Even a Hare [Aamos & Lamaenor]
As if stumbling upon a Stormcloak camp filled with commander-tier soldiers on guard wasn’t enough.
There had to be a Thalmor attack.
It has been days since the camp was seized and every soldier not killed in the process - along with the Dunmer - brought into custody to be interrogated. Aamos hadn’t heard much but from what he could gather, there was a lot of sensitive information in the play. He knows enough of these things to know that it wouldn’t make his situation any better - it would make everything much worse.
Aamos himself had been interrogated again and again, by the present moment he has forgotten how many times exactly, the officers mostly getting annoyed at his handicap when he got too weak to lift the pen to write. They certainly didn’t save the whip on him.
The cell door opens and he inhales sharply when the bright light hits his face. He has no idea how much time has passed since he was last… visited. He’s cold, oh so cold and weak from hunger but he manages to find the strength to lift his head to look up. There’s an old mer, Aamos can’t make out his facial features against the backlight but for some reason he feels frightened. Oh, but there’s another person behind him… Aamos looks, and a lump forms in his dry throat.
That certainly can’t be Seron, can it?
Raakion does not look as if though he recognizes Aamos. He is staring straight ahead, head slightly tilted, as if though the pale dunmer is below him. But his jaw tensions slightly, making his chin jut out. If you stood behind him, you would see that his hands that are seemingly clasped behind his back, is more or less fisted.
His father, more or less used to the mercurial moods of Raakion, only sends him an amused glance. He knows Raakion knows this mer and he would know it even if they did not have a connection built up through hours of drowning and training. Briefly, Lamaenor is even proud of Raakion, because he is concealing his raging emotions quite well.
"Hello, Aamos." He says instead, pulling the name from his sons memory. He can feel his sons indignation at that, his sons shame for allowing himself to be used as a pawn in bringing an old friend pain. Lamaenor smiles, softly, and it can only be called kind. His voice is warm and he softens the corners around his eyes, makes the wrinkles stand out a bit more, makes him look older, softer, kinder.
"You do not look so well." He continues, kneeling beside the other mer, "Do you need some water?" His white eyes gleam in the murky light. The mer smells like fear, it tastes almost sweet on Lamaenors tongue.
