Chapter Text
“Hey, Farengar? Can I bother you for a second?”
Farengar didn’t need to look to know who the voice belonged to, but he did anyway. Thane Rowan Tremaine stood at the threshold of his study, a clean bandage around his right eye and a friendly half smile on his face. He looked much better than he did the last time Farengar had seen him. But then again, the last time he had seen him, Rowan had been out cold in the temple of Kyne.
Farengar turned away from his alembic and motioned for the young Thane to enter. Today he wore civilian clothes instead of armor, apparently banking on the hope that Whiterun wouldn’t see two dragon attacks in the same week. His tunic was light green with a braided cord trim, trendy and well-made like most of Rowan’s wardrobe, but not ostentatious. His exposed arms were covered in half-healed burns, yellowing bruises, and freckles.
Farengar shifted his gaze back to his alembic as Rowan came near. “Good to see you up and about. How is your recovery coming along?”
“Not bad,” Rowan answered, resting against Farengar's desk. “Danica says I’ll probably regain most of the vision in my eye eventually. She doubts it’ll ever completely heal, but I was sure I was going to lose it, so I can’t complain. I’ll have to keep it bandaged for a long while though.”
“I see.” Farengar felt immensely guilty for thinking it, but he was kind of glad Rowan would be wearing the eyepatch for a while. He liked the way his curls fell over the bandage, and how it drew attention to just how vividly green his healthy eye was. If he had to wear it for a little while longer, well, that suited Farengar just fine.
Rowan craned his neck to look over Farengar’s shoulder. “How’s your hand?”
“A bit stiff, but otherwise fine.” He held his hand up for Rowan to examine. The skin was still raw and pink, but it wasn’t the blistered mess it had been a few days ago. “Unlike you, I was far from the front lines, so I didn’t take the brunt of the flames.”
While Rowan was still decently far removed from the typical Nord's concept of a warrior, he certainly hadn’t had any reservations about charging the dragon the second it made landfall. Farengar, on the other hand, had held back, slinging spells from a safe distance, where the dragon’s fire could just barely reach. For the most part, Farengar liked to think he had transcended outdated and illogical concepts like valor, but in moments like this, he couldn’t help but chastise himself. He felt like a coward.
“Hey now, none of that.” Rowan slid off the desk and put his hand on Farengar’s shoulder. “You fought well. And unlike me, you fought smart. Keeping mages in the back to provide support is the standard tactic for a reason. Me rushing in was, well...that was less standard. Certainly less tactical, anyway.” Rowan let his fingers lightly trail along Farengar’s arm before returning his hand to his side.
For a few seconds, Farengar found himself unable to do anything but stand frozen in place, nodding silently, painfully aware of how red his face was becoming. Had it been intentional, or was he just overthinking an absent-minded gesture?
“Yes, well, I believe that being the dragonborn places one outside the purview of standard tactics,” Farengar said, fiddling with his cowl. “You needn’t be so hard on yourself, either. Your abilities and valor saved a lot of lives.”
Rowan looked thoughtful for a moment. Just when Farengar thought he might offer a polite deflection or a statement about how it had been a team effort, he instead reached up and pulled Farengar’s hood back, exposing his face.
“Danica said you came to visit me while I was out. Did you really do that? Drag yourself away from your work just to come sit at my bedside?”
Farengar blinked. Had it been anyone else, he would have told them to get the fuck out of his study before they got a faceful of lightning. But Rowan was the exception to a lot of things. Farengar thought about throwing him out to avoid giving him an answer, but couldn’t find it in himself to do so. If he was being honest with himself, he was thrilled to have Rowan back in his office, on his feet and in one piece. He wouldn't have thrown him out for the world, no matter how many embarrassing questions he asked.
He rolled his eyes and pulled his hood back up. “You’re acting childish.”
“Oh, come on,” Rowan laughed. “There’s no reason why a good looking man like you should need to wear a hood inside. Especially not in the middle of summer. Just answer the question.”
Farengar crossed his arms and let out a long, vexed sigh to mask how flustered he was. “Fine. Yes, I came to inquire about your health. I wanted to make certain that the world’s last hope against Alduin still had most of his skull intact.”
“Oh? Is that why you brewed so many healing potions for me?”
“So, did you sneak out at risk of Danica’s wrath merely to ask me inane questions, or did you actually need something?”
“Why can’t it be both?” Rowan asked, leaning forward and craning his head to look up Farengar’s hood.
Farengar swallowed heavily. He was close enough to smell the calendula salve under Rowan’s bandages. He figured that Rowan must have had no idea how his praise and physical closeness were affecting him, otherwise he would have left by now. But then again, there was something knowing in his smile and in the way he held Farengar’s gaze that made him wonder if perhaps Rowan did know what he was doing to him.
‘No, don’t be an idiot,’ Farengar thought, ‘Which scenario is more probable: that the dragonborn himself is trying to seduce me in my study in broad daylight, or that a socially under-developed wizard has isolated himself for so long that he can no longer distinguish between friendliness and flirting?’
“Actually-” Rowan leaned back to sit on the desk, “I was summoned by the Jarl. I just wanted to pop in before my appointment and ask about that shock spell you used, right after I got blasted. I was hoping you could teach it to me soon. If you have time, that is. I know you’re a busy man.”
Farengar was now essentially standing between the dragonborn’s knees, their bodies still achingly close. There wasn’t anything sexy about Rowan’s words, but some combination of his tone and his gaze and their proximity had Farengar’s pulse racing.
He was still stumbling over his response when he heard someone clear their throat in the doorway.
“Ah, um. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Jarl Balgruuf folded his arms behind his back and politely stared at the bookcase as Farengar stepped back from between Rowan’s knees. “I, ah, hate to interrupt, but there’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”
The two mages exchanged concerned looks before following Balgruuf to his throne, where Proventus, Lydia, and Irileth were already assembled. Rowan was beginning to worry. Usually whenever the Jarl wanted to talk to him from the throne, it was because something horrible was either happening or right about to happen.
“Just to be sure, you’re not revoking my title because I did such a shit job of killing the dragon, are you, my Jarl?” Rowan asked.
“Nothing of the sort,” Balgruuf chuckled, settling into his seat. “The complete opposite, in fact. Have you heard of a tradition called the honorarium?”
Rowan shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
Farengar’s heart pounded in his chest. It was happening. Before, when he and the Jarl had discussed the honorarium and whether Farengar approved of it being offered to Rowan, he had always assumed they were speaking in hypotheticals. Something that could, theoretically, happen in a vague and distant future. When the Jarl had brought it up again on Middas, Farengar had still been too shaken and exhausted from the battle to really process much of their conversation. He kept his eyes forward as best he could, and tried to ignore the tightness in his throat.
“Well, I’m hardly surprised,” Proventus began. “It hasn’t been practiced in High Rock for millennia, though it's uncertain if it was ever widely practiced there at all. The honorarium is an ancient tradition, said to date all the way back to Atmora. It’s still practiced throughout much of Skyrim, and in parts of Colovia as well.“
Jarl Balgruuf gave his steward a long, weary look. "May I continue, Proventus?"
“My apologies, Jarl.” Proventus cleared his throat and stepped back. “I’ll go return to my duties. Excuse me.”
“There are some heroes who serve with such courage and devotion that a mere title is simply not enough,” Jarl Balgruuf explained, turning his attention back to Rowan. “For a man who has selflessly imperiled himself time and time again in service of our hold, only an offering of the highest caliber will do. To put it simply, the honorarium is the right to marry the most eminent Nord of my court, who I have brought here before you. You’ll also receive a sizable dowry, befitting a man of the gentry.”
Jarl Balgruuf stepped down from his throne and clasped arms with Rowan.
“Thane Rowan Tremaine, you’ve done a great deal of good for the people of this hold and we are forever in your debt. Whiterun might have been destroyed twice now, if not for your actions. On behalf of all citizens of Whiterun and by my right as Jarl, I hereby offer you the honorarium, as a testament to our gratitude.” Balgruuf’s casual drawl was gone, replaced with the dignified and weighty tone he reserved for official matters.
It may have just been the bump to the head that Rowan took a few days prior, but he stood for a long time processing what he had just heard. Married. To the most eminent Nord in the Jarl’s court. He turned his attention to Lydia, who was standing behind him. It had to be Lydia, right? In the course of their travels, she had easily become the most accomplished warrior outside of Jorrvaskr. He studied her for a moment, trying to divine her feelings from her expression.
‘If she’s bashful or giddy or offended at the idea of being my bride, she’s doing an awfully good job at hiding it,’ he thought. Then again, maybe it just truly wasn’t a big deal to her. Lydia had probably been informed that they were going to offer him the honorarium in advance, and she’d had plenty of time to sort out her feelings on the matter.
Now it was his turn to consider it. Lydia was his closest friend and confidant, his right hand and his shield. He had no doubt that she would make an excellent partner. While he didn’t have any romantic interest in her, and he was quite certain she had none in him, he could think of much worse people to spend his life with. Either way, there was a lot they could do with a noblewoman’s dowry, and refusing such a prestigious award seemed like social suicide. Besides, surely they could just agree to discreetly see other people, right?
Rowan took a deep breath. “First, I’d like to say that I am deeply flattered. Though I may not have been born here, Whiterun is my home, and I’m proud to defend her just as fiercely as any native son or daughter would. That you would bestow such an honor upon me touches my heart. Words fail me, and I find myself unable to properly express my gratitude. Thank you, my Jarl.”
Balgruuf smiled graciously as he waited for Rowan to continue.
“Second, while I’m immensely grateful, I’m afraid I can’t accept without hearing Lydia’s thoughts on the matter." He turned to his housecarl. "Lydia, be honest with me, how do you feel about all this?”
Lydia was caught completely off guard, looking from Balgruuf to Farengar to Irileth, who shrugged at her.
“Uh, well, I think that being offered the honorarium is a very high honor. And I, uh, think it would make you happy, so you should do it?” she answered with a shrug.
Rowan clapped her on the shoulder and turned his attention back to the Jarl, beaming.
“Well, that settles it then!” he exclaimed, and gave a crisp bow. “Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, I joyfully accept the honorarium you have so graciously offered to me. Thank you.”
Farengar swallowed loudly, his knees shaking under him. Irileth put her arm around his shoulders to steady him.
“Wonderful!” Balgruuf looked almost as excited as Rowan himself did. “It maybe was a bit presumptuous of me, but I have already had Proventus working on the necessary arrangements. If you don’t have any objections, we can have the wedding as early as next Loredas.”
Farengar felt as if he might faint. Next Loredas?
“That sounds perfect, my Jarl. If the weather holds, maybe we could say our vows in front of the Gildergreen.” Rowan turned to Farengar with a look of concern and placed the back of his hand to his cheek. Now Farengar was sure that he was definitely going to faint. “Hey, are you alright? It’s not an infection, is it? You’re a little warm.”
“No, I-I’m fine, truly. It’s...I should go and rest. I’ll, ah, see you at the wedding.” Farengar shook his head vigorously, backing away.
Rowan barely had time to say goodbye to him before he dashed to his quarters. For a split second, a look of absolute heartache crossed his face as he watched Farengar scramble away. He had wondered for a long time if his interest had been mutual, and Farengar’s reaction to his betrothal had all but confirmed it.
‘A day late, a Septim short.’ Rowan thought to himself. He schooled his expression back to a content smile before turning back to face everyone. He would try to talk things out with Farengar later.
“I should go too. There are a few people I’d like to invite personally, and I’ll need to leave as soon as possible if I want to make it back in time.” Rowan turned and grasped Lydia's hand. “I hate to leave you alone before the wedding but, Lydia, would you mind handling the preparations here?”
She nodded. “Yeah, sure. I’ll go find Proventus. See you when you get back.”
Rowan waved as she left, then gave another quick bow to the Jarl before making his way out of the hall. Irileth and Balgruuf watched as he left, both smiling.
“I’m going to go check on Farengar,” Irileth said, as soon as the doors closed.
“Please do. I don’t want him to spend his last nights as a bachelor hyperventilating in his room.”