Chapter Text
On occasion, Voryn has reason to play nice with the human guests. For example, this morning, he has been invited to dine with one at a Hlaalu estate near the city center. The garden is too perfectly manicured for Voryn's taste, and he still hasn't figured out why the Hlaalu councilman has invited him along; there must be some meaning to it. But it won't hurt to play nice with the Hlaalu for a morning, either.
Fortunately, the guest in question is a woman who has apparently decided to take the tack of being an amusingly unhappy foreigner; when she complains, Voryn can occasionally see how she reads their reactions, probably to make sure her comments stay in the realm of entertaining. It makes her easier to talk to than the ones who sit stiffly in their chairs like they're expecting a murder attempt at any moment.
With a bit of help from the Hlaalu councilman helping to interpret when needed, he learns a variety of things about her taste. She thinks kwama eggs are the most disgusting thing she's ever tried to eat due to their texture; apparently, humans only eat bird eggs, which do tend to be much less gelatinous. She similarly wrinkles her nose at the Deshaan carrots and ash yams topped with flakes of rust salt, a rare salt produced in a few volcanic areas. This batch might have come from a coastal area of Molag Amur in Voryn's own territory. Tasting it makes him think fondly of the stunningly blue and yellow sulfur pools in the area.
The bottle of shein he brings, though. "This is as good as any grape wine," she declares. "The taste is very—"
She says a word in her more barbarous tongue. "Bright," the councilman translates blandly. Voryn hopes the compliment to Dagoth stings. Perhaps he was asked here because the councilman is hoping to drum up his alcohol export business?
Once they have made it through her opinions on the food, she asks, more politely, about Voryn's work, and she makes an apparent effort to follow along even when the councilman is slow to interpret for her. The councilman prompts Voryn about how well-traveled he must be, though Voryn thinks the woman probably doesn't know most of Resdayn's cities. To make the conversation easier, he mentions his visit last year to Blacklight, the name of which might be known in the Empire after it played an important role in the war, and earlier this year to Kragenmoor, which she passed through on her way to Mournhold.
"You were not long there, I believe," the councilman says.
"No," says Voryn, who does not need to tell the human woman that he was there to assist with preparations in case things go poorly for Nerevar and Dumac. "I visited a shrine in the mountains," he adds, though it was not to worship but to confer with those stationed there, ready to carry Boethiah's blessing to the humans if they do anything to harm their kings.
On the carriage ride back to the palace, he picks up Araynys, who of course is even more well-traveled than he. As he has some time before he is to meet with Almalexia and Sil in the afternoon, he decides on a whim to introduce him to Corimil.
Corimil is not difficult to find – the first servant Voryn deigns to ask says that he just returned from the city and offers to fetch him, but Voryn takes Araynys to his quarter instead. At their knock, Corimil opens the door eagerly to greet Voryn, though he's still in the middle of sorting through what appears to have been shopping trip: fabrics, pots, and soul gems are laid out on the bed that peeks out from behind the privacy screen. But he's only too happy to talk (and talk) (and talk) when Voryn introduces his brother.
They're a good match. Araynys feigns at being the same kind of wide-eyed, curious ingenue that Corimil seems like he might actually be, and he may be the only person in Resdayn who can hold a candle to his traveling stories. Voryn need do nothing more than sit back with a cup of tea and turn his head back and forth occasionally as one finally lets the other speak or Corimil decides he needs to ask Voryn a few clarifying questions.
"You've been to so many places in Resdayn," Corimil eventually says. "You've never wanted to venture beyond its borders?"
Araynys laughs. "I've thought about it once or twice," he says. "But I'd worry everyone back home if I up and disappeared one day, and besides, it's hard to imagine I wouldn't start to miss this place after very long in more exotic locales."
"You do have a beautiful city here," Corimil says, leaning forward. "I can see why they call it the city of lights!"
Voryn doesn't repress the snort that wants to burst forth. Corimil starts, and Araynys laughs again.
"Mournhold is far from our best city, in terms of architecture," Voryn says. "Oh, the Indoril are very proud of their rounded buildings and paved streets, and they do a good job of hanging lanterns during festivities. But if you would ask our architects, every piece of relief work is too overdone. Kogoruhn has been called frumpy in comparison, but it has clean lines, and the streets are laid out so that one can get where one is going in good time, not so that one is made to walk past every structure and statue and flower-bed someone wanted to show off. And the air is clearer on good days," he adds. Though he can admit it is a point in Mournhold's favor to suffer no ash storms.
Araynys grins. "There's nothing like taking the strider in and seeing the terraced buildings and domes emerge," he says fondly. He turns back to Corimil. "I don't suppose you have the time to visit?"
He shakes his head. "Our calendar is full until our ship home is set to depart," he says, but he seems to be honestly disappointed. "I've heard that your temples have bells you can hear for miles."
"The purest sound in Resdayn," Araynys says happily.
Then he bends in half to dig around in his bag, even after Voryn taps him with his foot. Just because he's sitting with another friendly young man is no reason to act in a manner lacking grace. When he straightens again, he has his sketchbook in hand.
He says, "Here, I'll show you Kogoruhn if you tell me about Alinor. Is it true that every window is made from a different kind of glass, so that the whole city is a shifting mass of color until your eyes ache?" As he opens his charcoal box, he adds teasingly, "And that you like roses there?"
Voryn taps him with his foot again where their robes are already running together, so that it's not too obvious.
"We do have many varieties of roses," Corimil says, his brows drawing together in confusion, like he doesn't get the joke that Araynys is making about how Alinor is often described not unlike Moonshadow, despite how they have rejected Azura's wisdom. "But no, we don't make our windows from every color of glass. There are certain places where prisms have been set so that the sun shines through them and throws a rainbow over the pavement...."
While he describes his city, Araynys leans over the table and draws theirs. From his hands, in a surprisingly short time, bursts forth a view of the Kogoruhn stronghold as seen from a few streets over. Its strong, simple form rises elegantly over the straight roads below, surrounded by a wall topped by a crenelation that adds both decoration and defense. In the background rise the protective mountains that keep their city snug.
When the drawing is finished, Araynys sits back and gives it a long look. Then he leans in again and adds a cliff racer in the sky. For verisimilitude, Voryn assumes.
Corimil inspects the picture carefully, asks some questions, and gives it the compliments it deserves. When he tries to return the picture, Araynys shakes his head and shoves it back, and Corimil bows his head as he takes it. "It looks very safe and homely," he says. "I'm sorry I can't come and see it myself. Or try to talk my way into the library Lord Voryn has told me you have."
"If you couldn't talk your way in, you'd get pretty close if you found Tureynul and begged him to lecture you. I swear he's read every book in there, or at least every other one," says Araynys. At Corimil's curious look, he adds, "Our little brother."
"Ah, you're also three siblings in your family? Only, one of mine is a sister."
Araynys looks at Voryn. Turns back to Corimil with a smile. He says, "No, we've got another five. All brothers!" and Voryn covers his mouth, because the look on Corimil's face makes him want to laugh harder than is polite.
"Oh – so eight – that's—" Corimil's face flushes as he tries to get over his fluster. They do have an unusually large family by Elven standards. "My congratulations to your parents?"
When they take their leave, Aryanys skips ahead. Corimil, still pink-faced, thanks Voryn for introducing them and says he very much enjoyed the surprise visit. As they walk down the hall, Araynys bumps his shoulder into Voryn's. "He was fun. I've never met an Altmer who was fun before!"
"How many have you met?"
"Well.... two, properly. They were a couple, I think. But they were both stodgy. Did you see his face?"
It's a struggle not to start grinning in the hallway. "Yes, I did. Speaking of Tureynul, though, while you're imposing on everyone here, I have a request. Let me know if you come across any good men, perhaps women, about his age who may be worth consideration."
Araynys comes to a startled halt. "Wait.... Tureynul is thinking of getting married?"
"If I can find him someone suitable, yes." He turns back and raises an eyebrow. "What is it? Should I be looking for spouses for two of my younger brothers?"
Now it's Araynys's turn to turn pink. "No! I don't – think it's time for me to settle down."
Maybe it never will be. He doesn't mind. They'll have children enough in their family this generation. Instead, Voryn smiles, goes, "Ah. I see. One in every town?"
"Not every town," Araynys says. He finally catches up to Voryn again and hurries along the hallway, his footsteps echoing loudly. A good habit; it means people think he can't step quietly. That he can't muffle himself further with magic, blend himself into the shadows, slip locks. "Anyway! I'll let you know if I see someone worth bothering you about. He deserves the very best!"
Another smile blooms on Voryn's face despite himself, and he thinks, as do you all.
Voryn waits until Araynys has gone on his way a few days later (with a vial of something Voryn brewed with the equipment he brought to Mournhold slipped into his heart-pocket) and until he has free hours. Sil is attending a Dwemer symposium for the day; Relmyna has gone to visit her family and make sure her in-laws' mushroom tower hasn't eaten her son.
They haven't heard further news of Nerevar, which becomes more difficult to put from his mind each day. Though he tries, most of the time, this task pushes it back to the forefront.
He goes out to the sparring ground, finds it filled with guards; goes to the inner garden and finds one of the places Almalexia likes, an ivy-covered gazebo. Laughter floats from inside it as he approaches. Almalexia's. Another woman's.
Voryn finds himself touching one of his rings. Invisibility. He could come up unseen, unheard, so long as he was careful not to break the spell, look inside, and find—
Nothing. He's being ridiculous again.
Voryn does peek through the ivy as he walks, quiet, his shadow cast the opposite direction by the sun. One of Almalexia's Hands is cheering her up with a story so gossipy it's almost certainly not true, embroidery work forgotten in her lap. They sit close, hip to hip, knees—
He pauses at the entrance to the gazebo and knocks on the door frame before turning into it. When he enters, her Hand is already standing, half-worked fabric gathered in her arms. "Lord Dagoth," she murmurs, bowing, and then she bows to Almalexia as well and takes her leave.
"Any news?" Almalexia asks instantly, the laughter fading from her face now for worry. When he shakes his head, she lets out a deep sigh. "I know we weren't expecting much while they're so deep in the Alessian territory, but it would be so good to have some sign that all is well. You must feel the same way." She leans back and pats the bench beside her.
He nods and sits. It's cooler in the gazebo than it was on the path, with all the shade from the ivy; sunlight peeks through the leaves, dappling their clothes and hands, and Almalexia's hair looks like a flame full of sparks.
"I'd hoped to talk about a happier subject," he says. "Though I didn't mean to interrupt your conversation."
"Oh, no," she says, waving a hand. "It's nothing important, we'll pick it up again later. Maybe I'll invite her over to keep me company this evening and finish the story. What did you need?"
She brightens when he explains about Tureynul. "I was wondering if there might be any fine young Indoril men who may be more inclined to our ways than yours," he says. It would be an excellent way to publicly further strengthen the tie between himself and the royal couple.
"Let me think," she says, putting a finger to her jaw. "Off the top of my head, there was – no, he married last winter – and – hm, he only likes women, I think – it won't be a problem for him to have a husband, if he prefers? I know that tends to be more of a concern for yourselves and the Redoran. "
"For my brother? No." If anyone so much breathes a hint of disapproval, well. Voryn did just buy some interesting new ingredients.
Almalexia smiles at that. "That's reassuring to hear. I was wondering if that might be why you've been so silent on the subject for yourself."
And there it is.
Voryn has thought this over, and yet his heart still catches, even though Almalexia is doing nothing to accuse him of anything.
"No," he says quietly. "Not that."
He turns his head away, sinks his shoulders a touch, all purposeful, just as he waited until Almalexia was somewhere private but not too private.
"What is it, then?" she asks, concern dropping into her voice. So kind of her. How can Voryn be looking for evidence that she's not as sweet as he knows she is?
"There's a very different reason," he says, lets the words linger in the air for a moment. "I... I confess I am unsure if I should tell you."
"Whyever not?" She scoots closer to him on the bench. "You look troubled, Voryn."
"It's very private," he says. The hesitation in his voice isn't faked. "And I don't know if you would think well of me for it."
"Well, you don't have to say anything," she says. "But I can't imagine you doing anything that would make me scorn you."
Voryn hesitates again. She would let him shake his head, decline the offer to listen and halve the burden, without any further fuss except a worried look. But this has gone on for long enough. He must make an effort.
"There was someone," he says slowly, adds, "a man. He was... worthy of my potential affections, and he returned my interest, and for some time my heart was very set on him. It still is. But for all that I waited, nothing came of it."
"Nothing came of it?" she repeats. "You mean that he never... oh, Voryn, that must have been painful to go through."
"No, nothing whatsoever. We never so much as held hands," Voryn huffs, and he wishes he had worn his hair down. Even at its shorter length, it would hide some of his face. Maybe it could hide some of the sludge that seems to be washing up his throat. He wants Almalexia to understand. The moment that she does.... "Not before he broke whatever relationship we had off."
She's gazing at him in pure sympathy. He can't look at it. It's not calculated, the way he turns his head away now. Suddenly he is very aware of the other enchantments on his jewelry, the dagger peeking out from beneath her skirt.
"You see," Voryn says, fighting to keep his voice from trembling or growing too quiet to hear, "he was married already. And when he said he would talk things over with his spouse, I expected that he would, and we would see from there if anything could indeed happen. But in the end he decided that having that conversation risked too much hurt, and instead, we had one of the worst arguments of my life."
He waits. Waits. A bird flies by, too indistinct behind the ivy to identify. The air is still, without a breeze to break up the silence.
Almalexia puts a hand on his knee. "I see," she says.
Her voice and touch are both soft, gentle, and he's so surprised that he turns back to her. Could she have already...?
"I was wondering what in Oblivion Neht could have said to make you act that way toward each other," she says. "This must have been the snare he stepped in during your fight about the trip, isn't it? I can see how much you've been suffering with this. So I'm sure it hurt badly to have him evoke that pain again, even if he didn't mean to."
Voryn stares at her.
Almalexia is hardly an idiot, how can she not have noticed – or is she simply in the same kind of denial he was with Nerevar for so long, smoothing over the troubled thoughts with explanations that could have been true in isolation? A conveniently unknown man, a second argument, just as he has been implying to his family, a thoughtless comment in a heated moment that turned far more searing than it was meant to. And now neither of them has done anything to wrong her, and their prior closeness is just the friendship she has always understood it to be.
"Ayem—"
But she cuts him off before he can try to hint any further. "To think you were seeing someone, after a manner, and none of us had any idea! House of secrets indeed. And I can see why you worried about telling me. No, perhaps it wasn't a good idea to become involved with him without knowing what his – I assume a wife?" He nods, feeling a little faint. She is so close. "Without knowing already whether she was the kind to gladly share. But you said it was never a true affair, and it was cruel of him to lead you on like that, too, taking advantage of your honor. It sounds like it went on quite a while?"
"...yes."
"He really ought to have gone to her when he realized what was happening between the two of you. I'm sorry, that sounds like such a miserable situation all around. It's no wonder that you've been out of sorts!"
Voryn tastes acid on the back of his tongue. Swallows it down. He feels sick knowing who she is truly talking about without understanding, whether that ignorance is willing or not.
"If it were you and Nerevar," he says, pushing the luck that does not seem to be with him, "how would you have preferred to handle things once they came to that point?"
Almalexia blinks at him. "Huh." She sits back a little, turns her head and tilts it. After a long moment, she says, "That's a difficult question to answer, since it would never happen with us."
For hell's sake, he thinks in exasperation, but something more anxious bubbles up, too; the way she said the words was odd. Forceful? He isn't sure what about it has him even more on edge.
"I was so lucky," she continues, giving a little laugh and pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "All those suitors – I was starting to wonder if I would have to do as in the stories and start demanding the completion of impossible tasks. But then I was the one who found Neht and chose him as my husband! Certainly nobody could complain to my face about bringing him into our House, and they had to make up all those stupid little stories instead. And – I know you of all people have heard what some of the council are trying to do to us now."
"Yes," he says again. "Though I also know there is only trying and not in any way succeeding."
A smile flits over her lips. She doesn't quite look his way.
"Neht hasn't even once looked the way of any of those poor women they've tried on him. I hear everything that goes on in the palace, and not even when we were at our worst point between us did he do anything but have them taken elsewhere the moment he realized why someone was trying to work her way into his graces. And of course, I have never thought of having anyone but him!"
She digs her nails into the bench and leans forward. Her shoulders raise.
"Ayem," he says, but she ignores him.
"The Indoril council members would love to have any strife they think they could take advantage of to advance their own agendas, would love us to have an heir they could pretend was both of ours until they could threaten to reveal their true heritage. And our people are delighted to have such a happy love story to retell at festivals." Her voice quavers: "So – so it's for the best that we're devoted only to each other. That neither of us has any reason to think of enjoying the close company of someone else."
Voryn stays quiet. He doesn't know what to say; he doesn't understand precisely why Almalexia looks so brittle sitting there, gazing at nothing with the tension of a fight in her back and shoulder muscles.
It is not the moment to push her further. He wonders if she might actually snap at him in some blaze-hot temper if he tried.
"I apologize," she says suddenly, letting out a fragile laugh and turning back to him. "That didn't answer your question at all! Here I am, prattling on about our relationship, when you—"
"Ayem," he says, because there is one thing that agitates him too much to let simmer, "may I?"
She blinks. "Of course."
"Only just a moment ago, you were bragging to me of how you chose Nerevar." (I chose him first, he thinks viciously, perhaps not the way she did, but Voryn extended trust to him before anyone in Mournhold had heard his name.) "So why did you then talk as though you arrange your relationship to snub the council, or cheer the commoners? Should you not have your marriage as you like within the bounds of propriety and set the tone with them, just as you did with the rumors about his blood? Whether that means you are happy being wholly steadfast to each other, or whether it were the case that you might prefer a more Velothi-style marriage as our ancestors often had."
Almalexia's brow wrinkles, her hand paused halfway to pushing her hair behind her ear again where a curl has already fallen in front. She looks at him for a long moment with an unreadable face.
He's said too much. Who is he, someone who knows very well the concept of public image, who has spent longer tangled in a twilight relationship with Nerevar than he ever has in a proper one, to say anything about her marriage? She isn't going to change her mind about what she wants simply because Voryn desperately wishes for her to desire something else.
"I feel as though we're fighting," Almalexia says slowly. "Although we aren't."
"We're not," Voryn affirms. "I'm sorry. That came out as though I'm trying to dictate to you, which isn't what I meant."
"No, be assured that it didn't. You simply startled me. I didn't expect you to say something like that!" She smiles at him. "You are only anxious for us to be content, and I suppose we have given you much reason to worry recently. But please know, Voryn, we are very happy together, in the wider view. We'll move past this bump in the road. Hopefully sooner rather than later," she adds more quietly. Then she claps her hands together and says, "Now, let's see if I can't advise you after all."
Voryn would, at this point, rather stand on the air and count the strands in the misty spiderweb in the eaves. "Only if you would like to," he says.
"Yes – I appreciate how hard it must have been to tell me something so painful, so I ought to repay your trust. And then let's have a good lunch together, I would hate to simply send you off." She lets go of the bench to put her hand under her jaw, and she crosses her other arm across her chest. At least the change in topic seems to have eased the energy in her limbs; she relaxes against the wall of the gazebo. "It does seem a very difficult situation that you were wound up in. And to be honest, I must say, this man was correct to place his wife first, and to be considerate about how she would feel. But on the hand... Neht said that you gave him advice before our wedding."
Voryn's stomach turns over. "Yes. From my mother."
She nods. "If things went on like that," she says blithely, "without him ever telling her, then perhaps they weren't speaking honestly the way they should have with each other. Which is unfortunate, but it couldn't be your fault."
Fuck. How badly he wants her to understand what he truly meant – understand and still look at him with, if not the sympathy she levels at him now, at least pity. And without tearing at her relationship with Nerevar, either.
He twists his hands together, biting his tongue and trying to think and coming up with only the way she looked when she started going on about herself and Nerevar, strung like an over-tight bowstring. His frustration must show, because she leans over and pats his knee again.
They go and have lunch in the bright sunshine. Almalexia promises to give him some candidates for Tureynul's hand after she has had a chance to write around. Voryn thanks her and forces himself to eat despite his inner protests at each forkful, since he worried her so, though it's a trial.
Another sprinkle of news comes from Nerevar. It contains little but an affirmation that their party is still well and a note that, as of the writing, the enthronement ceremonies were about to begin, since all the guests had arrived. Nothing concerning seems to have happened, nothing that is worth the considerable difficulty of dispatching a letter to the border.
Corimil begins to ask Voryn to drink in his room some evenings, and he has high praise for the Dagoth brandy when Voryn brings some. It is nice to sit and talk for hours in Aldmeris with someone who isn't a member of his own family but has the same kind of fascination for the magical arts as he does. Someone who isn't a spell-maker stubborn not to give away a single hard-won secret or a Dwemer crafter-enchanter who sees the world from three steps to the right of himself.
Voryn's days fill again and again. He leads a conference with Dwemer emissaries to discuss several issues between their people. Afterward, he plans a short visit to one of their strongholds to smooth one over himself, and he manages to schedule it for a day when Temple leaders will be meeting with Almalexia. He and Sil advise her on changing out a few members of the private council that give suggestions on day-to-do matters, which has to be done delicately.
They make progress on the infrastructure act. Mournhold's criers sing the praises of her promises to smooth neglected and damaged roads, to add more official rest stops and guard posts, to reinforce a vital bridge over the Thir river. An up-and-coming artist is hired to create statues to stand in Mournhold and two other cities in honor of various healers, scholars, and wartime champions, mostly women. Rumors appear – who knows from whence but Voryn – that this year's harvest festival, held after the respectful quiet of Ancestor's Day, shall be particularly resplendent.
Almalexia also keeps a close eye on their security. She sends a sea unit of the royal guard to decisively crush Nordic pirates bothering the Redoran, and another overland to quiet a quarrel at the border with Black Marsh. A strategic number are kept near the pass leading to the Alessian Empire, just in case. A unit still in training is diverted to help provide relief in Dres lands flooded by ferocious summer storms.
On it all goes. Resdayn holds; Resdayn prospers.
At nights, Corimil's invitations make for easy conversation – he can speak to any number of topics and has endless questions about what he's seen each day, though he always carefully skims over the schism between their people, as curiously as he peers at the palace temple each time they pass it by. Voryn suspects that like himself, he is not especially attached to his own gods.
Voryn does not suspect that he is being flirted with, because Corimil isn't being nearly as subtle about that as he likely thinks he is. On one particular night, he sits too close given how both of them have long legs to fold under the small table. He keeps pushing back the strands of hair that fall from his fancy bun at the end of the day in a self-conscious way that draws attention to his ears.
It... would not be the worst idea to take him up on it. Corimil offers a potential distraction from his longing for Nerevar with little room for long-term consequences. He has no voice in Resdayn politics and will leave soon to return home to Alinor, unlikely to ever return to their far-flung shores. I never asked you to reserve yourself for me.
He's not unattractive. His hair is a pale blond, like – and his eyes are an unusual green-gold color and seem to sparkle when he casts spells to demonstrate something for Voryn. He never wears gloves, but his hands are noble-smooth, unmarred by weapon calluses, and his Aldmeris is as perfectly lilting as the language is meant to be.
All Voryn would have to do is tilt his knee over into Corimil's space. Let the warmth of another body help him forget something he can't have at the moment. Pull his thoughts away from watching too closely when Almalexia spars or loop-braids with one of her Hands, or from his favorites of the portraits that feature the pale gaze he can't forget.
How long has it been since someone touched him intimately? More so than running hands through his hair and—
He pours another cup of wine for both of them. Corimil picks it up with a murmured thanks, his cheeks flushed, looking at Voryn with poorly hidden want.
Voryn picks up his own cup and barely tastes the flavor when he has a sip. He should indulge Corimil; he should let someone else desire him; he should—