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ordo-scriptus · 24 days

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I adore this. Utterly.

Travelling with Martin the second time is more an ordeal than it was the first.

There’s the Blades tagging along with them, now, with their elaborate plans and zealous concern; every time any one of them takes a step they rattle like tin cans, so loudly that if any of the cult is trying to track them down it’s a wonder they’re not all gutted already. Then there’s all the extra bits the Blades insist on – like tents, which Pax is by no means opposed to but slows them down ridiculously, always needing to be set up at night and taken down first thing in the morning, or the horses, which speed them up but Pax resents, all the same. (They always need breaks to rest or eat or what have you, and riding for too long sets them aching to hell, their legs and hips and stomach all quavering with exertion. Pax rides the same horse they found halfway through their first journey with Martin, and she is getting more familiar than she ever wanted to be with its little snorts and stomping gestures. Martin keeps patting it on the nose whenever they’re down on the ground again. Martin rides the paint horse, too – it’s two to a steed, plus bags, which Pax knows would be enough to snap their spines like dried-out twigs but of course the Blades have spelled saddles. Feathered, Martin says, like Pax has any idea what that means.) They all spend as much of the day riding as they can without the horses withering away and dropping dead, unable to divert at all from the roads without riding face-first into a tree branch, the Blades getting all serious and severe at any passing glimpse of another traveller, or the edge of a town, or a suspicious-looking boulder. It’s fucking exhausting. Maybe if they’d dressed Martin in something less impractically fancy, and left their glittering armour behind, they wouldn’t all be so conspicuous. Pax is the only one here with any sense.

In Blackwood, the trees don’t sprawl so low down; you can ride horses well off the road as long as you’re careful of the muck. For the first leg of the first trip with Martin, they didn’t have horses at all – they both just walked, past razed fields and empty buildings, the span of land around Kvatch near entirely abandoned, scrounging what they could and sleeping wherever they wanted. They couldn’t proper restock on supplies until they hit Skingrad – certainly didn’t have tents or armour that reflects every whisper of starlight so bright it blazes, and they were fine. It all feels unnecessary. And annoying. This close to the end, all the little extra things to pay attention to make Pax want to jump out of his skin.

Because they are close to the end. They’re in the denouement, now.

The Blades set up a watch routine, too – everyone crawls into their superfluous tents and leave one person up to keep an eye out, until they wake the next person for their turn, and so forth. Pax hasn’t done watch shifts like this since he left Blackwood. (It doesn’t really work, when you’re alone. Besides, he wakes easy, and he goes to sleep quick. Martin’s bad at it, so swapping watch back and forth when they were together just would have left him confused or lethargic the next day. Not worth the bother.) Pax gets watch shifts, most nights, set in the dark hours just before the sun rises; Martin, though he asks, doesn’t get any. Pax usually wakes him up, instead of whoever else she’s supposed to. It isn’t like he has anything he needs to be especially well-rested for – just sitting on a horse in an enchanted double saddle, same as the rest of them, his too-long hair getting in his face, careful arms loops around Pax’s middle. He won’t even take a turn to direct the bloody thing, because he still hasn’t learned how – the fact that he’s never managed to fall off is a damned miracle, honestly.

So she wakes him up, if the Blades won’t – and she doesn’t usually go back to sleep, right after, because there doesn’t seem all that much point. They both stay up, around whatever burnt-down firepit was constructed in the night, the small tents arrayed around them; the leaves of the trees rustle, flickered through by some small animal, owl or bat or squirrel living in a hollow. Crickets chirp, loud and endless. It would probably be peaceful, if it could be, but Pax is keyed up, taut as a bowstring ready to snap, and he can’t really remember how to feel peaceful anymore. They’re getting ever-closer to the capital and the temple and the end of this whole strange, terrifying thing, and he wants it over and done with instead of lurking in this strange in-between space. They’ve all done so much to fix this and none of it will feel like any kind of accomplishment until the fires are lit and the Gates closed and sealed beyond reopening. It’s almost, almost, almost done – but it’s not the end yet, and in the quiet night all there is to do is waiting, and Pax, antsy, irritable, is very, very bad at waiting.

Martin’s better at it. Which isn’t to say he’s not nervous – he’s all nerves, even more than normal, which is really saying something – but he’s patient, and doesn’t complain, even though Pax knows he wants it over just as much as they do. Probably more. (Definitely more.) He just sits, in the dark and the dew, all quiet and watchful in just his undershirt and warm wool trousers, and even those are fancy, all fine-sewn and slippery as water to the touch. They wear oddly on him. He keeps the Amulet tucked under his clothes, cold metal setting against bare skin, and the red gleam beneath his shirt makes it look, at certain angles, like his heart is glowing.

The fire is well out; no owls call. Pax lies, in their own much less swish sleeping-things, in the dirt and grass, all of it wet so thoroughly with dew that it soaks the back of their tunic. Through the silhouettes of leaves and branches, they can just make out the lustre of the stars.

The old Emperor talked an awful lot about stars, when Pax met him; she wonders, vaguely, what he’d make of these ones.

There’s a shifting, up nearer the firepit; and, “Pax?” Martin whispers, sound half-swallowed by the still, drifting night. “Are you awake?”

“It’s sopping wet,” Pax replies. He props himself up on his elbow and turns his head; Martin’s got a lantern lit, and it’s just enough to make out his face by. “Even I’ve got my limits.”

Martin exhales; Pax knows he’s smiling because they can see the dim white gleam of his teeth. It’s not too cold a night – they’ve travelled far enough from Bruma to be clear of its sodden snow and ice and winds – but it’s not warm, and the wet fabric plastered to their back is chill enough to make them shiver. The stars, up above, shine cold and clear.

“I was wondering,” Martin says, voice still hushed; his eyes flicker up to the snatches of sky between the tree branches, too. “What will you do, when all this is done?”

It’s a perfectly reasonable question; Pax realises, quite abruptly, that doesn’t have an answer. She sits up, shuffles awkwardly over the dewy grass. “I don’t know,” she says slowly; she shrugs. “Go back to the roads, I s’pose. Get some venturing work. Join a guild, maybe, if I get bored.”

(They haven’t thought about it; they’ve been busy. A part of them – quite a large part, if they’re being honest – kind of wishes the Crisis would never end, one way or the other. Wishes it would keep on in this sort of suspended state forever. But it won’t, and it can’t, and it would be ridiculous to say as much. Just – they’ve never done anything this exciting, before. And they don’t really know anything that could measure up, once it’s done.)

(Pax has never really been one to plan for the future. Back in Blackwood, he didn’t have to; he knew he’d just run with the same crew he always had, and he learned only from them. Learned letters and archery and what dregs of mage-craft he had any aptitude for – learned to scamp on the roads and crack locks reasonably well. And then he left, and became a hero, and that’s a good occupation in itself, but it’s not going to last forever. He’s not sure what his other options are – he could try to work square, but he doesn’t think it would last. He’s not one suited to an apprenticeship, or an honest job, or much of anything, really. The only thing he really knows is this.)

In the lanternlight, the shadows are so stark that Martin’s face looks creased with ink. “Oh? What guild? Fighters? Thieves?”

“Thieves’ Guild wouldn’t take me,” Pax tells him loftily; they wriggle a bit closer, goose-pimples rising on their shins. “They don’t like independent operators, and I’ve been one since I was born.”

Martin clucks his tongue. “You can’t say things like that around me, Pax. I’ll have to have you arrested.”

“Like you could,” Pax tells him, grinning, and leans over about as far as she can reach to elbow him. She has to lever herself back up, afterwards. The watery-pale stars are winking at her.

Martin is looking up at them again. “There’s always work for a hero, I’m sure,” he says, and waves a hand. “You’ll have endless people to save and feats of derring-do to perform. Perhaps you could write an autobiography.”

“Ha.” Martin’s received their letters, sent on longer stretches away from Cloud Ruler; he’s read their writing, their chicken-scratch hand and the less than delicate way they pick their words. Pax is fine enough as a communicator; they get to the point quickly and clearly. But metaphor and flowery prose is rather beyond them. And they’ve seen the speech Martin gave in Bruma, the endless editing of his drafts, debate over this word or that. “You know you’re the better writer of the two of us, Martin Priest. Reckon you should pen our book.”

Martin tips his head further back. “I wasn’t even there for most of the interesting parts,” he points out, “and I’m sure to be far too busy, besides.” His eyes are closed. Pax shunts themself another bit across the grass.

“Oh, I’m sure you can take a half-hour every evening to scribble out a few paragraphs in your four-poster bed and your kingliest pyjamas,” he says, unsympathetic, and flicks him in the shoulder. “With a silk canopy, and duckling-down blankets, and a pen nib of solid gold.”

“All right, all right.” Martin opens his eyes; they look grey, in the dim light, the orange lanternlight flickering off their whites. He reaches out an arm, and Pax rolls his eyes but shuffles damply into it all the same. “I suppose I have no choice.”

His arm, settled around their shoulders, is heavy-warm. Pax leans their shoulder into his ribs, under his armpit. This close, they can see the faint gleam of the Amulet through his undershirt. Quiet, they ask, “Still nervous?”

Without missing a beat, Martin replies, “Excruciatingly.”

He’s always nervous. But on this, Pax can’t even really make fun of him for it – if someone told her that she was the heir to the whole Empire, and tried to thrust her into court to take it all over, she’d tell them to eat shit. If the fate of the world depended on it, though, that wouldn’t really be an option anymore. And Martin’s too nice, most of the time, to tell anyone to eat shit. And Martin’s too nervous not to take every bit of it so painfully seriously. Not just the world-ending bit, but all the etiquette and legalese, too. Jauffre gave him some books to read to try to acquaint himself with it all; none of them seemed to help much.

“You’ll be fine,” Pax says, and leans their head on his shoulder, the post of their earring jabbing into the skin behind their ear. They gesture out at the silhouetted tents. “You’ve got all this lot, and the Elder Council – they’ll help you out. If they won’t let you take a piss by yourself they’ll definitely be there to assist with the stuff that’s actually important.” Martin exhales; it’s almost a laugh. The earring is beginning to hurt quite badly, so Pax lifts their head. “Besides, you’re trying. You want to get it all right. That’s more than some would do.”

“Thank you, Pax,” Martin says, and then they’re both quiet.

The stars above look watery-dim. The silhouettes of trees have slightly more dimension. Martin is pressing his palm, fingers splayed, to the smooth-cut bump of the Amulet under his shirt. Pax is still shivering, a bit – lying her whole back down in the dew was a bad idea. Now she’ll have to wear her one other tunic and hope this one dries out in time not to wet everything else in the bags.

“I hope,” Martin says, voice silver-soft in the dark, “that when you’re out roaming, shocking everyone with your valour and intrepidity, you’ll come to visit a great deal. You won’t have the excuse of being out saving the world anymore.”

Pax leans her shoulder harder into his ribs. “Only if you’re not boring when I’m there,” she replies. “You won’t have the excuse of saving the world either.”

“No,” Martin says. “I’ll be running it instead.”

Already, the stars are beginning to snuff themselves out, like candle-lights; in half an hour or so, the sky will start to lighten properly. The Blades will all wake, springing up like little clockwork puppets, and the tents will be packed up, and the horses saddled – they’re tied on slack ropes to trees down the other end of the clearing, and now, if Pax squints, he can just make them out – and then the day will begin, the timer trickling down.

Pax wets his lips. “Three more days,” he says. “Thereabouts.”

Then they’ll reach the city.

Martin breathes out, slow. “Then I’ll really be Martin Septim.”

The Amulet glows under his shirt, royal-red, rising and dimming like a heartbeat. If Pax hadn’t been arrested, that day – by chance, for one of the few robberies they actually didn’t commit – then they wouldn’t have been taken to the gaol, dribbling blood all over the floors, antagonising the guards trying to mark them down in the records, and they wouldn’t have ended up in that dust-coated cell with the shitty neighbour across the way, and the old Emperor would never have glanced at them twice, and the door never would have opened, and they wouldn’t be here.

Pax is not one for gratitude, generally, but they have never been so thankful to be falsely imprisoned in their life.

“My census name’s Camilla Patesco,” he says.

He’s looking at the first watery dregs of dawn in the sky, not at Martin’s face; but he can hear the smile in his voice when he replies, “I won’t tell anyone.”

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ordo-scriptus · 3 months

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Sobbing, wailing, can't read for tears.

When she comes to she’s missing half her fingernails, hands raw and bloody from clawing at the stone hide of the giant dragon statue that now occupies the temple. Someone is screaming. It takes her a moment to realize it’s herself. Her face is wet. She can’t tell if it’s blood or tears.

Either way. Either way.

“Molly, stop, stop,” someone is saying, pulling at her shoulders. “It’s over. It’s done. It’s over.”

She jams her elbow into their solar plexus and whirls around. Baurus staggers back, wide-eyed, and she knows she should apologize, knows it’s not his fault—but isn’t it? Isn’t it? If he had never come to Kvatch—

“It was supposed to be me,” she hears herself babbling, hoarse, “it was always supposed to be me, that’s why you sent me—”

“Molly,” Baurus says, as if she’s hurt him. He looks every bit his age. Why did they ever send him to Kvatch in the first place? Why did the emperor choose him when he still can’t even grow a full beard? “He—he did it, though. Dagon’s… Dagon’s gone.”

“And now you have no emperor again, well done,” she snaps viciously, because if he’s going to look so wounded she might as well wound him. Her heart beats in the ends of her fingers. It’s going to burst out from where her nails have broken off.

Baurus sets his jaw. “You’re bleeding.”

“I should be dead.”

“We didn’t want you to die. Do you really think that? Did you always think that?” He hesitates, tensed to move.

Her throat is too tight for any more words. She turns back to the dragon, with her bloody handprints streaked down the leg, useless. She had assumed—she had known, because she had been absolutely certain, that if only one of them emerged on the other side it would be—him. Because she has survived too many things she should not have already. Because he is—he was—he is important, and people who are important don’t just—

But of course they do.

If Dagon is gone. If the gates are closed. If it is really, truly over.

What was the point of surviving everything if that’s all she’s going to do now?

At some point she’s dropped to huddle on the floor, hugging herself tight, knees to her chest and heels flat on the ruined stone. She can’t breathe. Her lungs are too shallow, too small. Count, one-two-three—three—three—too much in her head, not enough numbers, not enough air. She envies the dragon, envies the way Martin split from his skin and left nothing behind. (Left them all behind.) What she wouldn’t give to unfold, now, out of her body, peel out of herself and leave, and leave, and leave—to be the one to stop. Her pulse is still threatening to drag her heart out her fingertips.

Baurus kneels in front of her. There are wet tracks on his face too. She’s sorry, suddenly; she doesn’t want to hurt him, after all. He’s so damn young. Seventeen-eighteen-nineteen. Just make it to twenty. “I wanted you to live,” he says quietly, his hands loose in his lap, his eyes on the ground.

She digs her raw fingers into her arms, the mail gone slippery with blood. The stone that was the dragon that was Brother Martin towers over them. He always has something to say, in horrible silences.

He says nothing.

She starts over from one.

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