Auredil smells like the sea. Not in a poetic way, Lindir muses, no; he smells like brine and sand and waterlogged wood, like washed-up kelp that's been drying too long in the sun. He's not unlike a sailor, soaked in seawater and whiskey and gods-know-what-else.
Lindir nods to himself, scribbles that down in the journal in front of him. A few feet away, he watches fiery hair hit the wood of the bar counter, fingers loosening around the tankard he once held, and he frowns.
Auredil is no sailor, Lindir knows, though he certainly drinks like one. He rolls a gold coin to Fatima, giving her an apologetic glance. Why he keeps paying Auredil's tab, he doesn't know. Maybe it's out of pity – or maybe he hopes to someday win his trust and solve his mysteries.
Or maybe he's just gone soft. It would be foolish to deny that under the sand and grime and poor coping mechanisms lies what could have once been a handsome High Elf; and it would be foolish to deny that he's a little bit interested.
And, Auredil’s nice to him, under the snark and deflection. He actually listens to his stories and poems with quiet interest, and laughs at his jokes when he’s drunk enough.
He's like seaglass, Lindir thinks; perhaps he was once a finely-crafted bottle, but now he's aged and corroded, dashed on the rocks and the waves until fragments are all that's left.
But there is something left. It may not be its purest form, or its most sculpted, but there's something beautiful about it nonetheless. He writes that down as well.
In quiet moments like this, Lindir wonders who Auredil used to be, when he sees small glimmers of the glass peek through. He wonders how far he's drifted, the shores he's washed up on.
In the aftermath of the battles in Coldharbour, Galen and Coralantar find themselves back on Nirn. Stuck together, they must find their way home and pick up the pieces.
Rating: M
Words: 1,597
Chapters: 1/?
Relationships: OC/ OC
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The light was bright enough to blind, to burn. Galen raised an arm over his eyes, dread in the pit of his stomach, as Auredil became a beacon of divine power before them.
The realm began to shatter. Galen turned as he heard Coralantar scream, a flash of lightning out of the corner of his eye. He shouted, leaving the barrier and rushing into the darkness beyond, grasping at the Maormer’s form as he stumbled and fell – and that was all he could remember.
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Galen wakes with a start, shooting up from where he lies. Hazily, he sees shades of orange around him, feeling dust and sand under his hands as he sits up.
He’s certainly not in Coldharbour anymore. He glances around, puzzling over the desert landscape and tall cliffs surrounding him —
“Coralantar!” he gasps as his eyes focus on the pile of black and silver lying in the sand some feet away. Weakly, he scrambles over to him, pulling at the armour on his shoulders to turn him onto his back. His hands shake as he presses his fingers against their pulse under their jaw, sighing in relief as he feels that there’s still something there.
As his panic subsides, he realizes then how hot it is, peeling away the heavy coat he had worn into the frigid plane of Coldharbour. He whispers a quick apology as he pulls open the clasps of Coralantar’s armoured jacket as well, hoping the Maormer will understand his intentions later.
He then presses his palm to Coralantar’s chest, extending his mind. They’re alive, but there’s pain, he can feel. His brow furrows as he realizes that there is damage his magic cannot heal, but he can keep him alive. His eyes close, and blue light flashes, the chest under his palm rising as Coralantar gasps.
Tired, but successful, he smiles, sitting back on his heels when Coralantar’s eyes open. They wince and groan, squinting at the bright sun above, before their gaze falls to Galen.
“I’d say good morning, but—” Galen gestures at the dry canyon around them, wiping sand and sweat from his brow. The Maormer grunts wearily in reply. He looks them over for any other injuries, frowning at the sight of the singe marks on his gloves. Coralantar doesn’t fight him as he unbuckles the bracers he’s wearing, but he does hiss in pain as Galen carefully peels the fabric away from their skin.
Galen pauses as he inspects the Maormer’s hands and wrists. The electrical burns on his skin are bad enough, but he can see that they go much deeper than the surface. He presses his fingers into each of the joints in his hands, finding varying levels of nerve response.
“How bad is it, doc?” Coralantar asks weakly, his voice rough and dry.
“It’s…” Galen swallows, doing his best to put on his business persona, like Coralantar is just another patient. “This is a little beyond my expertise, however, I can… give you something for the pain.”
“Don’t give me that,” silvery eyes bare into him, seeing through the mask.
Galen sighs.
“It’s not good,” he admits. “There’s nerve damage that I don’t think I can fix, at least not here, right now. Healing the surface might make it worse; it’ll be harder to repair the internal damage later. However, that might be our only option right now, as I have no idea where we are.”
“Just do it, then.” Coralantar says, sitting up with some effort. His face is hard as he holds out his hands for Galen to take. “I refuse to be a liability.”
Galen hesitates, but nods, taking Coralantar’s hands in his. Carefully, he focuses, stitching the wounds back together.
The two of them hike along cliffs and mesas to get to higher ground. As they walk, Galen quickly begins to recognize the prairie brush and succulent cacti as flora native to Anequina. It's sort of what he suspected, but he's relieved to be certain of it. Anequina, he’s familiar enough with; it's just a matter of finding some sort of landmark.
They're both exhausted, but Coralantar trails a few paces behind him. Galen looks back, and catches the miserable look on their face before the Maormer realizes they’re being watched and the mask slips back into place. They’ve tied their jacket around their waist, the collar of their linen undershirt unlaced and sleeves rolled up to their elbows; it’s a look Galen might find endearing if the situation weren’t so dire. Instead, seeing him like this has Galen on edge; he quite literally looks like a fish out of water, the scales on his face cracked and dry under the relentless afternoon sun.
He pulls out the small canteen from the pack he managed to hang onto in the chaos, attempting once more to hand it to him.
"Please – if you pass out, I'm not carrying you," he says sternly, but underneath, it's a plea. Coralantar stares at him for a moment, before gingerly reaching out and taking the canteen.
It's not enough for them to survive on for long, and they both know it. He leaves it with Coralantar, continuing onward.
They crest over the top of the hill as the sun begins to sink from the sky, and then, with dread sinking into the pit of his stomach, Galen knows exactly where they are. Coralantar looks at him, a tinge of hope in their eyes as they set their gaze on the walls of a city below, and Galen almost feels bad about crushing them.
"I wouldn't get too excited. That's Orcrest," he steps forward, starting down the opposite side of the hill. "It's been a dead zone since the Knahaten Flu. Whole city got quarantined, and now it’s a nest of harpies and Namira cultists. But, at least now we know where we are." He hears Coralantar sigh, and then footsteps following him.
"What now?"
"Well, we should probably find shelter. The Stitches isn't too far, but we won't make it before nightfall."
They camp under an outcropping, off the road to Orcrest, where a campfire is less likely to be seen by whatever lurks within the city.
Galen manages to pick some edible greens and cacti fruit, frowning as he returns to camp to see Coralantar focusing on his hands again. Magic sparks at his fingers, but quickly fizzles out, and he sees his jaw clench in frustration. He looks up as Galen approaches, sighing. Galen drops to sit next to him, taking out a pocket knife to cut the fruit in half.
“Here,” he hands one half to Coralantar. “It’s not great on its own, but it’s better than starving.” The Maormer sniffs it skeptically, before taking a bite.
“Hm,” he makes a sour face, and Galen chuckles.
“The Khajiit typically grill it with cinnamon and sugar, and I promise you it’s quite good.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he begrudgingly continues to eat the fruit.
They sit in silence for a while as they eat, listening to the crackle of the fire. Galen realizes then how exhausted he really is; he had been running on pure adrenaline and survival instinct all day, and now, he supposes, comes the crash. Coralantar, too, looks miserable.
“What happened back there?” Galen asks gently, his mind retracing backwards now that they’re afforded a moment’s rest. Coralantar shakes their head.
“Which part?”
Galen laughs, the sound bitter and tired. By the Eight, it’s been a fucking long day.
“I don’t know,” Coralantar continues, not waiting for him to answer. They look down at their hands, and there’s a subtle tremor in them. “I suppose I just… pushed too hard. It was bound to happen eventually.”
“What do you mean?” Galen’s brow furrows. Of course, any kind of spellcasting has some risk attached, and Galen is very aware of the risks, both physical and otherwise, of his own craft. But Coralantar’s magic seemed innocuous enough, if frighteningly powerful, from what he had seen.
“Well,” they sigh, their eyes fixed on the ground. “I don’t expect you to understand, but among my people, I’m what you would call a Sea Witch. We’re trained from a young age to be weapons for the Sorcerer-King Orgnum.” His cadence is bitter as he speaks. “Controlling sea and storm? Creating something great and terrible from nothing at all? Well. It’s rare that our bodies last long.”
“What a cold and lonely ruler he must be.”
“I never met him,” they shrug. “Sea Witches, we’re powerful, but we aren’t people. We’re something to be used and feared. I never had any real station in society, believe it or not.”
“You seem like a person to me. You bloody well bleed like one, anyway.”
Coralantar snorts, and it’s the first time today that Galen’s seen a genuine smile on their face.
“Thanks, Galen,” he meets his gaze. “For… everything. I know I’d still be lying in a canyon, baking in the sun without you.”
“Well, I wasn’t about to just leave you there, was I? I’m not that cruel,” he rolls his eyes, looking away, but he can feel the scrutiny of the Maormer’s gaze still fixed on him.
“No… I suppose you’re not.” Is all Coralantar says before silence stretches between them.
Galen all but flops against him when it's time for them to sleep, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion. Coralantar only sighs wearily, leaning back against him as Galen wraps wiry arms around him, pressing his nose into the Maormer’s shoulder and breathing in the memory of sea air.
