vivec/dunmer vestige pairing; second person perspective; 37,000 words so far; this chapter 7k
You pretend to be shocked. “I was going to ask you about the meaning of suffering, actually, but now you have me curious. What is your favourite colour?”
He tips his head back and laughs. It’s a melodic, musical sound, and it’s contagious; you laugh with him. “It changes, moment to moment. When I step outside and feel the sun on my face, look up at the glory of a lovely sky, it might be blue. When I turn my head towards Red Mountain and see her beautiful heart bleeding, it might be red. When I see the ash beneath my feet and the skin of the Dunmer people, it might be grey.” He takes another sip of his wine and adds, almost casually, “When I look upon an Ordinator’s mask and see Nerevar staring back at me, it might be gold.”
I haven't quite got Angélique's main fic to this point, and it will probaby be a long while yet before I do, but this is an alternate ending to the base game's Main Questline which was supposed to be a short, 8k-ish word project to amuse myself with over an extended holiday
It may have got a little out of hand, and it was absolutely terrifying to step this far out of canon (not to mention write several chapters from a POV other than my Vestige's), but I had a lot of fun with it
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Verandis should have taken the offer to feed when he, Gwendis, and Alvaren returned to Castle Ravenwatch after they pulled him out of Coldharbour. Should have, but did not.
Conveniently for him, there are people perfectly happy to make sure he takes care of himself, even if one of those people has to invoke their own immortality to convince him.
“Tamiit!” Zerith-var’s warm, rumbling voice made Tainted-Sorrow’s eyes snap open. “Have you finally returned from your journey? This one has heard your name on fellowship soldier’s lips returning from the south.”
Sorrow flung himself upright, upsetting the threadbare blanket before realizing that he was the only occupant in the bed. He stared blankly at the empty space he was very sure someone else was meant to be occupying, then looked around the room, noting the clothing and armor scattered about.
It was then he noticed that the Khajiit necromancer’s friendly chatter had ceased.
“Zerith,” Sorrow squawked, tripping himself over a stray pauldron and falling out the half-open door. He missed catching the doorframe and proceeded to flop dramatically on his side with a thud that shook the entire floor.
After a moment of silence, Sorrow unstuck his cheek from the floor and looked up. Zerith-var stood in all his massive, intimidating glory, arms folded, looking down at him. “I thought you were still in Rimmen,” Sorrow said sheepishly as he pushed himself into a seated position.
“This one presumed a friendly face to greet you would be welcome,” there was an amused arch to Zerith-var’s brow. “However, there appears to be a naked Man in the pantry.”
“What can I say? I was hungry.” Darien’s voice wafted from around the corner and Sorrow sighed, scratching the back edge of his frill. “I didn’t know there was company coming.”
“Is it common to be naked in the pantry in this era?” Zerith-var asked, clearly enjoying himself, as Sorrow returned to his feet and retrieved Darien’s trousers from the floor beside the bed. “Should this one also remove his clothing?”
“Zerith, no. That’s not—no.”
“This one was only asking.”
“Oh, I like him,” Darien said, and still managed to catch his trousers.
Tesblr! I wrote a new DarienxVestige fic so read on if you like liches, necromancy, abduction, amnesia, and a lot of in depth research into lore! It's finished but I'm posting as I edit. Enjoy! Ao3
Talaari wakes to a dry mouth and the sharp metal bite of cuffs around her wrists. She opens her eyes and waits for them to adjust to the low light.
She’s lying on cold, jagged stone. She shakes her wrists, the jangle of metal echoing through what seems to be a small cave illuminated by a single sconce in the corner.
It's not the first time she's woken up imprisoned, but it's the first time she has no clue who may be behind it. There had been no quest, no enemy waiting to be revealed. She had been between disasters, resting in that liminal space after saving the world and before saving it again, clearing her mind within the wilderness of Bangkorai and eating a stringy rabbit she'd hunted herself.
“I had thought a mage as powerful as you would have woken sooner,” a voice says from the shadows. Talaari squints in its direction, but all she sees is a dark figure, female, lithe and small.
“What…” She swallows to bring more moisture to her throat. “What am I doing here?”
There's an exhale that could be a laugh, and a cold blue flame lights up the room, held in the palm of a Dunmer. Her red eyes shine as they drink Talaari in, and she struggles to sit up.
“It's a pleasure to meet you Talaari, the Soul-Shriven hero, the Vestige.” Her lip curls on the last word as she edges closer.
“Pleasure's all mine, I'm sure,” Talaari mutters. There's a fog in her brain and a stiffness to her fingers. Her powers are held in place by these shackles, and she gives them an experimental yet fruitless tug. Her armour has been replaced with rags, clean but threadbare, and the cold of the cave seeps through unintruded. “But you have me at a disadvantage.”
The woman smiles, a cold and unnatural thing. “My name is Urani. Doesn't ring a bell? I thought it would not. You see, I was a secret. A spy for my master. I wasn't in Coldharbour when you defeated him, nor when you defeated the Dark Lord. Our paths have never crossed.”
Talaari fights the fog in her brain and just for a moment, reaches clarity. “Your master. Mannimarco?”
The smile drops from her face. She leans back, out of Talaari’s reach. “Yes,” she says in a soft voice. “My master. My king.”
Talaari considers standing, but gravity is already tugging her head down, and she'd have no victory were she to try and stand. “That… that was a while ago. I defeated Mannimarco, I left him rotting to the mercy of Molag Bal. Why am I here?”
“My master had promised me all the lifetimes of man and mer by his side. He promised to elevate me, ascend me. And you destroyed him before he could. So I have to take matters into my own hands.”
Talaari watches as she paces the cave, the blue flame illuminating its sparse furnishings. A pile of crates in one corner, a bucket in another.
“You see, after you ruined my future with your heroics, I burned with hatred. I had no purpose, no reason, no ability to save my king from the fate you had left him to. I wanted vengeance, I wanted to see you beg and scream, but I did not have the power. Still don't.”
“So what has changed?”
Urani turns back to her. “Then I heard about what had happened in Summerset. The fight you had with Nocturnal at the pinnacle of the Crystal Tower as reality crumbled around you. It filled me with hopelessness for a while; how could I ever get revenge on an elf that had bested multiple Daedric Princes?
And then my master's teachings came back to me.” She leans in closer, just a foot away. Talaari’s fingers itch for her staff.
“Did you really think that you would walk away from that unchanged? Do you even know what the Towers are? How much power they hold, how they defy even the Elder Scrolls in their mastery? Of course you don't.” Urani narrows those red eyes at her. “You stomp around and destroy progress, and walk away to the cheers of peasants and small-minded fools. But I alone know what you really walked away with that day. What power you stole from the Tower. What lies dormant in your patched up, shrivelling soul!”
Before Talaari can react, Urani grabs her chin with her free hand, drawing the blue flame close until its chill burns the skin.
“I will use it to take what has been promised to me, and in doing so wipe your stain from history.”
She shoves Talaari’s face from her. Talaari lifts her hands, fists clenched to strike, but the chain pulls taught from where it's bolted into the ground and sends a jolt of pain up her arms.
“To what end?” Talaari gasps out. “Whatever power you think I took, what are you going to use it for?”
Urani looks down at her with disdain. “You will know before the end.”
She clasps her hands together, the flame leaking into her fingers. The room grows darker but for the blue glow of her hands, and she reaches out as Talaari flinches back, grasping her temples in an iron grip.
“Get away from me, gla'nt,” she spits.
“Relax,” she murmurs. “I'm only trying to bring it out.”
The necromantic chill pierces Talaari's skull and she cries out. “Bring what out?” She can feel the foul magick flood her veins, its tendrils probing within her very being, and squeezes her eyes shut against the onslaught of pain.
“Untime.” Urani smiles triumphantly, and as she pulls her fingers back something tugs.
A whirlwind of memories takes hold of her consciousness. Total, complete darkness, crumbling marble and stone, a bright hopeful light struggling against the void. Thank you. For everything.
Talaari bites her lip against a scream as something is torn from her, something close to her chest and so very important, but the memories don't cease.
Crushing despair replaced with vengeful determination, a sword warm and willing and heartbroken in her hand. The top of the Crystal Tower and Nocturnal's voice echoing with pride and power and preemptive victory.
As suddenly as it had begun, Urani breaks the connection. Talaari hears her footsteps retreat, but she cannot focus on much except the relief from the pain, which is almost as overwhelming as the pain itself.
When she finally opens her eyes, she figures the pain must be bad enough that she has started to see things.
Because beside Urani, who studies her with narrow and suspicious eyes, stands a man she never thought she would see again, as bright and whole as the day she lost him.
“What the- what in Oblivion am I doing here?” His wide blue eyes glance between Urani and Talaari before he scans the rest of the cave.
Talaari chokes down on the sob building in her throat. That voice - his voice - she never thought she'd hear it again. She hadn't dared to hope she'd hear it again.
Urani doesn't move, her eyes glued to Talaari. “Hmm. There was something… intriguing there. Just for a moment, just before I found it.” She doesn't look perturbed, only curious. “I'll let you rest. You're going to need it, Talaari. You and I are going to do great things.”
The man waves a hand in front of Urani's face as she turns away. “Hey, lady! I'm right here!” He yelps as Urani strides forward, walking through his form as though it were a mere cloud. She reaches the far wall of stone and sinks through it, like a knife passing through warm butter.
He stares after her. “Well she certainly doesn't give me the warm and fuzzies.” He turns back to Talaari just as she ducks her head. She can't stand it. Whatever memory of him Urani dredged up will just tear at the hole his death had ripped into her. Those blue eyes, that cocky smirk - she can't stand to see them again and lose them once more.
“You…” His voice is closer, and Talaari squeezes her eyes shut. “You can see me, can't you?” There's a pause Talaari refuses to fill. “Look, you seem to be dealing with a lot right now, but I need help. Please.”
She shakes her head, and the movement sends needles of pain through her nerves.
“You can hear me! Just… look at me. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Just look at me.”
“No,” Talaari whispers. “You're not real. You're not real.”
There's a whisper of a touch against her chin, soft and almost intangible. She snaps her head up to meet his eyes, soft and wary as though they were staring at a kicked dog.
“There you are,” Darien murmurs. The sound of his voice, so gentle and familiar, brings tears to her eyes. “I'm real. I think.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “I mean, I don't know. I was sort of hoping you'd help me with that.”
Talaari opens her mouth, but for a long while nothing comes out. “Darien, you… you're not real. You can't be.”
Darien frowns, and leans closer, his eyes searching hers. “Wait, do you know me? Do you know who I am?”
Talaari shuts her eyes again. Perhaps the next time she opens them, Darien will be gone, and she can just focus on the physical torture instead.
“As if I could forget,” she mutters.
“Well that's funny. Since I seem to have forgotten me.”
Talaari opens one eye warily before narrowing both at him. “Really?” she asks flatly. She sits up, her muscles filling with energy they didn't have a moment ago. “You don't know who you are?” Darien shakes his head. “And you don't know who I am either?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “Well, I can always guess. What we are to each other, that is.”
Talaari ignores him, her mind racing. “I've never heard of a sentient memory projection having no cognizant memory itself. It's often imbued with its host's memories at the very least,” she mumbles. “You could be a failed attempt at a psychic projection of the dead that Urani drew from my memories, but she couldn't see you.”
Darien grabs at her shoulders, but his hands pass through uselessly. “Whoa, slow down there beautiful. Did you say dead? As in, I'm a ghost?”
Talaari looks up at him, her eyes drinking in every detail she can. He looks the same, exactly the same. He's still wearing that ridiculous, elaborate golden armour of Meridia, though it is dull and lifeless without her light shining through it.
“Yes,” she replies after a moment. “You're dead. But I'm not so sure you're a ghost. A necromancer as powerful as Urani would have at the very least sensed your presence, let alone perceived you entirely.”
Darien looks down at his hands, steady and solid. “Then what am I?”
Talaari shrugs. “A hallucination, most likely. It bruises my ego to admit it, but it seems my mind snapped very quickly under Urani's ministrations. Not that I'll tell her that.”
Darien shakes his head, and when he looks back at Talaari his eyes are wide. “No. No, I'm not a hallucination. I'm real, I know it.”
“You don't even know who you are! You have no clue who I am. You can't touch anything, Urani didn't even see you.”
“That's because I'm yours,” Darien snaps. “Not hers. Can't you feel it?” He reaches up again to touch her shoulder, ignoring her flinch back, and she feels it. A gentle caress, barely-there but undeniable.
“If I-” He presses down and his hand goes right through, his fingers wriggling out the other side. “But when I touch you, I feel… something. A connection.”
Talaari shakes her head. “Stop that “ He withdraws his hand and flexes it. “You don't even know my name. Whatever you think you feel, it's all a delusion my mind made up to… to torment me.”
Darien's face softens. “Who are you to me?”
Talaari turns away, easing herself down to a foetal position facing the wall, her back to him. She lets the silence drag on until the cave is screaming with it.
Warning(s): Werewolves, Supernatural Transformation, Mentions of a -medium- Panic Attack, etc.
Words: 983
AN: I'm sloooowly working through my list of WIP's. In no particular order but still.
A convo about werewolves and angst with @lithiumrev lead to a deliciously angst-y mini fic with unexpected confessions and forgiveness. Which I very lovingly snuck off with, cleaned up a bit to fit the DC storyline, and ran with. ;D
Dairen and the Vestige are kinda sorta in a relationship? Not "official" official but definitely in the heavy flirting stage. There's some feelings.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Darien took a shaky step back as the adrenaline cleared and he returned to his surroundings. His heart suddenly plummeted to his stomach- he couldn't believe what he was seeing with his own two eyes;
The Vestige, standing right where the werewolf had just been. With a sword in her gut. The very sword he just used to fend off the lycanthrope.
“Oh by the Eight, what have I done?!” he screamed. Seeing her as a werewolf brought back so many bad memories from Camlorn, it was only natural he reacted the way he did. He collapsed to one knee and started to assess the situation. By that time the Vestige started to come to and glance up at him, Gabrielle had caught up to them. “Darien! What—" she tried to ask but was caught off guard by an uncharacteristic sob.
“I didn't mean to!” he choked, “It was a werewolf, but then it was Her!”
“Go get my healing staff!” Gabrielle hollered, “Now!” Darien ran to go get it, as the mage checked the Vestige's pulse. “Still strong. That's good," she muttered to herself.
“Here.” Darien gasped, handing her the staff. "I-I didn't realize-" before he could finish his sentence, Gabrielle grabbed his arm.
"Listen to me. Hey- Listen," she grabbed his hand and placed it on the Vestige's chest. “Do you feel that?”
“… Yes.”
“That's her heartbeat. The fact she still has one is a good sign. Now I need you to keep your hand there and tell me if it weakens or stops. Can you do that for me?”
“Yeah, I can.”
The mage worked in a tense silence, glowing hands hovering above the Vestige's chest, making their way down to the gut wound. “I know why you did it, and I know we should have told you," she began. “But after the liberation of Camlorn she... She was terrified that you would leave.” Darien had the Vestige's head in his lap and was monitoring her pulse as best he could while his thoughts were racing. “Daire? Did you hear me?”
“Y-Yes.” he answered shakily, taking in her features. Her paling face and shallow breathing were all he could focus on.
Just as Gabrielle was finishing with the bandages, the Vestige's eyes flew open and she gasped, hard. The looks on her comrades faces told her everything- she knew what had transpired without either of them saying a word.
"Darien?! Oh gods, I'm so sorry! I'm so so sorry-!" Darien stopped her mid-sentence with a bone-crunching hug.
"Oh thank the Eight- thank the Eight you're okay-" he choked again. "I'm so glad you're alive-"
Gabrielle let out a small chuckle. “I’ll give you two some space. Come get me if something happens, okay?”
As their panic subsided and the renewed adrenaline tapered off, Darien scooped the Vestige up and carried her to one of the nearby infirmary tents. Luck was once again on their side, as the tent was empty. As he kneeled and gingerly laid her down on one of the cots, he caught a glimpse of the bandages on her belly. He felt a little sick seeing them, knowing he was the reason she needed them.
“I don't know what to say…” he said quietly.
“Just... sit with me, please,” she answered. “Talk to me about how this makes you feel.”
“To be honest, I don't know if I can.”
“Well, just talk, then. About anything. I know this hurts you too.”
"You have no idea, Vestige."
Darien proceeded to ramble about everything that popped into his mind- The panic when he saw the werewolf, how he felt when he first realized it was her, how scared he was when he realized what he did-
How sorry he was. How so incredibly sorry he was, the guilt was eating him up. It was a split-second panic decision, he had no idea it was her.
She listened quietly, taking in his words and hearing him out. Her eyes closed after a minute, and she laid her head on his chest plate as his arm wrapped comfortingly around her shoulders.
"I know I should have told you," she murmured as his hand rubbed up and down. "I'm sorry about that. It's just... I know how badly what happened in Camlorn affected you. I didn't want you to leave..."
Darien inhaled through his nose as he processed what she just said. Him? Leave her? Unthinkable. And he told her as much. "I wouldn't ever dream of it, my dear."
A small chuckle escaped her tired lips. "I know this probably makes you uncomfortable, but- That transformation was rather sudden for me as well. I didn't intend for you to find out like-"
He interrupted her with a tender kiss on her temple. "It surprised me at first, I'll admit. I was wondering why there was one rogue werewolf attacking the others. Should have known it was you when I couldn't find you on the battlefield.
"But you helped so much when you transformed. I can forgive you for that."
The Vestige looked up at him and blinked. "Just like that? You're okay with it? After what happened in Camlorn?"
He nodded. "Of course. You had nothing to do with that. At least I hope you didn't."
"I assure you I did not."
"Good. Then all is forgiven. We can figure this out. Just- don't, uh, "wolf out" when I'm around, alright? Don't think I could take that sight."
She chuckled. "I will do my best not to."
~*~
Gabrielle leaned against the support post outside the tent, just out of sight from the entrance. She had brought some extra healing supplies in case the Vestige needed it, but after her (mostly) unintentional eavesdropping, she knew her friend would be fine. Besides, Darien could keep an eye on her.
If he could remain focused on the task at hand, that is.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, @rhiannon1199!!! A Maormer ghost story for you, yes yes. Pre-World, and canon to Soggy!Teldryn's story hehe. (: I hope you like it. It was a joy to write.
Without further ado:
Where I Failed, You Will Succeed
26th of Sun’s Dusk 4E198
Teldryn Sero stood on an outcropping of rock that overlooked the frozen wasteland that was Northern Solstheim. Wind whipped around his face, dry snow collecting in the crevices of his chitin goggles. His scarf barely kept the sting of the weather from searing his skin. Bitter cold seeped through every layer of fur and chitin armor, numbing his fingers and feet. He stuck his hands under each armpit and wondered if it would ever be possible to warm up again.
Likely not.
This was not the first time he’d been trapped all the way out here by the hand of an errant blizzard. It was, however, the first time he’d glimpsed a ghost in the wastes. He’d tracked the odd blue-green glow of it, watching to be sure it wasn’t a Wisp or something worse, like a Wispmother on the prowl for souls—or whatever else in Oblivion those things were always after. But no. This one less floated and more morphed through the snow as if the huge drifts weren’t there at all. It left no trace as it went.
The figure looked strange—vaguely elven, though the ears were shaped differently. The eyes were white all the way through, and he couldn’t discern if it was blindness or otherwise. There was a shimmering texture to their skin when they turned into the light, too. The clothing looked as Skaal as was possible to look, though, which was certainly odd. Their blue-grey hair was plaited back tightly with a decorative comb placed just so. He’d not seen anyone like whoever this person used to be. He couldn’t help but wonder why they were haunting here of all places. Aside from their outfit, they didn’t look like they belonged at all.
He knew the feeling.
He scoffed and unfurled from himself to wander into the snowy wastes. He could have easily returned to the Skaal village, but instead he was going to stubbornly follow some ghost to see whatever it was that drew them. Typical, really. At least Geldis wouldn’t be able to say he’d wasted his whole week drinking. Not this time, at least. Though sujamma would, under normal circumstances, make this trek more tolerable. None to be had out in the middle of a blizzard, though. -> Read the rest on AO3
Veysavi pushed his chair back and raked a strand of hair from his eyes, only realizing too late that his fingers were stained with ink. He grimaced, scrubbing absently at what he assumed was the stain on his cheek.
“What is it, Lexi? Ves is busy.”
“Oh,” said Llexadrin, and she sounded so disappointed that Veysavi couldn’t help looking down. The toddler’s lower lip trembled, but she stuck it out bravely. “I’m sorry. I can go bother Athvyn.”
“You’re not a bother.” Veysavi reached down and detangled Llexadrin’s little fingers from the hem of his shirt so he could scoop her up, deposit her on his lap in a tumble of pink skirts and half-unpinned brunette hair. “Hey, hey, Lexi. What’s wrong?”
“Do Mama and Dad not like you?”
Veysavi’s breath stopped.
“Are they going to not like me too, one day?”
~\N\~
Veysavi couldn’t really remember a time when disappointment hadn’t colored his parents' tones when addressing him. He supposed there must have been one. Even his parents couldn’t possibly be disappointed in a baby. Unfortunately, he couldn’t recall any tender feelings, or any picturesque, smiling moments of parents leaning over his crib and goo-goo-ga-ga’ing at him fondly. Quite to the contrary. One of his earliest memories was swinging his legs on the chair in Serjo Sarethi’s office while receiving a gentle but disappointed talking-to about behaving in a manner fitting of the Sarethi heir.
He rather wished he could go back in time and tell his childhood self - and he couldn’t have been older than six at the time - that it was a losing battle. That, try as he might, he was never going to be the pinnacle of his parents’ expectations.
Though had he ever tried that hard? He wasn’t entirely sure. It became apparent fairly early on that Athvyn, though three years his junior, was sharper, more studious, more driven. The only thing they lacked against Veysavi was an aptitude for magic - but what use did a gentlemer have for his own magic? There were always skilled mages jostling for employment with prestigious families. And too much curiosity about magic always raised rumors about whether the mage planned to abandon his family and become Telvanni. Better to keep him at home, under the watchful eye of tutors and his parents, and make certain he didn’t disgrace the Sarethi name.
“Really,” Veysavi said at several points to Vali - second son of the Miludo family, brought up as a right hand and bodyguard to their heir. “They’ll come to their senses at some point. Make Athvyn the heir, maybe give me your same role as their protector, hmm? Or maybe I’ll get sent to apprentice with a mage as a trap, and the first cut-up they hear about, I’ll be locked in a distant farmhouse. You and Savu can find my directions and come break me out. We’ll pretend I’m your ancestral guardian and nobody should be able to see me, and make bets on who’ll crack and say something first when I’m pulling horrid faces behind you at grand parties.”
Vali laughed, of course. Veysavi was always good at making him laugh. And if his comments were overheard by their shared fighting master, it didn’t much matter, because he was always busy with attempts to get Savuvos Miludo’s prowess with a sword to the same level as Vali and Veysavi’s.
It was easier to make Vali and himself laugh at his own mistakes, at how far he fell short of his parents’ expectations, than it was to admit it bothered him. It was easier to make a point of not trying than to do his best and find it lacking. Pursuing his own interests under the guise of being exactly what he felt he was - an arrogant, entitled young gentlemer - wasn’t difficult at all. Certainly no more difficult than hiding his exploits from his parents, mostly, and the lectures and scoldings were much easier to take when he knew he’d done something to deserve them than when they came apropos of nothing.
~\N\~
This couldn’t continue forever. Some part of him had expected a breaking point, and yet it still felt sharp and sudden. He had just passed his seventeenth birthday. A trio of Buoyant Armigers had come into town a few weeks before, and he’d seen in it a fine opportunity to do something he’d always dreamed of. A lute was easy enough to acquire. Once that was done, begging lessons from one of the three only took a few words in favor of Vivec and a flash of gold in his palm.
He was sat on the rickety stage, learning chord-work under the Armiger’s strict eye, when a flash of color in the square caught his eye. His mother’s handmaiden stared in shock at him for a moment before whirling and disappearing between two market stalls. Veysavi had shrugged, deciding his finger placement practice was more important than going after her.
The ensuing lecture from his father was exactly what Veysavi had expected. It was beneath his dignity to be openly consorting with such wandering folk. It was insane to do so where people could see! They would all gossip about whether he intended to disappear and leave duties undone and promises unfulfilled. The lute wasn’t an instrument of the nobility, and besides, such accomplishments as music were the province of one who was to grow the familial name, not one who was to inherit it for himself.
Veysavi didn’t plan to pay heed to any of it. Unfortunately, some mannerism or behavior of his must have given this away.
He returned to find his lute smashed in the center of his room.
The period of open rebellion which followed was neither dignified nor mature. He refused all social engagements, and if forced to go, bordered on insolence the entire time. He was downright uncivil to his tutors and fighting master. The traitorous handmaiden who had turned him in wasn’t even dignified with his notice. After a week, he decided her shunning would be complete if he was sweeter than ever to the other servants - an action which also had the happy effect of keeping them out of it. He was, according to Athvyn, no longer fit for polite company, and that gave sufficient vent to his rage.
It got his point across. A month to the day after he’d swept the broken pieces of his lute off the floor, his father called him to his office with an injunction to “have no more of this nonsense”. It was a command which Veysavi would have laughed aloud at - sullen and furious as he was - had it not come with a hefty bribe. He walked out of his father’s office with very well-crafted and expensive Breton violin as well as the promise of a master’s tutelage for the instrument.
He’d not had a need to hide anything, including his second and third lutes, quite so thoroughly since then. He’d made it quite clear how far he was willing to go to retain his freedom. The warning seemed well-heeded by his parents.
But could Lexi do the same?
Llexadrin was so much more eager to please than he ever remembered himself being. The gentlest words of reproach would send her little face screwing up with tears, would send her into a frenzy of wanting to fix whatever mistake had been committed. Even now - Are they going to not like me too, one day? Veysavi could see it in her little face, in the intentness of her stare. She wanted to fix the problem before it happened. She wanted everything to be okay.
If she ever found herself thrust up against their parents’ steadfast expectations for her life, in the same antagonistic dance that Veysavi navigated daily…
It would break her little heart, wouldn’t it?
He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.
“Ves?” she asked softly, her little hands resting on his chest to balance herself. Veysavi curled an arm securely around her waist and dragged her close for a quick peck on the forehead.
She giggled, which was what he’d wanted, but he hadn’t counted on the prickle behind his eyes.
“No, no,” he said, forcing lightness. “They don’t hate me. ‘Course not. We just work on different stuff, yeah?”
“For the family?” Llexadrin asked, looking up at him. Veysavi gave her a smile.
“Yeah, for the family, but not just that. It’s because we’ve all got our strengths, see? Athvyn’s getting deep into all the legal and logical stuff, Mother and Father work well as a team, and I’m… making sure I’m ready to take on more responsibilities, one day.”
In truth, his only claim to anything of the sort would have to come from Athvyn’s twisting his arm to put his seal to plans which they wanted to enact. But he couldn’t proclaim his general disinterest under his little sister’s trusting gaze.
She nodded solemnly. “And what’ll be my strength, Ves?”
He couldn’t lie to that. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, and then, with more force, “But I’m sure you’ll be spectacular at it. And I’ll make sure you’ve got all the space you need to practice, and stumble, and learn, and figure out what you want to do.”
Llexadrin’s eyes grew round. She clutched at the front of Veysavi’s shirt with new interest. “Can I have learning masters? Like you and Athvyn do?”
“Sure. For any subject you want,” Veysavi told her, knowing full well that their parents wouldn’t see the need. They already had one bookish child and, though he didn’t know what their intentions were for Llexadrin, he hadn’t heard of any special tutors being engaged for her. In light of that thought, “Just come to me with it, okay?” he told her. “Don’t bother Mom and Dad. They’re always dealing with so much, they’ll forget. I’ll always make sure things happen for you.”
He was almost sad at how quickly Llexadrin nodded. Such a young thing shouldn’t be so ready to believe her own parents would forget her wishes.
“Music?” she asked after a moment of thought. “Can I have a music master? Only, I hear you play from the garden sometimes, and it sounds so sweet.”
She couldn’t have picked a request better suited to melt Veysavi’s heart. He planted another kiss on the top of her head.
“You’ll have to choose an instrument to start with, so I can make arrangements,” he told her, and then grinned. “But I think I can help with that. Which do you want to hear first, Lexi - my violin, or my lute?”
