The girl thought for a moment, watching Isaf with her huge, little eyes.
“Am I gonna get to hold a sword, finally?”
“Of course.” And Fari kicked her feet excitedly under the covers, squirming with glee.
“But not if you don’t get to sleep right now,” warned Isaf, as she rose from the bed. “I won’t have you or your father losing any feet because you were so tired, you couldn’t hold your scimitar straight.”
Fari immediately buried her face into her pillow and pulled the covers over her, feigning as if she had already fallen asleep. Isaf gave her forehead a kiss, then gave her parting words.
“See stars in your dreams, Little Fox.”
***
The interior courtyard took on a daunting aura for her that morning. The sun's impending break had brought a dull purple hue that crept into every inch of the limestone against which the image of her father seemed so muddled. From afar, Fari watched him¬¬–watched where he stood at the center of the mosaic tiles which laid exquisitely spiraled in the ground. He was completely still. His right hand laid grasping the hilt of the sword he held pressed against his chest. She fixed the leather belt of her warrior garb in place and began her apprehensive approach from behind. When she was halfway there, he spoke, startling her.
“Good morning, my daughter.”
"Morning, Baba,” she managed. He chuckled as he turned around, knowing that she'd flinched, still keeping his sword near his heart.
“Fari, which of the Sundas Maxims deals with exploiting your enemy’s patterns?” She searched her mind and briskly produced the response.
“'Discover your foe’s habits and discard your own.'”
“Right you are.”
He took a step closer, and knelt to face her. Fari had never paid such stringent attention to anyone in her life.
“From now on, when we practice at dawn here in the courtyard, you must think of me not as your baba, but as your foe. I make mistakes. I fall back on what feels familiar. Exploit that. Alright?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Take your weapon,” he said, offering her the very sword he was holding. The girl took the scimitar’s hilt and its pointed edge quickly hit the floor with a clang. She tried to heave it up into the air, even used both arms, but she could hardly get it off the ground. Her father pinched the blade with two fingers from the top, and lifted it while she held on. Her arms struggled to keep it steady after he let go.
“It’s… really heavy…” she strained. He smiled.
“I don’t doubt it. You’re only six, after all. But this is as strong as you’ll ever be if you don’t get to swinging.” Rahim stood and took a few steps back. “Go ahead. Swing it at me.”
“But… you–you don’t even have one.”
“It doesn’t matter. Do it.”
Collecting what little strength she could from her back muscles, she lifted the scimitar a few inches higher and tried to counterbalance the temporary shift in weight with a step towards him. The blade instantly overwhelmed her, and her arms pulled her entire body to the floor as it fell. She landed harshly on her left elbow, which began to bleed copiously. Her eyes became dewy. Her tiny mouth trembled. She looked up at him.
“'Prepare to pay for victory in blood, but do not waste a drop',” he coldly recited.
Her despair turned to indignation. Fari sat and balled herself up, facing away from him. She heard as he picked the scimitar up off the floor. Then, he assertively jabbed its point on the ground just beside her, startling her once more.
“Again,” he commanded.
The girl buried her face deeper into her arms and shook her head. Rahim was about to capitulate to his dear daughter’s distress when the girl suddenly shifted and kicked the sword out from under his hand. He lost his balance and stumbled forward a few feet past her, regaining his composure much later than he would've liked to. The man turned back to look at her with a raised brow and a grin. Still irritated, she challenged his look of proud disbelief with a scrunch of the nose.
“Excellent maneuver,” he praised. “Now let’s work on your form.”
Much of their morning was spent in this manner, with Rahim pushing his daughter just harshly enough that she continued training in the hopes he’d get his comeuppance, but not so harshly that she would abandon the lesson. The girl struggled greatly while she carried out the sprinting exercises and timed her strikes according to her father’s counsel. She felt especially incompetent in her clumsy imitation of the innumerable forms her father seemed to shift between without a second thought. Nevertheless, she persisted, intent on proving as shrewd in her sword-wielding as she had proven in her studies.
By late morning, Fari’s indomitable resolve and endless energy still abounded. Isaf walked out to the courtyard to see how the lesson was going. She crossed her arms and acted impressed as she saw Fari drill through one of the basic forms. Rahim took advantage of his wife’s presence to have a seat on the edge of one of the courtyard’s planters, and declare them to be done for the day.
“Incredible,” he began, giving her a knowing look. “I’ve withstood the relentless onslaught of Tamriel’s most well-organized cavalries, yet I’m worn down to the point of exhaustion by a mere youngster.”
“I warned you,” she played along. “Fari’s a born warrior. Maybe she should be teaching you a thing or two.”
Their daughter stopped what she was doing and puffed her chest out, her gullible, underdeveloped ego successfully stroked by their words. Her father promptly picked her up, lifting her with a twirl.
“That’s enough practice for today, my girl,” he said, as he set her down. “What do you think about going and helping your mama in her workshop?”
“Okay!” she replied excitedly, taking her mother’s hand and pulling at her arm. “Come on, let’s go!”
“Just a moment, Fari,” she chuckled. Isaf turned to face her husband and rested her hand on his neck, just below his ear, twirling one of his dreadlocks in her fingers.
“I’ll see you later, my light,” she said, with a quick kiss.
Isaf was jerked away and walked, hunched over, alongside Fari, who insistently steered her in the direction of the workshop. She bustled through the elegant corridors of their home, her tiny boots scouring the picturesque tiles which lined its floors as she led them on. In the saddle room, those ochre and maroon tiles laid peppered with pieces of scrap leather made feathery under the soft light coming through the tiny hexagonal gaps of the workshop's windows. Those same gaps illuminated their perfect shapes into Isaf's hands as she reached for a broom that rested on the wall near the doorway. She handed it to Fari, who distractedly swept the floor as she watched her mother delve into her craft.
Isaf retrieved her tools from a nearby bench and positioned herself next to the metal mold installed in the center of the room. She dropped an incomplete saddle on top and fixed it in place, then let her hands run across its slightly coarse surface as she examined the unfinished edges that needed to be tended to. Out of the corner of her eye, the woman picked up on Fari’s curious stare, and withheld herself from beginning her task.
“Fari, would you like to see?”
“Yes!”
She pulled a stool in front of her and plucked her daughter off the ground as soon as she had run over, placing her feet squarely on top. With a reassuring glance, she gave her the tool she had been holding and guided her little hand as they both recessed a thin edge of leather into one of the cantle’s seams, concealing some stitches. They continued tucking the flap into place while they talked.
“Baba was different today,” began Fari. “He’s usually nice. But today he was rude.”
“How was he rude?” she asked, still keeping a firm grip.
“He didn’t care if I was tired or bored. He kept saying how tiny and weak I am, and that I'd be always be like that if I didn’t do what he said.”
“Fari… your father didn’t ask you to heed his advice today just because he felt like it. All he wants for you is the same thing I want for you: for you to be safe. We won’t always be there to protect you. You have to learn to defend yourself.”
“What if I don’t want to practice my swords-man-ship again tomorrow?”
“You don't get to decide that, Fari," was her mother's terse reply.
The girl crossed her arms, put on a pout, and walked over to the workbench, where she began impatiently toying with the tiny leather-working tools laying there. Isaf felt anger taking root in her then, but she knew better than to try to push that girl into something she didn't want to do. 'Rain falls, rivers run, minds follow', she remembered her own mother telling her, long ago. Back when they still spoke.
“What about a deal?" she suggested. She turned to stand at her daughter's back, and put both hands over her shoulders. "You said you don’t want to practice again tomorrow, right?”
Fari nodded.
“Alright, so… what if you keep going to training until you feel like you don’t want to practice your swordsmanship ever again? If that day comes, you say to me: ‘Mama, I don’t want to practice my swordsmanship ever again’, and that’ll be the end of it.”
Fari put down the tools, as though she knew Isaf would've eventually taken them from her, anyway.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
***
The years of arduous work that followed are what made clear to Fari what her mother had meant to tell her that day. There were moments in her journey where the frustration overwhelmed her to the point of exhaustion, where her father’s words grated her ears, and where her body gave all that it could and still came up short. Even on these worst of days, she did not resent her father for training her, or her mother for making her a promise she knew she would never have to keep. She only knew each day came with a commitment, one which her gradual progress compelled her to uphold.
Exactly ten years after she began her training, on her sixteenth birthday, her father met her at the courtyard at dawn, in plainclothes. With tearful eyes, he handed her a folded Alik’r hood and confessed there was nothing left for him to teach her. Fari’s own eyes welled as she accepted the garment from him and leapt into his arms, as if to thank him for all the years of guidance. It had never mattered less to her whether she was the one who had set herself on the path of becoming a warrior.
Chapter 18: A Stern Confession
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A few hours into the expedition, Adélard left Fari to steer the ship so he could go eat. The lake’s wind currents were not very strong, so the dhow's course kept a slow, steady pace, and did not require much tending to. The captain playfully pivoted around the mast, then disappeared into the lower deck’s doorway to go to his quarters. Gwilin, who had been trying to fall asleep below deck since they boarded, sat up in his hammock when he heard Adélard swish the doorway’s curtain aside, and the heels of his boots clack with each of his steps down the dense mahogany stairs.
“You’re still awake,” noted the captain, stopping in his tracks. “Can’t sleep?”
Gwilin shook his head.
“Is it the rocking of the boat? For someone who’s not used to the water’s sway, it can be difficult to ignore. Though I should note the lake is unusually calm tonight. If you can’t get to sleep in these conditions, well,” he dipped his head slightly to the left, “Maybe it’s not the current that’s bothering you.”
He looked up at Adélard, the bags under his eyes hinting at his unwillingness to talk with him.
“Or, perhaps you’re just not cut out to be a sailor. Excuse me.” He withdrew into his room.
The tired mer made his way up the steps to the main deck. He spotted Fari sitting on the stern, gazing at the water below, watching the trail the dhow left while it cut its way through the lake. Gwilin announced himself as he approached, not wishing to startle her.
“Hey there, Fari.”
She turned to look at him. Smiled with her eyes.
“Hey, Gwilin.”
From where he stood next to the mast, he gestured at the spot next to her and raised a brow. She reeled her hand towards herself, welcoming him to join her. He plopped down.
“Just getting some fresh air,” he grunted, as he settled in place. His eyes sought out hers, but Fari’s vision was fixed on the coastline in the distance. Only when he’d look away would she stare surreptitiously at his puffy eyes, and catch glimpses of his shaky hands, her eyes always darting aside if he tried to look back. A few minutes of this charade, this looking-without-really-looking, quickly tired them both. Fari opened her mouth to break the silence, but he beat her to it.
“What happened to you earlier?” For a second, she put on a coy expression, but made the swift decision not to insult his intelligence.
“You mean, when I was all aflutter telling you about the ship and then I just…?” She let her voice trail off, curled her lower lip, and shrugged. “I saw the way you looked at me. I knew you’d ask me about it, first chance you got.” And Gwilin’s eyes scanned the floorboards, then moved to her face. He rubbed the tips of his fingers on the inside of his palms with inquietude.
“Before I tell you, can I ask you something?”, she entreated, as a soft, pained expression unraveled in her face. She met his bloodshot eyes. “When was the last time you slept?”
Gwilin bobbed his head to the right sharply to look away from her. A scowl crept onto his lips.
“Of course. This again.”
“Gwilin.” She was exasperated. He jerked his neck to face her, to cut into her with his words.
“What do you need to hear me say?” He stood up. “Tell me. Right now. You want me to admit something. You must have some idea of what you think I’m feeling. Tell me so I can tell you," he stressed. Fari crinkled her brow at him, incredulous, and she shot up. An indignant, delayed tone guided her voice.
“You haven’t slept… since the flood. You barely talk to me anymore, unless you absolutely have to. I see your hands shake every time you have to reach into the river,” her voice broke, “And do you think I couldn’t hear you sob in your room these last three nights?”
His mouth gaped slightly as he looked back in surprise, his heart still racing with wrath.
“Yeah. Yeah,” she asserted calmly, her head nodding, her lip trembling, and her rage building. “And when I ask you about it this morning, with nothing but concern in my heart, you lie to me, and you dismiss me. Now you’re angry? You’re angry? At me? Why? Because I worry about you? Because I can say what you can’t?”
“And what can’t I fucking say?” he screamed, as he closed the gap between them down to an inch. Fari’s hands hurried onto his torso, pushed him so vehemently he nearly tipped over.
“That you feel guilty!" She matched his volume. "Don’t lie to me!” And then she whispered her worried words.
“Just... say it.”
The look of disbelief on Gwilin's face melted into a sorrowful grimace. Wretched, woe-fueled slowness arrested him, forced his body to teeter forward, and tears to gleam on the cusps of his eyes. Fari rushed to him, catching him as his legs gave way, and she lowered him to the ground as he gasped for air–as his flushed cheeks parted so those soul-crushing wails could escape his lungs.
“I’m sorry…” he wept, almost unintelligibly. “I’m so sorry, Fari…”
Helplessness took root within her. She held his head in her hands, gazed at his upside-down eyes as though her heart no longer beat in her chest, but under her tender grasp, and her thumbs wiped his tears from either side of his face, and she said nothing and everything with her strokes and her shaky breath as he continued to let his shame and frustration bleed him until he was bone-dry.
Once his head stopped weighing on his shoulders like a block of lead, Gwilin shifted himself off her lap. He sat beside her, one leg stretched and the other bent, and pressed his back against the half-wall behind them to stabilize himself. Then he looked on with his unburdened stare. Even as he opened and closed his mouth, searching for the right words to deliver to his friend the explanation she deserved, nothing could rob him of the peace which had finally seeped into his soul.
“I didn’t think it was right,” he looked down, still choked up, “To, uh, foist on you all the thoughts that were in my head after the flood. I thought… I would get over it, eventually, and I’d never have to make you feel helpless by telling you about it.” He scoffed at the thought. “As if that were something you could do. Make me forget…”
His nose scrunched. She watched his lips tremble, his breathing grow uneasy again. Viscous self-anger took hold of him.
“You didn’t see his face. Before the current took him. It’s the only thing I see now. I don’t see our fishing trips together. I don’t see him helping me out at the mill. I don’t see him laughing at the pranks Reyda and I used to pull on him at the inn." He lifted his eyes.
"I ruined those memories, Fari. And they’re all that’s left of him.”
Fari slid her hand over his shoulder to rub his back, and her thigh pressed against his as she pulled close. She took his cheek, turning his head to face her.
“You didn’t ruin anything, Gwilin. It’s not your fault you’ll never be able to make more of them… and it’s not your fault Narfi died.”
“I know you mean what you say, Fari. I wish I could believe you.” He shook his head with a sigh. “See? This is why I didn't tell you. I didn’t want you to worry over something you couldn’t change.”
“Tsk. Oh, Gwilin,” she remarked fondly, as she moved a hand to her knee. “Why did you come up here?"
“From below deck?”
She nodded.
“To ask you about the face you made–”
“But why did you ask me that?” And Gwilin grinned, genuinely, for the first time in forever.
“Because I was worried about you.”
Fari moved her hand to her heart–held it there for a few moments. As though she meant to say 'me, too', but the gentle admission caught in her throat.
“I’m sorry. Not telling you didn’t keep you from worrying. I just made you worry more. That was never my intention.”
“Thank you. But, don't get used to apologizing each time something like this happens.”
His brow knit in confusion.
“You’re my friend, Gwilin,” she said, looking down at her thumbs. “I care about you. Caring and worrying. You can’t have one without the other.”
After a pause, he leaned over to hug her. She found his heartbeat slow and calm, and savored its gentle cadence while they were embraced.
“Hey,” he began to pull away, “You never did tell me what happened to you earlier.”
“Oh. That’s right." She collected herself and gave a chuckle, like just retelling it made her feel silly. "A few weeks ago, the first day I came into town, I was trying to find Temba. You know, so I could deliver the timber I brought. The first person I thought to ask for help was one of the town guards, and, well, he was really… curt with me.”
“Oh, wait. Let me guess. It was Beifar? All that time in the cart together today, and he only piped up to gripe or ask me if I was a cannibal or something.” He rolled his eyes, but Fari remained quiet–felt unable to mirror his amusement. He was made freshly curious by her reserve.
“What’d he say to you?”
“I don’t remember his words, exactly." She waved her hand like it wouldn't have mattered, if she did. "But he was… leering at me. Trying to look down my bodice. And, uh, he said something about wanting to see me and Temba naked, pressed up against one another.” Gwilin saw her tense up as she told it–subconsciously obscure her chest–and he blushed profusely as feelings of both indignation and embarrassment flooded him. Indignation, because that was his friend. The person whose company he would easily choose over anyone else's. Embarrassment, because the image stuck in his mind, burrowed into it, commanded his attention by stirring want within the finest conducts in his body. Below his good sense, below his belt–
“No. No," he was silencing the thoughts, "He’s off this expedition the second we get to Riften. There’s no reason for you to have to put up with him. W-why did you not tell me this sooner?”
“I was building up to it. It felt too soon those first three weeks, and then the flood happened. There was just never a right time.”
“Gah, that creep!” he said, feeling like the creep himself. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”
“No. Absolutely not. Gwilin, calm down,” she stressed, grabbing his forearm, inadvertently adding to his tension. “I told you because you asked me and I don’t want to hide anything from you. I trust you’ll let this trip be a peaceful one.”
“You’re not talking about letting him come back with us?”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with something like this, Gwilin, and he certainly isn’t the first man to cross a line by saying something like that. We’re really close to getting paid. I don’t want to displease Temba, or risk that moron doing something stupid if he’s confronted.” He racked his brain in search of a rebuttal, looked back and forth between her and the sleeping quarters, then stood up.
“Am I supposed to sleep next to him knowing what he said?”
“If I can do it, you can," was all she replied. Gwilin sighed. Thought for a moment with his hands on his hips.
“Alright. I won’t say anything,” he yielded. "You have my word."
Captain Adélard brushed past them on his way back to the main deck. Fari soon climbed into the hammock below Temba’s, and Gwilin nestled into all that was left for him: the one under Beifar. He hung a leg off his hammock and looked across the room at Fari, who was using her bent arm as a pillow. She pointed up at Beifar with her eyes–whose color gleamed even in the shadows the moonlight penciled over her–mouthed a slow and gentle 'thank you', and rolled over to go to sleep. If it wasn’t for how exhausted he was, Gwilin didn’t think he would have been able to do the same.
Notes:
he do be respecting her wishes and supporting her in processing the event on her own terms thoughhhh
Chapter 19: The Rift
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“We’re here! Come now, my friends, enough sleep!” announced Adélard. With his mirthful words, everyone in the sleeping quarters stirred in their hammocks; some grunting, others sighing. The captain set about parting all the curtains to the sides, allowing everything below deck to be drenched in sunlight.
“Shut up, you annoying pomp…” was all Beifar said, under his breath, as he covered his eyes.
Temba, meanwhile, hopped right off her hammock, landing next to her obsidian-haired man friend. “Thank you for the wake-up call, captain. I’m certain you’re tired,” she fawned. “It must have been a long night.”
“Do not worry about me, my dear. I’ll get plenty of rest once we dock, which should be within the hour.”
As Adélard and Temba chatted away in the center of the room, Gwilin and Fari still processed having been pulled out of their slumber. From where he sat on his hammock, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and saw Fari begin to comb out her hair. He softly leaned to the side so he could get a better view of her, while she did, suddenly feeling very awake. She paused in her drowsy ministrations when she saw him looking over, and Gwilin chose to indulge a silly impulse by gesturing toward Temba and the captain, clasping his hands together below his chin, and looking up dreamily. Fari covered her mouth to smother her laughter, nodding with giddiness at his implication.
Adélard and Fari soon took their place manning the sails, and steered the ship toward the city’s docks. She kept a steady hand on the tiller as they turned the dhow, gently positioning it along the boardwalk. While Temba and Gwilin moored the vessel and laid down the short ramp, the captain addressed them.
“My loyal crew,” he began, with zest rivaling that of a member of the Imperial Theatre Company, “I take my leave from you all. As per Temba’s instructions, we are to stay overnight here in Riften. I am very weary from hours of work, so I will be resting in my quarters for the day. Should you need me urgently, please,” he turned to Temba, “Disturb me.” And he hurried off, leaving her looking flustered. Temba turned to face her employees, but her gaze was stuck on Adélard. She watched him hit those smooth strides as he walked below deck, and spoke much later than she should've.
“Uh, you two stay here. I’ll go look for the Black-Briars. Tell them we brought the shipment. Then we’ll unload everything.”
“And Beifar?” asked Fari.
“He’s not being paid to be here. If he wants to keep sleeping, that's his business," she replied, as she descended the ramp. “Don’t worry, Maven told me the master craftsman and a worker from the meadery will come help us bring the lumber into the city.” And Temba hastened across the docks until she disappeared from view.
They occupied themselves with feeding and brushing the steeds while they awaited her return. As Fari fed the other horses, Gwilin attended to Juniper's neck–stroked the thick skin enveloping the powerful muscles rippling beneath his coat. Each of his pets saw Juniper nuzzle his head unyieldingly against the palms of his hands, cast affection into his skin. The mer all but made a gentle field mouse out of the beast with his touch.
“How'd you sleep last night?” was all Fari asked, as she pitched a mound of hay in front of them.
“Pretty good. I had a dream, actually.” He glanced over, now brushing the horse’s mane. “A good one. I dreamt Narfi visited the farm in Kvatch. I was a little boy in the dream, which is weird, because I hadn’t met Narfi yet, obviously. I don’t remember what happened, but, I remember that he was happy to be there.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Yeah... It feels good to remember a face of his other than the one that’s been following me around these last few days.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling better. I missed seeing you smile.”
Gwilin chuckled under his breath–became delightfully self-aware that the very smile she spoke of was the one she'd engineered to bring to his lips just then. His bashful eyes were watching his hands as he brushed Juniper when, out of nowhere, a chortle escaped him. Fari perked up, watched him lean close, and listened as he spoke in a hushed, teasing voice, with his brows raised suggestively.
“Miss Temba's been rather transparent with the captain, hasn’t she?”
“I know!" She flounced her feet in place, then looked over her shoulder to ensure Temba wasn't near. “You should’ve heard her talking with him yesterday on the cart ride over to the ship.”
“And when Adélard looked at her and said ‘disturb me’?” he chattered, imitating the captain’s accent with a goofy face. “Come on!"
"There has to be a story there."
"No doubt. Maybe she knows him from–" He halted right as his eyes took notice of something behind her.
“Temba," he hardly mouthed. Fari looked back. Their boss had returned, accompanied by two men.
“There’s the reinforcements,” she sighed.
“Aw, cheer up, Fari. Only thing standing between us and our coin is a couple hours,” he said, ever the optimist, as he ran past her to make the time start ticking.
***
It was the late afternoon, and Gwilin, Temba, and Fari all wiped the sweat off their brows. They anxiously watched the brewmaster examine the lumber they'd brought to the meadery. The Dunmer wore an exquisite set of blue robes with a dandelion-yellow Colovian cotton blouse underneath. The flames from the boilers licked the smooth sheen of the black fur cloak draped over his shoulders as he stole looks at them, covertly consulting with the master craftsman on the quality of their woodwork all the while. With the document in his hand, as well as his regalia, leading the way–distinguishing him more than he could ever distinguish himself on his own–he approached Temba.
"Everything is as promised," he remarked. He held out a quill. "You've honored the agreement. Once you sign, I'll retrieve your gold."
"Thank you, Indaryn." She signed the parchment. "And let me know if any imperfections in the wood come to light during construction."
He nodded as he rolled up the document, then gestured for two workers on the loft above to come down. They descended the stairs with a small chest, about the size of a large fox, in tow. It settled with a creak as they placed it on the floorboards in front of them. Indaryn handed Temba the key, and she opened the chest to reveal the payment glinting within.
"Five thousand septims. You're free to count them before you leave. Pleasure doing business with you."
Gwilin and Fari both crossed their arms and admired the sum of gold from where they stood, at Temba's back. She closed the chest and rose to face them.
"What are you standing around for? Let's go, we have to get this to the ship."
"'We' is a lot of people..." observed Fari, glibly. Temba gave her a dry scowl, but Fari saw the corner of her mouth lift. Both of them proceeded to pick up the chest and haul it out the back door leading to the docks, then all the way to the ship. When they made it to the storage room there, they dropped the chest with a thud.
"Are we going to sleep here tonight?" asked Fari, dusting her hands off.
"No... The gold is safe on the ship," replied Temba, as she squatted and opened the chest. "No one else knows we have it here, and there are plenty of guards posted around the docks." Then she began handing each of them a few dozen septims.
"I think we've earned a drink," she avowed, with a sly smile. "What say you both?"
"At The Bee and Barb?" came Gwilin's question, as glee seized his face. Fari was depositing the coins into the pouch at her side and, before she knew it, he'd taken her hand, and they'd left Temba behind, and she was stumbling over herself as she tried to keep up with him. He scurried over the docks, unable to contain his excitement, heading straight for the stairs leading up to the city with Fari in his grasp. As they weaved between the passerby, her mind raced as much as her feet did. She could hardly bear those looks he gave over his shoulder–the peeks he shared of his dried-maple eyes. Each made her ears all the more unseasonably warm.
He let go at the top of the stairs. Pushing open the door, he welcomed Fari into what he humorously referred to as the "musty jewel" of The Rift, and she made her way inside the city walls with wonder. She ran straight through the busy marketplace and eagerly planted her feet on one of the bridges connecting the walkways on either side of the canal. With her stomach pressed against the railing, she leaned over and pointed at the waterway below. Gwilin came to her side.
"Look at all the paths winding underneath!" And she practically turned her head upside down to look across the underside of the bridge.
"Careful," he chuckled, pressing his forearm across her chest. "You don't want to fall into that water. It looks fine from up here, but... it's not the cleanest."
"Oh. That's a shame."
"We could take a spin on a rowboat later, though."
"You have a rowboat here?"
"Well, no. But there are rowboats. You know..." he looked to his sides, "...Around..." And she lightly tapped his shoulder with the back of her hand in disapproval. Gwilin snickered as he pushed himself off the railing. He began to walk backwards, and let the words fall from his mouth like a siren's call.
"But first... I'm buying you a drink," he hummed. He led Fari towards the tavern, his hands speaking more eloquently than his lips, his fingers waving and curling and floating in front of him as he spoke.
"The Argonians who run this place make a drink called the White-Gold Tower. I'm usually partial to something a little stronger, like Bosmeri brandy, but there's something about the dragon's tongue they put in it that creates the most... unique buzz." Fari's brow knit inquisitively.
"You'll see what I mean," he assured her. He made way, and Fari placed her hands on the double doors of the tavern and pushed them open. They parted to reveal its low, ash-stained ceilings, thick, square wooden tables, and paneled walls adorned with bundles of dried spices and animal pelts. It was packed full of people, whose raucous voices delighted Fari greatly. She moved to their left, to the bar, where she hurried herself into one of the stools.
"Haven't seen you hither in a while," said the barmaid in her gravelly voice, as Gwilin ghosted past Fari's back, making her skin prickle.
"All's well, Keerava," was all he responded, and he placed his palms on the counter, with his arms outstretched. She turned to look at Fari, and began to fill the large flagon she'd been handling.
"We don't get a lot of Redguards visiting the city. Are you working for Temba?"
"Sure am. She's on the way, actually."
"Better make that three, then," said Keerava, tapping a little more mead into the flagon. She topped it off with cream, added two different colored powders, then shook the container vigorously. Gwilin laid ten septims on the counter while she divvied up the beverage, and it took him all of fifteen seconds to down his drink, once she'd handed it to him.
With a quenched sigh, he found Fari's eyes, and acted with delectably malicious intent. His thumb wiped his upper lip–dragged his flesh slightly awry as it moved across–then dipped itself between his plump lips to be licked clean. He set the empty flagon down with a thump on the counter, and Fari followed the flow of the next drink he was being poured–down, down to the flow of the blood in his fingers, which gripped and pulsed hard around the metal, then to his forearm, whose muscles tensed as he lifted the flagon to his lips again, and finally up to his bicep, which he drew much higher than he really to as he devoured his last drop.
"I'm going to go mingle," he said, interrupting nothing at all, for not even a passing thought lingered in Fari's mind after his display, and he waited for a moment before he left, like he was giving her a chance to protest. But Fari kept her fists balled secretly in her lap. Gwilin cocked his hips away from the counter, letting their sway carry him into the crowd of bodies.
The scarred face of a hefty blonde sitting in the opposite corner of the room was the first thing she managed to process once he was gone. Her battle-forged countenance caught her eye, as did the crystalline sword that hung from her belt. She tentatively approached the table with her freshly-poured drink in hand.
"That's a fine piece of steel you've got," she remarked. The stranger desisted from the conversation with the man who sat across from her.
"Thank you." She paused briefly, glancing at her weapon. "It's glass, though."
"No, yeah. I just meant... your sword. It stands out."
"Doesn't it?" she said, drawing it from her belt. "Go ahead, give it a swing." And Fari took the hilt in her hands, was noticeably impressed by its light weight. She did a few practice swings with the sword in the other direction.
"Its name is Grimsever. I was recently reunited with it after losing it in a Dwarven ruin." Fari returned the blade. "The Dragonborn retrieved it for me, actually," she continued, as she stowed her weapon. "From Mzinchaleft."
"Really? You know, I met the Dragonborn a few weeks ago. They passed through Ivarstead on the way to answer the Greybeard's summons."
"Heh, and what did you think?" asked the man, as he sipped from his tankard.
"Well, we barely spoke. They ran into town and breathlessly asked me for directions to High Hrothgar, and then they hurried off."
"Now that you mention it... they do run everywhere. Like they're always in a hurry. Why is that?"
"Some people just move at a faster pace, I suppose, Aerin," figured the blonde.
Gwilin watched Fari pull up a chair and chat with the strangers from where he leaned on the wall, a few feet behind her. He swept his tongue across his bottom lip at the sight of her showing off her scimitar to them, as the tip of her index finger ran the length of its blade and she enthused about its design. A buxom, full-lipped woman that had approached him from the left addressed him unawares.
"Hello, there."
"Oh!" he started, with a hand on his heart. "My apologies. I hadn't noticed you were here." He smiled amiably. "What can I do for you, friend?"
"I was just hoping to meet you. I think I've seen you here in Riften before. I'm Haelga." Her desirous stare went unnoticed.
"Oh, of course. Yes. You own the bunkhouse, right?"
"Aye, I do."
"That must keep you busy. Good thing we're both here taking the load off, eh?" He gestured at her tankard with his flagon.
"True, though we could be taking the load off... another way." She took a step closer, and Gwilin inched away sideways along the wall. Realized he was being pursued.
"I, uh..."
"Our Lady of Love, Dibella... it is she who brings the glint to every lover's gaze." Her eyes followed her finger as she traced up from his collarbone toward his neck. "I see it now, in yours." Gently, Gwilin plucked her hand off his chest and nestled it between both of his.
"That's a very astute observation, friend. Though I'm afraid the glint does not gleam for thee, as it were." And he shook his head. Haelga collected her hand, placing it on her tankard.
"Very well. You and Valindor are quite a pair," she chided. "Should you change your mind, you know where to find me."
A shudder of relief passed through Gwilin as she took her leave. When he turned his head back to where he'd been looking, Fari and the others were no longer there. He sighed, feeling a little hampered, and went to retrieve another drink at the bar.
About an hour later, Fari turned a corner at the wall covering the stairs and was surprised to find Temba there. Her elbows were perched on the steps, and she sat with her right leg crossed over her left, her disheveled hair obscuring her face. She looked up with an intoxicated pout.
"You look to be deep in the drink," noted Fari, with a grin, taken aback at her boss' loose disposition. "What is that?"
Temba looked down at her glass, then pointed at Fari's flagon. "I like to skip that light stuff. Better to go straight for the apricot brandy. Gets me limber quicker."
"I can see that."
"But those are good, too." She licked her parched lips. Took a swig. "I bet Gwilin recommended it to you. Am I right?"
"That he did," she half-whispered, watching as she traced her finger along the rim of her beverage, remembering how heartily Gwilin had drunk his own. Temba paused to look her up and down.
"Don't let him pass you by, Fari."
She blushed as her eyes jumped off her flagon. Temba gave an inviting pat on the adjacent floorboard, and Fari didn't hesitate to accept. She kept her drink firmly ensconced in both hands while Temba spoke.
"I'm not dumb. I know... you and Gwilin were poking fun at me. About Adélard." Her slurred words struck Fari like a leaf in the face. She went to apologize, but the corners of Temba's mouth drew down gently, as if to say it was trivial.
"Him and I have known each other since our youth. I met him when I was fourteen." She swallowed and cleared her throat. "On a pilgrimage to the temple of Mara. That's here in Riften," she clarified.
"Y-yeah. I think I saw it earlier."
"Well... we were but children then. I'd traveled into the city with a group of acolytes. One day, they sent me out to the docks from the inn we were staying in. To buy fish for dinner." A boozy smile slowly encroached in on her face. She spoke as though she were still under the effect of the allure she'd felt in that long-past moment.
"And he was the fishmonger at the docks..."
Fari couldn't help but smile back, charmed by the sensitivity she wasn't used to seeing Temba display.
"He wasn't a captain then. He was a lowly knave. But I didn't care. He had, and still has, the most gorgeous, long black hair. And such worldly temperament..." She closed her eyes, letting her mind run wild with such thoughts. But she quickly reeled herself back from the deep–took a long look at Fari before throwing her head back, and gulping down the rest of her drink.
"And–" her tongue caught on the words, "We bedded each other."
Fari nearly choked–hastily swallowed the drink she had in her mouth. Her eyes widened in their disbelief. "Um, that's... woah," she said, with an uncertain inflection.
"It's alright, you can say it. It was a whorish thing to do."
"Oh, Divines, no, Temba. That's not what I meant. I'm surprised, is all. Weren't you afraid? By Mara, I remember I was afraid the first time I..."
Temba uncrossed her legs, moved to sit hunched over with her forearms on her knees. She spun the empty glass between her thumb and middle finger, pensive, then shook her head.
"I never felt afraid. Not when I was with him." And Fari set her flagon down to inch closer to her. Her eyes did not settle anywhere for long, for fear of upsetting her any more than the question she was about to ask may have.
"Do you... usually feel afraid?"
"Afraid is all I ever feel." And anger brewed in her brow. "When I was a girl, I was so afraid of being alone that I entrusted myself to the Divines for everything. Now...?" she glanced at Fari, "Of getting outcompeted by another mill. Being cheated by a buyer. Never telling Adélard how I feel." She brought her thumb up to her mouth and played despondently with her lower lip. "Of another flood happening."
Fari put a hand on her forearm, realizing she'd never been the one to touch her first. She'd always been scared to. But Temba didn't seem so daunting then, and her brawny forearms didn't look like they carried bitterness anymore. Just pain. A pain crossing the pales of time and space to make her soft and fragile–to make her everything she was not.
"Temba," came her gentle words, "What's the worst thing that could happen if you told Adélard how you feel?"
"He could no longer desire my friendship. For still clinging to those childish feelings. From so long ago."
"Don't say that. What if he fell into your arms and swooned, instead? You could leave the mill behind. Go with him anywhere."
"Fari, what you're talking about is what you and Gwilin need to do."
"What?" her cheeks tinged red.
"Or, in your case, I suppose you'd be the one whisking him away."
"What are you talking about? Gwilin and I, we're just friends."
"Oh, that's rich," she guffawed. She picked up Fari's flagon and started drinking from it. "You honestly don't think he wants more? Just like you do?"
"Alright, yes. I've noticed a few signs from him. But Gwilin doesn't want to leave Ivarstead, and I don't want to be tied down. There's nothing for it."
"You can't just bed him and see where it goes from there?"
"Alright, you've had enough," she nearly exclaimed, as she swiped the flagon from her hand. "I'm getting you to bed."
Temba stood and took one step up before turning to look down at Fari and placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Fari. Ignore everything else I've said. Listen to me now." She let out a small burp. "Gwilin and I? We're settlers. We settle. Don't ask me why we do, but we do. Don't linger around us for too long," she turned to continue going upstairs, "Or you'll start to feel yourself settle, too."
The words bounced around Fari's head, and the possibility of them being more than just the drunk ramblings of her boss struck fear into her heart. As she guided Temba up the stairs, steadying her so she didn't sway as much, she thought about what she really owed Gwilin. They'd known each other for scarcely a month. Their work was done. She didn't even have to return to Ivarstead; she could just leave Riften, tell him it'd been nice knowing him, say the usual pleasantries about how they should correspond so as to not fall out of touch, and make for the Imperial City, where she was just one face among thousands, and she could envelop herself into whoever she wanted to, and feel safe in her restlessness, until the next city called her name and she could do it all over again.
Then she wondered if it would really be so bad. To open herself up to that anguish, accept whatever she had coming if she chose not to run. Not that she could've. She saw Gwilin coming up the steps to the second floor right as she closed the door to Temba's room.
Notes:
Yessirrrr more Temba apologia!!
Gwilin's acting like kind of a slut tbh and I love him for it. Don't worry he gets even sluttier later
Chapter 20: *A Salacious Shortcut
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Hey," he said, reaching the top of the stairs.
"Hi." Fari sorted through her thoughts while she hesitantly walked over to him. "You coming up to get some sleep?" His cheeks were flushed with that deep, earthy color she loved, and his relaxed eyelids hung sensuously on his eyes. He met her halfway with a suave gait.
"Hardly. I was looking for you."
She suppressed a small laugh and grinned. "Gwilin, how many have you had?"
"Enough..." He reached over and took the end of her braid in his hand. He toyed with it for a few seconds as he drew closer, then let it go. "How about you?"
Fari crossed her arms with a delighted blush. A column of warmth swirled down her body and settled in her abdomen. She was beginning to understand what Gwilin meant about a 'unique' buzz–one of the side effects of the White-Gold Tower seemed to be that it made her feel achingly unladylike. She stammered through her words.
"I don't know, like, five... or six."
"You still wanna see about that rowboat?"
She gave her answer by taking her flagon and concealing it under her clothes. Gwilin did the same. She grabbed him by the arm and tiptoed down the stairs, then bolted out through one of the tavern's side entrances. Gwilin trotted along ahead of her once they were out, exhaling with vigor as the cold filled his lungs. He finished his drink in one go and chucked his flagon into the canal below. Fari saw his puffs of breath cloud in the air as he whooped, and she shushed him from behind, a bout of laughter taking hold of her.
His feet hurried down a set of stairs connecting the upper walkway to the canal, and he sat, cross-legged, in one swift motion at the water's edge. She approached him with a finger hovering under her nose.
"Oof. You weren't kidding about the water."
"Heh heh, it's pretty strong, right?" He looked up at her as he leaned back on his arms, placing his palms flat on the boardwalk. "It'll pass." He zeroed in on her drink.
"You gonna finish that?"
"I was," she bent over and placed the flagon to her right, next to the hull of the rowboat that floated in front of them, "But I've lost my appetite."
He bounced his eyes between her face and where the beverage sat on the floor.
"I'm not giving you my drink so you can throw another flagon in the canal," she reproached playfully. Gwilin threw his head back and laughed.
"Fair enough."
There was a long pause. Fari clasped her hands to stretch her arms out in front of her, then removed her cloak. Gwilin's heart skipped a beat when he felt it pool next to him. His pupils, large as plates, ventured to look at her robust, lean figure, now only covered by her sheer, short-sleeved undershirt, white linen trousers, and formfitting waistcoat. She saw his eyes scan her body with delight, idle near her hips. It was obvious he was no longer entertaining notions of modesty in his thoughts.
And neither was she. Fari swiveled her hips slightly, just to let him know she knew what he was watching, and a hint of self-consciousness surged through him as he met her gaze, as if to say: Yes? Yet there was no drive in his eyes, only hunger, like he was but a thin crystal rod begging to be broken in half. If she wanted him, she needed to give in to that urge–to make for his lips, to reach for his waist, to roll him into the canal in their heated, drunken stupor. She imagined her hands having free rein of him below the water's surface, his nervousness mixing with his arousal to raise his sex against her thigh, her panting spurring him to drive it against her for as long as he could before his thin whines forced him to cry out for her to grant him his relief. And she heard his voice in her mind–heard the sounds he would've made as she sheathed him within her. A few moans, some whimpers, but mostly the kind of nonsense uttered in the throes of ecstasy. Fari–I need to–more–harder–fuck me–pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease...
She felt demented. She felt desperate. She felt she needed to stop herself before she did something she'd regret, come morning.
Gwilin only knew he wanted to dissipate the wariness he sensed coming from her, thus tearing down the barrier he felt was keeping them from devouring each other. Fari watched his lips–still imagined them moving to make those cries of pleasure–as he roved towards her. He touched and held her right hip against his left, preparing to walk past, and the words left his mouth with far too much ease and far too closely to her ear for her to resist.
"Come with me. Come to the boat."
And she grabbed his hand from behind as he walked off and lunged at him, causing them to intertwine. They stumbled over each other, then fell on the ground near the boat, rolled into it, and landed heavily on the inside. When they straightened themselves, Fari found herself on top of him, with her legs straddling his torso. His hands snaked their way onto the top of her thighs, and he felt his member swell under her heat. A smug grin quickly found its way to his mouth as he watched her inner struggle unfold.
"You should've told me that thing, that... White-Gold Tower... makes you, y'know..." she chortled. He looked straight up at her, dared her to stop being so ambiguous.
"...Horny, okay?"
Gwilin laughed a little devilishly, pleased by her admission. He dug the tips of his fingers into the top of her thighs, tracing and teasing her frail skin. And there was so much of her to tease–so much of her large, svelte legs for him to savor with his firm hands–that the thought of waiting forever for her to give the go-ahead did little to temper his lust.
All of Fari's mental energy was being expended in slighting the heat coming off his nether regions, but she could feel her efforts to control the want within her fail. She pulled a knee over his body to join her other one on the right side of the boat, which enabled her to reach for the still-unfinished flagon on the boardwalk. After downing the rest of her drink, she nodded assent, urging him to switch places with a nudge of her arm.
He was stanced over her. One hand held his body up, and the other fondled his still-shrouded penis while she worked to lower her trousers. Fari twitched eagerly from below, writhed in frustration as she tried to catch a glimpse of his member from where she lay, and her hand rushed to release her belt, rushed to make it come undone like she knew she could make him come undone. But she stopped once her thumb slipped into her waistband.
She couldn't move.
She turned her head up, sought a look of reassurance from Gwilin. What she found was that his eyes were fixed on her hand; he was waiting for it to move her clothes off so they could get on with it. She shook her head with shame as tears brought her legs together, and she gently shoved him aside. Gwilin laid sideways at her back, feeling wholly embarrassed.
"Woah. Hey..." He placed a hand on her right bicep, faced the back of her head as he spoke softly. "Fari, what...?"
Every muscle in her forehead knit as she finished breaking into tears. She began to climb out of the boat, her legs trembling with frailty. She kept her shoulders tight, cupped her elbows in her hands from where she stood looking down at him. Her voice broke.
"It's–you didn't–you didn't do anything wrong, Gwilin. I'm going to head inside. To sleep. Goodnight." And he watched her snatch her cloak up off the floor and sprint up the stairs. Her sobs mingled with the soft waves splashing against the sides of the canal, and made the moonlit glow a harsh white-blue haze that froze everything it touched–the silver with which it streaked the waterways, the shadows with which it filled the walkways, and the restless stillness Gwilin felt as he saw her flee.
He threw his back onto the rowboat's floor. A heavy exhale left him, and he looked up at the stars. In that moment, he wished to be among them, as far away from his mind and body as possible.
Notes:
Told you he gets sluttier
Chapter 21: Lost Time
Notes:
!! currently being revised !!
Chapter Text
"Hey!" a stern voice called out. "Hey, you!"
Gwilin's vision was blasted by the sun's rays as his eyelids crept open. Everything was bathed in searing white light. He raised a hand to protect his sun-toasted skin from toasting any further.
"Hey, riffraff!"
"Bah!" he hissed back, as he began to make out the details of the helmeted face which cried out from above.
"That boat yours, Wood Elf?"
He propped himself up and slowly shifted in place. While he drank in his surroundings, darting his disoriented head every which way, it dawned on him that he'd spent the whole night in the rowboat.
"Uh, no?"
"Then get the fuck out of there," he ordered.
Drawn by the commotion, a small crowd gathered at the railing where the guard glared at him from. Gwilin raised his hand up and pawed at the air, as though he were asking for a second to best his sore back muscles, then began to hoist himself out of the boat.
"Yeah, that's right. Before I go down there and pull you out myself."
He crawled on all fours toward the stone wall, where the shade was, and where he was safe from the crowd's gaze. From there, he looked over at the boat and the tipped-over flagon, and tried to piece together what had happened the night before. Before he could, the pitter-patter of rapid feet drew his attention to the right, where he saw Fari come tumbling down the stairs.
"Gwilin, your skin..." she winced, as she crouched at his side to gauge the damage that'd been dealt to his face. He stared back with his chapped lips and delicately knit brow.
"Oh, Stendarr's mercy. Come on, let's get you some water." And she looped his arm over her shoulder to pull him up. As they trudged up the stairs, everyone who had been watching from the railing followed them with their prying eyes. If any of Fari's hands had been free, she would've covered her face to save herself the embarrassment.
***
Temba approached Fari where she sat in the landing of the second floor, at The Bee and Barb, just outside her room. She leaned back into the wall and slid down beside her.
"Everything went well?" asked Fari.
"Mhm. Adélard didn't mind. Doesn't really matter whether Beifar does."
"Thank you. Really," she emphasized, as she looked over. Temba shrugged in reply. Before long, she grew annoyed at the sound of Fari tapping her anxious fingernails on the floor, and gave a loud sigh.
"Out with it," she ordered.
Thank the Divines, thought Fari. She was dying to talk about it.
"Temba, do you remember what you said to me last night?"
"Ugh." She groaned at herself and rolled her eyes. "Whatever I said, pay it no heed. Every time I come here to Riften, I do the same thing."
Fari raised a brow at her.
"...Yes, Fari, I have a vague recollection. I went on and on about Adélard and then I gave you relationship advice. Which I hope you didn't take," she added, as she glanced over, and Fari showed her teeth a little–returned a dainty smile that said she had. Temba gestured toward the room Gwilin lay in with her head.
"What'd you and the swain get up to yesterday?"
"A lot. We got drunk, fooled around a little. We almost..." she smirked euphemistically, "But, I stopped it."
"How come?"
"Didn't feel right. It wasn't Gwilin and I, it was... two horny strangers in a rowboat. You know what I mean?"
"Hm," was Temba's earnest response. She recalled that that was more or less what she and Adélard had been once. Fari, though. Fari was young. She still had so much more time to make mistakes.
"We should check on him," Temba suddenly urged, as she rose. "See if he's in any condition to travel. Come on."
"Uh, sure, yeah," supposed Fari. Gwilin shifted off the pillow when he heard them enter. His head followed Fari as she came close.
"How goes it?" he greeted, in his raspy voice.
"Nevermind us," replied Temba, lacking patience, as usual. "How are you feeling? Good to get on the boat?"
"Temba," chided Fari.
"It's okay," he began, as he dragged his body backwards with a groan and sat up. "My back is pretty sore, Miss Temba, but I can rest here, or on the ship. Shouldn't make any difference." A thought brewed on his face. He squinted like he was about to ask for a favor, and gestured at Fari and himself. "Miss Temba, could we be alone for a moment?"
Fari's pulse spiked, and Temba leapt at the chance.
"Yes. Of course," she granted. "Be at the ship in half an hour, or we're leaving without you," she was quick to add, before she left them. Both caught the other's eye as her face disappeared in the doorway. Fari chortled despite herself, and Gwilin's rolling laughter began to swell.
"I'm so lucky you pulled me out of there," he managed, in his sea of chuckles. "I must've been absolutely smacked last night!" And his laughter rang out then, at once loud and low, fountainous and mountainous, and Fari threw herself into the bed to join him in it.
"Please tell me I behaved. Didn't moon a guard, or anything like that," he jested, as his adorably ruddied cheeks faced her. A burgeoning confusion stifled Fari's laughter, and knit her brow.
"Gwilin, what do you remember about last night?"
"Not much," he chuckled. "I remember us getting here. Our first drink. Some lady named Haelga, you don't know her, she, uh, said 'hi' to me. I talked with a friend of mine named Romlyn for a while. Then... beats me," he shrugged. Closely, he watched her face, then her hands–saw her anxiously toy with one of her fingers in her grasp.
"Did we talk last night...? I'm preemptively apologizing for whatever I said. Unless whatever I said was good..." And he smiled a little deviously.
"You don't remember us in the rowboat?"
Every drop of blood in his body shot straight up to his face. His jaw clenched, his neck went stiff, and his eyes grew wide with incredulity, then utter mortification. He tried to move, tried to lessen his anguish by putting some space between them, but all he managed was to avert his gaze.
"That wasn't a dream?"
"No. It wasn't," she replied, and he faced her again, despite his nerves. A thought crossed his mind then. One that put him at odds with every conception he had of the person he was and dwarfed any other inkling of guilt he'd ever felt creep into his chest.
"You–you said 'yes', right? I didn't...?"
"I did. Yes, of course," she stressed, looking down at his fingers, into which she rubbed her reassurance. "I wanted you there."
"Fari, I didn't suggest that drink to you because I wanted to coax you into anything, you have to know that."
"Well," she pulled her hand away, doubtful, "Why did you?"
"Because I could tell that–that there was something there. Between us. I felt so sure, but..." A gentle blush, product of his feeling foolish, decorated his cheeks. Fari grew tired of his prancing tongue.
"Sure of what, Gwilin?"
"That you like me, too," he blurted, the words falling out of his mouth with the same agile, fragile smoothness with which a spider descends its thread, and he quickly continued, as though his nerves could sever it at any moment. "I thought the drink would soften us up. So one of us could just," he sunk his hands downwards, "Say it."
Fari made no attempt to conceal what stirred within her then. She drew her lips close, skirting past the cheek she'd wanted to kiss for so long, and laid them to rest near his ear.
"You're right, Gwilin. I do like you," was her gentle admission. He shuddered at the loss of her scent as she pulled back and placed a hand at the nape of his neck.
"Yesterday, I saw a chance to just... take what I needed from you and forget about what I felt. But I don't want that, Gwilin. I thought I did, but, I–I don't." And he looked on in bittersweet silence. Her eyes lingered on that hand of hers he held tight–tight like some promise he meant to keep.
"I haven't told you. About what it was like those first few months after I left home?"
"You've mentioned a few wild parties here and there."
"Yeah, but, Gwilin–" She gave a deep sigh. "I think you should know. Know that my first time was... with two men."
He furrowed his brow at her and shifted in place uncomfortably, deathly aware of his own body then. He listened intently, finding some semblance of peace in the fact that, in that moment, his thoughts were safe from her, if not from himself.
"I had been in Hammerfell, on the mainland, for three weeks. In that time, I learned that the best way to get around was to stick with the merchants. They knew all the safest routes through the desert, all the innkeepers, how to get to the settlements. They had all the food, clothes, jewelry, and drinks you could imagine. At night, we'd make camp in the desert. The tents I helped set up were like manors. There was an entrance, separate bedrooms, even an interior firepit. Once they'd light that fire..."
She clammed up.
"Everyone lost time. They didn't know, or maybe, didn't care how old you were, whether you were there for the adventure or the riches, boy or girl, skilled or weak. We were like merchandise. Except... they would never sell something they used so often."
"They were smart about it." She glanced over. "If they went for the new ones right away, they'd just scare them off. So they were really nice to you, at first. Let you ride on the horses while we traveled during the day. Not let you lift a finger to pitch the tent. Stuff like that. To make you feel special."
"One night, they lit the fire. While the merchants who led us handed out the drinks, one of them, his name was Taruq, he pulled out a blue bottle he'd been hiding when he came near me with the tray. He told me he'd gotten it just for me in Rihad." Fari scoffed. "And I believed him. A few hours later, after the dancing had died down, I'd fallen asleep next to the firepit. Taruq took my hand, and I got up to follow him. In his room, he asked me to help him change and get ready for bed."
Fari looked straight into his eyes. She'd never seen Gwilin's charming, pointed ears so perched in attention.
"He didn't force me to do anything. Even when Ghazar walked in to join us, it never occurred to me that I could walk away. At the time, I thought it was just... my turn." She swallowed nervously. "To pay what I owed."
"That's how I lived. For three months. Letting them grope and touch and draw sex out of me whenever they felt like it." Her eyes watered. "Even after I left, Gwilin, the–the routine of it stuck with me. The summer I spent on the coast, going from one festival to the next, I would drink myself into a haze and wake up with bruises and bite marks in places on my body I couldn't even see. I don't want to make it seem like it was all bad, because it wasn't. I met a lot of people who really cared about me on the way." Her voice broke as she lowered her head.
"But it didn't matter. I didn't care about myself."
Gwilin moved an apprehensive hand onto her shoulder.
"Fari, I–I can't imagine what that must've been like. I'm so sorry for putting you in that position. You must've felt like you were living through that all over again."
"You had no way of knowing. You don't have to say 'sorry'." She bent her arm to her shoulder to take his hand. "Gwilin, I didn't tell you this because I think you're like the other people I've been with. I'm telling you because I know you aren't. I want this time to be different. That is," she looked down self-consciously, "If you're still–"
"I am." He shook his head once for emphasis. "Of course I am. You're..."
Nothing could've expressed his feelings better than the look he gave her. Gently, he pulled her into him, and Fari softly gasped once they'd come together. She buried her nose in his hair, clutched her fingers into his shirt–let herself feel the safety of his embrace.
Meanwhile, Gwilin's mind was in a frenzy. For some reason, between all the feelings he'd cycled through in so little time–embarrassment, guilt, relief–he clung to unease. It felt as though he were simultaneously hugging a close friend and a total stranger. He couldn't keep his eyes still as the thoughts swirled around his head–as he questioned what he really knew about Fari, worried what else he might uncover about her going forward, and wondered if he was making a mistake.
But he closed his eyes and tightened his arms at her back. If anyone was worth making a mistake over, it was her.
Chapter 22: From Now On
Chapter Text
Gwilin wandered the docks with Fari, letting the winces slip past his smile as they lumbered toward the ship. He felt only somewhat sheepish at how patiently she accompanied him and his clumsy steps, but any twinge of discomfort was soon quieted by the sensation of her gentle, powerful arms anchoring him to her, and so he couldn't stop beaming. He was sore, he was sweaty, he was tired, but, damn it all, he was in love.
"Sorry we're late," Fari cried out, as the pair came onboard. Adélard raised an approving, conspiratorial brow at Gwilin as they crested the ship's ramp.
"Your back is hurting?" was the question he posed as a pretense for stopping him, as Fari followed Temba below deck.
"Yeap," Gwilin groaned.
"I'm curious what you got up to last night to make it so," the captain commented, once he was sure Fari was far away enough, and his eyes alluded to her. Gwilin was only mildly annoyed at the implication.
"Nothing like that. I got drunk and feel asleep in a rowboat."
"Ah. My apologies for assuming," Adélard strained, as he pulled the ramp on deck. "I'm just recalling the night before we got here, when you were on the stern. You two seemed very..." His face gleamed suggestively as he brought his index fingers together, side by side, and chuckled. "I thought you were together."
"We are. I mean, we weren't, but, now we are."
"Good for you," he singsonged, as he bobbed his head and affectionately shook him by the scruff of the neck. "She's a great sailor, she's got a fine head on her shoulders, and she's as tall as the day is long," he sighed, as he dreamily flourished his hand. "I cannot lie to you. I would've chanced for her affections myself, otherwise."
"What about Temba?"
"What about my dear Temba?"
"I don't know. You two looked pretty familiar, is all," he fished.
"Alas, many years ago, there was a flame between us. But now I only see her as a friend. And an astute worker," he added.
"I see."
"Well, don't let me keep you. We should set sail sometime before next year, shouldn't we?" laughed the captain, as he bounced past him to man the sails, and Gwilin hurried below deck to find Fari. She turned from Temba when she heard him come down the stairs.
"There you are, Gwilin. You should be resting." And she put a hand against his chest, gently urging him towards his hammock. As he lied down, Temba left the sleeping quarters, and Fari sat on the floor at his side.
"You know," she slyly began, "I was just talking with Temba. Turns out we were right! She does have a thing for Adélard."
"Yeah, no kidding," he chuckled. "Too bad he doesn't like her that way."
"He doesn't?"
"Nope. He told me just now that he only sees her as a friend."
"Stendarr preserve us, Gwilin," she invoked, placing her fingertips on her forehead. "I told her to pour her heart out to him not three seconds ago."
Both their eyes shot to the doorway. Indistinct murmurs trickled in from outside. At the sound of someone approaching, they made like they were talking amongst themselves, then Temba walked in, and they went quiet. She shuffled past them to crawl into her hammock.
"Uh, Temba?" asked Fari. "It's still light out. Are you going to sleep?"
Temba forwent a proper reply and simply rolled over to face the wall, letting the sway of the ship's current deepen her despondence. Any hopes that remained in her mind seemed shriveled and tired and neglected then. For a long time, she seethed, struggling to let them go, but she didn't know how to let things go. Not the things she needed to.
***
"What's your favorite bug?" whispered Fari, as the night slowly smothered those last traces of orange and pink the sun had pinned in the sky.
"Tsk. That's easy," he whispered back. "Weevils."
"Ah, that's a good one... I think dartwings might be my favorite. Because, well, do you remember the day we met? At the river?" Gwilin softly nodded and chuckled, amused at the memory of the strangers they were then, and his eyes creased with glee as she told it. "You and I were there, and all you could talk about were the dartwings and the fish and the moss, but–gods," she sighed, as she circled her thumb over the back of his hand. "All I could think about was you."
Gwilin lovingly hung his head on the edge of the hammock, and gestured for her to come close, so he could share with her the poorly-kept secrets of his heart. Just then, Beifar walked in. He stood for a moment at the doorway, watching as Fari tilted her ear up to Gwilin's mouth. She closed her eyes in delight, reveling in his whispers, and he interrupted them.
"I've been out there for hours helping Captain Charlatan with the steering. You," he pointed at Fari, "Go out there and take over."
She sucked a bit of air between her teeth and looked his way.
"I helped Adélard steer the whole way from Sarethi Farm. It's only fair you help him on the way back... especially considering you didn't help us unload when we got to the city."
"Bah! Did you or that elf think to wake me up?" he grumbled, as he gestured disparagingly toward Gwilin. Gwilin immediately flipped him off, unfazed, and Beifar made for him, but Fari shot him a glare that strong-armed him to think better of it. He pretended he couldn't hear the two of them commiserate about what a bastard they thought he was as he scurried back to the deck.
Soon, the ship crossed over to the lake's western shore, and the temperature dropped like a stone. Fari tried to nestle herself into the hammock with Gwilin to combat the cold, but she was too big, and his back was too sore. They had to settle for lighting a few lanterns and nibbling on some horker jerky. While they ate their way around the cool bite of the night's air, Adélard peaked his head in through the doorway.
"She's not awake, is she?" he asked, as he glanced at Temba's hammock.
"Uh, we don't think so," answered Gwilin. The captain gave a deep sigh, gazing at her forlorn figure for a moment before turning back to them.
"You two are very fortunate. Do not lose sight of that," he noted, as though he lamented feeling love bloom so close to him then, and Gwilin tightened his hand around Fari's with equal yet opposite sentiment.
"We will arrive in about three hours. I recommend you get some rest, if you are to travel through the night."
Fari thanked Adélard as he left them, and rose to bid Gwilin goodnight.
"Do you think you're gonna be able to get to sleep?"
"Definitely," he replied, with a smile. "Between my back and the headache I've still got from last night, I should be set."
She softly laughed, then crossed his forearm into hers, raising the back of his hand to her lips.
"Sweet dreams," was all she murmured, before gifting him a kiss. Gwilin blushed so hard snowberries would've looked drab next to him then. He bent an arm over his face to conceal his diffidence, and softly cursed the moons for rising as she pulled away to slumber through their night. He prayed that he'd meet her there, in his dreams, somewhere bright and clear, where he could trace the outline of her hips, and hear her whisper into his skin, and feel her take him in all the ways his fearful tongue could not yet ask her to.
Notes:
Adélard is such a... specimen. I almost feel bad this is his last appearance.
Chapter 23: The Hunting Trip
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
He drew back his bow. There'd been a time, once, when he would've had to hold his breath to make this shot. Now it was like hearing and seeing. The arrow met its mark, and his swift feet weaved themselves through the leaf litter as he rushed toward his kill. The voice of another hunter called out while he affixed the rabbit to his belt.
"About time!" he playfully jeered.
"Yeah, yeah," he called back, as he trudged uphill. "At least I'm not coming back empty-handed."
"Tsk, I'm just pulling your braids, Gwilin," his brother laughed. Then he squared his knuckles on his hips. "The game has been scarce today. Better to end our hunt on a good note. How about it?"
"Aye." Gwilin slipped the arrow he'd retrieved back into his quiver. "Let's head back."
The brothers began their trek north through the evergreen forest, the spindly trees rising and receding as cool, humid plumes in their path. The escarpment they were returning to was but one small stretch of the boundary of that verdant, horizon-engulfing caldera they so frequented for their hunts. As they scaled the rugged terrain, their cracked fingers deftly gripping into the familiar grooves of the cliffside, soft thunder announced the arrival of a gentle, drizzling rain. They made it over, and Greviil kept his eyes on the fallowed land perched far in the winding foothills of the valley they crossed, until a moment came where he noticed his brother had not kept pace. He turned to find him foraging a few yards behind him.
"Those for Dad?" he asked, from where he was. Gwilin nodded as he collected the mushroom caps into his pouch. He looked up thoughtfully, towards nothing in particular, as he recalled:
"Elf Cup, and... Arrowroot. That's what the alchemist from Skingrad said was good for improving strength, right?"
"I think so."
"The tea she made him last time seemed to help. Couldn't hurt to try."
"And you're sure that's Elf Cup...?"
"I'm sure!" was his vaguely offended reply, as he caught up with him. For a few seconds, only the soft crunch of their footsteps filled the air.
"I'm, uh... I'm really worried about Dad," Greviil confessed.
"You know him," Gwilin brushed off, "Probably pushed himself a little harder than he should've at the mill. He just needs his rest."
"It's been three weeks, Gwilin. He's holding on, but, I don't see him getting better. Do you?"
Gwilin's brow creased imperceptibly with concern. He trusted Greviil's judgement far too much to deny himself the dread he felt then, and his eyes asked his brother not to put into words what they both already knew.
"Listen. We need to talk with Dad about the farm. If anything happens to him–" He sighed deep, grappling with the thought. "He should be the one to decide who takes charge, when he's gone."
"You know you're the only one he'd trust with that," Gwilin noted. Greviil blew a little air out his nose.
"Is that your way of saying you're leaving?"
"Come on. I love the farm. You know I do."
"You love me, you love Dad, you love Suri–I think you might even love Winthir," he joked, "But you don't love the farm, Gwilin."
Gwilin lowered his head. He never could get away with lying to him.
"Hey. It's okay. This place is too small for that big head of yours, anyway," he assured, as he nudged Gwilin's shoulder, coaxing a smile out of him.
"I've just never seen myself making a life here."
"I've never seen myself making a life anywhere else." Greviil curled his lower lip and shook his head. "This is it for me. I want to make trips to the city every fortnight to fetch bone meal. Wake up each morning with sore legs. Worry about the weevils messing up my crop..."
"You want to be like Dad," Gwilin concluded, and his brother's eyes brimmed with tears–of pride, of joy, of fear. He tried to apologize, but Gwilin waved away his worry.
"Eh, you can't fool me. I can think of another reason why you want the farm," he alleged, putting on a smirk.
"Can you, now?"
"Mhm. So you and Kjorik can run it together," Gwilin drawled. Greviil jostled him for what he implied.
"Kjorik's not–" His bashful smile hardly let him speak then. "He's not interested in running a farm."
"What makes you so sure?"
"He only comes by to see me if it's on the way. Like if he's heading to Anvil."
"He's a busy guy. The Legion and all that."
"I know, but, when he is here, all he talks about is work. Which posts he likes best, what kind of drills his Captain is making them do... The second I bring up our future together, he gets all quiet."
Suddenly, Gwilin slipped in front of Greviil, stopping him in his tracks. "Well, duh. You need to paint a picture for him. 'Kjorik'," he began, passionately impersonating his brother, "'A quiet retirement from the Imperial Legion awaits you here in Kvatch, on the farm, among endless seas of barley. In our hands, we'd knead the dough of the bread we'd break together each day, and, in my arms, you'd lie safe and secluded from the bitter cold of winter. Such peace we'd know–such a home we'd make–that the very dawn would envy us each time it broke, until the day came when death did us part, and we no longer denied the heavens the chance to shelter our love for eternity.'"
Greviil stared back, quietly hoping his brother's dramatic rendition had drawn to a close. A chortle broke in his throat. "Wow," he began, more sarcastically than he meant. "It–It's uncanny. You're me."
"I know, I know. If only father had sent me to the Imperial City to become a bard," he jokingly lamented, "There wouldn't be an acting troupe in all Tamriel that wouldn't have taken me."
"Oh, for sure. Or traveling circus."
"Or traveling circus," Gwilin concurred, with a playfully raised brow, as Greviil walked past.
"Seriously, though. Not a bad idea. I might mention it to Kjorik. More temperately than you have, of course."
"No!" cried Gwilin, as he trailed behind him. "No temperance. Why hold back?"
"Hmph. You're still a youngling at heart, and it shows. I don't need to tell you acting on impulse won't do much good here. That Imperial girl you liked? Remember her?"
"Divines, that was years ago, Greviil. Felicitas doesn't even live near here anymore."
"Oh, was that her name?" he asked, stepping over a large root. "You must've really had to ask around for that one. Those Imperial families upstream don't so much as breathe in our direction."
"Alright! Time to pick up the pace," said Gwilin, not wishing to discuss the matter further, as he bolted off into the field. Greviil sprinted after him, following his brother's taunts closely from behind, their voices growing tiny in the distance.
The cobblestone road that bordered the edge of the farm finally came into view some time later. Gwilin wasn't sure why, but he felt an unusually sharp melancholy trickle into him in the climb uphill to the farmhouse. He cinched his shoulders, trying to shake off the chill that crept up his spine. He figured it was just a passing bit of sorrow–the kind of gentle sadness felt when a great day spent in even greater company draws to a close. As soon as the porch of their home rose up from the horizon, however, he learned his heart had sensed what his eyes could not yet see.
Their sisters were there. Gwilin's face dropped at the sight of Winthir's puffy eyes, her tear-stained cheeks. He quickly looked to Suri, who took a few steps his way as she made her speechless attempts to address him. Gwilin rushed to shed his bow and quiver from his back, hastily dropping everything on the ground, ignoring his brother's cries for him to wait. Unburdened, he ran into the house, nearly tripping over the stairs on his way, and rounded a corner at his father's bedroom door.
There he laid, in that most infamous sleep, his head entrenched in the pillow, his hand softly draped over his abdomen. A fleeting ray of sunlight cut through the curtains then, and shone on him, inviting Gwilin to come closer, so he could feel the bitter truth against his skin. The cold in his father's fingers shocked him at first, but his grip held as he knelt. He didn't hear anything after; not his sisters' words of reassurance, nor the choked sobs his brother failed to stifle. All he heard was the drum of time slowing in his chest, and all he felt was every piece of his mind splintering down into it as he fell numb.
"I brought him lunch. Sweet potato soup," Suri began, and everyone but Gwilin registered what she told. "He ate it, he thanked me, then he said he was going to take a nap. I left to go malt the barley. When I came to check on him a few hours later," her sorrow could not carry her voice then, "He was gone."
Gwilin touched his forehead to the edge of the bed as that final, fleeting daylight left the room. He untied the pouch of Elf Cup at his waist. With a trembling hand, he nestled it on the old mer's shoulder, right next to his neck.
It felt like a paltry thing to give.
Notes:
I got kinda poetic in this chapter ngl
Chapter 24: Home Again
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The bracing, wintry air saw them through the break of dawn. That part of The Rift–the shore that'd been a world away, that'd been but a tiny white stripe the passengers of Captain Adélard's ship traced with their eyes in the night–had become unrecognizable upon their return. The hooves of the horses soon slushed along the thin, yet ubiquitous, carpet of snow that now hid the cobbles of the road, their breaths clouding the air as they trotted along in near synchrony.
The cart leading the caravan carried Temba and the chest full of gold. Another carried only the memory of an embittered guard who'd parted with the group he felt foolish for having agreed to help. The last carried the most precious load of all.
The two lovers, picturesque in their embrace, negated the frigid environment with their tenderly self-absorbed air. Gwilin's head lay on Fari's shoulder as delicately as a fallen petal lay on the ground beside its flower. She leaned into the irresistible warmth of his windswept hair, and they kept their arms laced between them, each steadying the other as the cart clunkily marched on. There was no bell whose peals could sound sweeter to Fari than the quiet chime of his voice then. Gwilin spoke of the sun and the stars and the ideals that hid among them, of men who'd been dragged away from the Emperor's court for treason they'd never committed, of knowledge lost to time and known about only through vague, fragmented whispers...
By the time they crossed over the bridge into the crisp stillness of Ivarstead, they were eager to get indoors and escape the cold. The snow crunched beneath their boots as they went to join Temba up front. She was dragging the chest of gold toward the outer edge of her cart when they approached.
"It's colder than a hagraven's breast out here... let's get inside."
"Are you feeling alright, Miss Temba?"
"I'm fine, Gwilin. Please, just..." She gestured toward the chest to finish the thought, and the three of them wobbled through the inn's entrance with it in tow. Wilhelm rushed over when he heard them heap it down near the hearth.
"Gwilin! Temba! Shor's beard, am I glad to see you. And, uh, Fari, of course," he added. He peeked over at the chest. "That's the sum, is it not? It's princely."
"Yes. Fari and Gwilin are going to help me count it out. Could you bring us something warm to eat, while we do?"
"Aye, I'm preparing a stew. That's why it smells so good in here," he chuckled, on his way back to stir the pot. "Might be a while before it's ready, though."
For a while, only Wilhelm's ladle clinking the rim of the pot and the septims scraping against the floor cut through the inn's quiet. Fari simply couldn't have that, and so she began playfully flicking coins over at Gwilin from her side. He tried to maintain his focus, quickly returning each coin to her, so as to not lose count of his pile, but her persistence was overwhelming. Comically so. In time, he gave up, devolving into a bout of gentle laughter as she continued sending the septims in his direction. Temba evened out the count of the pile she'd been making and looked up.
"I'm keeping whatever coins you two lose track of."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But, she's–she's," was all Gwilin managed to twitter then.
"I'm the coinmaster," Fari asserted, and Gwilin erupted into cackling laughter, his arms clutching at his midsection as he shrunk into himself. Fari broke, too, inadvertently spreading the coin piles with her legs as she leaned into him.
"What's going on over there?" yelled Wilhelm, as he tended the stew from the other side of the room. Temba scoffed at the mess they'd made. She grumpily pointed to one of the long tables, telling them to go wait there if they weren't going to help with the counting. Fari had to lead Gwilin over by the arm, since he was still caught up in the profound silliness of it all.
"What do we have here?" were Wilhelm's prying words. He'd roved over as soon as he noticed them holding hands. "Seems your trip to Riften was eventful."
"Mmyeah. It could be said so," Gwilin remarked, with a smug grin, as he rubbed his thumb over the back of Fari's hand. She smiled back at him with her eyes, and Wilhelm carefully considered them for a few seconds, looking stumped.
"I apologize if I'm lingering, it's just... I've never seen an elf and a human together before," he curiously confessed. "One time," he began, as he took a seat across from them, "I had a pilgrim stay here at the inn whose mother was a Dark Elf, and whose father, so he told me, was an Imperial. From looking at him, though, you'd swear he was all elf."
Fari faintly narrowed her eyes. "Uh huh..."
"I got to wondering just now–and I hope this isn't crass of me–" he leaned in close, emphasizing his intent not to offend them with his words, "What your younglings might end up looking like."
Gwilin uneasily let go of Fari's hand, feeling like a farm animal being poked from the other side of its pen. He self-consciously glanced at his hands below the table, and sighed at his friend.
"Wilhelm, don't ever say anything like that again. Please."
"What?" Wilhelm asked, half-feigning ignorance.
"We're not horses to be thought of as cross-breeds," Fari explained, and Gwilin nodded. "We're people. And this is still new to us."
Wilhelm thought for a moment, and grew a little embarrassed.
"Of course. I'm sorry. My inquisitiveness got the better of me." He rose. "I should go check on the stew. Leave you be."
"Aw, come on, now, Wilhelm," said Gwilin amiably, inviting him to sit back down. "Don't you want to hear about how I nearly got arrested in Riften?" And Wilhelm dropped right back into his seat, eager to hear the details of his friend's escapade, and Gwilin was more than forthcoming in sharing them. Some time later, a heavy thunk interrupted his tale-telling. With one hand atop each of the sacks she'd tossed onto the table, Temba addressed them.
"This one," she lifted her left hand, "Is Gwilin's. Five hundred septims. This one," she lifted her right, "Is Fari's. Six hundred. That includes what I owed you for the extra lumber."
"Sweet Zenithar, I love payday," chirped Fari, as she dragged the sack toward herself. Gwilin did the same.
"You both did good work. The remuneration is well-earned. Now, I have some news to share with all of you." She cleared her throat. "I'm closing the mill, and I'm moving out of Ivarstead."
The hearth's fire crackled glaringly loud amid the silence. Gwilin looked to Wilhelm, then Fari, then back to Temba.
"You're what?"
"You heard me, Gwilin. You know I hate repeating myself." He softened his face somewhat, but his hampered voice remained.
"You're just gonna... leave?"
"Yeah. I am. I should've done this a long time ago."
"Does this have something to do with Adélard...?" Fari tentatively asked.
"Who's Adélard?" said Wilhelm. Temba ignored him.
"Yes, it does," she admitted. "I've been meaning to thank you, Fari. I would've kept clinging to something that was never going to happen, if you hadn't pushed me to do what I did."
"What did she do?" Wilhelm whispered, this time toward Fari. He was slighted yet again.
"I'm going to move in with my cousin in Karthwasten. Take up work in the mines. Perhaps the change in scenery will do me good."
"When are you leaving?" was Gwilin's question, as he lifted his sad eyes from the counter.
"Tomorrow. Day after, at the latest." She pouted and looked over her shoulder, at her room. "Depends on how quickly I pack."
Gwilin rose soberly from the bench, rounded the table to meet Temba where she stood, and surprised her with a hug. He was so short that her arms, which she refused to lower onto him, hovered around his head. Hastily, she patted his back, then peeled him off.
"Yes, that's... very nice of you, Gwilin. I'm gonna skip lunch and go pack. No one disturb me," she stressed, as she walked off.
"Wow. Temba, leaving," said Fari, turning to Gwilin as he settled back into his seat. "First Fastred and Bassianus, then Narfi, and now her..."
"What'll become of Ivarstead?" asked Wilhelm, glancing over at them. Gwilin sighed.
"I don't know."
***
The stew Wilhelm made proved a filling meal. It gave Gwilin and Fari the warmth and the strength they needed to venture back out into the frosty exterior, where the horses waited to be put away.
"I think it snowed while we were indoors. It looks thicker, doesn't it?" asked Fari, on her way to Juniper.
"Yeah, it does."
"I'll never get used to this cold," she remarked, with a chuckle, as she began unbridling her pet.
"How do you think Juniper here likes it?" And Gwilin smiled at the beast as it leaned into his fingers, pleased with how the mer was scratching the underside of his jaw.
"Oh, I'm sure he doesn't. Poor thing can withstand a night out in the desert, but even he has his limits." She ran her hand down his crest, choosing not to look Gwilin in the eye then, and he watched his feet for a moment. His silence hinted at what rested at the back of both their minds. When he finally caught Fari's eye, he looked on as though she were a beautiful bird he didn't wish to frighten. Concern and affection creased her brow, and she reached for his hand to pull him over.
"Gwilin. I'm not going anywhere," she assured. She placed a palm over his chest–over his heart–and perused every sharp line of his face, letting her gaze linger until her intent became glaring. Gwilin raised his chin at her, as if to say it was okay–that she was welcome to shunt aside the fear behind his eyes, and draw close.
However, when he reached up to bridge the gap between their lips, he lost his balance, and his forehead swayed into her shoulder. He held it there, and they both began to softly chuckle at their predicament. An idea soon popped into his head, one that made a little self-delighted smirk flash across his face. He led her to the tree stump beside the inn, brushed off the layer of snow on top, and stepped up. No sooner had he turned to tell her to try to kiss him again than she caught his mouth.
Gwilin felt his heart blush and run to hide somewhere deep in his chest then. As she pulled away, a goofy smile lilted onto his lips. He went to hold her cheek, and she inched forward, eager to feel the hand he'd slipped out of his glove there. While his fingers tucked into her headscarf, her hungry skin ate up his adoring heat, and she thought of that day, weeks upon weeks ago, when she'd walked out of the inn and seen him rise from that same stump he now stood on. She would've spoken if the affection brimming over her heart hadn't arrested her every thought, leaving her feeling like there was nothing on Nirn worth watching more than him and his mind becoming lost in his sea of affections.
Notes:
they are nothing but goofballs
Chapter 25: The Departed
Chapter Text
Temba Wide-Arm was not a frivolous person. She never had been. She was sparing in adding to her possessions, believing the more she owned, the more worries would be thrust upon her mind. But there were some things she couldn't bear to part with. A collection of the cherished items she'd gathered through the years could be found within a small wooden box made of yew, fruit of her own woodworking. She hid this box in her chest of gold and carried it, at great cost, out of the inn. Gwilin put his hands on the underside of the chest right as she placed it in her cart, wishing to help her bear the load, if only for a moment. He smiled.
"Fari or I could have helped you with that."
"That's alright. I got it."
Temba laid her palms flat on the back of the cart and boosted herself up. She pushed the chest to the front, where her knapsack, bedroll, and the unfamiliar basket she spotted were already stowed. She turned to Gwilin, and he put his hands behind his back, looking guilty as charged.
"I made you something for the road," he confessed. "Venison sandwiches."
She slid off the back of the cart and took a quick glance over at Fari, Wilhelm, and Lynly, who were still busy axing firewood at the mill. They were far away enough. She could speak freely.
"You make a damn fine sandwich, Gwilin. Thank you," she granted. Then she patted him on the shoulder with an inordinate amount of force, making him shrink a little. After collecting herself and leaning against the side of the cart, she addressed him.
"I'm..." she dragged out the syllable, then smacked her lips. "You and I–" She halted herself. That didn't feel right, either.
"I remember the day you walked into town," she drawled, and she kept her eyes on the ground. "You came into the inn, looking for work. I took one look at you from the long table and saw a lost little Wood Elf who wanted to be anywhere except home. I thought you were too shifty to take on as a charge, at first. You looked like a runaway..." She cleared her throat. "Do you remember what Wilhelm told you?"
"He told me he didn't think you were looking to hire any elves. That mill work is harsh work. 'Nord' work," he recalled.
"And you spent these last ten years proving him wrong." She let out a single chuckle and shook her head. "You sneaky bastard."
Gwilin grinned at her admission. It was, perhaps, the only clear acknowledgement she'd ever made of his skills. He bit his lower lip, feeling more than a little flattered. "You, uh... did get one thing wrong," he began. "I didn't want to run away from home. More than anything, I wanted to stay. But I left because it wasn't the same place I knew anymore. I guess I needed a new home."
She cocked her head at him. "You find it?"
He looked over his shoulder then, having noticed their three friends returning from the mill. He watched Fari as she drew near.
"Not yet."
***
It was dusk–Lynly's favorite time to play her lute. The notes she plucked may have only reached the ears of the four inhabitants of Vilemyr Inn, but the look of quiet enjoyment her music brought to their faces made her feel as content as if she were performing at the Imperial City Opera House. What surrounded her, however, was no pearlescent stage, but the mead-stained wood of countertops lined with chipped glasses and dented utensils. These cradled her instrument's voice then, helping its echo cry unpretentious and unaccompanied through the emptiness of tall, tall ceilings, through the soft, fickle shadows of flames, and through the hearts of the couple who lay together on the weathered stone floors.
"I might visit home sometime soon," Gwilin said.
"Really?"
Fari felt the skin at her abdomen twitch as he nodded. "I haven't been there in the longest time. I'm curious to see what's become of my siblings." He glanced over. "If any of them still live there."
"What was it like?" she asked, her fingers brushing through his hair. "Growing up on a farm?"
"I don't know. It was... hard," he supposed, as he curled his lower lip. "All of us worked from the day we could lift a pail of water over our heads. There was always something that needed to be done. And there was always someone who could've used a break from doing it."
"You didn't like living there?"
"No, no," he softly cheeped, as though that could never be what he meant. "It's just–" He let out a deep sigh.
"One time I went to Skingrad with my father. I was... ten, I think. Usually, the Imperial Guard would stop at our farm every other Middas to pick up the grains and take them to the city. But their caravan never arrived that day. So, my father said he was going to travel there the next morning to deliver the grain himself, and asked if I wanted to go with him. I'd never been to the city before. I was curious. So I leapt at the chance."
"On the way there, I started to notice the roads were different. The cobblestones were cut straighter, the paths didn't wind as much. There were these weird orbs perched up on posts all along the last stretch," he remembered, and he dotted them into the air with his hand. "My father said the Imperial mages put them there to keep the road lit at night, but I didn't understand what he meant. I'd never seen any of the paths near our farm be lit at night."
"When we made it to Skingrad, I couldn't take my eyes off the sky. Everything was polished and primped to the hilt. Those spires, those arches, those columns... I felt grounded just looking at them. They were sturdy. Permanent, y'know? And I couldn't get over the fact there were bridges inside the city, built so people could walk over canals they themselves had put there." He chuckled. "In my ignorance, I asked my father how they caught a river in a box and kept it flowing. He said he didn't know."
"There were nobles everywhere, too." His eyes caught a glimpse of her own. "I'd heard about them before, but, it's one thing to hear, and another to see. Even the ones who weren't dripping in silk, or who weren't wearing jewelry worth more than all the septims my father ever made in his life looked upstanding, and tall, and regal, and... beautiful, I guess. Some guards stopped us at one point. They asked my father what business we had being in the city. I was too busy watching the people in the windows of the buildings around us to remember what he told them. I saw children reading under the guidance of tutors. An Altmer composing music with her lyre. An Imperial weaving a black banner at a loom. I was fascinated. 'This is what a city is?' I thought. 'Why would anyone ever live anywhere else?'"
"I begged my father to let me buy some books with the money he made from selling the barley. We only had enough to get one. When we got home, I read it. Over and over and over again. After that, I'd go to Skingrad on my own to, uh, borrow," he emphasized euphemistically, "More books every few months. But, the more I read, the less I understood."
Fari lowered her chin to look at him, her brow knitting in confusion.
"I learned that Skingrad... wasn't special. There were other cities, even bigger and richer. Like where your parents are from," he said, as he glanced over. "For a long time, I envied the people who lived in them. They could afford schooling for their children, healers for their sick. They were safe from roving bands of marauders, and granted special privileges by the guilds. But, at some point, I got to wondering... why are the cities rich? Isn't it because my family grew the barley, and the soldiers brought it to the brewers, and the brewers made the beer?"
"I dunno," he whispered, as he turned to her, his cheek burning hot against her belly, his eyes skirting past her gaze. "I guess I used to think people in the cities must wonder about people like me, too. Now I think, no. How could they? All the books I've ever read were written by them, and they were all about themselves."
Fari's discomfort took form deep within her then–a discomfort muddled by guilt and apprehension. It made her feel small, feel culpable, as though the very act of speaking might constitute an admission of some crime she wasn't even sure she'd committed. She stopped playing with his hair and rested her hands at the very top of her abdomen, where her pensive fingertips stroked the back of her wrist.
"I'd never even thought about that..." was all she could respond. Gwilin bent his arm at his side so it rested with his palm facing upwards, and Fari slid her fingers up into his.
"Exactly. That's what I'm saying," he chuckled, like he hadn't intended to disparage anyone in particular. Least of all, her.
"It does remind me of something that happened back home, though," she began. "On a day I went to the merchant's square with my father. I spotted a man there, sitting on a tarp in the back corner of the market. He was missing a leg, his clothes were all tattered, and he was trying to sell some old, worn-out rope. My baba... he took my hand and moved me away, like he was trying to protect me from him. He told me the rope the man was trying to sell was stolen from the ships at the docks. That we needed to tell the guards."
"I watched them arrest him. I watched them take him away while my father bought a silver brooch for my mother the next stand over, like nothing was happening. Nobody else in the square even looked at him while they dragged him off. It was like he was invisible." And he watched her fall silent. When Fari shifted to reach for something in her knapsack, he lifted his head, then settled it back in place as she held the sliver of silver in the air above them.
"This is the brooch. My mother gifted it to me the day I finished my training."
A scowl slowly crept onto her face. Suddenly, Gwilin felt her body jerk beneath his head, and heard the sound of something harshly clinking away from them across the stone floor. He waited for her eyes to dry a little–for her sniffling to subside–before comforting her in the only way he knew how.
"Fari...?" She looked over. "Did you know I've always been an exceptionally gifted artist?"
Fari knew that voice, and the inkling of a grin that accompanied it. A tiny chortle rose from her throat, which she quickly suppressed.
"Have you?"
"Oh, yes," he alleged, as he struggled to keep inconspicuous. "My predilection, however, is for the musical arts..."
From the corner of her eye, she watched as Gwilin lifted his right leg almost imperceptibly, and released what could only be described as the loudest, most ungodly string of flatulence to ever materialize within their mortal plane. It echoed through the inn's ceiling and drowned out Lynly's lute playing for the entire five seconds throughout which it transpired. Kynareth herself wept.
"Oh, for Talos' sake!" scolded Wilhelm, at the sight of the mute laughter they both erupted into. "Us not having any guests isn't an invitation for you two to do away with decorum!"
Gwilin responded by letting out a dainty toot.
"That's it!" He set down the rag he'd been wiping the counter with and hurried toward them, urging them off the floor. "Out! Both of you! A man can't work like this..."
"Okay, okay," said Gwilin, as he tamed his mischief. He put his hands up to symbol a truce. "We're sorry. Fari and I are sorry. Right, Fari?" And he looked to the floor. A wide, dopey smile still adorned her face, but she managed to nod back at him. As Wilhelm returned to the counter to resume his task, she scooched up against the hearth, and Gwilin joined her there.
"You're blushing," she noted delightedly, once he'd settled in. She dipped her head to look him in the eye. "I don't believe it," she teased, failing to meet his gaze, "You're embarrassed."
"No, I'm not," he lied. The look Fari returned made him scoff a little sheepishly, and he reached for something in his knapsack to throw her off his trail.
"What's that?"
"It's, uh, a journal. For my drawings."
"And here I thought you were joking about being an artist," she teased yet again, as she nudged his arm. An uncomfortably long pause followed, which she broke. "Well? Don't take it out if you aren't going to use it. Let me see!"
With ambivalence, Gwilin lifted the journal's fore edge to his eyes and skimmed through its pages secretly, dividing bundles of sheets between his fingers. Fari leaned her head in with cautious restraint, not wishing to encroach on his trust, and he parted the pages to reveal a drawing of a man. He was a Nord, drawn from the waist up, seated on a barstool. He had bushy eyebrows, hooded, slanted eyes, a thick lower lip, and a dimpled chin. His clean-shaven face laughed, deep and irreverent–shone with drunken joy amid the curtain of his dark, shoulder-length hair.
"Gwilin, did you draw that?" He nodded. "It looks so real. As real as you or I." And she grazed the lines on the paper with her fingers. "Who is it?"
"It's Narfi. Before Reyda disappeared."
"Oh, wow," she remarked, brow creasing at the realization. "Can't believe I didn't recognize him. You must've drawn this a while ago."
"Drew it last night, actually. Had some trouble falling asleep."
"How do you remember what he looked like? After so much time?"
"Ehh, truth be told, I don't," he confessed. "What I remember is shapes, really. Like, I always thought his bottom lip looked kind of like a bow. And his face was like an upside-down goose egg. And his eyes, well, they were like if you turned an almond sideways. Does that make sense...?" Fari was surprised to find herself thinking that it did. She nodded as he turned to another page.
In the bottom corner of it, her eyes followed the contours of the old Bosmer living and breathing there. His profile was surrounded by three unfinished sketches of him as he bent over to harvest grain, as he carried water in a bucket, as he knelt. The mer was bald, with a short, braided beard, and his cheekbones were set near his dark eyes, high as hopes, like Gwilin's. Fari noted his lips weren't as wide; his chin, not as pointed. Still, the resemblance was undeniable.
"This is your father?"
"Yup. That's Dad," was his reply, and there was a quiet moment where he doted over the drawing.
"You have his ears. And his eyes," she soon noted, with a smile. The corner of Gwilin's mouth lifted. As he bashfully kneaded his ear, Fari considered his arched, wide lips with carelessness, feasting her eyes on their contours. She felt a sort of wistful comfort from watching them then–felt their humility spark fire into her breath, into her heart, into her veins.
She ached. Their taste had begun to fade from her mind.
Slowly, she slid a knowing hand onto his forearm, and compelled him to toss aside his journal. Gwilin was struck by apprehension only for a moment–only as long as it took for him to recognize the hunger rising from the pit of his stomach. Her hand let go. She leaned back, and he placed a palm on the floor behind her, letting his enfevered chest draw dangerously close to her invitation. He nervously meagered the distance.
Fari's hand clung to his shoulder, aiding her in setting the pace. Though Gwilin latched on clumsily, with desperation, her seasoned lips quickly tempered him. A rhythm concocted itself before long, silken strings softly tugging at each of their skulls. His pointed ears, so accustomed to the iciness of the air around them, grew unbearably warm as her fingers curled into his neck. She eagerly carried him with each bob of her head, reveling in the inexperienced, yet insatiable, manner in which he tasted her. She drank from this, the fountain of his lips, and swore she would never again know thirst.
Notes:
It is extremely unclear just how widespread or advanced feudalism is in the societies within Tamriel. Some details in the game scream early feudalism, others straight-up imply mercantilism is already a thing.
In any case, the class struggle continues, and Gwilin knows it. No war but class war!
Also I know Skingrad is known for their wines and cheeses, but I figure there's gotta be a couple breweries in there as well hehe
Chapter 26: *Bittersweet Sips
Notes:
!! currently being revised !!
Chapter Text
"Lyn-ly!" called the innkeeper, lingering his syllables. The next call was harsher. "Lynly!"
The bard emerged from her room. Wilhelm thought her hair could've frightened a Dremora back to Oblivion. She glared at him as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were still asleep."
"What is it?" she asked, in her crispy voice.
"Well, you just woke up. You're not busy. Maybe you can help me, instead." Lynly squinted at him.
"Instead of who? To do what?"
"Close that hole in the wall a skeever made last night."
"There's a skeever in here?" she blurted, in a panic.
"No, not anymore. Little Skeevy's breakfast, now." And Wilhelm pointed at the creature mounted on a spit over the hearth. The faint crackling of its skin drew Lynly over.
"Ooh, I love charred skeever hide."
"Yeah, well, you know who's not getting any? Gwilin. I called you to ask if you knew where he was, so he could help me fix up that hole."
"Where he always is." Gossip tugged at her brows. "With Fari. Out behind the inn," she concluded. Then she oohed and winced, nearly burning herself picking off a piece of the skeever's skin to pop into her mouth.
"Ah. I should've known," he sighed. "You know, used to be, Gwilin would go hunting during the winter. Bring me rabbits to make stew. Now all he does is traipse around here with Fari."
"Don't be so harsh on him, Wilhelm. Are you jealous or something?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Lynly. I've always been drawn to women. Never so much as thought of bedding a man, er, mer," he corrected himself, and she turned her head his way with a look of amused disbelief.
"I was referring to their relationship. As in, you being jealous of not being in one...?"
Wilhelm crossed his arms. "Oh... yes. Of–of course."
He joined her in nibbling at the skeever. He figured there was nothing like a full mouth to prevent him from saying foolish things.
***
The wheels of a cart rattled in the nook behind the inn–one the few sounds that dared stir the air of that tranquil winter morning. Among them were Gwilin's mindless sighs. Fari explored the breadth of his neck with her lips, her strong legs forbidding the space between them as one of his hands traced lines up and down the small of her back. The other had slipped into her shirt, and was relishing the warmth radiating off the soft skin of her breasts. Neither of them could hear the icy river flow, or the wood creak beneath their tussling bodies. Only the hampered, hungry breaths they exchanged as they played with fire–and they were just itching to get burned.
A whine escaped Gwilin as he nudged her back from him a bit, like he lived for the feeling of his head brimming with numbness as it did then. He confessed to Fari, in flushed stammers, that he needed a little breather. She smiled at his request, and her teeth held her bottom lip as she rolled over beside him.
"What time is it?" came her question, as she eyed the snowy fog overhead.
"I haven't the slightest idea." He cocked his brow her way, eyeing her with a grin. "I can blame you for that."
Before Fari could respond, a thunderous sound shattered their repose. They clutched at each other in alarm, but soon groaned in unison when they realized where (or rather, who) it was coming from.
"By the Eight, not again..." bemoaned Fari, and they cringed as the cark shook–as another shout rung out. Fari was the first to run to the front of the inn, where she spotted the Dragonborn sprinting across the bridge toward the 7,000 steps. She scoffed right as Gwilin caught up.
"Ever since the summons, it's been the same thing. 'Wuld... Nah Kest! Wuld... Nah Kest!'" she mocked. Gwilin put a hand on her waist and let his head lean into her shoulder.
"I'd chance to wager you'd do the same if you could shout."
"The hell, I would," she chuckled. "People live here, Gwilin."
Just then, Wilhelm threw the front door of the inn open. He would've released the curse he'd planned for the Dragonborn, had he not spotted the two of them. "There you are!" he remarked. "There's, uh, roasted skeever inside. If either of you should wish to eat. Goodness knows you two could use the meal with everything you've been getting up to out here," he dryly noted, as he raised a knowing brow. Gwilin blushed and darted his eyes away, but Fari held his hand tight.
"We'll be right in," she replied. Wilhelm shut the door. "What was that about?" she turned back to ask. Gwilin ran his hand down the back of his head.
"Ah, Wilhelm's probably just ruffled because we're six weeks into winter and I haven't gone hunting yet. I usually bring him rabbits. Rabbit stew is his favorite."
"Hmm," she thought out loud. "Let's go hunting, then. Surprise him and bring back some game."
Gwilin tensed up. "That's–" He sighed, then reached for her hands. "A good idea, love. Really. But, hunting is a very... delicate sport," he emphasized, with a little grimace.
"You won't have to worry about me, I won't get in the way. I'll follow your lead." She stepped closer. "I promise."
"Alright," he assented, threading his arms around her waist. "But only because there's no way I'd catch anything, otherwise. I'd be too distracted thinking about when I'd get back here. Back to you..."
Weeks of practice had taught Fari exactly how to bend her legs and shrink her back so she could reach for him when the urge struck her. And did it strike her then. Gwilin had trouble keeping his lips puckered from how giddy he got.
"We'll head out in a second," he said, turning toward the inn. "I just need to get my bow ready. I won't be long."
"Okay. I'll be here."
Fari sat on the stoop near the entrance. Dreading the chill that was to travel up her spine, she went to readjust her headscarf, which had shifted loose during their little pleasures. As she did, a strange feeling overcame her. A familiar one–though not familiar enough that she could place it. She carefully parsed her surroundings, disconcerted by the sensation that it wasn't coming from within her. For a moment, she thought she was being watched, but there couldn't have been less of anything in her periphery. Was it the empty mill? The snow laying undisturbed across the footpaths? The frozen, untended soil of the farm just down the road? It was all these things. Why did she feel fear? Why may she as well have been an animal caught in a hunter's trap?
She brought her fingernails to her mouth when she finally pinned it down. She had no idea why it set in so late.
Solitude.
She rose. Her foot tapped the cracked wooden stairs in her restlessness, and she fixed her gaze on the inn's door, desperately wishing to see it open so something around her would move. Gwilin soon came out, and was startled by the hug she leapt them into.
"Woah," he chuckled. The hand he held his bow in rubbed her back. "Miss me?"
Something like that, she thought.
***
The first bite taken from any fruit is always the juiciest. Every bite after can only come close. By the time space has been made of it, and all that is left is a carved-out silhouette, the memory of when it was whole begins to trickle back. Its color, gleaming amid the leaves of the tree on which it grew; its flawless skin, begging for teeth to sink into it; its dense flesh, yearning to be cradled in the palm of a hungry hand.
Only decay awaited it, now.
His hand touched her shoulder, and Fari was plucked out of her thoughts, her gaze landing on the brown eyes softly seeking to command her attention. She watched his index finger as it moved onto his lips, then as it led her toward the opposite side of the ledge from which they stalked the rabbit's burrow. Gwilin went, hugging the ground as he walked, his sensuous steps coming to a halt as he knelt and urged her to look at what he'd spotted.
Before them was a fox, sleek and brilliant in her wintry coat. She dug at the ground with her snout. From the little patch of snow she'd disturbed emerged a meadow vole, which she was quick to snap between her teeth. Gwilin shut his eyes, clenched his jaw, and shrunk his ears at the sound of tiny bones faintly crunching.
"I can't help it," he whispered. "I always pity the poor mice, and the lizards, and the birds. But, she's an impressive creature, isn't she?" Fari lagged in answering, watching the fox as it disappeared behind the trees.
"She is. Reminds me of a Nord myth I read in a book once."
"Oh? Which one?"
"About the two spirits who shared the body of a fox. Each came down from Aetherius to experience the mortal world for half the year. The spirit whose turn was in the summer always chose to appear with reddish fur. The winter spirit preferred white. Same body, two different beings, so it said."
"Hm," he hummed, as he sat atop the iced-over moss. "And what do you think?"
"I think... it's a fox." She shrugged. "Maybe she just likes to shed her coat. So the old one won't weigh on her too much, or, for too long."
"Yeah, I think you're right. Saw that same fox a few weeks ago. She has a nick in her ear, if you noticed," and he gestured toward the same spot in his own ear. "She was covered in white patches. My guess is she shed her coat, just like you said."
Gwilin's eyes grew wide, unprompted. With his eyes caught on something below the ledge, he placed his forearm across Fari's chest and swiftly guided her behind him, positioning himself in a skulking crouch. She watched his brow furrow as he held firm–as he tracked the rabbit just ahead of them with unshakeable temperance. She put both hands on his lower waist, closer to his back than his abdomen, and tracked along with him. The muscles at his back flexed as he drew back his bow. From the tension in his body alone, Fari knew the amount of force he exerted to hold it taut.
His form was impressive. He granted the forest stillness.
She blinked, and he'd loosed the arrow, and it whizzed by like a streak of light. His grin was wide as the sky as he leapt off the ledge.
"Look at that!" he beamed, as he held the creature up by the arrow he'd driven through its eye. Fari's lips drew into a smile, and barely moved as she spoke.
"Clean kill," was all she said.
The fruit of Ivarstead had managed to preserve itself for an unnaturally long time in her mind–kept its facade of freshness long past its peak. But she could taste its true flavor then, and knew the only saccharine notes were in her memories of the time she'd spent there with Gwilin. He was the breath of life of this place. He was its beating heart.
For him, she could wait a little longer.
Chapter 27: **Solace
Chapter Text
Gwilin lied awake in bed, pleasantly anxious. Recently, he and Fari had developed a little game: they would bid each other good night in the common area, retire to their rooms, then wait and see who would slink into the other's bed first. Knowing what would invariably occur once they were under the covers, Gwilin was usually the first to yield. But he was resolute that night. He would not move, no matter how much his legs begged him to.
A knock on the door.
That's odd, he thought. He knew for certain that Wilhelm and Lynly were asleep, and Fari never knocked. He spoke, vigilant.
"Come in..."
A timid face appeared in the doorway. One he knew well.
"Fari," he almost sighed. He sat up and offered his hand. "You know you never have to knock to come in here."
"I know," she murmured, as she drew close. He tilted his head, eyeing something she hid behind her back. Fari's nerves bit at her lip. She moved tentatively to sit in the chair across from his bed.
"Is that... Lynly's lute?" came his question. She gently stroked the instrument she'd brought onto her lap, calming herself with its silken veneer. He watched her fingertips closely.
"Yes."
"Does Lynly know you have her lute?"
"Yes, my love. She lent it to me."
Now he understood. Gwilin tucked his legs under himself and scooched back until he leaned against the wall. Then he met her eyes, and she averted her own to heed the strings and begin playing.
They both knew the song. It was one of Lynly's favorites. Fari's rendition was a tad clumsier, but it was clear enough for the melody to lilt into his ears–for his heart to swell low and calm, like a cat's purr, at its vibrance. From the look on her face, he knew she felt the same drawling satisfaction with her playing.
Suddenly, they both flinched. She'd plucked a sour note.
Fari started anew, undeterred, but managed only a few notes before it happened again. Gwilin mouthed 'keep going' at her, softly crinkling his brow in a show of support. She tried again and again to recapture her rhythm, and her song wilted again and again with each attempt. It was no use. The instrument refused to let itself be played.
“Bah," she huffed, as she gave up. "I’m sorry. I’m no good. I’ve been taking lessons with Lynly, it’s just–”
And Gwilin put a hand on the lute, inching it down away from them as he moved to the edge of the bed. The instrument landed on its strings with a muffled, discordant cry–met the soft rug quickly warming the soles of his feet. He laid a hand on her lap, and she watched the candle on the nightstand stoke the warmth in his walnut eyes as the words rose from his throat, as a fine perfume delicately rises from its wearer.
"If you wish to gift me something," he eyed her tall lips, "Gift me your voice, My Desert Star."
"You want me to sing?"
"Yes," he entreated, as his thumb stroked her fingers. "Like you did while we worked at the mill. Like you do sometimes when we fall asleep next to the hearth. The way your mom taught you."
"Which...?" she asked. Gwilin dipped his head with a hopeful sigh, like no other song came close.
"The one about the sand that loves the sea. That one. Please." And in moments, he'd brought his feet onto the bed again, and his knees hugged his chest, and the quiet melancholy of her voice began to fill the room.
Envy the sea stars.
With you, they get to be.
The fish swim carelessly,
Not knowing what they breathe.
You come close,
Always recede.
Disappear into
Your immensity.
The night is long.
Still, I sing my song.
Hoping, I'll be touched.
Hoping, you will rush
Over me.
I am the sand
Never reached
By the wave,
By your hand.
She opened her eyes and found him floating in the silence she'd left in her wake. Gwilin watched her as though he could've listened to her sing until the Divines took them both.
Without moving her gaze off his own, she rose–strode to tower over him at the edge of the bed. His hand was guided to the side of her waistcoat, where she invited his fingers to unlace everything that held it in place. And he obliged. As he pulled the knots undone, drinking in the feeling of his fingers threading between and loosening the straps, Fari's tunic rustled soft over his arms. Goosebumps dotted them as she pulled it off.
His nerves sizzled in the hollow of his chest, bringing a shudder to his mouth. As she crawled across the bed, past his right to recline behind him, they sizzled even louder. And he turned. He met with the spot where the candlelight most licked and kissed Fari–her eyes. Their quiet fire began to undress him. Gwilin could feel his hands, his gaze, his very thoughts try to censor themselves then. To what end, he wasn't sure, but he failed miserably; projected with his restless breath the severe, voluptuous need he felt to touch her.
He shifted to lie on his stomach, and reached over. His hand coursed rough against her torso on its way to play with those soft hills subtly cresting her otherwise sharp physique. Fari moved a covetous hand onto his forearm while he nestled his fingers into her neck and sought out her lips–sought to banish the space between them as he slid over her. Before long, she gave a gentle tug at the back of his shirt. Gwilin knelt, with kindled breath, to shed it–to grant her his intimacy–and she hurried both hands onto his body.
"Gods, take me now," she invoked, under her indecent breath. A possessive, primal hunger dug her nails into his fleshy waist, urging him to dive back into her.
Gwilin's slender chest was the warm sea crashing upon her shore. Their tongues danced in the tidal pools of her mouth as she pressed herself against him, sweeping him into the rolling wave of her abdomen. His member swelled against her thigh, and he heard aroused laughter traipse past Fari's lips as she toyed with it. He wanted nothing more than her mercilessness then, and the gentle moans that fled his mouth let her know it.
"Fari?" he asked, unable to conceal his appetite. "I want to."
The look she returned was avarice. As she engulfed his mouth in the breath of her heavy kiss, shifting him beneath her, Gwilin couldn't formulate so much as a thought. The feelings of want which had stirred so clearly within him began to dissipate. He didn't know what to do with himself. Reluctance simmered low and uneasy on his face while her hand ventured down his body. "What, you’ve never done this before?” she laughed, thinking him shy, as she kissed her way up his neck. When her fingers grazed his member, Gwilin took a sharp hold of her wrist, and yanked it away.
He rolled over to face the nightstand. Though only in the silhouette of his cheek, Fari could see shame tugging at his face.
“I’m sorry. Did I...?" was all she managed, as she stroked her braid self-consciously.
Gwilin blurted it out. He had to.
"Fari, I'm untouched."
She shrunk back a bit. Certainly, she'd sensed he wasn't the most experienced mer, but she'd never been with a chaste man–had no idea how one might carry himself, if he carried himself differently at all. Now she knew he wouldn't. She thought she should say something, quickly, before he took her silence for judgement.
"What, uh, have you done?" And he peeked back at her, still fearful.
"Mostly... what you and I have," he confessed. "One time, on the farm, a trader stopped at our house on the way to Hammerfell. My father offered to accommodate her because she was a Bosmer. She and I spent some time together. We used our hands, more than anything else."
"Okay. Then, maybe we could start there...?"
Gwilin nodded nervously as he turned back to her. He glanced at himself where he was most taut. "But... slowly."
"Yes, my love. Slowly," came her promise. Fari reclined onto the pillow again, and sunk her thumb inside her trousers’ waistband. Carefully, she wiggled them down her legs, her hips lifting and swaying to guide them off, leaving her skin warmth-starved and bare. A look from her was all it took for Gwilin to bring that warmth back to her again–to tuck his knuckles into her smallclothes and attentively move them up her thighs.
"Do you want me to look?"
"You can, if you want," she offered, and she spread her legs. The low light inside the room and the abundant hair made it difficult for him to distinguish much of anything. A tiny smile appeared on his face.
"Oh." He glanced up at her. "It's sort of... hidden?"
"Yeah," she chuckled, delighted by his obtuse comment. "It is."
His thumb met a blemish on her inner thigh. Fari flinched, not expecting to be touched just then, but she allowed him to stroke it. His eyes softly followed the curved chain of small scars until he realized they'd come from teeth. A bite mark. After a moment, she closed her legs measuredly, looking rather unnerved, and sat up.
"Your turn."
As Gwilin shifted himself off the bed and unfastened his belt, the trembling of his fingers paling in comparison to the pounding in his ears, he wondered what he was so afraid of. Reminded himself she wouldn't be there with him if she didn't want whatever he had to offer. He smiled, aware of the need to make himself small then, and summoned his playfulness to vanquish his nerves. As though it were a clever little mage's trick, he let his trousers slip past his hips.
She regarded him with a pert stare. His penis was more or less what she expected. Not unusually large, but unwaveringly proud in its desire. She cautiously moved a hand towards him and traced her fingertips along its underside, teasing and beckoning him to return to her. "You're enough," was all she whispered into his ear, after he'd lain at her side. She smiled as she pulled back from him, then caught his lips.
"I'm going to touch you, okay, love? You tell me if something doesn't feel good."
"I will," he replied, with a nod. Fari knelt beside him and brought her palms over his thighs and mound. They prowled over the thick bundle of glossy chestnut hair his body had nestled there, teasing prickles into his skin as she curled those first fingers around his member. Her other hand put pressure on his abdomen, and she began her strokes, gently shifting his wrinkled skin up and down. She kept her eyes on his chest to watch it rise and fall with each shallow breath he took. Little by little, she quickened her pace, and felt his hot blood resist her hand, pump currents against her skin–challenge her. She tightened her grip, hoping he'd challenge her further.
To her delight, Gwilin's thighs hitched a little, and she slowed her hand to grant him respite. He looked straight down to meet her eyes. As she drew her mouth near him, her gaze remained fixed on his own, ensuring the pace she kept was not unwelcome. The slow string of kisses she gifted his length culminated at its heart-rendingly tender head, where she idled her lips and pointed with her irises. Gwilin bent one of his arms under his head and looked up at the ceiling, knowing he was hardly in any sort of position to deny either of them the pleasure of the permission she sought.
Tension arrested his muscles as she moved to imbibe him–to delicately part her lips over his phallus. She ebbed and flowed over him like a gentle, fervent tide, pulling the sighs of pleasure from his body, making his eyes close in soft bliss. As she sped up, he edged his head back into his pillow to feel each lap of her rapacious tongue, each squeeze of her lavish lips. Fari held fast to him then–made the supplest part of his member collide with the back of her throat over and over again amid her muffled moans. She paused to gag for a moment, and Gwilin's quivering hand reached for her shoulder to halt her.
She withdrew to find all of the skin on his neck, face and ears flushed with that intense, earthy color she adored. Though she wiped her mouth clean as she smiled at his speechlessness, Gwilin hadn't noticed; he was too busy bringing his mind back down from Aetherius. Fari crawled up to his face on her elbows, and grinned at him like a guildmaster on payday.
"Are you okay?"
He met her eyes only briefly and nodded, still dazed.
"Would you..." she prolonged the syllable, dancing two fingers over his chest, "Like to try coupling?"
Fari watched him struggle to swallow his nerves and string together something that resembled a respectable sentence. She shot him a devious look that heralded the words she leaned close to whisper in his ear.
“A closed mouth does not get fed, love..."
And Gwilin tittered like a maniac. "On top," he finally managed. Fari went to shift herself onto her back, but he nudged her to stop with his knee. "No," his breathy words petitioned, as he watched her eyes. "You."
She cocked a brow his way, like that was more than fine by her, and lowered her stare as she nestled her legs on either side of him. She bent over to kiss him–to feel him moan against her tongue–while she lazily stroked his member between her legs. Soon, her thighs rose, and she deftly guided the tip of his cock to her opening. Before he knew it, he was wincing, and the moans were escaping his lips, and the unbelievable warmth of her wetness smothered his every thought.
"How does that feel?" she asked, knowing full well the answer laid somewhere in the glide of her hips, which took long, drawn-out strides that pulled him almost completely out of her before sweeping him back in. Gwilin couldn't keep his brow unknit or his shuddering mouth closed. Softly, she relished in his absent-mindedness, and in his girth as it expanded her to her some limit she'd never been made aware of. As she moved over him, the impatience from his eyes began to tinge her own, and Fari felt herself grow as supple and restive as her partner. She was enraptured by the rugged hands he'd brought to her thighs, the cold air crowning her nipples, his loving heat creating fervor where she most ached to come undone. Having sensed her slow down to a crawl, Gwilin spoke.
"What's–What's wrong, love?"
"Nothing," she moaned. She felt frail then, so frail, but she spoke the truth. Fari fell forward onto her palms to loom over those glazed eyes of his. Her arms supported her weakened core as she rubbed herself against him and his bush, straddling him shamelessly, tighter and tighter, with a bitten lip and stiffened arms, until she felt that indulgent, guttural cry rip from her throat.
Only upon opening her eyes did she realize Gwilin hadn't lasted long after she leaned over. Her currents of pleasure had only served to make him clutch at her thighs in sweet distress–seem wholly incapable of releasing any more tension than he already had.
After she slid off, Gwilin watched her pant away her heavy breath beside him. His eyes mindlessly moved from her flushed cheeks, to the exhaustion glistening on her forehead, to the flyaway hairs she brushed from her face. He'd never seen her look so calm. Not calm like when she sang, but calm like time didn't matter. Like she could sit there aimlessly grazing the delicate hairs on his chest with her fingertips forever.
He reached down to kiss her–the first time he'd ever needed to do so–but held himself back for a moment, lingering his lips in front of hers.
"My Desert Star," he whispered, and then he was drinking from her. 'I love you', he said with his head, as it pushed to deepen his face against hers. 'I love you', cried his teeth, as they grazed her tall lips. 'I've always loved you', wept his brow, as it hitched alongside his breath, which he only recovered when he drew away. Fari put a hand on his cheek. Every detail of his doting face preserved itself in her mind before she spoke.
"I know. I love you, too."
And she invited him into her arms, which he was quick to scooch down into. The wool blanket she brought up from their legs protected their bodies from the cold. She held a long arm around his head, against her chest. Gwilin's hair was thick between her fingers, and rich with the scent of earthenware and sea salt. It made her want to do absolutely anything except fall asleep.
Chapter 28: The Salt and the Wound
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Gwilin's eyes lazily crept open. A smitten grin bloomed on his face when he saw her.
"Good morning, love," Fari murmured, as her fingertip softly followed the contours at the top of his ear. A thought popped into Gwilin's head then, and he couldn't resist. With his still-hoarse voice, he sang in sotto, failing to contain his soft laughter as he went along.
"There once was a woman, as fair as an evening, of springtime in old Stros M'Kai..."
Fari hung her head and laughed, shoulders twitching, the tremulous timbre of her mirth filling his heart and warming their corner of the small room.
"Are you ever serious?"
"Boo. Where's the fun in that?" was his retort. As he traced invisible lines over her shoulders, she draped a leg over his body, and a faint, self-conscious little smile touched his lips.
"Hey, uh," he began, "About last night. Did I–Was I any good?"
"Well, I can't say. You didn't really move a whole lot, love."
His stomach dropped.
"That's not a bad thing," she clarified. "You'd never been with anyone before. You must've been nervous."
"Yeah. I was." He swallowed. "But... you enjoyed yourself, at least?"
"Of course, love." She ran her palm over his chest. "You did great. Really. You lasted longer than I thought you would, that's for sure. And I adored taking you from above," she gushed, biting her lip. "It saved us a lot of fumbling."
Gwilin coyly knit his brow. "Would fumbling have been so bad?"
"With you? Hm." She leaned into his lips with a lewd chuckle. "Maybe not..."
He felt silly for still getting so flustered after all they'd shared–for how easily his cheeks tinged then. Softly, he linked his arms at her back, his gaze settling on the honeyed glint of her eyes as he fell under that spell of hers that knew no end. He'd lost some part of himself in her husky voice, and her silky-smooth tongue, and her even silkier skin. He knew it. Yet all he could think was that he hadn't lost enough.
As Fari looked back, she suddenly felt all the levity she'd flirted at him with vanish in a cloud of smoke. Something in his face was sweet, severe, unequivocal. And it broke her heart when she realized what it was.
She loved him with want. He loved her with need.
"Gwilin... I'm sorry," she began, as she drew back.
"Sorry for what, love?"
"For lying," she murmured, unable to meet his gaze. "When I said I wasn't going anywhere." And Gwilin's brow fell slowly, like a bead of wax down a candle, as he collected himself.
"What do you...?"
"I can't stay here, Gwilin. I can't. I love you–Divines, I do," she sighed. "But this place is suffocating me. And the only times I feel like I can breathe are when I'm with you."
Gwilin didn't understand. Every string of thoughts in his mind tangled into a confused, hurt mess, and he heard his voice break somewhere outside of himself–outside the tumult.
"What are you saying? That you're leaving me?"
"No, my love, no," she cooed, as she cupped his cheek. "I'm saying I've stayed as long as I have because of you."
"But you're leaving. Right?" he asked, as he moved her hand from his face. Frustration haunted Fari's every breath as she searched for the words.
"Come with me, Gwilin," she urged. "There's nothing for either of us here. We'll see everything together. We can be on a caravan to Camlorn one day and a ship to Falinesti the next. You can draw the people we meet. I can sing to you each night next to the fire." She looked down at the hand she'd curled into his, and her voice grew soft. "We'll make love, and it'll always feel like the first time..."
He stalled in answering. A light scowl soon crept onto his face, and he pulled his hand from her grasp with a deep inhale as he looked away, his hurt now ignited by quiet anger.
"Was that it? Was that the plan? Sleep with me and then ask me to uproot my life here?"
"No, Gwilin," she reproached. "Of course not."
"What am I supposed to say, Fari? That I don't want to leave? That I like living here? That I love my friends, and my job, and knowing where I'll lay my head at the end of each day?"
"If that's how you feel," was her cold reply, and Gwilin's throat yearned to weep. His voice was murky water.
"How can you say that? After what we did?"
Fari crossed her arms at his expectant stare, refusing to say anything else then, like that was her hill and she was ready to die on it. But Gwilin wouldn't watch her, while she did. He rose from the bed, evading her touch as he fled her side. Gwilin. Gwilin, she wanted to call out, as he rushed to put on his trousers. Gwilin, please. Instead, she watched him storm out of the room with his head in his hands. She dropped onto the bed in her frustration once he'd left, pressing down on her eyes with her wrists, straining the back of her head against the pillow. Her lungs forced that enraged cry out from under her.
"Fuck! "
***
Normally, by that time of morning, they would have already shared breakfast. Then, Wilhelm would've asked for their help cleaning out the hearth, sweeping the floors, scrubbing pots. They'd have pitched in for a few hours before shirking their duties, leaving him to finish the work. Fari would've read to Gwilin from the books she'd brought with her from Hammerfell, and he would've asked innumerable questions about the intrepid sailors and enlightened poets who lived in their pages. Lunch would've led them to their favorite spot near the hearth, where Fari would've sharpened her scimitar while Gwilin sketched in his journal. Before bed, all of them would've worked to proof the next day's bread, and feed the hearth's flames enough wood to last through the night.
Now, they sat on opposite ends of the counter, each wary of sneaking even a passing glance at the other.
Watching Fari disinterestedly pick at the bread, butter, and snowberry jam she usually had such a hearty appetite for worried Wilhelm. He looked to Gwilin for answers, but the mer purposefully stared past him. He notched his shoulders at Lynly next, as if to ask whether she knew what had gone awry. She just curled her lip and shrugged. Curious about the couple's rift, and wishing to cut through the silence, he probed into the matter as he tidied up.
"So... did both of you get good rest last night?"
In truth, it was the most restful sleep Gwilin had ever had in his life. But he couldn't say that.
"I slept fine."
"So did I," was all Fari replied.
"Good, good," Wilhelm drawled. That wasn't going to get him anywhere. Time to divide and conquer.
"Say, Gwilin. We've almost used up all the firewood we had piled up. Could you go fetch more at the mill?"
"Sure," he said listlessly, rising from his stool.
"And, uh, take Lynly with you," he added. "Poor girl hasn't left the inn in days. Could use the fresh air."
With his eyes, he urged her to follow Gwilin. Lynly put down her lute and chased after the mer, disconcerted by the meddling Wilhelm had dragged her into. Soon as they were gone, he propped both elbows on the counter in front of Fari. She wasn't feeling particularly talkative–her dry stare informed him of this–but she looked up at him anyway.
"What's going on with you and...?" He cocked his head.
"Mind your own business, Wilhelm."
"We're shut inside an inn in a small town in the middle of winter. I'm afraid there's no other business to mind," he chuckled. Fari sighed.
"It's a petty quarrel. Gwilin will get over it."
"Ah... so you think it's his fault."
"It is. He got upset over nothing," she alleged. Wilhelm peeked back at her as he collected the dishes strewn over the counter.
"Well, if it bothered him enough to make him not want to break bread with you, it's not 'nothing', is it?"
Fari lowered her head, looking like the words had been a tad too perceptive for her liking.
"Talk to him. And don't go into it with that foolhardy disposition of yours," he advised, with a knowing smile.
"I don't think Gwilin feels like talking to me right now..."
"Bah. Give it time. That mer would move wind and sea for you."
***
The air outside the inn felt as heavy as the air within it, Gwilin found. Lynly walked with him in silence as they waded over and above the thick bed of snow between them and the mill. His disposition didn't exactly lend itself to idle conversation then. Neither did Lynly's diffidence, but still she spoke, treading as lightly with her words as she did with her feet.
"Gwilin, are you alright?"
"No, I'm not alright," he said plainly, focusing on where his feet fell.
"Oh." She watched the ground with him. "Why is that?"
"Fari said some things to me this morning. And now I feel like I made a mistake."
"Uh-oh. What'd you do?"
"No, I mean–" He sighed. "It's Fari's fault. She asked me to just pick up and leave Ivarstead. Go with her who knows where for who knows how long."
"Wow. Really?"
"Yeah. And I don't want to," he stressed, like that should've been obvious to her.
"Gwilin, I get you don't want to go, but why are you so angry?"
"You don't understand, Lynly," he growled, voice teeming with frustration. She put a hand on his shoulder, and watched the anguish brim and boil over in his eyes. It carried any trace of his good sense far, far from his reach, edging him into the maze of absurdity that brought a pained, incredulous smile to his face then.
"She used me, and I let her!" he choked out, with a self-defeated laugh, as he backed away.
"Gwilin, what are you–Gwilin. Gwilin!" Lynly cried, but he was already a hazy dot in the distance.
Notes:
gwilin became the fucking joker 😭😭
Chapter 29: **Beyond Measure
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hours went by. Fari's first instinct when Lynly told her Gwilin ran off into the forest had been to go after him, but the bard dissuaded her. She said he looked like he needed to be alone with his thoughts, and Wilhelm agreed it was best not to seek him out if he didn't want to be found. So Fari sat in front of the inn's door, hugging her shins, awaiting his return.
Her mind veered to the worst. Gwilin could've been out there, alone and hurt, after slipping on a patch of sleet or falling down an embankment, and she had no way of knowing. She felt blindsided. He put himself in harm's way–chose to suffer the bitter winds raging outside–and for what? To avoid her? It was childish. Selfish. Who gave him the right to do that to her? Why couldn't he just come back?
Why did I just stare back at him?
Fari didn't care if he wanted to sulk, or stew in his thoughts, or even yell at her. She just wanted him to be there. To be sure he was safe.
"I'm going after him," she decided, and she reached for her boots. "It's freezing out there, he didn't take his coat. It's not safe. I can't just–"
"Fari. It's dusk. You won't be able to see two feet ahead of you," cautioned Wilhelm. But still she opened the door. The harsh, howling winds poured over her as she went to leave.
And there he was.
She lunged for Gwilin's iced hands, hurrying to pull him in out of the cold. Only when she saw him cup them to his mouth–saw him breathe life back into his fingers, into his face, into those eyes that the frigid gusts had frozen over–did she finally allow herself to experience the relief she'd so tirelessly prayed for. She regarded his lips as they trembled, still, looking chilled as the way he stood his ground before her. She moved to warm them, to pacify his uneasiness, but Gwilin turned from her then, forgoing her kiss.
"Fari," he took her hand, "We need to talk."
Nervously, she assented to his request. As he led her by the hand to her room, giving Wilhelm and Lynly a dry smile as he shut the door, Fari couldn't help but think she'd never seen him so serious, so resolute. She stood sheepishly in front of him, not daring to speak first, until Gwilin gestured for her to sit on the bed. He paced a few steps around the room–only for a few seconds–before he spoke, but it felt like an eternity to her.
"Fari–" He sighed, glancing up at the ceiling. "I wasn't angry with you for asking me to leave. I've done nothing these past few weeks if not wonder what I'd do the day you woke up and decided it was time for you to go."
"My love–"
"Please," he put his hand up, "Let me finish."
"I hadn't decided what I was going to do yet, when that happened. I wanted to talk with you about it–gods, I did. But... each time you stroked my hair or kissed my hands, I got scared," he shrugged. "Of what it would be like to not have you here anymore. And if I brought it up, and you decided to go, all I'd be left with are the memories. This morning, when we fought, I thought... the memories before we made love. Those wouldn't have been so bad to keep. It would've hurt to say goodbye to you, then, but I would've healed."
He crossed his arms, trying to force his face to behave. Still, his voice faltered.
"Now, I don't know what to think. Please, Fari. Tell me the truth. Did you sleep with me because you thought I'd feel more inclined to go with you?"
"No." She shook her head. "No, Gwilin. That never even occurred to me."
"Then why did you ask me when you did? Divines, Fari," he remarked, exasperated, "Don't you understand what it meant to me?"
She stared back at him, remorse soaking into her pores. She hadn't understood, but she felt herself begin to–felt the guilt crack her open and start sifting through every thought that had possessed her when she shut him out. And what it found was a part of her, a tiny one, that thought him pliant to her will. The same part that knew Gwilin would always be the kind of person who gave more than he got–and she wasn't the kind to take advantage of that. She wouldn't be.
"My love, I'm so sorry. It's just–when you implied there was anything but love in my heart when we laid together, I got so angry, I put up this wall. And that hurt you. I see that now. I don't know why I waited so long to ask," she stressed. "Maybe I was scared you'd say 'no'. But I love you so much, Gwilin," she nearly wept, as she reached out to him, and they joined hands, and she kissed him there.
"Please forgive me..."
His mind lagged behind his body, which urged him to draw close. It was stripping him of his apprehension, forcing to the forefront the fear and the want that made blood dance on his skin when he neared her. As he sunk his knee into the bed, encasing her in his arms, their beating hearts were brought together in the name of something even gentler than the words of forgiveness which fled his throat. And Fari inhaled them then, releasing herself into him, cherishing the rush of cool his still-frozen hands brought to her back, and the salted perfume of his skin as they slid onto the floor.
"I can't believe I ever thought of leaving without you," she said, as she drew away to drink in his eyes, her palms running the breadth of his strong, humble shoulders. "Waiting here all day today? Not knowing if you'd come back, if you were safe? It was like I'd been swallowed whole. I don't want to feel that way again. If that means I have to stay in Ivarstead–"
"My Desert Star, I could never stay here knowing it makes you unhappy."
"You make me happy. That's enough. It has to be."
"No, no," he murmured, tenderly. He curled his lips between his teeth. "I want to go with you. I do." And Fari's mouth idled, like she knew where his words came from.
"My life, you don't have to do this for me."
"I'm not doing it just for you," he confessed. "You were right, Fari. There's no future for me, or anyone else, here. It's saddened me, how slowly I've seen it happen, but, Ivarstead will soon be a ghost town. I can't cling to this place for what it once was..."
She tilted her head curiously at those sad eyes he put on. As a bird would. Before she could respond, he spoke again, the lilt of his loving voice like something that could only be whispered between souls in Aetherius.
"Do you know what I said to Temba right before she left?" he asked. Fari shook her head.
"I told her I left home, left Kvatch, because it wasn't the place I knew anymore. So I set out to find a new home." And tears came to his eyes as he traced over her cheek. "But I think my new home found me, instead."
Fari's breath hitched like he'd stolen a part of her. She rushed to nestle his neck between her palms. "Look at me, love," she urged, her voice broken and joyful then. "I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. Only then could you know the depth of my feelings for you."
"I do, my love, I do," he insisted, and he hurried onto her lips, granting her an intense, brief kiss.
"Then show me..." she crooned.
Gwilin moved his hand to lift the braid from her shoulder. Her gaze kept on his fingers while he slipped its band onto his wrist, then on his busy eyes as he unraveled her woven strands and made the guise of brushing through them. Fari's hair was thick, and tangled easily–he knew that. But he also knew she relished the feeling of his hands catching there, each tug at her roots like the bobs of a boat pulling on the rope that kept it moored. And she felt moored to him then, mirroring the strokes his fingers attempted through her locks in his own, kneading her feverish hands into his scalp. He let out a little laugh against her lips before he brought them together, like her reciprocity had enchanted him.
Reverence guided every dip and grasp of his fingers as he lifted off her blouse. Gently, they rose into the bed, Fari letting her feet find traction wherever they could to draw them both back onto it, Gwilin tending the skin at her collarbones with his kisses as she moved. Soon, his lips ventured up again, across her jaw, teasing her cheek, making for her earlobe. As he nibbled it, his hand sped down the side of her waist to move her trousers off, and, without a second thought, he laid claim to her ass. A frustrated, voracious groan sprung from her.
"Gwilin?"
"Uh huh?" He did not desist from her ear.
"Taste me. Right here," she panted, as she drew a hand up his tense arm, and placed his fingers where she needed him most. "Feel that?"
"Gods, yeah," he sighed, as he nervously glided his digits around her wetness. He looked up from his hand for a moment and swallowed, like he wasn't sure whether he could take the plunge just then.
"I can lead you. Don't worry," she reassured, longing to see what that ever-eager mouth of his could do between her legs. She cupped a gentle hand at the back of his neck to lower him to her intimacy. His breath added to her warmth, and he indiscriminately kissed her bush, letting her enticing scent stoke the heat she'd long-since stirred within him.
"Guide me to your bliss, love," he entreated, as he looked up, and Fari thought for a moment, never having been asked for instruction so clearly.
"Start slow, use your hands, and... don't jab your tongue down there like it's a spear." Gwilin's brow perked up–gave her a goofy, knowing look, as if to say he wondered what past experience of hers might've prompted such a comment.
His silly smirk disappeared into her skin as he touched his lips upon her innermost folds. There, he explored her slowly, insatiably, his trousers growing taut at the sound of her gentle, indecent breath, and at the soft trembling of her legs as they crowned his shoulders. Her wetness wicked onto his tongue, smooth and sweet and irresistibly sour, and he avidly tasted her. But his head moved rather awkwardly, as though he were nodding. Fari shrunk her hips back a little, and he raised his attentive eyes.
"Uh," she began, "Try moving your jaw like you're digging. Like this." With her hips, she showed him. "Under, forward, over."
Gwilin returned to lave her satin petals, heeding her words. His head soon acquired a brash buoyancy. He brought a hand to rest over her bush, and a thumb to her hood, where he kneaded the bundle of nerves whose restlessness he sought to deepen. His plump lips had enveloped her completely then, and her breath wavered, and he peeked up contentedly at the sensation, humming against her flesh as his tongue swept the underside of her clitoris with each of his laps. It was that barely perceptible touch that made her most pliant.
"Mmm," she moaned quietly. He raised his head.
"Louder."
"Huh?"
The pad of his thumb continued breeding uneasiness in her as he spoke.
"I want you to moan louder."
"I would, gladly," she managed, "But we can't. Lynly and Wilhelm might hear."
"And?" he playfully scoffed, with a scrunch of his nose, like such a worry was beyond him, as his mouth dipped back between her thighs. The moans Fari let out as he went on grew bolder–grew quick and sweet, like honey daring to drip off parched lips before getting caught in the curl of a famished tongue. Her sounds of pleasure weren't immensely loud by any means, but they were louder than the breathy sighs they'd been dealing in up until then, and were music to his ears–were the rhythm to which he kept time against her flesh.
He more than pleased her for a few minutes, but his movements grew a tad repetitive. Which was fine by her. She groped at the roots of his hair for his attention.
"My love, are you...?"
And he responded by shedding his trousers and kneeling in front of her. Looking down her abdomen, she saw his firm member perched delicately between his legs.
"How do you want to...?" he asked, as he stroked her leg.
"You can be on top this time. I don't mind."
"Forget about yesterday. What do you want right now?"
"Well, I know I like how it feels going in from underneath. The few times I've tried anything else haven't been all that great."
"We can do the same thing again," he suggested, with a notch of his shoulders. Both his hands came to rest on her knees. "You know I couldn't say no to that."
Fari writhed a little in her indecision. She wanted the fine hardness that felt so frustratingly far from her then. But more than that, she wanted him to know her like so few ever had–wished to see his newfound passion make him needy and florid from above. She squared her hips invitingly at him from where she lay, and Gwilin put on a brave face as he waddled close. Her warm embrace, the hand she'd placed on his arm, her loving eyes–they all called his name, but he barely had enough strength in his legs to lie still the night prior. He wasn't sure how he would fare attempting thrusts.
He had some trouble setting them on their path. Fari didn't mind the fondling, but after his second failed attempt to push into her, she grew concerned.
"It's okay if you need help, love."
He nodded a little sheepishly. She inched her shoulder forward to reach for him, and Gwilin was surprised when she let go. It was so much lower than he thought it would be. His hips weren't very well oriented to move at that angle, but he thrust in, anyway.
Discomfort. At least Fari felt pleasure, briefly, at the first thrust. Gwilin was fighting a cramp forming in his leg from the beginning, and his penis was slightly bending as it went in. For the most part, all she could sense was a dull poking caused by the clumsy, sporadic, increasingly nervous manner in which he moved into her. She lifted her hips to try to make it easier for him, to no avail, and he pulled out after all of twenty seconds. As he let out a deep exhale, blood flowing back into his trembling legs, they both sat up.
"That wasn't..."
"Good," he agreed.
Fari thought for a few seconds.
"I have an idea," was all she said, before shifting to lay flat on her stomach. She turned her head to look over her shoulder. "How about like this? You don't have to worry about supporting your legs as much."
"I just, uh, push in from behind?"
"Yeah. Should be easier for you." Fari bent her knees and spread her thighs, proving her point. There was little he couldn't see then, even with the muted glow of candlelight penciling countless shadows into her skin. Her entrance breathed in time with her–looked delicate and enticing amid her small, plump, buttocks. Something primal shifted in Gwilin as he walked over to her on his knees. She flinched when his cold thighs pressed up against her, and sighed as he ran a tender hand across her back. He hardly needed guidance then; all he had to do was to follow the path his lust had laid out for him. His other hand quickly slanted his penis downwards, and he plunged into her.
Fari's legs slowly came together, under his own. They both froze. His outstretched arms held him up as he waited–as he prayed he was well-received.
"Uh, Fari?"
"What are you waiting for?" she snarled, her provocation heightened by her body as it rocked back into him. Gwilin couldn't have hesitated if he wanted to. His hips ground themselves into her with unbridled vigor, sending wave after wave of pleasure deep into the nerves of her aching flesh. As he laid his forearms on the bed so he could press his abdomen against the skin at her back, soft, pleading moans unfurled in his throat. The sounds of their hungry skins colliding only added to that self-indulgent chorus with which he fed his ardor.
Fari thought of asking him to alleviate the tightness she felt accost her by pulling back, but bit her tongue. She soothed her pangs with quick, pursed-lipped moans, instead. The tension with which she clutched at the blanket beneath them was nothing compared to the pressure he built within her with his ungodly grappling. She felt him lean in even harder then–begin releasing his beleaguered moans right on top of her neck. His hot breath made the hairs on her arms stiffen; her back, arch; her mind, weep. It was excruciating. He was excruciating.
"Ohhh, f-f-fuck," he trilled, with a whine, as she rocked into him again, raising him off the bed to join him in intruding her further. They moved together–against each other–fast, strong, and steady, until his legs wavered, and he lost sight of himself, and his lust stuttered out of him and into the ripples of her walls–into the very cries that tore from her lips. Gwilin held his toes curled and his eyes shut, ceaselessly reaming her with his cock as he spent and spent and spent himself.
Then he melted onto her back. Their bodies laid exhausted, glistening with sweat. A wince escaped her as he slid out of where she smarted most, and Gwilin watched her take her leave from the bed and take up a jug of water from the nearby console as he caught his breath. Squatting over the wash basin in the corner of the room, she threw her hair over her neck, letting it cascade over her back, and began to rinse herself off. His eye soon veered lazily down to his flesh, his hardness, where he caught a curious sight–it was near-imperceptibly streaked with blood. And then he noticed the water running off of her ran tinged with red.
"Fari, are you bleeding?" he asked, the muscles in his face knitting delicately with concern.
"A little," she casually hummed.
"Oh, gods," he sighed, and Fari didn't see the face he made. He was far from her, at her back. Had she, she wouldn't have continued as she did.
“It’s not that bad. It happens sometimes. Especially when things get a little rough,” she remarked, with a smile. After standing up, drying herself off, and turning around, she found him covering his mouth with the back of his wrist, struggling to keep his composure.
“Gwilin." Her heart drew her close to him. She crouched beside the bed to meet his eyes. "My love, I’m fine. Really.”
"I hurt you," he lamented. She couldn't help but chuckle at his words.
"You didn't hurt me. Dibella knows you did everything but hurt me."
"Yes, I did! I got caught up and I–I lost control and I–"
"Gwilin. Don't worry. You didn't hurt me, I promise." His hair parted between her fingers as she brushed it away from his face. "I loved every second. Didn't you?"
"Yes, but... you were like an outlet to me, Fari. And nothing else. The way I heaved myself on top of you, I–I couldn't control myself." His cheeks squeezed his eyes, he was so disconcerted. He took her hand. "I just–you're more than that." But the words were more for himself than for her.
"My love, I know I am. I never thought you thought otherwise," she assured, as her thumb wiped the corner of his eye. "You know, when I pushed myself back against you, I wasn't thinking about you, I was enjoying your..." She glanced in the general direction of his member and playfully cocked her brow. "As though it were a fleshy tendril. Or a particularly well-shaped rock."
Gwilin laughed and brought his bashful face against the crook of his arm, against the bed. Fari came close with a grin.
"That doesn't mean I don't respect you. It means I wanted you to do what you did to me. I didn't want you to control yourself."
"O-Oh," he uttered, in gentle surprise. He wondered what could've made her want to be on the receiving end of that. How good could it have possibly felt...?
She stood back up and ran her eyes all over his body. The smell of his sweat, imperceptible to her just minutes ago, suddenly assaulted her. She was careful not to give away her distaste for it as she spoke.
"How about we clean up?"
Before Gwilin could answer, a conspicuous knock on the thick door drew their attention. Muffled, giggling voices wafted in from the other side. They heard Wilhelm call out to them, amused.
"Are you two done in there?" he heckled. The subsequent laughter was unmistakably Lynly's. Fari put on a devious smile to dole out her reply, looking straight into her lover's eyes.
"Ask Gwilin!"
As embarrassment ruddied his cheeks, he swatted at her leg, playfully rebuking her words. Fari considered him with enamored eyes. How she yearned to take him away somewhere where their sounds of love and mischief could befall no ears but their own.
Notes:
After some significant revisions, this chapter is now longer than Chapter 19 Georg, clocking in at ~4300 words.
Gwilin may or may not have been left wondering what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of such grinding...
Chapter 30: The Past
Chapter Text
It wasn't her anymore. It wasn't him anymore.
They were no longer that person.
Chapter 31: **Their Present
Chapter Text
Wilhelm was not an avid horseman. In his whole life, he'd ridden a horse twice, and both times were when he was a young boy. He barely remembered that he found horses imposing, eerie creatures, whose distrustful gazes and unsettling gestures did little to inspire confidence in his ability to mount them. But the steed carrying him back to Ivarstead on that sunny, snowy afternoon was Juniper–a docile sort, like him. And so a tacit bond sprung up between them, and the innkeeper even came to enjoy the feeling of the beast's hips swaying him towards home.
Other than a few sacks of fruit and flour, the only thing he'd brought with him from his trip to Falkreath was a ring, which wasn't even his. He'd gotten it as a favor for his best friend–and a hell of a favor it was. Gwilin had given Wilhelm pages and pages of instructions just for him to find the person who could supply the damn thing, and it took days for it to be made. But, his friend had put up the coin for his room and board in Falkreath, trusting him with every septim he'd made from the Blackbriar job, and Wilhelm managed a little liaison with a barmaid named Narri in the meantime. So he couldn't complain.
As he rode into town, the mer waved him down, and sauntered close to meet him. "Good boy, Juniper," Gwilin cooed, as his hand met the beast's neck. He glanced up at Wilhelm as he went about imparting his affections. "How was the trip?"
"Fortunately, uneventful. Worst thing that happened was that they charged me like I was a jarl for this flour," he bemoaned, gesturing toward the sack hanging off the horse's croup.
"That's too bad," Gwilin politely replied, feeling eager to issue his next question. "Eh, did you bring the...?"
"The ring? Right here, my friend." And Wilhelm playfully flicked it up into the air his way. It spun, arched up to its highest point, then sped back down, burying itself into that thick carpet of snow. Gwilin hadn't even come close to catching it.
"That's alright," he said, as he knelt and began rummaging for it. "And, uh," he continued, looking all the way up at Wilhelm, "Did you get the note to the courier?"
"Yep. He said it shouldn't take him more than three weeks going, and four to return. He'll come straight here with the response, if there is any."
"Perfect. I really appreciate your help, Wilhelm." His fingers touched upon metal right as he finished speaking, and he popped his hand out of the snow with the ring in his grasp. "Aha! Found it."
"You take good care of that thing, you hear? It was really expensive. Sorry to say that, between that and everything else, your change is ten septims."
"Why don't you keep those, Wilhelm?" Gwilin yelled back, already halfway to the inn.
"Hey! Gwilin! Don't forget to tell Fari to come out here and help me off the horse!"
"I won't!" he chuckled from afar. He did.
***
Gwilin accompanied Fari to the stables at Fellstar Farm to put Juniper away. He found the smell of hay and leather the stalls were seasoned with oddly comforting, though not as much as Fari's smile. As her fingers treaded the latch that secured her beloved pet in his stall, it gifted itself to him, like it would never have the chance to do so again, and guided her every word as she spoke.
"More than once," she mused, wrapping her arm around Juniper's snout, "I've imagined you and I riding him." Her eyes kept on her pet's face, which she gently stroked with her fingertips.
"Have you?" Gwilin asked, from a few feet away. Coyly, he picked up a set of reins hanging from the wall, and began to shorten the distance between them.
"Mhm. Through the desert. At night." She shared but a hint of her eyes. "You holding on to my waist from behind. The breeze blowing into our shirts, making us shiver. Me turning back to kiss you..."
"Mmm, I like this story," he purred, now mere inches away. "How does it end?"
Fari took the reins from his hands and slipped them around his neck, applying a little pressure as she crossed them. "With a lot of sand on our backs..." she whispered, pulling him into her so she could trickle the words into his ear.
"Oh, I hate sand," he teased. "Only way you'd get me to do that is if you..." And he pulled back, and she met his eyes, and she saw his plan stirring in them. He plucked the reins from his neck as his legs hummed to take off.
"...Caught me."
He'd made a mistake, now. Usually, Gwilin was the fleetest of foot of the two, but his size put him at a serious disadvantage for running along snow laid thick as it was then, which reached his knees. Following the considerable head-start he got from sprinting out of the stables, he saw Fari's long, sculpted legs leap over with alarming speed as she closed in on him. One misstep was all it took for the mer to fall face-first into the snow. When she reached him, she turned him onto his back and laughed. He was absolutely coated.
"You look so fluffy," she chuckled, offering him her hand. "Like a cloud." And the snow dusted off of him as she pulled him up. His tongue started trying to spit something out, and he let out a few little coughs.
"Blegh. I think I ate a bug."
"Hm. Let me see." Her hands pulled his head up, and she kissed him. She pouted her lips with a shake of her head. "Nope. No bug."
"No, I'm pretty sure there's one in there," he joked. "Maybe you should check again..." A little kiss. "And again..." Another. "And again..." His last was slow, soft, and needy–Fari felt it downright whorish. As he finished gifting it, he reached into his pocket, soon pulling out the ring.
"Is that...?"
"Yup. It wasn't cheap. But it's worth every septim. Or so they claim."
Her hand snaked its way around his neck.
"Oh, Gwilin," she hungrily sighed, snaking a hand into his. "I couldn't wait another second. This past week has been endless."
"Hey!" he brayed, feigning offense. "We've had our fun..."
"I know, I know. But my girl's tired of getting fiddled. She wants to get fucked," Fari stressed. She felt all too smug at how quickly her words made heat rise to his cheeks. He looped his arms around her then, still skirting her gaze as he pulled their bodies together.
"So... should we test it?"
"Just say where," she chirped.
"The cart?" Gwilin asked, lips closing over her collarbones. Without warning, Fari took hold of his thighs and lifted him, and he gasped lightly, instinctively wrapping his arms around her. With heavy steps, she carried him across town to the back of the inn, sharing furtive kisses with him the whole way there. When they reached the cart, she slammed him down onto it, forcing a groan from his lungs. Her lips wasted no time in bending over to work his neck–to coax the sounds of neediness building at his throat–and her hand fondled the outside of his trousers, further provoking them.
Amid the whines brought on by her kneading, Fari suddenly felt a hand go straight past her trousers. She was sure Gwilin had to have sensed her resolve dip a little when his ice-cold fingers dipped into her wetness so he could trace circles around her nub. There, he moved delicately, forgoing a heavy hand, hardly indulging her. Her knees trembled. She was forced to stop fondling him, and cease her relentless kissing, so she could turn her head to the side and focus on breathing. Only her forearms kept her steady enough for her to continue grazing his phallus with one of her thighs.
Gwilin felt her pelvis lurch forward into his hand, inviting him to venture further.
"You're going to have to move up if you want that, love," he instructed, with a wanton chuckle.
Like a bee, she was drawn to his honeyed words. The elf moved himself backwards with his elbows as she climbed up into the cart, leaving her trousers and smallclothes behind on the ground. She crawled over him, slowly, until their faces were aligned. His eyes danced between her own for a few seconds with a pensive stillness. The freckles on her cheeks and forehead had caught his attention. They had become faint without proper sun to maintain them.
Fari closed her eyes when she saw him reach up. The pad of his thumb punctuated each cluster of patches on her face with its loving strokes. It began on the tip of her nose, passed under her eye, and gently coasted its way down her cheek, following the slope of her jaw.
Without looking down, he moved this same thumb towards his hips to pull his leather trousers down just far enough to expose his appendage. The ring fell out when he did, and Fari grabbed it before it rolled off the cart. She held the silver band between their faces with devilish intent, drawing his eyes to its glint.
"Should you wear it, or should I?"
He responded with a knowing grin. Fari nodded, then knelt to settle her rump on his thighs, such that his manhood was poised in front of her. Gwilin moved his arm upwards, offering her his hand, and she gripped his wrist firmly as she sunk the ring onto his thumb. It was a snug fit.
"Is that too tight?" she asked, after kissing his hand.
"It's not... entirely uncomfortable," he remarked, snaking his hand between her legs again.
His anxious fingers tucked into her folds, and he inched inside her. Fari grinned at him while her hand made its way down his shaft and cupped his testes. She gently rolled her palm over them, warming and loosening his skin after the icy air had made tight wrinkles of it. His fingers began to curl inside her passage, and she moved her hand up near the head of his penis to stroke him as she spoke.
"Mmm, that's good, love," she encouraged, "But try going in further. Keep your fingers still, and grip me."
"Like this?" His palm hugged her mound.
She bit her lip and nodded as her wrist swam up and down, allowing her thumb and index finger to work his tender, virile skin. Her response came amidst his quiet moans.
"Yes. Now..." she quickened her pace, fixing her vision on his eyes so she could challenge him, "Quake your hand, if you can."
He could not. Not properly, anyway. His arm had begun to cramp from the position he was holding it in, and the sweet anguish of her touch was causing him to clutch desperately at the wooden planks of the cart with his other arm, trying and failing to find something to hold onto. The spasmodic movements he did attempt weren't terribly effective, but she couldn't say she minded. Just the feeling of the metal around his thumb pressing harshly against her mound compounded her pleasure. She had to suppose his own was no less heightened by the futile act, judging by the way he throbbed eagerly in her grasp.
Ceasing his impatient moans, Gwilin pulled his fingers out of her and took hold of her forearm.
"Stop, stop," he shuddered. He was too close.
He sat up, with his legs outstretched, and coyly invited her to take a seat. When she did, she felt his hand graze the underside of her buttocks as he guided himself inside. She buried her head and hands around his neck as he began rocking into her, his arms having instinctively linked themselves at the small of her back. In no time at all, his hips lost control, and she pulled his hair away from the right side of his face to unleash her heavy breaths behind his pointed ear. Pinning her in place with his unyielding grasp, he jerked upwards mercilessly, and she felt his belly twitch against hers through their clothes. His good sense flooded back into his mind with each of the sharp moans that escaped his mouth.
Fari leaned back onto her arms and threw her head back, waiting for her heavy breathing to subside. Gwilin watched her puffs of breath cloud in the frigid air, and realized just how long her legs had been exposed to the cold for. He tried to lean over the cart's edge to pluck her trousers from the ground. It was a futile attempt, given how limited his range of motion was, but she thought it endearing that he made it anyway.
"Put them on, my love. You must be freezing," he urged, covering her thighs with his arms. She straightened her neck to look at him and grin.
"Don't worry about me. My boots are keeping me warm," she said, moving off of both him and the cart.
From where he sat, Gwilin addressed her as he concealed his member and straightened out his clothes. Fari watched him tuck his thighs back into his tight leather pants rather recklessly.
"Fari, did you...?"
"Meet the Divines?" she said euphemistically, completing his thought. He nodded.
"No... but that's alright. We have nothing if not all the time in the world to lay with each other again, my love." She held his chin lightly, and finished her words by gifting him a kiss.
"Uh," he began, opening his eyes to find himself grinning, "Speaking of... When should we tell Wilhelm and Lynly?"
Fari shrugged. "We could tell them right now."
"No!" he exclaimed, alarmed. "We must be... tactful."
"Oh. Of course. You're right, love. Tactful."
"If we tell them right now, there may be some unpleasantness. I think neither of us want to spend the next few weeks inside the inn with all that tension if they don't take the news well."
"They may be saddened to hear that you're leaving, but I can't conceive of them resenting you, love."
"Even so," he said, threading his fingers into one of her hands, "Let's wait. At least until the snow begins to thaw."
She nodded lovingly. "However you'd prefer."
Notes:
and Gwilin's slutty saga continues........ you KNOW he was upset that she didn't bring those reins with her to the cart. he can't keep up with her and it shows
Chapter 32: A Future
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
My favorite sibling,
It's been too long! Hearing your words brings peace to my heart. I am overjoyed to learn that you plan to visit. Though Suri has moved to Bravil, please know Winthir and I still lay our heads here at the farm, and would gladly receive you. Be warned: our sister has matured so much in the time you've been away from us, you may not recognize her when you arrive.
Moreover, I must share that Kjorik and I have made our home here. I took the advice you gave me on our last hunt seriously, and how fortunate I am that the man who is now my husband was swayed by my words. Together, we have welcomed new lives into this world: our sons, Nindalion and Ronan. Your two nephews await you anxiously. They tug at my legs as I relay my missive to the courier.
Spring cannot arrive soon enough. I hope to see you shortly.
Wishing you a safe journey,
Greviil
Gwilin thanked the courier profusely for handing him the letter. The cold, wet mud on the ground slushed under his feet as he ran towards the inn, and burst through the front door.
"Good news!" he proclaimed. Wilhelm's eyes immediately darted to his muddy feet.
"You're going to take off those boots so they don't track mud all over my floors?"
The elf gave him a sheepish pout before dropping onto the ground, dirtying the butt of his trousers as he wrestled his boots off his feet. He stood again and sauntered through the doorway of Fari's room with the letter in his hands. His companion looked up from her book to meet his eyes when she heard him enter.
"Hi, my love," she said, closing the book and sitting up in her bed. "What is it? I thought you were busy whetting your arrows."
She looked down at his feet.
"Why are you barefoot?"
He was so excited, his head bobbed. "I was, I was whetting the arrows. But then the courier got here and brought me this!" He waved the parchment at her. "It's Greviil! He wrote back from Kvatch."
"Gwilin, that's great! What did he say?"
"He still lives there. So does Winthir." He took her hand and raised her off the bed, drawing her into his little dance. "And he says he'd love for us to visit."
She grinned, allowing him to envelop her in his arms as he twirled her around.
"Are we leaving today, then?"
"Yes, my love," he beamed, pulling away to leave the room, but not before granting her a kiss. "I'm going to go ready the cart. You pack our things."
Fari smiled as he left, and placed her knapsack and satchel on the bed to begin collecting her belongings. Though she rarely left her things strewn about, she did find a few items as she searched the room. A lonely sock. A dagger she had misplaced weeks ago. A leather belt Gwilin left behind after one of their trysts. As she tucked all of these into her satchel, she turned her head and noticed Wilhelm was watching her from behind the counter, in the common area. She slung her bags over her shoulders and walked over to him, bearing the book she had been reading in her hands.
"You heard?" she asked, with uncertainty, both in her words and her approach.
Wilhelm nodded solemnly.
"Where's Lynly?"
"She's resting. I'm going to wait a few minutes to let her know you're both leaving."
Fari kept her eyes on the book as she raised it over the counter, offering it to him.
"Can you make sure she gets this? It's a book of Yokudan songs, with sheet music. So she can learn to play them, if she wants."
He accepted the book and examined its cover briefly before setting it down on the counter.
"I'll make sure she does. Thank you."
"You take good care of yourself, alright, Wilhelm?"
"Aye. I'll do that. You tell Gwilin I'll be right outside."
She nodded at the innkeeper before excusing herself to go into her companion's room to gather his things. With his help, everything in it was soon packed and put away. She leaned her head against the door frame as Gwilin carried the last of his belongings outside. The room looked so cold and empty to her without so much as a candle on the nightstand or the fire in her lover's eyes to make it feel alive. She could not believe it to be the room where she'd given herself to him, but it was. And it always would be.
Fari wandered outdoors and watched Gwilin load his bow into the cart as she approached him. She walked slowly, with purposeful, anxious steps. He sensed her unease and settled his hands on either side of her waist once she was close enough.
"Hey, hey," he said, softly. "What is it?"
She held herself, cupping her elbows in her hands, and met his eyes. "It's silly. I've wanted to leave for so long, but, now that we're about to..."
"It hurts, right?"
She nodded, and her lip quivered.
"I know, love. Me, too," he said, rubbing her arms comfortingly.
Their foreheads touched, and she spoke as a mischievous grin burgeoned on her face.
"We're not staying, though," she sniffed her sadness away and chuckled, "I saw you packing sandwiches. There's no way I'm sharing those with Wilhelm and Lynly."
Gwilin chortled, then gave a sudden, sharp inhale. "Wait, wait," he said eagerly, as he turned around, reaching for something in the cart. He dragged a large jar that had been hidden into plain view.
"No!" Fari exclaimed, ecstatic and incredulous. She opened the jar and reached inside. "The birch cookies? All of them?"
"I loaded them last night," he said, with pride, as she indulged. "Wilhelm is none the wiser."
"Oh, aren't I?"
The couple yelped, startled. Wilhelm had crept up on them. Not wishing to return the stolen treats, Fari covered the jar and pushed it back into the cart. The innkeeper grinned and patted her on the shoulder.
"Keep them. Consider it a parting gift."
She swallowed the cookies in her mouth to speak.
"Uh, thank you, Wilhelm. I'll wait for you at the seat of the cart, my love," she said, kissing her elven companion. He was bewitched by the residual sweetness the cookies had left on her lips.
His head unconsciously followed her as she walked away from them, and was only pulled out of its trance by the snap of Wilhelm's fingers. Gwilin cleared his throat self-consciously and crossed his arms.
"Uh, sorry."
"You two ready to set off, huh?"
"Aye, we are. Is Lynly not coming out to say goodbye?"
"You know her. 'The heart cannot feel what the eyes do not see', she says."
"You know, she's right. That's true. And yet," he gestured at Wilhelm with his hand, "Here you are."
"Here I am. And here I'll stay, my friend."
Only the Nord's crinkled brow hinted at his sadness as he placed a firm hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Go. See the world with her. And if ever you should need a friend to tell about it, I'll be here, tending the bar as always."
Gwilin's eyes became dewy, and he spoke in a hushed voice. "Thank you. Stay safe, brother."
Wilhelm nodded contentedly and took a step back, giving Gwilin room to turn so he could walk towards the front of the cart. He waved farewell to the couple as he headed back to the inn. He did not cease until its front door obscured him.
"I can't wait to meet your brother. I'm sorry to say, love, but I won't be able to stop myself from asking him for embarrassing stories that I can pester you over."
"Heh," he chuckled. "In that case, I suspect Greviil's going to absolutely love you."
The elf paused, then linked their hands at her thigh. With faith in his eyes, he met her gaze.
"You know... I didn't tell him about us, Fari. I want it to be a surprise."
She tilted her head and creased her eyes with glee. It was the most creative way she'd ever heard him say 'I love you'. She couldn't bear not returning the sentiment.
"I love you, Gwilin. I'll never tire of saying it."
Though she saw him open his mouth to respond, no words came out. He was thinking. Debating whether to say something, she suspected.
"You can tell me anything, love," she assured him.
Her companion sighed, and looked down to retrieve something from his knapsack. It was a small, folded piece of paper. He slipped it into her satchel with an uneasy hand.
"My Desert Star, can you promise me something?"
His palm massaged her neck, and she leaned into his hand.
"If you ever do tire of saying it, if I ever make the biggest mistake of my life, if ever there came a time when you felt you couldn't even look at me... read those words," he said, tapping the satchel with his fingertips. "I wrote them that night on Adélard's ship, the same day we confessed our love. They'll always be true. They'll always be how I feel about you."
She never laid eyes on them.
Notes:
Thank you for reading!
I have so many more ideas I want to write for these two! Fari meeting Greviil, Gwilin getting to hang out with his new nephews, Gwilin meeting Fari's parents, Fari getting older and feeling depressed because she's no longer as agile and feels she can't protect Gwilin, etc.
Chapter 33: -Art–
Chapter Text
Arts! \•o•/
[Work is my own unless otherwise stated]
Fari // <3
Gift // @un-sea-lie
2024 Artfight attack // @katastronoot
[Chapter 7]
Gift // @ladytanithia
[Chapter 25]
Commission // @choilacanth
"Don't you understand what it meant to me?" [Chapter 29]
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