Work Text:
They get younger every year , Aranea thought, watching the guide from Windhelm picking his way with great concentration up the snowy slope to Azura’s shrine. At the foot of the stone steps, he pumped his arm wildly, and shouted something that was immediately snatched by the wind. Even from this distance, Aranea could picture perfectly the expression of consternation on his face, hidden mostly though it was in the hood of his thick fur parka.
Aranea exhaled a sigh and put some water on to boil. She dusted off and set out her spare stool for visitors. By the time he had puffed and struggled his way up the steps, the water was ready.
“Priestess!” he called, voice bright and eager with the strength of youth.
Wasted on the young, Aranea thought, sprinkling leaves into the cups. She eyed him critically. Pinched red cheeks on either side of a proud nose, eyes hidden smartly under Nordic snow-goggles to protect them from the snowfall. The boy was young, but not too young, she judged, and added a small dram of Cyrodilic brandy. The snow wasn’t too bad for this time of year, but it was the thick, fluffy flakes of endless autumn snow, and cursed cold.
Aranea greeted him, wincing a little at the creakiness of her voice. It had been a slow spring and summer. Only a few visitors, in all that stretch of time, and none the one Azura had told her to look for. She had not spoken for months.
“My name is Tinoryn,” he told her, a few sips into his tea. “I work for Ruvene, at Avalathil Tailoring.” He wiggled the hood of his parka. “I made this,” he added, proudly. “But I’m going to be a mage, anyway. Once I’ve saved up enough for the College.”
Ah, thought Aranea. This one would be pestering her to teach him magic all the way down the mountain. She would not deny him. Being able to afford the College’s fees was a distant dream, no matter if his sewing skills were clearly quite good. Fur was a Nord’s business, and there was not much of a market for traditional Dunmeri silkweaving in Skyrim. But he would serve his community well.
Perhaps Aranea would speak to Ambarys and Ruvene, if this aspiring mageling showed promise. It would not be the College, but Aranea had time enough for teaching, if he could be spared. It had been a while since one of their own had taken to the magic arts, and Aranea could not be there to offer Azura’s blessings and healings all year.
And the road grew ever more treacherous.
She pondered this as she worked, readying the shrine for her long absence. It would, after all, be a death-sentence to attempt to stay on the exposed mountain-top throughout one of Skyrim’s brutal winters. Instead, Aranea did as she had always done, and when the autumn snows began to crown Azura’s head thickly, she awaited a guide from Windhelm who would escort her to stay in the city during the cold months, in exchange for blessings and healings. Once, that route had included Winterhold, but Aranea had watched, brutal in her isolation, the vast majority of Azura’s faithful there along with the rest of the town crumble into the Sea of Ghosts during the Collapse. The outskirts of the town remained, and of the people Aranea had served, only those few that had listened to Aranea’s vision-driven warning and moved to Windhelm.
Tinoryn chattered happily without her input, telling her about the Windhelm’s Dunmer anything he thought relevant that she had missed during the spring and summer. Aranea was not surprised to learn of increasing attacks from the city’s Nord population, nor of the fires that had raged across the docks from mismanagement and unvented angers. It would be a lean winter. It was always a lean winter.
“Shall we go?” Aranea said, halfway into one of Tinoryn’s stories about one Henon Virith valiantly fighting off an improbable number of guards, evidently the troublemaker of the Grey Quarter and Tinoryn’s personal hero. To his credit, Tinoryn barely blinked before shouldering Aranea’s entire pack (she watched, bemused, and wondered what they were feeding tailors these days) over the shoulder that did not carry his own, and bounced off.
He started then on the story of the passage up, and Aranea allowed his voice to fall into a soothing murmur as she focused on putting one foot in front of the other. She had walked this path many times, but Skyrim was a country of bitter winds, rock and snow, and held little love for those who would stumble on her paths.
They took the carriage from Winterhold, bartering passage crammed in next to a friendly courier and a dour carriage driver, squeezing their legs over locked crates that Aranea suspected contained soulgems from the subtle hum she could feel, grinding its way through her teeth into her skull. Tinoryn distracted himself thoroughly with the courier, to Aranea’s relief; she had already spoken so much in the gaps Tinoryn left in conversation that her throat ached.
It was a weary, travelsore and head-pounding priestess of Azura that made her way, Tinoryn quieting in sight of the guards, over Windhelm’s ice-choked bridge. The city of stone was redolent and packed, but the guards held sharp new weapons, and wore armour so polished that they shone like gems in the snow. There were more horses in the stables, meaty, Rift-bred creatures, and Aranea spotted scaffolding supporting the construction of a new parapet with a flicker of unease. The people they passed were ragged as ever, but there was a strange, martial air flickering in Windhelm’s braziers, carried on lips down from the Palace of Kings.
Unbidden, Aranea thought of a troubling vision she had received, some years ago. A young Greybeard-come-soldier, sweating and afraid with his wrists bound in Altmeri-gold, a voice, syrup-soft, speaking of holy wars and dying traditions. It was not one she liked to think of. Skyrim did not need war, and the young jarl had never cared greatly for his elven population. The tightening of purse strings would choke the Grey Quarter first.
Sometimes, Aranea wondered why Azura sent her the visions of great and terrible things she could no more prevent than catch a single snowflake in a blizzard. She doubted it was intended to be a torment. The Twilight Lady’s mystery was wondrous, but at times, Aranea thought that the grief of mortals was as foreign to her as her thinking was to them.
Still, there was plenty enough grief in the present without needing to borrow trouble from tomorrow.
The streets that led down into the heart of the Grey Quarter were damp with melted snow. Barely had they taken a few steps when a little girl raced up to them, crying out Aranea’s title. Despite her long resolution to the service of Azura, Aranea felt a tug in her heart at the round red eyes that did not quite yet fit in the girl’s skull, long ears too heavy as of yet to lift all the way up, though the little girl was very clearly excited. Her ears were covered with little knitted caps laced to the one jammed firmly on her head, warding off the cold.
“Hi Priestess!” She beamed. “It’s Nepha! You were at my birthday last year! Twelfth of Sun’s Dusk! Will you come again this year?”
Bless the child for her prompting, for Aranea had not recognised her at all and certainly could not have named the date she was born. Though, if it was Sun’s Dusk, she had likely assisted in the delivery. Little Ulyn Andules’ babe, perhaps? She recalled vaguely Tinoryn mentioning he’d found a new wife to mother his little girl, of all the half-sparked reasons to remarry. But, by the Reclamations, Aranea remembered delivering him. Had it been so long?
I love them all, but the years do blur together.
“Azura’s Star, child, you have grown so tall! And I shall certainly hope I get your invitation.” Wincing at the ache in her knees, she bent to squeeze Nepha’s cheeks, making the little girl giggle and twist away.
“We should get you down to the cornerclub, Priestess,” Tinoryn said, looking up at the sky. Shadows were beginning to gather across the long wavering lines of orange and pinks washing the snowy rooftops. “And you, inside, Nepha!”
Nepha stuck her tongue out at Tinoryn. She proffered her arm to Aranea. “Let me help you go! The streets are really slippy here.”
Aranea weighed up the benefits of asserting her independence and ability to walk unaided over the benefit of encouraging the child in her attempt to offer sincere and honest help. Truly, Aranea thought, if she had not lived atop a mountain for the past few months, she might have found the slick streets hard enough to navigate to be grateful for the help. The gutters cut down the sides of the streets were overrunning.
Aranea took Nepha’s arm, and they set off again.
The temperature increased sharply the moment they left the Nord-dominated parts of the city, heading into the close, smoky corridors of the Quarter. Tinoryn relaxed, loosening his fur parka and beginning to smile in earnest now he was home. People hailed them as they passed, but thankfully between Nepha and Tinoryn Aranea did not have to speak at all, only smile at their eagerness to greet her.
Just as well, for the air was unexpectedly sticky and humid from the great braziers that lined every other step of the street, lit by the whispers of fire-magic every Dunmer carried within them and absolutely essential to surviving in a cold land like Skyrim. Aranea added a gift of fire-runes to those she passed, a curious Tinoryn watching, driving the heat from baking to sweltering. The heat was welcome after months at the cold shrine, but she could feel sweat beading at the nape of her neck under her robe.
“The greatest principle of destruction magic,” Aranea told him softly as she dipped her fingers into another clay brazier’s embers, “is that it is no more destructive than a hand. The limit is your will, and the scope of the energy you are willing to give to see that will done.”
She was pleased, though, to see the braziers well-tended even without her help. It was important for Dunmeri children to be raised around fire, important for them still as adults. A cold Dunmer was a dead one. Their ancestors walked their hands through ash to kiss their fingertips in flame. It was their birthright just as much as it was a need. In Morrowind, there had not been braziers of open flame waiting for curious hands to reach and play; there had been little need, the land was warm enough. But the Dunmer of Windhelm had had to grow resourceful, and reliant upon the fire they carried within themselves just as much as the heat of the sun and sear of coals.
Aranea’s pride for her people warmed her spirit just as much as trading the freezing wind of the exposed shrine to Azura for the tight, smelly Grey Quarter warmed her bones.
The New Gnisis Cornerclub was unchanged, and the gladdest sight of all. Aranea quickened her steps, eager to see her old friends again and take the weight off her aching feet. The door creaked as it always had, and the light from beyond that threw upon the gleaming stone was orange and tinted with laughter and clinking bottles.
Aranea sent Nepha off as they went in, cautioning her to go straight to her father. Tinoryn behind her, Aranea turned, and almost immediately walked directly into the arms of Ambarys Rendar. He had come out from round the bar and as he enfolded her into a hug, he called greetings to them both.
He was solid, and Aranea could smell the spicy alcoholic scent of his wares in his smock, the rasp of his stubble across her cheek. She met his eyes, and they crinkled as he smiled at her, deep and unreserved. And if the pleasure she felt bubbling from some secret place was all the sharper for the months since she had seen him last, that was no one’s business but her own.
“How was your journey?” he asked. “No trouble from those braggarts at the gates?”
“Ambarys,” Aranea chided softly, and he only smiled, but this time it did not quite reach his eyes.
“It was good, sera,” said Tinoryn obliviously, “We took a cart from Winterhold, the driver was nice enough to wait! The snow was bad though.”
“Not too bad,” Aranea contradicted. “Still, I’m glad to be in the warm and dry.” She let her eyes slide to the stairs, and Ambarys chuckled, poor humour forgotten.
“Come, let’s get you settled, priestess,” he said. “I’ll take that, boy, go along now and get yourself a drink from Malthyr.”
Tinoryn flustered a bit at this abrupt dismissal, but at Aranea’s nod he surrendered her pack to Ambarys and went.
“He’s a good boy,” Aranea told Ambarys as they went up the stairs, “wants to be a mage.”
Ambarys snorted, not unkindly. “A good heart, but better off keeping his eyes on the road.”
“I was thinking…” Aranea hesitated behind Ambarys as he searched his belt for the door keys.
Ambarys half-turned to look at her, surprised. “Come on, that boy up the mountain? He’d talk your ear off in a week and himself to death in two. Ruvene pays him half as much for keeping the customers busy while she mends as she does his sewing.”
He unlocked the door and gestured her in. Aranea kicked off her boots and went gratefully. The bed was simple and small, but it was a luxury after months of a bedroll on hard stone. She sunk into its embrace gratefully, groaning her relief. She flexed her sore feet and cast a half-hearted Restoration spell.
“Won’t it get busy?” Aranea asked. Audible through the floor was the creak of the door and the hum of voices as those who had spotted her outside filed into the cornerclub, flagging Malthys to bring them drinks and food while they waited.
“Malthys can handle it,” said Ambarys. “They’re just eager to hear you speak. I can send them away though, and leave you to rest …?”
Aranea smiled at him tiredly. “Sit. It’s nice to see you. And let them stay, I’ll go down in a moment.”
Ambarys settled her pack in the corner, then dragged a chair over. He rested his elbows on his knees and smiled down at her stretching over the bed. “And you, priestess.”
“It’s been a while,” Aranea said, mind returning to what they had been discussing. “But if you think Tinoryn’s not suitable…”
“It’s not that,” Ambarys dismissed the idea with a wave. He frowned at Aranea then. “Unless you’re thinking you need the company. I’d – we would love to have you for the rest of the year. You don’t need to live up there alone.”
“Ambarys,” Aranea interrupted him. “I must. I am a priestess of Azura, I must tend her shrine.”
“We could send people up, every month, week, even,” Ambarys argued, “You could just stay here. Just – think about it, is all I ask.” He raised his hands, seeing her exasperated look. “This room is yours for as long as you want it, whenever you want it, you know that.”
“I do.” Aranea could not resist a small smile. It was the same argument they had every year, and he’d yet to convince her. Ambarys deflated.
Closing her eyes, Aranea let the lull in conversation stretch into silence. The headache she had nursed during the carriage ride was increasing until it felt like daedra were knocking in her skull. Her skin was throbbing in complaint at the changing temperatures, and her stomach felt a little queasy from the altitude difference. They had not gone slowly down the mountain, and Aranea’s body, used to the icy, scouring winds and unyielding spine of stone, protested at the soft warmth of the wooden bed, the creaks and sighs of the breathing cornerclub.
Windhelm was a noisy city, even now, Aranea could hear yelling and clanging, even the rapid thumping of drums from somewhere and the stamp of feet, all almost drowned out by patrons shouting for Malthys’ attention and talking amongst themselves. Somewhere, a baby was crying. Smells roiled for her attention, the piss and ale scents worked into the woods, the unwashed bodies cramming into the bar below, the faint musty scent of the blankets.
It was all so much.
And underneath it all, iron and fire, and the invisible threads of gathering zealotry.
“Aranea…” Ambarys’ raspy voice was soft. She heard cloth moving over skin as he shifted, the minute creak of the chair. She hummed in acknowledgement. “Are you… well?”
Sighing, Aranea opened her eyes. She was tired. So tired. Every year seemed to press heavier on her shoulders. Azura demanded much.
But it was a balm to see him there, the wrinkles of his laugh-lines, wearying now under the weight of hard living, his dark eyes, as tender when he looked upon her as they were sharp at any other sight.
“I am,” she said. “But I hear… the winds of war are coming, Ambarys. I fear for the people.”
Ambarys hesitated. Almost nervously, he asked, “Have you seen anything from the goddess?”
Aranea looked away. She had not the strength to confide in him the dark futures she had seen, of the Grey Quarter in flames, grey bodies warped among the red snow, winged, impossible shapes soaring through the sky. “It may happen.”
Ambarys’ face settled into a troubled cast too familiar for Aranea’s comfort. “I don’t know what we will do if Hoag’s boy goes to war again. The Reachfolk massacre was bad enough…”
“What we always do,” Aranea said, taking his hand comfortingly. It was soft and dry in hers. Ambarys looked at her, his grey-red eyes searching. “Survive.”
A slow smile lifted his lips, warm and true. “Until the next dawn, then the next?” he said, repeating their old words, words she had said to him many times over many worries.
“And the one after,” Aranea confirmed, and his smile deepened until her heart ached. “The Mother of the Rose will guide us, as she always has.”
“It is good to have you back, priestess,” Ambarys murmured, tightening his grip on her hand when Aranea made to move away. Aranea left it there in his grasp, and his thumb swiped gently over the back of her hand. Fiery chills raced up her nerves.
“I should go to them,” Aranea said, meaning the people gathered downstairs waiting but unable to look from Ambarys’ eyes. A moment passed when she almost thought that he would refuse to release her, didn’t know how to quantify the feeling that inspired, but then all at once he had let go and stood.
The chair scraping on the floor spelled the end of their reprieve. Still, Aranea smiled at him as she passed, half for his tired eyes, half for the thawing knowledge that she would have all winter to see them again.
A ragged cheer arose as Aranea descended the stairs, blinking in the light. She inhaled, more than a little taken-aback by the solid wall of bodies that greeted her, heaving in through the ajar doors. There were more there that she could see, crowding in the street, pulling the braziers round to stand in a circle of warmth. A hush ran through them as she raised her hand.
Ambarys appeared at her shoulder, a bottle in his hand, wry smile on his lips. He offered Aranea a thick woven cushion in the Hlaalu style, and Aranea sank down on it with relief, right there on the stairs, where all might see her easily. Her old bones thanked her.
She sniffed the bottle. Sujamma.
“Thank you,” she said, and Ambarys gave her a mock-bow.
The crowd gathered round, eager faces shining in the warmth of the fires. Some she recognised, who called for her by name, she greeted with smiles. Aranea was surprised, but pleased, to see a few non-Dunmer faces in the crowd. There were one or two quiet Nords sweating in the heat, a few cloaked Argonians who had smuggled themselves into the city and whose scales gleamed like rubies in the firelight, even an Altmer, stood at the very back but clear towering over the others. It was always good to see more drawn to Azura’s teachings, and Aranea knew that if they had been permitted to know of her arrival, then they were trusted by Ambarys. She made eye contact with one of the Argonians and smiled.
As if sensing her preparation, the crowd settled after a moment, looking at her expectantly. Aranea breathed in, slowly. Teaching was tiring, true, and she would have preferred to rest, but she could not deny those who had such a hunger for what she had to say.
She took a sip of sujamma to wet her throat, and began.
“Lady Azura is the patron of dusk and dawn…”