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He's finally done. Of any more difficult battles and decisions, at least. Alduin is dead and he plans to avoid the civil war at all costs, though the stalemate may not last much longer. When he came to Skyrim, he didn't plan to be ensnared by destiny to be a hero of legend. Silvas hates it but he cannot wash his hands of it; no amount of water would wash away the blood spilled.
First order, he needs to get to Windhelm. He's not sure what happened while he was in Sovngarde fighting the World Eater, and he needs to make sure nothing too drastic has occurred with the unrest there. The safety of one particular individual matters most to him. Second order is a bath and some food. He sustained some wounds that need stitched up—or at least looked at. He’s just outside the city, thankfully, and he’s able to make it to the gates. The guards glare at him, it’s late, but open the doors anyway. Silvas knows he must look like a madman practically running through streets, a complete mess and covered in blood. There doesn’t appear to have been any fighting, he notes in relief. He can’t completely relax, though.
He makes his way through the Grey Quarter, grateful that the occupants know him and won’t bat an eye at his behavior. At the end of the alley is a shop, with a well-worn sign that says Sadri’s Used Wares . He knows the door is locked, night crawling into the early hours of the morning, so he picks the lock. The noise of announcing himself would wake up half the neighbors, so quiet is the way to go. Thanks to his side job as a thief, he gets it open in a blink. He doesn’t have to wake him up, he just needs to see him. To assure himself that he’s safe and alive. He’s careful not to let the door squeak, and treads lightly on the boards that don’t creak under weight. The living space, which gained a couch since they’ve known each other, holds its one occupant. Revyn is asleep on said couch, with the fire burning low and a book falling out of his hands. He must have been up late reading, Silvas thinks with no little amount of affection. He had complained about the piece of furniture for days until he and Silvas had curled up on it, slotting together easily and dozing.
He stands in the doorway for a moment before he sets to peeling his armor off of his bruised and battered body. Now that he can rest, everything that’s happened has started to catch up to him. The shoulder that he wrenched trying to pull his dagger through the dragon’s hide is sore, making reaching the buckles of the heavy plate difficult. Vambraces and pauldrons off first, then the breastplate carefully goes. He sits the items down gently in an empty corner. The greaves and sabatons are last. The simple clothes underneath will have to do, but he goes over to the basin and rinses off his hands and face, leaving the rest for tomorrow. He digs out bandages and other supplies from his pack. The gashes on his legs and arms are shallow except for one, which he stitches as neatly as he can, waxed thread standing out against the bronze skin of his arm. His face needs stitched too, a gash splitting the skin of his jaw and lower lip. His torso is mostly bruises, but he doesn’t think any of his ribs are cracked. He doesn’t bother with any salve for those, and steps quietly to the empty floor near the fireplace. He sits and leans against the couch, comfortable as he can be with his strained body. It takes no time for him to fall asleep, the exhaustion making his bones heavy.
Silvas wakes to the smell of bread and sunlight filtering in the familiar space. He’d think he died if not for the pain and stiffness when he moves. He finds the Dunmer in the small kitchen chopping fruit for what seems to be breakfast.
“I don’t think I’ve eaten in four days,” he says as he comes up behind Revyn and hugs him, mindful of his own injuries.
“I can tell,” he gripes. “You look horrible.” Silvas gasps in mock-offense as he steps back dramatically.
“I know I’m not exactly a looker, but that’s hurtful,” he says, barely holding back a laugh.
“I’m serious. You look like you have one foot in the grave.” He puts the knife down and turns to face the Bosmer. His hands gently grab his face, turning him this way and that before planting a barely-there kiss on the good side of his mouth. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“Didn’t want to disturb you,” he mumbles sheepishly.
“Any other serious injuries?” he interrogates. Silvas pulls his sleeve up to show him the row of thread.
“No broken bones,” he adds. He guiltily watches the tension bleed out of Revyn.
“I’ll finish up breakfast even though it’s nearly lunch, and you can tell me what happened.”
He piles Silvas’ plate with fresh bread and sliced apples and pears. A jar of jam that smells like juniper berries sits on the table. He eats and Revyn tells him what’s been going on in Windhelm, about a pamphlet he saw the other day, and other innocuous things. When Silvas finishes eating, he pushes the plate aside and starts into his time since they last saw each other. He skims through details of the fight with Alduin, for himself as much as for Revyn’s sake. Once he’s done, he grabs the pot to boil water for a bath.
He washes his hair, rinses blood and grime off his skin, and carefully washes around his injuries. The hot water helps, and he sits for a while. When it starts to cool, he gets out and changes into a clean set of clothes. He leaves his hair to dry, brown strands curling into waves. He finds Revyn on the couch reading again, and gently maneuvers around him to sit close. A content hum leaves the Dunmer and he absentmindedly pets his fingers through Silvas’ hair.
“I think I want you to have a ring,” he says seemingly out of nowhere. Revyn’s hand stills, but he doesn’t look away from the pages.
“ What’s that ? ” Whether to make him repeat himself or because he didn’t hear, Silvas doesn’t know.
“When we were talking about marriage practices. I’d want to follow your customs, but I still want the skin-writing for it. As an addition to them maybe.”
“You haven’t even proposed to me,” he says with barely concealed shock.
“I sort of did, just in my way,” he says, sheepish. At the confused look he receives, he elaborates. “The apple tree.”
“You planted it, explaining that they grow well in the cold and with a little help.”
“I grew up in a community that didn’t follow the Green Pact exactly. If you wanted to be with someone, you planted a fruit tree. You would watch the tree grow together and once it bore fruit, you ate it together. It’s an investment of time.” Revyn smiles at him and sets his forgotten book down.
“Well, you planted the tree. Ask me in words now.”
He sits up seriously and brushes his fingers through Revyn’s hair and down over his charcoal-colored cheeks.
“Revyn Sadri,” he starts, brown eyes looking into red ones. “Will you marry me?” He hugs Silvas excitedly, careful of the bruising he saw earlier.
“Of course I will. I’d kiss you but I’m afraid of hurting your stitches.”
“A peck would definitely be fine,” he suggests. “Any pain would be worth it.” Revyn rolls his eyes but gives him just a quick press of lips to his. He pulls back and runs a gentle finger around the injury.
“You know this will scar quite a bit, right?” he asks almost approvingly. Silvas looks at him in disbelief.
“Are you telling me you think my scars are sexy?”
“I think you’re sexy, scars included,” he quips.
“Don’t,” Silvas whines. “I have to wait too long to think about it already,” he says, laughing.
They settle down the teasing and curl up again on the cushion. After a moment, the Bosmer speaks up again. “When I was fighting Alduin, what pushed me was thinking about our life after I defeated him. We’d stay here—or maybe move—and be domestic, maybe get a pet or something. You could move shop somewhere safer, and I could have a garden somewhere warmer. It’s all just details; I’m happy as long as I’m with you.”