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These were the days of Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived under the wise and benevolent rule of ALMSIVI and their champion the Hortator.
. . . Well, more or less. They were not quite ALMSIVI yet, but he was definitely the Hortator, and the rule of Indoril Nerevar and Indoril Almalexia was more or less wise and benevolent, depending on who you asked.
(And Voryn Dagoth was there, too.)
The room would have been quiet—peaceful even, with a flickering fire and the rustle of wind in the wall-tapestries—if not for its occupants. Nerevar Moon-and-Star, general of the Chimer and king of Resdayn, was sitting on the couch with a bottle of sujamma. Vivec, his junior counselor, was balanced precariously on the back of a chair in his usual fashion, while Almalexia, his queen, sat on the couch next to him as though it were a throne. Sotha Sil stood at the window, half-riddled in shadow, because if he didn’t look thoughtful and mysterious for a minumum of twenty hours a day, Nerevar suspected he might spontaneously explode. And in the corner, curled up in an armchair like a particularly stiff-backed cat, sat Voryn Dagoth, Lord High Councilor of House Dagoth.
“Never have I ever,” said Almalexia, holding up her cup of flin, “felt up a statue of Molag Bal.”
Vivec scowled half-heartedly and took a long swig of sujamma. “That was one time,” he grumbled, but he was grinning. Nerevar raised a brow, but he was just drunk enough to forget to ask for elaboration, distracted:
“Never have I ever kissed Vivec,” Voryn offered.
Everybody else took a drink, including Vivec.
“What?” he said, when they all looked at him oddly. “A mirror can make for a fine lover, if you’re not adverse to predictability.”
“Never have I ever,” said Sotha Sil, “called Ayem Mom.”
“It was a slip of the tongue!” Vivec protested.
“And you will never live it down,” said Voryn, with the hint of a grin that only ever came out when he was drinking, or alone with Nerevar, or both. “Never have I ever . . . shaved my head on a dare. And then set the hair on fire.”
Vivec raised a hand. “I motion that Nerevar’s involvement in that incident means he has to drink.”
“Overruled,” said Voryn dismissively. “Never have I ever shat out a rock. And then written a poem about it.”
“Okay, fuck you, it was a good poem,” laughed Vivec, throwing back the rest of his drink and pouring himself another. “Never have I ever . . . thrown a rock at a scrib and accidentally killed it.”
Sil, looking mildly sorrowful, took a drink.
Sensing a few expectant gazes on him, Nerevar racked his memory for something suitably embarrassing. “Never have I ever . . . flipped off a shrine of Azura,” he said.
Sil, Almalexia, and Vivec all drank. Voryn raised a brow.
“Bad day,” said Sil by way of explanation.
“Bad year,” said Almalexia.
“It was funny,” said Vivec.
“Never have I ever lost a sparring match because Neht took his shirt off,” Vivec declared, possibly lying.
“Oversimplification of events,” Almalexia grumbled, reaching for her drink. (Only Nerevar—and Vivec, if the mischievous quirk of his mouth had anything to do with it—caught Voryn taking a surreptitious sip.) “Never have I ever kissed a nix-hound. On the mouth.”
It was Nerevar’s turn to drink, glaring at his wife half-heartedly. “I regret ever telling you about that,” he said, and she shrugged, grinning a little. “Never—”
“Never have I ever,” Vivec interrupted blithely, “accidentally blown up half my bedroom because I tripped over a toy spider.”
Sil reached for his wine. “It was an automaton.”
“Accidentally?” Voryn echoed shrewdly. “So are you implying that you’ve done that on purpose?”
Vivec’s features shifted into what Nerevar liked to call his poet face. “Yes and no,” he said, evasively.
“Not this again,” Almalexia groaned. “It’s yes or no, Vehk. Yes or no.”
“Ah, it is and it isn’t, my friend,” Vivec returned, winking at Nerevar. “Never have I ever almost drowned because I quote, wanted to feel the water and forgot I needed to breathe.”
“That is a misrepresentation of events,” said Sil evenly. “My water breathing spell ran out.”
“Why, I never misrepresent events—I embellish them. You wouldn’t say a tailor mispresents fabric with embroidery thread, hmm?” Vivec reached out and flicked Sil on the nose, then darted deftly away before Sil could retaliate. “Never have I ever drunk clock oil!”
“This game feels targeted,” said Sil, rubbing his nose.
“You’re imagining it,” said Vivec. “Never have I ever cried because I saw a flower that was just, quote, so symmetrical.”
“I was drunk, and you are targeting me.”
“Never have I ever bitten a spear.”
“Whose spear?” said Almalexia.
Vivec shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Why would you bite—” said Voryn.
“Don’t get Vehk started,” Almalexia warned, and tapped her lips thoughtfully. “Never have I ever written erotic fiction featuring individuals in this room.”
Vivec downed his sujamma. Nerevar took a subtle swig of his.
“I assume a diary entry counts?” said Voryn, in a voice that was much too carefully controlled to be natural.
Vivec cackled, and Almalexia raised her brows. “Voryn, really?”
Voryn had enough sobriety left in him, evidently, for his golden cheeks to flush newly pink. “Not my proudest moment,” he admitted.
“I hope it was about me, or my ego shall be positively dashed,” Vivec declared, untruthfully.
Almalexia ignored him. “And Neht!”
He just shrugged, the tips of his ears burning.
“What’s been getting into you lately, Neht?”
“Voryn,” Vivec guessed, smirking, and Almalexia’s burning gaze swiveled to the corner.
“Never have I ever gotten high on skooma and panicked because I thought I had cut off my hands,” Voryn deflected smoothly.
Vivec scowled. “All right, now who’s getting targeted?”
“You, if I’m not mistaken,” said Sil.
“Smartass,” said Vivec, sticking his tongue out childishly.
Sil sniffed. “Nuisance.”
“S’wit.”
“Whore.”
“Azura preserve us, Seht said a swear word,” said Nerevar.
Sil crossed his long legs primly. “I swear.”
“Since when?”
“Since fucking always,” he said, very calmly, which made Vivec burst into raucous, infectious laughter; Nerevar only realized he’d joined in when his stomach began to cramp.
At that point, the game was mostly forgotten, in favor of Nerevar and Vivec coaxing Sil to say as many dirty words as either of them could think of (which was quite a lot), while Almalexia shook her head and pretended she wasn’t enjoying it, and Voryn appeared to fall asleep.
Suddenly, Vivec sat bolt upright from his casually-seductive slouch. “I want to play spin the bottle,” he announced, loudly enough that Voryn jolted back awake and hissed out an oath. “Which bottle should we spin? I’ll pick the one with the best consistency, I think; it can’t be too thick, but it can’t be too green, either.”
“None of these bottles are green?” said Sil.
“Then we have nothing to worry about,” Vivec replied. “This is the best kind of little coincidence.”
“. . . Bottles not being green?”
“That is religion,” Vivec reflected.
“I never know what he’s talking about,” said a defeated-looking Voryn, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“You’ll grow accustomed to it,” Almalexia assured him.
“Here,” said Nerevar, pushing one of Vivec’s empty sujamma bottles across the floor with his toe, “this one has the best angle for . . . spinning.”
“I’ll go first; I’m the prettiest,” said Vivec cheerfully, diving for the bottle. He spun it with a deft flick of his hand. “Voryn!” he exclaimed, as it landed on the corner. “Time to join the club.”
“I look forward to it,” said Voryn dryly, rising cautiously to his feet. He leaned down and gave Vivec a light kiss on the cheek, leaving a faint mark from his deep ruby lipstick. Vivec made a vague noise of discontent, and Voryn sighed and repeated the motion, this time landing properly on Vivec’s lips.
(Nerevar wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Instead of thinking about it, he took a drink, and then spluttered, having somehow missed his mouth and spilled his drink all over his face instead.)
“Now you spin,” Vivec ordered.
“I do know how spin the bottle works,” Voryn sniffed, and spun, with a movement that was less deft but perhaps more graceful than Vivec’s; his fingers were longer, and his nails were curved instead of trimmed short. It landed on Sil.
“Well, I suppose if I have to kiss one of you,” said Sil, begrudgingly.
“I will endeavor,” said Voryn, “not to take offense at that.”
“You do that.”
Voryn kissed Sil with mechanical chastity, ignoring Vivec’s huff of bored disapproval, and Sil took his turn. “Is that pointing at Voryn or Nerevar?” he said, tilting his head.
“Sort of between them, I think,” said Almalexia. “I suppose you could kiss both of them?”
“At once?”
“That would be very funny,” Vivec reflected.
Nerevar snorted. “He’d need two mouths!”
“Or he’d need to divide himself.”
“What is it with you and Seht dividing himself?” said Almalexia, shaking her head. “Why do you keep bringing this up? Never mind, I don’t want to know.”
“I’ll take Voryn again,” said Sil. “Apologies, Neht, but your face is covered in sujamma.”
Nerever had forgotten about that; he wiped his face with his sleeve and grimaced. “Fair.”
“Wise choice,” said Voryn, as he accepted Sil’s second peck on the mouth. “I do hope you continue to choose wisely, my friend.”
Vivec coughed. “All right, new game,” he said. “Take a shot every time Voryn is sinister for no reason.”
“Sinister?” said Voryn, blinking his black-lined eyes. “Me?”
“Just look at yourself!”
“Be nice to him,” said Nerevar. “That’s just his face.”
Voryn laid a hand over his heart, his fingernails clutching like claws. “Sweet Nerevar, you betray me,” he drawled.
“See?” Vivec pointed. “Sinister. Shot!”
“Neht,” said Voryn as the bottle slowed to a halt, ignoring Vivec pointedly, “I’m afraid you have no choice but to kiss me.”
“Oh no, whatever will I do?” said Nerevar with a grin, half-rising from his seat as Voryn approached the couch and took his face in one hand. Dark red lips met his, and he flicked his tongue between them, his smile broadening—at least, until Voryn’s teeth snapped shut around the tip of his tongue.
“Ow!” he yelped. “Voryn!”
But Voryn somehow managed to vanish around the back of the couch before Nerevar could bite him back, laughing his low, rich chuckle, and Nerevar struggled feebly against gravity before settling on flipping a rude gesture in his direction.
Vivec giggled. “You have lipstick on your mouth now.”
“And now you’re about to, too!” Nerevar prophesized, kicking the bottle. It landed on Almalexia. “Oh. Never mind.”
Vivec pouted.
Nerevar turned and gave Almalexia a long, deep kiss on the mouth. She didn’t bite his tongue, but she did scrape her teeth against his bottom lip, which he thought was very rude and unfair of her, all things considering, and he would have protested about it, but all that came out of his mouth was a vaguely pleased groan. Vivec wolf-whistled.
Almalexia spun and landed on Sil; Sil landed on Voryn; Voryn landed on Nerevar. Before Nerevar could take his turn, Vivec groaned exaggeratedly: “There’s no fun in this if it doesn’t land on me. Let’s play something else.”
“Truth or dare?” Nerevar suggested.
Vivec winced. “I remember what happened the last time we played truth or dare. . .”
All five of them sat in silence for a minute, lost in the vortex of dark memory. Never again. Never again.
“Well, what do you suggest we do, then?” said Nerevar, once he had recovered.
Vivec tapped his lips thoughtfully and smiled. “Well, we could—”
[This passage has been censored by order of the Temple.]
“That,” said Almalexia evenly, while Sotha Sil choked quietly on his wine in the corner, “is not what a netch longhook is for.”
“It’s not meant for fighting, either,” he pointed out, making his poet face again, “but I make do. There are many things, sweet Ayem, which may be used for things other than their purpose. There is more than one arpeture which may be pierced.”
Sil made a face of vague disgust.
“Fine, then we . . .” Almalexia trailed off. “Hmm. We fight whoever the bottle lands on. Loser has to . . .”
“Take a shot.”
“Boring,” said Vivec.
“Take off an article of clothing,” Nerevar suggested.
He perked up. “Less boring.”
“No,” Sil and Voryn chorused.
“Loser has to fight Ayem next,” said Nerevar.
Almalexia’s lips, painted a shade redder and brighter than Voryn’s curved into a grin.
Nerevar spun the bottle. Before it could land on anyone, Vivec nudged it with the tip of his longhook so it halted pointing toward him.
“I don’t think that’s—” Sil began.
“My money is on Neht,” Almalexia interrupted, leaning in. “Sorry, Vehk, but you look like a mild breeze could knock you over right now.”
“Seconded,” said Sil.
“Hey!” said Vivec.
“Bet accepted,” said Voryn, pouring himself another cup of shein.
“Traitor,” Nerevar accused.
“I would never betray you,” said Voryn, his sharp face half-shadowed over the rim of his glass. (Vivec pointedly took a shot.)
“Come now, Hortator, show me your courage!” Vivec declared, once he’d finished his drink, and lunged at Nerevar in a blur of jingling chains; they grappled over the couch, knocking over a glass.. “I’d like to clash spears with you, but I left mine somewhere else today. Not to worry; I have plenty other things of use.”
“Is this flirting?” said Voryn, to no one in particular. “Is he flirting right now?”
Sil shrugged. “Probably.”
“Ha!” Nerevar shouted, dodging a blow. “Eat me, Vehk!”
“Maybe if you had a little more coin on you,” Vivec called back. “No, no, don’t go easy on me! Don’t you love me, Neht?”
“Less and less every day.”
“Cruel words, muthsera,” said Vivec, pouting. “You wound my aching heart.”
“You are both s’wits,” said Almalexia, but her eyes were sparkling as bright as her emerald earrings.
“Hush, darling Ayem, you’ll get your turn later.”
“Your arrogance will be your downfall,” Nerevar warned, going for Vivec’s throat.
“Your trust will be yours!” Vivec shot back, and lunged beneath Nerevar’s arm, miming thrusting a dagger into his heart. “Ha!”
Nerevar fell to his knees, panting from exertion. “Ohhh, I am slain.”
Vivec scowled and prodded him with his foot. “With more feeling to it, Neht, I just stabbed you!” he said. “Honestly—you have no theater about you.”
Obligingly, Nerevar sprawled out onto the floor. “Ohh, I have just been stabbed,” he said. “By Vehk. Vehk has stabbed me. Woe is me. I am so naive. How could I have seen this coming?” He rolled over and did his best to look agonized and betrayed. “Voryn, avenge me!”
Voryn hid a laugh behind a delicate cough. “Worry not, Hortator, I will see your foul murder avenged.”
“Oh!” said Vivec brightly. “You can fight me while Neht fights Ayem!”
“. . . I will see your foul murder avenged eventually,” Voryn hedged.
“Ayem can avenge me, then,” said Nerevar.
Almalexia pursed her lips. “Sorry, dear, I am about to fight you,” she reminded him. “Your prize as winner, I’m afraid.”
“. . . Seht can avenge me?”
“Seht is busy,” said Sil, muffled into the rim of his goblet.
Scowling, Nerevar abandoned the scene and pulled himself to his feet, swaying slightly. “You lot aren’t going to be very helpful when I actually die,” he grumbled.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Vivec. “Seht will absolutely be the first of us to die. If his experiments don’t kill him, Ayem will.”
“Wake me up at the crack of dawn with an explosion again,” said Almalexia, pleasantly, “and I just might.”
“Well, who’s going to avenge Seht?”
Four pairs of thoughtful eyes fell upon Nerevar.
He threw up his hands in defeat. “Do I have to do everything around here?”
“You,” said Voryn, “are all terrible.” Nerevar opened his mouth. “Not you, Neht. I serve my king with naught but eternal loyalty.”
Almalexia raised a brow pointedly. “And your queen, Lord Dagoth?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Her, too.”
The subsequent mock-fight between Almalexia and Nerevar ended, as usual, with them making out against the wall, while Vivec eyed them appreciatively and Voryn pretended he had gone suddenly and mysteriously blind. Then Vivec was there, too, and Nerevar’s hands were wandering down Vivec’s waist without him totally remembering how they had gotten there. And then his shirt was gone, and Almalexia’s lipstick marks were all over his torso and Vivec’s neck, and he somehow ended up sprawled on the floor while Vivec read poetry out loud to them, and then Voryn looked sad in the corner so he went over to join him, and then he was sort of kissing Voryn a little, and Voryn was kissing him back, and Almalexia was busy with Vivec on the couch, and Sil was staring out the window with the melancholy air of somebody who desperately wished to be anywhere other than where he was.
And then there was morning light peeking in through the glass window, and when Nerevar shifted in Voryn’s lap, it was to find Vivec passed out on the floor, snoring softly.
“Vehk’s asleep,” he observed, a little jealously: with or without alcohol, Vivec had the cat-like ability to fall asleep whenever and wherever he pleased. “Should we wake him up?”
“No,” slurred Almalexia, through a half-stifled yawn. “I’m going to bed. Seht, come on. We’re going to bed.”
Sil had long since abandoned both his friends and his wine for a book he’d pulled out of his robes. “Me?” he said, looking up.
Almalexia flapped a dismissive hand at him, already headed for the stairs. “I meant, Neht, come on, we’re going to bed.”
“Hang on,” said Nerevar, who had been struck by a sudden artistic inspiration, and was busy looking for a pen with which to render his vision on Vivec’s face. “I need something to write with.”
Voryn handed over his lipstick. By the time Nerevar had finished his very detailed—if slightly blasphemous—rendition of Mephala’s lady bits across most of Vivec’s face, Almalexia had vanished to her bedroom, and Sil had meandered over to the couch and sat there upright, unmoving, either dozing or asleep.
“You want to go to bed?” said Voryn, chin propped up on one golden hand.
Nerevar shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “You go ahead, if you want.”
“I’ll wait for you," Voryn murmured.
“Well,” said Nerevar. “All right.”
Absentmindedly, Nerevar finished off Almalexia’s flin and paced up and down the room. Sil’s fingers were twitching in his sleep, the pale sheaf of his hair fallen over his eyes. Voryn watched him in silence, until his head fell onto his arms and his eyes slid shut.
Awake as the morning rose into full brilliance, Nerevar sat on the couch next to Sil and sighed. Whenever they were drinking, there was always a faint sense of duty that kept him watching over them, waiting until they left or fell asleep before he did the same. Someone ought to, after all.
He dreaded to think what they would do without him.