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“It was in the year that my Mother the Black Needle struck Elulium of the Eimin-Tin with a thought-lightning,” Balwûr began.
Crota opposed instantly, gesturing so ardently he almost slapped Nokris in the face. “No, it was the year that my Father the King of Shapes devoured two-thirds of the Eimin-Tin armada and rent them down to chitin that he then plastered onto his flagship as trophy!”
“No,” Scoroboth said, “it was the year that my Mother War Herself claimed the Umber Sun, and devised a bomb capable of destroying three neighbouring systems in its explosion.”
Incaru was too young to remeber that, so from her spot pressed between him and her sister she only stared at him with curious eyes. Scoroboth’s arm was curled around her protectively. He had no siblings, and Incaru was currently the family's baby; he had latched onto her from the moment she was born, and sometimes Nokris wondered if it wouldn't be easier for everyone to just let Xivu Arath smuggle the kid to her own brood.
Balwûr scowled at the interruptors. “Can I continue?”
Nokris leaned further against the wall pressing at his back. They—Balwûr and Scoroboth, Malok and Incaru, Anûk and Halak and Crota, and him—were all clumped together in one of the back rooms of the High War, crowding around a hearth, the trembling flame casting shadows that danced around the chamber. Balwûr’s face was lit orange as she went on with her story.
“Then: in the year of the extinction of the Eimin-Tin, a silkweaver in service of the High Coven was sent to one of Xivu Arath’s war moons as part of a sisterly bargain...”
Nokris felt his attention drift off like a leaf caught on a lazy river current. He knew the tale of how the Scalpel of Savathûn was forged well enough he could recite it backwards from memory, but there was still something comforting in half-listening to a familiar story told by a familiar voice. From beyond the doorway, he could pick up faint chatter and laughter coming from around other hearths. Fireglow played on the faces of his siblings and cousins, deepening the shadows and bringing out the glimmer of their eyes.
Crota yawned and rested his head against his brother’s shoulder. Small horns had already begun to form over each of his earholes, and one of them was now digging into the base of Nokris’ neck, making him want to sneeze. He shuffled to get more comfortable. Balwûr’s voice was a pleasant hum filling his mind like cotton, words slurring together—and it was not even halfway into the story that his eyes flickered and dimmed, and Nokris drifted off.