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“You realize that all your life you have been coasting along as if you were in a dream. Suddenly, facing the trials of the last few days, you have come alive.”
“Renting a room for the night in the more expensive of two inns surely wasn’t necessary, was it?”
“Martin,” The dark elf woman sighed at the post she had taken by the window, “It’s going to be nearly a day’s journey to Weynon Priory and you’ve been through a lot with more to follow.” She paused a moment and her voice softened, “I can’t promise you a soft bed twice. It and the room are yours; I’ll be in the other side of the door.”
There wasn’t much in the way of personal details that had been shared in the last half day they’d been traveling, but he’d at least gathered that her name was Ziah and, unfortunately for him, she was rather stubborn. Martin began the process of unbuttoning his ash smeared and blood stained vestments while glancing back over to her. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but closed it again, looking away.
“Is everything alright?” Ziah looked to him from her view of the rain once the silence had stretched on for too long. Her eyes were different than those of the other dunmer he’d seen – a swirl of dark violet foreign and yet achingly familiar. “Oh… of course,” She continued, “A woman shouldn’t be in the room while a priest is changing.” Her head moved downwards in a bowing motion before she pushed away from the windowsill.
This caused his hands to stiffen, “No, no. You’re fine… it’s just…” Martin trailed off, thinking it better to return his attention to the buttons. Once the weight of the vestments left him, they were draped over the back of the desk’s chair.
In that time, Ziah’s focus changed to her darkened hand where a particularly nasty burn marred her palm and the pads of her fingers.
One of the guards who survived the attack said that she had been the one to close the Oblivion Gate that prevented entry to Kvatch. Apparently, she had grabbed the sigil stone which tethered the plane to Nirn with her bare hand before ripping it out of its anchor point. Not the wisest of decisions, but he doubted she had a spare cloth on hand.
She was still gently poking and prodding at the irritated flesh, “It’s just what?” She asked, not looking up to see his expression. Now that it was only the two of them and the wrath of a daedric prince wasn’t towering above, her voice was soft – tired.
“That… looks painful.” He swallowed, sitting down on the edge of the bed in just his undershirt and trousers. Martin watched her preoccupation with the injury for a minute before realizing she wasn’t planning on confirming his statement, “Let me see it, please.”
“I…” Her brow furrowed, perhaps due to the sudden softness in his tone or maybe because of the brazenness of him asking in the first place, “It’s really not that bad, I can still draw a bow. It won’t be an impediment-”
He made a tsk sound, extending one arm toward her before the sentence was fully out, “Let me see it.” Martin repeated, voice softer, trying to avoid sounding like he was demanding her to listen.
Another sigh left her as she finally stepped away from the window. Ziah moved until she was directly in front of him and held out her hand. Aside from the burn of a palm, there was a circlet of abrasions and bruises around her wrist from where a metal shackle clamped around it. On either side of the joints, her skin had been sanded down to the bone. Those sections would the most likely scar if not healed through magical means.
“Not quite the hands of a lady, are they?” Ziah muttered as she let a soft puff of air leave her that could be remised for a laugh.
Gently he took her hand, trying to keep his touch as soft as possible while he focused on the warm that radiate from where infection tried to set in. In the process, Martin realized that one of his could completely surround her slender fingers with how malnourished she seemed to be. He turned her hand slightly, eyes darted over to the marks on her wrist.
The corner of his mouth tugged down into a frown before he looked up at her eyes, not bothering to hide the bitter tone in his voice. “No… they’re not.”
“I know you’re a priest,” Ziah mumbled, “But you could’ve lied.”
An eyebrow was raised and he shrugged with a half-smile, he began to ghost his fingers over the burn, “That wouldn’t be very priestly of me.”
The attempt at humor was ignored. “It will heal eventually. There’s nothing to worry over.” Then she decided to demonstrate the act of lying for him, “I don’t think the burn is bad enough to blister or get infected.”
A hum of acknowledgment was his answer as he grazed his thumb over her palm. Martin was more fixated on the wounds of her wrist, however. “I have no doubt it’ll heal…” He tried to pick his next words carefully so not to cause her to pull away, “But not without leaving a mark - at least not without magic to help it along.” The pads of his fingers moved down until they skimmed over where the scabs were still forming, his touch could be confused for a caressing motion if he weren’t careful.
“Ah well, the magic I know is largely illusion based,” Ziah retorted, “I don’t have the skills to do anything about it.”
He continued to linger on the marks. With a swallow, Martin shifted his eyes back up to her, “I could heal them for you.” Before she got the chance to say no, he quickly continued with a clarification, “There won’t be any cost, I… just don’t like seeing you hurt. And without any proper treatment, the scars will be visible for quite a few years.”
“Will it hurt?” Her jaw set as she asked the question. A lot of children in Kvatch would ask him that after they scraped their knees out playing. It crossed his mind then that perhaps Ziah had never been afforded the feeling of healing being cast on her.
Martin wavered, his fingers slowing but continuing on with their small circles on her wrist, “It could, I won’t lie to you about that either. I’ll endeavor to make it as painless as possible though.” He searched her face for a moment, trying to gauge her thoughts. He frowned again before adding, “But, I’d like to try, if you’d allow me?”
Ziah swallowed the unease rising up her throat then spared a glance back towards the window and the downpour outside. She was still looking at a frosted panes as she answered, “Alright, go ahead.”
“Thank you,” He breathed out and carefully guided her to sit on the edge of the bed beside him, readjusting his grip on her wrist as he did so. The touch was as gentle as he could manage but for some childish reason, he refused to let go completely. “Hopefully it’ll be more of a dull ache than anything. Try to hold still.”
Her body tensed as she sat beside him, mattress dipping with the combined weight. It caused the two of them to lean in towards one another so that their knees were now touching.
“Do you have a lot of experience doing this sort of thing?” She asked, not moving her knee away from his own.
There was a sudden urge to not let himself become fully aware of the nonexistent distance now between them. Martin shifted to face her more directly, holding her hand loosely in his lap as his other moved to hover over the burn, “Not particularly, but I’ve had to perform small restoration spells here and there. I know enough to know what I’m doing.” He glanced down at her palm as he gave a reassuring smile and a shrug of his shoulder, “Mostly.”
He was grateful that she mirrored his expression and finally began to relax somewhat, “Oh-ho, what’s this now?” Ziah mused, “Worshippers of Akatosh have a sense of humor?”
This caused his grin to widen as he chuckled. Martin’s face softened with a realization; he enjoyed the side of her that was playful. “Just because I’m a priest, doesn’t mean I don’t have a sense of humor.” He continued, his tone still light, “It’s actually required for the job in some cases.”
Ziah tilted her head, looking to him curiously, “How so?”
He didn’t let the smile fade completely, “It’s easier to get… less pleasant people to cooperate or see your point of view when you have a certain amount of tact and, occasionally, humor.”
“Well, I hope I don’t fall into the less pleasant category.”
He huffed out a small laugh as his grin continued to soften, “No… you don’t. The exact opposite, in fact.” Martin forced himself to refocus and looked back towards her hand. He drifted his own above the bun, feeling the way his flesh began to tingle with the magical energy being conjured.
Ziah’s breath caught but she didn’t pull away while she watched the motion and then him exhale slowly. With the focusing of the spell, a soft blue glow started to form at the tips of his fingers. The magic then began to spread down to the space between them before swirling over her skin.
Martin kept his eyes trained on it, watching for any sign that the magic was failing. Without looking up he requested, “Try to be as relaxed as you can, this… won’t feel very pleasant, but it shouldn’t hurt you.”
“It’s already better than the throbbing the burn’s left me with thus far, I assure you.” The mirth from her tone was now replaced with something quieter, caution or curiosity – he couldn’t tell.
A quiet hum of acknowledgment was his response as Martin continued on with the spell. The azure glow shifted into a pale amber as the magic reached its zenith. He had been told many times throughout his life that when he focused too intently on a task that his expression became quite stoic and nearly intimidating. He hoped that wasn’t the case now.
The burn started to shrink in on itself as the healing was expedited. Soon after, it was like the injury had never been there in the first place. However, he didn’t move until the spell faded. Only then did he allow his eyes to flick up to her face again, searching for any sign of pain or discomfort.
“How… how does it feel?” He asked timidly, voice somewhat strained. It wasn’t from exerting himself through the use of magic but rather due to the fact that his fingertips were still resting above hers. His other hand was still gently cradling hers within his lap. Martin willed his grip to loosen but didn’t let go fully.
Ziah blinked a few times, “Like I was just resting it in a patch of sunlight. It doesn’t feel like it’s on fire anymore and the throbbing’s completely gone.” There was a look of awe on her face and a smile he often associated with one who no longer had to bear discomfort.
The breath he didn’t realize he was holding was let go. He did nothing to hide the look of relief on his face as he inspected her hand. With more pressure, now that there was no risk of irritating an injury, he trailed his thumb over the creases of her palm, marveling at the stark difference between the roughness of his skin and the softness of hers. Ziah was an archer, which meant there should have been calluses at the base of each of her knuckles. The time locked away in a cell had eroded them completely.
He couldn’t help but let his shoulders relax, grip loosened further as he continued to hold her hand. Faintly, the pulse of her wrist could be felt from his distance to it, the rhythm of her heartbeat more soothing than he thought could be possible.
“Good,” Martin murmured and convinced himself to finally look up at her eyes. Ziah’s expression was definitely calmer than before. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, “Good I’m glad.”
“I ah… thank you Martin. That was,” She hesitated as her words began to stumble over themselves. From the way her brow knit alone, it was evident that Ziah had never received the sort of compassion before that warranted a thank you without the bracing of something being demanded in return. “That was very kind of you.”
With the uncertainty in her voice, his smile shifted into something sad. Martin couldn’t wrap his mind around how a woman was such a kind and selfless heart who was following the request of a man she didn’t know to the plains of Oblivion themselves for no conceivable reason other than that she was asked, could know nothing but pain and the cruelties of Tamriel.
He swallowed the anger welling up inside of him before it could overflow. Then, he allowed his gaze to dart back down to her hands as he carefully continued to move his thumb over the heeled skin. They sat in a comfortable silence that held no expectation for a moment before he broke it, “You… you don’t get kindness often, do you?” His voice was quiet. Martin lifted his gaze from her hand and his eyes once again locked with her own.
Ziah darted hers away. Refusing, or perhaps unable, to meet the sincerity he looked at her with. She pursed her lips before asking, “Was it that easy to tell?”
The grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly. His motions slowed, suddenly very afraid of the possibility that she would pull away, “I suppose it was, yes.”
“We need to work on your ability to tell a lie or two.”
He elected to ignore the suggestion. The frown did not leave his face, “When was the last time someone,” Martin paused, searching for the right way to ask, “Showed you even a modicum of compassion without expecting anything in return?”
Very quickly, he learned that was, in fact, the wrong way of putting it. She pulled away from him and began to rise from the bed.
“It’s late and we need to be up early to make it to the priory before dusk and you’ve been through a lot.” Ziah added the last part as if she didn’t single handedly close an Oblivion Gate, or watch the emperor die, or was it in prison for an undisclosed amount of time, or go through a myriad of several other misfortunes in less than forty-eight hours, “You need to rest.”
Martin’s eyes narrowed as she stood and he almost started to reach out to stop her but he was thankfully able to refrain from doing so. Instead, he let his hand fall to his side as she took one step and then another away from the bed.
“You’re right,” He lied, “I need to rest. But,” Martin swallowed, eyes searching hers for the answer to the question he had not asked yet, “Will you try to sleep as well?”
“I’ll be guarding the other side of the door,” She ignored his question just like she had earlier, “You’re not safe yet.”
There was an understanding that there’d be no use trying to convince her otherwise, so he simply watched her as she distanced herself and headed for the door. He became very aware of, and then distracted with, the feeling of unease that her being even a few feet away from him brought on.
“Goodnight, Ziah.” Martin murmured as she reached for the door. He forced himself to tear his eyes away, unable to watch her leave. His fingers curled into the quilt beneath him, trying to find something to occupy his hands with now that hers were absent.
“Goodnight, Martin.” Her fingers wrapped around the handle of the door. She didn’t look back to him as she added, “Thank you for helping me.”
Though she couldn’t see it, he nodded and put all of his attention on the stitching of the fabric beneath him so that he didn’t witness the beginning of her absence. Martin’s chest felt tight; a chain of some emotion he had never experienced before cinched itself into place. He pushed the feeling aside as well as the gaping hole of loneliness that starts to widened beside it as he heard the door click shut.
He tried to keep his breathing slow, his hands steady as a million thoughts flew through his mind: thoughts of the emperor, Uriel, of his now apparent duty towards the empire, of living through the nightmare that had transpired in Kvatch and all the lives that were unable to be saved… but mostly, and irrationally, his thoughts ended up wandering back to her. Ziah’ face and her voice, that small, sad smile of hers, the way her hand felt in his. After a few long moments he shook his head, pushing the thoughts away almost forcefully, trying to rid his mind of them before an attempt to sleep followed.