Cold Pastoral

The ancient masonry gave way beneath Vaynyn’s foot. They hit the ground, hard.

Somehow, they mistimed the tuck and roll, and sharp pain coursed along their left wrist as it bent to an alien angle.

"Nerevar's teeth," they hissed.

"You know, actually I'm disappointed," said a gentle voice a few feet away. "Usually your oaths are a hair more colorful."

"Your Highness." Vaynyn found they had no desire to stand. "Forgive me. I didn't feel like bringing Saint Vivec's naughty bits into the conversation, this time.

Martin Septim, rightful ruler of the Cyrodillic Empire and former priest of Akatosh, snorted like a schoolboy.

"You're forgiven," he said, and then: "Please, allow me."

Vaynyn felt the warm buzz of a charging healing spell at their shoulder.

They nodded their assent, and the spell coursed down their arm, chasing away the pain and leaving behind the unyielding stiffness of renewed flesh.

"Thanks," they said. "I was more tired than I thought."

They reached up and fumbled with the knot that secured the scarf like a blindfold at the back of their head, blinking as the starlit sky came into view.

"Dare I ask what you were up to?" The emperor extended a hand.

Vaynyn accepted it, marveling at the softness and grace of his grip. They stood with his help, and for the space of a breath, neither of them let go.

Then, he pulled his hand from theirs, and Vaynyn remembered his question.

"Training." They rolled their wrist to try to get out some of the stiffness and didn't look at Martin.

"Training," he repeated, blankly.

"I'm out of practice," said Vaynyn. "I need to be able to take a fall if the situation comes up.”

“And your solution for this was to climb a crumbling wall, blindfold yourself, and throw yourself to the ground?”

“It’s how we did it when I was with the Morag Tong.” Vaynyn shrugged defensively. “Besides, it’s not so high up. I thought that if I missed—well, my restoration spells could use a little polish.”

Martin shook his head and chuckled softly.

“You make it sound like I robbed you of your chance to practice,” he said.

“I think it’s called taxation when you’re the emperor, Your Highness” Vaynyn pointed out.

He gave a pleasant, full-throated laugh at that, and Vaynyn was pleased to have caused it.

“You know—” He leaned against the wall that had given Vaynyn so much trouble. “If everyone at this priory of yours insists on beings so formal with me all the time, I’ll go the way of Pelagius inside of a month.”

Vaynyn rifled through their vague knowledge of Imperial history.

“Was he the one who named his cat High Chancellor?” they asked.

“So the story goes,” said Martin. His brow furrowed. “By the Nine, I guess he was a relative wasn’t he?”

Vaynyn joined him against the wall and looked up at the night sky. A single wisp of a cloud drifted lazily above them, obscuring part of Secunda’s waxing crescent.

“This all must seem so strange to you,” they said at last.

“Which part?” His voice rose slightly with an anxious bite. “The destruction of my home? The stranger who climbed through fire to tell me that my father was Uriel Septim and--by the way--I’m to be the emperor now? Or the fact that somehow I’m supposed to be the key to stopping all of this?”

Vaynyn didn’t answer right away, letting the song of distant crickets fill the silence for a few heartbeats. They hadn’t considered the true weight of the responsibility that the gods had dumped haplessly on Martin’s shoulders.

“I mostly meant the second one,” they said slowly. “I guess it’s all mixed in together, isn’t it?”

Martin closed his eyes. The shadows aged him twenty years.

“I’m not entirely certain this isn’t all some curse of Vaermina’s making. You’ve been a bright spot in all of this, my friend, but…” he trailed off.

“I can’t imagine that meeting anyone makes up for what you’ve been through in the past few days.

“I have—I need to have faith that our lot will improve, but the people who died—” The moonlight caught on something under his eye and shone. “I knew many of them since I was a boy. I performed Name Day ceremonies for their children, stood as Akatosh’s witness for their weddings, presided over their grandparents’ funerals. Over a lifetime they were my dear friends, my old lovers, my bitterest enemies. And then with no warning—they’re extinguished like candle flames. How could the gods allow that to happen?”

Vaynyn fumbled helplessly for a response.

“I’m not sure it’s about the gods,” they said, desperate for an answer. “I think it’s about choices. Someone chose to end the Septim line and chose to allow the invasion to begin. You’ve chosen to fight to stop them. And, Martin—” They stopped short. He opened his eyes, and Vaynyn could see that he was barely holding back tears.

The last, miniscule piece of Vaynyn that wanted to catch a boat home to Vvardenfell once they delivered Martin to the priory melted away.

“Martin,” they said again. “I choose to fight, too. I swear on my ancestors’ spirits that I will fight for you and for your chance to close the gates. And, Good Daedra, witness me: if I can bring any justice to the ones who chose to start this, I will.”

“I…” Martin’s voice still sounded tight as it trailed off. He looked at the ground. “Thank you. I will endeavor to make myself worthy of your oath, my friend.”

Acting on impulse, Vaynyn caught Martin’s hand near his side, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“I think you already have,” they said.

He squeezed their hand in return and finally met their eyes again. For the first time in longer than they could remember, Vaynyn felt solid ground beneath their feet. This was exactly where they needed to be.