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It’s cold. So very, very cold. Encased in ice, he can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t even scream; his lungs cry for air, but none comes. His mouth and nose are frosted over with ice, his hands frozen above his head as he kneels on the ice-cold floor in silent supplication, a monument to his own mistakes. Perhaps this is just what he deserves; a traitor to the throne, to the Isles, to his family, is worthy of no more.
Days go by – weeks, months? He has no way of knowing how much time has passed, but time doesn’t matter in Coldharbour. Nothing matters in Coldharbour. Even in death there is no reprieve, no end to the agony, only the endless, unforgiving cold that gnaws at his flesh and chills his bones.
He’s forgotten the feel of the sun on his skin, the wind in his hair; the Summerset Isles seem like a distant dream, one from so long ago that he barely remembers it. One by one, his memories leave him. The scent of cherry blossoms on the breeze, the sound of the waves lapping at the shore, the cry of seabirds… his sister’s face… his own name.
(–Naemon, someone is calling from far, far away. Prince Naemon! Perhaps that name meant something to him long ago, but no longer. He just wants… just wants to rest. Let me sleep, he tries to say, but he can’t sleep, can’t move, can’t breathe–)
The first thing he sees when he wakes is a pair of worried blue eyes gazing into his own, way too close for comfort. “Aargh!” He recoils instinctively, tries to scramble backwards, but he can’t move – can’t move can’t breathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathe—
“Naemon! By Magnus, you’re awake!” A strident voice pierces his eardrums, shaking him out of his sudden panic. Of course it’s Vanus Galerion, he thinks; no one else on Nirn has both so little awareness of personal space and so much sheer volume.
There is the question, of course, of whether they even are on Nirn. The last thing Naemon knew, he was in Coldharbour. Where he is now, he has no clue, but apparently it’s… soft? He blinks, trying to focus on his surroundings. A room with stone walls, a bookshelf in the corner, a hearth with a flickering fire. He’s lying on his back in an Imperial-style bed, wrapped in soft blankets of a quality that he probably would have turned his nose up at once upon a time, but that nevertheless feel like the height of luxury compared to the cold stone floors of Molag Bal’s halls.
“Where… where am I?” he says hoarsely. His throat feels like it’s been scraped with sandpaper, he realizes as he speaks; in fact, his body aches all over, like he’s been taken ill with some particularly nasty flu. Is it even possible to be sick when you’re dead? Naemon wonders. That would be utterly ridiculous, but it would also be just his luck.
Galerion beams at him. “This place is called the Hollow City,” he says. “A little sanctuary here in Coldharbour, warded by Meridia’s power. Nothing will harm you here, don’t worry.”
So they are still in Coldharbour. Perhaps he is doomed to stay here forever; he is dead, after all. What would even happen to him if he tried to return to the mortal realm? Would he become a ghost? Would his spirit simply dissipate, like dust on the wind? How did he even get here, to begin with? These are questions that Galerion is surely better equipped to answer than he, but he finds himself drifting into sleep again before he can ask them.
Over the next week or so, Naemon questions Galerion and the other mages who come to check on him for details. It’s slow going and confusing, given the tendency of mages to go off on tangents of no interest to anyone other than themselves, but he eventually manages to piece together something of an explanation. The Vestige – or so people have taken to calling his sister’s agent – rescued him from Molag Bal’s stronghold, along with some other similarly imprisoned souls.
Since then, it seems, he’s been left in the care of Vanus Galerion, who has claimed one of the Hollow City’s many abandoned buildings as a makeshift Mages Guildhall for the duration of his expedition to Coldharbour. Galerion and his little band of mages have lingered on in the Hollow City since the assault on Molag Bal’s stronghold, with the intent of researching the place. Researching what, Naemon doesn’t know and doesn’t much care to; he can’t imagine wanting to stay in Coldharbour for a second longer than absolutely necessary.
Also, he’s definitely sick. The sore throat and aches have given way to fevers and chills and a hacking cough that just won’t let up. At least this answers the question of whether he’s a ghost or not: if he were a ghost, surely he wouldn’t feel this miserable. (He’s given up on asking the mages such questions as “am I alive?”. The answers he’s received on that topic have ranged from ponderous philosophical ramblings on the nature of life and death, to an even more bewildering dissertation upon Anuic-something and Padomaic-something else and some sort of blue Oblivion goo, to a smart-alecky “are any of us, really?” Mages. Insufferable, the lot of them.)
If indeed he is alive (to which the consensus from his various aches and pains and sniffles is a resounding "yes, but at what cost”), there is still the question of how he has a body. Surely it can’t be the same one he died in? He remembers little from that time – and thank the Eight for small mercies – but after being killed not once but twice, and one of those times as a lich, he’s surprised there was enough of him to resurrect a second time.
Can’t they just let me rest, Naemon thinks as he huddles in bed beneath his multitude of blankets, his body wracked with shuddering coughs. There’s a fire burning in the hearth in the little stone room where he’s stayed since his rescue, but he’s still so cold, always so cold. He never wanted to be brought back again and again. He never wanted any of this. He doesn’t even know what he does want anymore, other than perhaps just to sleep forever.
That night Naemon dreams of Molag Bal’s halls again. The screams of the soul-shriven tortured on the racks, the cold stone floors, the ice. Always the ice. He’s pleading for someone, anyone, to save him, but no one ever comes and he can’t breathe—
He wakes sweat-soaked and panting, his protective cocoon of blankets twisted into a constricting prison; it seems sleep is no refuge either. Naemon kicks away the tangled mess of blankets and gets to his feet, shrugs on the spare robe Galerion had left him, and rushes down the hall to the bathroom where he spends the next several minutes retching in between sobs.
When it’s finally over he rinses his mouth out and splashes water on his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror above the basin. He’s a wreck. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, his cheeks flushed with fever, his ash-blond hair a tangled mess. Since his rescue he’s barely eaten, and despite the amount of time he’s spent in bed of late, the sleep he’s had has been fitful and restless. Small wonder he looks like death thrice warmed over.
Combing his damp hair out of his eyes with his fingers, Naemon glances out the window. Time doesn’t pass quite the same way in the Hollow City; the stars are all different here, and even the moons don’t follow the same path across the night sky that they do in Nirn. Still, it is night, and by his reckoning it’s quite late. The usual sounds of activity from the comings and goings of a couple dozen mages have ceased as the Guildhall winds down for the night – which is good, because he can’t quite bear to face anybody right now. (Especially not Galerion. He’s well-meaning and has been nothing but kind to Naemon, but the mer can be… overwhelming, to say the least.)
Not quite willing to head back to his room just yet, still too shaken by his nightmares to contemplate sleep, he makes his way to the Guildhall’s small kitchen. Perhaps a cup of tea will help soothe his stomach.
To his surprise, there’s already somebody in the kitchen when he arrives; a tall, pale Altmer in well-worn brown robes is standing over what looks to be a little magical burner of the sort used for alchemy. However, instead of an alchemical beaker bubbling away on top of the burner, there’s a small, long-handled pot. The unmistakable fragrance of strong coffee permeates the air.
The other elf’s ears twitch at Naemon’s approach, and he turns to look at him. “Hello there,” he says, brushing loose strands of long brown hair from his face as he does. Now that they’re face to face, Naemon can make out an angular face and deep-set, sage-green eyes. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I, ah… yes? Yes. Thank you,” Naemon says awkwardly, suddenly very aware of how much of a mess he must look. The other elf, however, doesn’t seem at all fazed by it, only nodding and turning away to pour coffee from the long-handled pot into a pair of small cups. He hands one to Naemon along with a matching saucer.
“My apologies,” says the brown-robed Altmer. “It occurs to me that we have not been introduced. I am Verandis, Count of House Ravenwatch of Crestshade. High Rock," he adds, when Naemon looks at him blankly. "May I ask your name?”
“Naemon.” No title or family name; he doesn’t really feel he has the right to claim either at present. Not after everything he’s done, and especially not as he is right now, sick and bedraggled and wearing a borrowed robe, barefoot in a Mages Guild kitchen in Oblivion of all places. He’s breaking about thirty different precepts of Altmeri etiquette and propriety before he even opens his mouth.
“Well met, Naemon.” Verandis smiles and inclines his head slightly. There’s no hint of recognition in his eyes. Clearly the name doesn’t mean that much to him; he is from High Rock, after all. “Will you come and sit with me awhile?”
He doesn’t really want to socialize, but Naemon nods anyway, letting Verandis guide him to one of the common areas used by the Mages Guild. There’s a couch piled with soft pillows in front of an unlit fire, which Verandis lights with a snap of his fingers. Evidently he is a mage of some sort, even though he’s not in Guild colours.
“Are you here with Galerion and the Mages Guild?” Naemon asks, his curiosity getting the better of him.
Verandis shakes his head. “I was a prisoner of Molag Bal. Guildmaster Vanus and his colleagues were kind enough to rescue me from my eternal servitude to the Prince of Schemes,” he says dryly. “From your question, I assume you are no Guild mage yourself?”
“No. My situation was… similar to yours,” Naemon says, with a shudder. Verandis simply nods, not pressing him for further details.
He blows on his coffee to cool it, taking a tentative sip. It’s sweet and bitter all at once, much stronger than the coffee he used to drink in the Isles, which was normally taken with milk. The coffee is good, though, and he can’t help the little sound of pleasure that escapes him. It’s been so long since he’s truly enjoyed anything.
Verandis sips at his own coffee, clearly savouring the taste. “Do you like it? This is how the Khajiit take their coffee, I am told. Adusa-daro… a dear friend taught me how to make it this way.”
“It’s good,” Naemon says, and then remembers the manners drummed into him by hours upon hours of etiquette lessons. “Thank you.” His throat is suddenly raspy and hoarse; this is perhaps the most he’s spoken at a time since before… well. Since before.
“No need to thank me. The pleasure is all mine; it is not often I have company this late at night.”
“You are often awake at this hour?” Naemon takes a quick look out the window. It’s not quite morning yet, but in an hour or so the sun’s first rays will begin to creep above the horizon. (If it is truly the sun that warms this little pocket of Oblivion. He’d ask one of the mages, but he fears he’d only get yet another lecture that leaves him more confused than enlightened.)
Verandis smiles ruefully. “My sleeping habits are more or less nocturnal,” he says, scratching at his stubbled chin. Now that they’re this close, Naemon can see the shadows under his eyes, the slightly ashen cast to his pale skin. He looks about as tired as Naemon feels.
“Trouble sleeping? I can sympathize.”
“You could say that.” Verandis laughs to himself, as if at some private joke.
They talk a little longer about inconsequential things – the petty squabbles of the Guild mages, the weather in the Hollow City, the curious fact that the Hollow City has weather – until the sky begins to lighten.
“I must take my leave,” says Verandis with a yawn, collecting their coffee cups, now empty save for the fine grounds at the bottom. “But it was a pleasure to meet you, Naemon. I hope we shall see each other again.”
Naemon chokes on a laugh. He’s been called many things by many people, but he doesn’t think anyone’s ever described meeting him as pleasant. “Hah! Likewise,” he says. “And good night. Ah. Good morning?”
“Rest well,” Verandis says, as he disappears down the hall.
Spending nights with Verandis fast becomes a habit, one that Naemon grows very fond of. If he can’t sleep, or if he wakes from a nightmare, he knows he’ll find Verandis puttering about in the kitchen or curled up with a book in front of the fire. He never sees him out and about in the daytime – true to his words, Verandis’s sleeping habits tend towards the nocturnal – but he’s a reliable presence in the Guildhall from sundown onwards. It’s comforting.
Sometimes they sit and talk, sometimes they just sit in companionable silence. Most nights Verandis makes coffee or tea; sometimes he even cooks for Naemon, though he never eats anything himself. “I have… supped already,” Verandis says when Naemon asks him about it, stirring cinnamon into a pot of gorapple porridge.
Naemon ignores the odd phrasing. Simple as the fare is, the scent of spices and apples and oats is making his mouth water; Verandis can talk as oddly as he likes as long as he keeps making delicious food. He leans over to steal a spoonful while Verandis is fussing with the spices. It’s good, but… hmm. “Could use a little more honey,” Naemon says, around a mouthful of porridge.
The other elf turns around to glare at him, but there’s no real heat in his stare, just an exasperated sort of… fondness? He draws closer, and Naemon finds himself flushing to the tips of his ears, though he’s not quite sure why. Suddenly he feels hot and shivery all at once, even though he’s long since recovered from his fever. Verandis leans in, that piercing green gaze lowering to Naemon’s lips; almost instinctively his eyes flutter closed, his heart pounding in his chest –
And then Verandis wipes a smudge of porridge from the corner of his mouth, gently dabbing at Naemon’s face with a handkerchief. “Here, you’ve got a little… there. All gone.” There’s something almost paternal about the gesture. It’s as irritating as it is endearing.
No, it’s definitely more irritating, Naemon decides. The thought of Verandis seeing him as a child is absolutely intolerable. His lips curl downwards in a frown (definitely not a pout: whatever Ayrenn may say, he does not pout) as he takes his bowl of porridge and goes to sit down by the fire.
Verandis sits beside him, curled up at the opposite end of the couch, a heavy old book on his lap. The building the Mages Guild has commandeered for their improvised Guildhall seems like it was once a library or house of learning, though of what he’s not been able to deduce, as most of the books are written in Ayleidoon. While the language shares common roots with Aldmeris, it’s far removed enough that Naemon finds it largely incomprehensible. Verandis, however, seems to have no such difficulty, though he takes his time in the reading, muttering under his breath as he translates.
“Verandis, do you have a family?” Naemon asks. He’s not sure why he does so, only that this comfortable scene makes it very easy to imagine him in some domestic family setting.
“I… after a fashion, yes.” Verandis looks up from his book, his pointed ears quirking upwards in surprise. “Not of my blood, no, but I consider them family all the same.” He smiles fondly, thinking of absent loved ones, and Naemon feels a sudden pang of heartache at the thought of his own family. His father and mother, long since passed, but whose memories he finds himself still desperate to live up to even now. Estre, whose marriage to Naemon was never anything but a political alliance, but for whom he’d held affection all the same; affection that would have surely grown into love given time. Ayrenn…
He does not want to think about Ayrenn right now. “Tell me about them?” he says to Verandis. “I find I know very little about you. I’d like to know more.” As soon as he says it he realizes it’s true. For all the time that they’ve spent together, he and Verandis have spoken very little about themselves.
“Adusa-daro has been with me the longest,” says Verandis. “The one who taught me to make coffee the Khajiiti way. She is a very independent person who comes and goes as she wills, but she is always there when it matters most. Though we share no blood ties, I think of her as a sister.”
Well, if that doesn’t sound a little too much like Naemon’s own sister for comfort (not that she was there when it mattered most, a tiny, bitter voice inside his head says). “Are there others?” he says aloud, trying to keep his inner turmoil from showing on his face.
“Kallin is… a family retainer of sorts, you might say. I saved his life once, and he has served my family ever since. He is a loyal friend and steadfast companion,” Verandis continues. “And Gwendis – dear, sweet Gwendis, so young and full of life. No doubt she took my departure the hardest. She is like a daughter to me, though I know she wished for something else.” He sighs deeply.
“You must miss them,” Naemon says.
“I do. Very much.” Verandis closes his book and puts it aside. “And what of you, my friend? Are there people you miss, back home?”
Naemon winces. “I… I am not sure there is a home for me any longer,” he says quietly. Not after what I did, he doesn’t say. Cannot bear to say in front of Verandis, who has been so kind to him, who calls him my friend—
Verandis’s arm comes to wrap around his shoulders and it’s at that moment that something breaks inside Naemon. He leans against the other elf’s chest and sobs as months, no, years of suppressed grief and pain finally break loose. He cries until there are no tears left in him, until his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy and his head aches and there’s a damp spot on Verandis’s robe.
“I’m sorry,” Naemon says, sniffling. He doesn’t even know who he’s apologizing to – Verandis? Ayrenn? His parents? Himself?
“There is no need to apologize, my dear,” Verandis murmurs gently. “And… when we return to Nirn once more, there will always be a home for you with House Ravenwatch should you have need of it.” He runs a comforting hand through Naemon’s hair, combing out tangles with his fingers as he does. Verandis’s fingers are cold against Naemon’s scalp and he shivers, but it's not unpleasant. He leans into it almost instinctively, the rhythmic movements of Verandis's hand in his hair soothing away his fears and frustrations.
He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he wakes in his own bed much later. The sheets and blankets are much neater than he’d left them, and there’s a cup of water on the table at the side of the bed. He doesn’t have to wonder who left it there. He knows.
Gradually Naemon grows strong enough to take walks around the Hollow City. He walks with no particular destination in mind, simply wandering, becoming accustomed to the city’s meandering pathways. The architecture is interesting, a mix of Cyrodiilic and Ayleid influences, blending into the natural beauty of the surrounding plant life rather than running roughshod over it as Mannish architecture is wont to do.
Some of the plants he recognizes as Summerset natives, perhaps brought by the Ayleids when they made their voyage to mainland Tamriel thousands of years ago. It makes him strangely nostalgic somehow, and even more homesick for Summerset than he had been before. The Hollow City is beautiful in its own way, but it cannot compare to the hanging gardens and stone spires of Alinor, the towering majesty of Crystal-Like-Law, or the sun-kissed beaches of Auridon.
Some evenings Verandis accompanies him on his excursions and they walk side by side, sometimes talking, other times simply appreciating the peaceful scenery and the cool night air. Having little tolerance for the cold since his stay in Molag Bal’s citadel, Naemon always dresses warmly when he leaves the Guildhall. The Hollow City may be warmed by Meridia’s power, but the chill of Coldharbour lingers on the air nevertheless.
He’s fussing with his scarf on one such evening walk, struggling to tuck it into the collar of his coat, his fingers numb with cold. “Here, allow me,” says Verandis, and before Naemon can object he winds the scarf around his neck once more, twisting the now more manageable ends into a knot which easily tucks beneath his robe. He straightens the collar as well, with a little flourish. “Much better,” he says, eyeing his handiwork with a pleased smile.
Despite the cold, Naemon finds his face heating up. Whatever is wrong with me? he thinks desperately. That appraising once-over glance Verandis is giving him is clearly only for the scarf, and even if it wasn’t… no. There’s no even if. Not for him. “Th-thank you,” he stammers.
Verandis frowns suddenly, raises a hand to Naemon’s forehead to check for a temperature. “Naemon, are you quite well? You’re looking rather flushed tonight, perhaps we should go back indoors,” he says, a worried little furrow between his brows. “I do not feel the cold very much, you see, but I would feel terrible if you were to catch a chill—”
“I’m fine,” Naemon says, embarrassed to be fussed over in such a way (but also enjoying the attention just a little). “Please. Let’s move on, shall we?”
Verandis nods, though he’s clearly still concerned, and on they go. Tonight’s path takes them past the Shining Star, where a few off-duty Guild mages are sitting on the steps outside, singing some bawdy drinking song with a group of Nords. He thinks he recognizes the Vanos siblings – Kireth is arguing over the lyrics with an Argonian mage he doesn’t recognize, while Raynor is deep in his cups and nodding off against his sister’s shoulder.
They wander back through the market district, where the vendors are all closing up for the night if they haven’t done so already, the sun having long sunk beneath the horizon. Naemon spares a glance for the tailor’s shop, catching a glimpse of fine fabrics and patterns through a half-open door, when he sees a familiar face – one that he definitely did not expect to see here in Coldharbour of all places. “Estre?!”
She looks up from the rack of garments she’s perusing and oh yes, it’s definitely Estre. He would recognize that statuesque figure, those piercing blue eyes, that haughty expression anywhere. Naemon had long since come to terms with the knowledge that his wife had been a traitor, had lied and schemed and murdered to keep the throne within her grasp, had died. Yet here she is, right before his eyes, and he finds he doesn’t know how to feel about this at all.
“Naemon? What are you doing here?” Estre says, incredulous.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Naemon splutters. “You – you died!”
“I got better,” she says, with a hint of that smug smile he knows so well – though there’s something darker about it, shadowed by trauma and suffering. Suddenly he realizes what she must have gone through to be here. After all, she died in service to Molag Bal, much the same as he (though she at least chose to serve the Lord of Domination of her own free will; Naemon cannot say the same). “But pray tell me, what in Oblivion are you doing in… Oblivion?”
“I may have also died,” Naemon admits. “Once or twice.”
“It was Pelidil’s fault, wasn’t it? That incompetent fool! Ugh, I told him not to involve you in any of it!” She huffs angrily, her hands on her hips, looking for all the world like she’s about to reprimand some hapless servant for putting two sugars in her tea instead of three. By the Eight, it’s almost pathetic how much he’s missed her.
“The second time may have been Pelidil’s fault, yes,” he says with a sigh. “But the first was entirely a result of my own foolishness.” Naemon shivers, suddenly cold even through his many layers. He’s still not entirely sure what brought on the madness that came over him at the Orrery, but of his many regrets, that one is his greatest.
Estre frowns. “Still, I… regret that you ended up here,” she says, the words falling reluctantly from her lips; for Estre to admit remorse or wrongdoing is a rare occasion indeed. “This is no place for a Prince of the Isles. Especially not with such company as that.” She gestures at Verandis, as if noticing him for the first time.
“And what do you mean by that?” Naemon says, bristling. Estre has ever been judgemental, but surely a high-born Altmer and accomplished scholar such as Verandis should be above even her reproach. “Verandis has been nothing but kind to me ever since I’ve arrived here.”
“Open your eyes, Naemon." She points an accusing finger at Verandis. "He’s a bloody vampire!"
“Th-that’s absurd! Surely you must be mistaken,” says Naemon, though in his heart he is not sure of that at all, now that he considers it. He has never seen Verandis in the daytime… has never seen him eat, either. And his skin, always so unnaturally cold… “Verandis? Tell me this isn’t true!”
“You always were too trusting,” Estre sighs, magic gathering at her fingertips. A beam of light shoots from her hand to encircle Verandis, who glows brightly for a second—
And then the glow fades, and Verandis’ true form is revealed. His skin tone has changed from the pale gold of a somewhat sickly-looking Altmer to the waxy, ashen pallor of the undead. The shadows around his eyes have deepened, and there are faint blue veins visible beneath his skin. Most striking of all are his eyes, no longer that cool sage-green that Naemon has come to find so enchanting, but a deep, bloody red.
“You see?” Estre says. “Oh, I’m sure he has been very kind to you. Their kind are always so charming, so considerate – right up until they suck you dry. You really should choose your companions more wisely, husband of mine.”
“Naemon, I can explain—” Verandis begins.
“No. No! I don’t want to hear it!” cries Naemon, trembling with rage and fear. He feels as though he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. “Not another word from either of you! I—I have had enough of being lied to and condescended to and used, do you hear?!”
He turns and flees, barely even looking where he’s going; angry tears obscure his eyes as he runs and he doesn’t even bother to wipe them away, just runs and runs until his lungs are burning and his legs ache. Somehow his feet find their way to the Guildhall and he climbs the stairs to the dormitories, ignoring the looks he gets from passing mages as he does.
Once he’s finally alone in his room Naemon flings himself onto his mattress, curls up in a ball and cries himself hoarse. This time, there’s no one to hold him close and wipe away his tears, to run a comforting hand through his hair. Once again, he is alone.
Days go by in an apathetic sort of haze. Naemon no longer has anything to look forward to in the evenings, so he no longer bothers to keep track of time anymore. He stops taking his walks. Where once he barely slept, he now finds himself sleeping away most of the day and night. The same nightmares still plague him, but it’s no worse than the self-loathing and guilt and resentment that consume his waking hours. It’s fine. He’s fine.
He doesn’t venture out of his room in the night-time if he can help it. Not out of fear; after all, there’s nothing stopping Verandis from coming in to feed on him any time he wishes, now that his secret has been exposed. (Some nights Naemon almost wishes he would, just to get it over with. Once or twice he even dreams of it, and wakes in an uncomfortable mix of terror and arousal.)
No, it’s not out of fear for his life that he avoids Verandis. Certainly there’s not enough of that left to be worth preserving in any case, with the mess he’s made of it thus far. He just… doesn’t want the reminder of yet another mistake he’s made. He does a good enough job of that on his own, thank you very much.
Galerion comes to check on him once or twice, attempts to draw him out of his shell. He rambles on in that way he does about the Mages Guild’s latest endeavours, the preparations they’ve been making to open a portal back to Nirn when it’s all done. “Isn’t that grand? You’ll be able to go home at last!” He pats Naemon’s shoulder awkwardly.
Home. The very thought is laughable. Yet despite everything, he does miss Summerset desperately. Perhaps Ayrenn will allow him to return… even if nothing will ever be the same again, he would give anything to go back home.
Before he can even think about that, though, there is still some unfinished business he must see to in the Hollow City.
He makes some discreet enquiries at the Shining Star and finds out Estre is staying in a little house in the Hollow City, near the inn. Called the “House of Darkness” by some of the more superstitious locals, it had remained empty until she arrived and promptly set up residence there. That does sound like Estre, he thinks: boldly striding in where lesser mer and men fear to tread.
When Naemon arrives at the house, it doesn’t strike him as anything out of the ordinary. Just a small Imperial-style wooden shack with a gnarled old cherry tree outside. So why is he shaking as he walks up the stairs, as he raises his hand to knock on the door?
He gathers up all his courage and knocks once, twice, thrice. “Come in,” Estre calls, and with trembling hands he opens the door. Estre is sitting in a wooden armchair by the fire, a cup of tea in her hand. She looks up when she enters, quirking an eyebrow in surprise. “Naemon. I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
And what does that mean? Naemon wonders, bristling at the unspoken implications of Estre’s statement. Not that it matters. He didn’t come here to start an argument. “Hello, Estre. I trust you are well?”
“Never better.” She takes a sip from her teacup. “But I suspect you didn’t come here to exchange pleasantries.”
Truth be told, he’s not sure he even knows what he came here for anymore. He’s not sure if he even knows her, truly. Estre is not the person he’d thought she was when they’d sworn their vows to one another; perhaps he is not the same person anymore either. Perhaps this accounts for the uncomfortable feeling between them now, two people who’d once called each other husband and wife standing before each other and seeing only strangers.
“Estre, I…” He trails off. And then begins to laugh hysterically, because this whole situation is entirely ridiculous. “This is absurd, isn’t it? You died. I mourned you. And yet here you are in Oblivion, drinking tea like it’s a Loredas afternoon in Skywatch.”
Estre purses her lips in distaste; she’s always had a low tolerance for histrionics. “Here, have some tea. Perhaps it will help settle your nerves.”
Naemon doubles over with laughter, tears streaming from his eyes. “Why not make it a party? Let’s just invite the King of Worms over for tea and cakes, shall we? I’m sure the two of you can have a nice little chat about attempted regicide.” He dissolves into helpless, hysterical giggles.
“That’s enough, Naemon!” Estre snaps, setting her teacup down on the saucer with a decisive clink. “If you have something to say to me, then be done with it. Otherwise, get out.”
“I… I’m sorry. That was unbecoming of me.” Naemon straightens, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I’ve just… had rather a time of it lately.”
“Haven’t we all,” Estre says wearily. For the first time he sees the dark circles under her eyes, the slight slump to her proud shoulders. Despite everything she’s done, there’s a part of Naemon that still cares deeply for Estre; a part that longs to run to her side, to be her shelter against the world, the way she’d once been his.
But even if he could, even if he wanted to, he doubts she would accept any comfort from him now. Too much has happened for them to return to the way things used to be.
“Your vampire friend came to speak to me,” she says, breaking the silence. “He was quite concerned about you.”
“He what?” Naemon’s eyes grow wide. “Verandis is worried about me?”
Estre nods. “Asked me all manner of questions. I think…” She pauses. “I think I may have misjudged him. He seems to have only your best interests in mind.”
It’s as close as he’s ever likely to get to an apology from Estre. “I see,” he says slowly. For Verandis to have made this much of an impression on her… either he was indeed being sincere, or he’s a very good actor. (And looking back on their past interactions, Naemon doesn’t think he’s all that good of an actor.)
“That said, if he harms a single hair on your head I will flay him from top to toe and leave what’s left for the carrion birds to pick over,” Estre says calmly. “And I told him as much.”
He snorts with laughter. “By the Eight, I’ve missed you.”
“Oh, Naemon. Come here,” she says, holding out her arms. He falls into her embrace, leaning his head against her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her waist; it feels so familiar, yet so foreign all at once. It feels like goodbye.
“You’re not coming back from Coldharbour with us, are you,” he says. It’s not a question.
“To be convicted of treason and rot away in the Banished Cells for the rest of my days, if I’m lucky? No, I think not.” She laughs. “And I’m under no illusions that that goody-two-shoes Galerion would allow otherwise. No, if I return to Nirn, it will be under my own power or not at all.”
“What will you do?” Naemon asks her, hating the way his voice trembles.
“I will manage. As I always do.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. As they draw apart, she sighs and folds her arms in front of her. “It’s you that I’m more worried for.”
This time, it’s his turn to put on a brave face. “I’ll be all right, Estre.” He smiles weakly. “At least, I won’t be alone.”
The sun has already set when he finally leaves the so-called House of Darkness and returns to the Guildhall. A cluster of mages have gathered in the kitchen area and something smells like it’s on fire; Naemon gives them a wide berth and heads up the stairs.
There’s a little window nook upstairs where Verandis likes to sit and read sometimes. He’s a creature of habit and true to form, he’s sitting there when Naemon approaches, absorbed in the pages of some old book. So engrossed is he that he doesn’t look up from his study until Naemon comes to sit beside him.
“Oh!” Verandis straightens up and sets his book aside, a relieved smile playing on his lips, though his brow creases a little with worry. Honestly, the mer is as transparent as a sheet of glass. How could Naemon have ever thought Verandis meant him any ill will? He feels faintly ridiculous for it now, watching the way his face lights up at the sight of him. “Naemon, it’s good to see you.”
Naemon clears his throat, suddenly nervous. “Listen, Verandis…” His hands clench and unclench in the fabric of his coat. “Can we start over? I—I would like to get to know you. Properly. Without any more secrets between us.”
“I would like that too,” Verandis replies, almost shyly. “Very much.”
“Then first… will you let me see your face? Your real face.”
Verandis’s eyes widen in surprise. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“I’m sure.” Naemon nods.
With that, Verandis’s mortal façade simply falls away, giving way to the true face beneath. Once again Naemon is taken aback by how tired and ill he looks, the pallor of his skin, the bruise-like circles around his blood-red eyes. The veins beneath his skin are more visible this time, his already gaunt face even thinner; he wonders how long it’s been since Verandis last fed.
Naemon’s distress must show on his face, because Verandis turns away from him, a pained half-smile on his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guildmaster Vanus suggested I keep my glamour on while staying here, and I now see he was right. This was a mistake. I’m sorry, Naemon, I will leave you in peace—”
Before he can get up to leave, Naemon grabs his hand and holds it tightly. “Wait! Verandis, I’m sorry. I was only startled, that’s all.” He moves closer, takes Verandis’s other hand with his own. “Please stay.”
“…All right,” Verandis says, his lips pressed together in an anxious grimace.
Without really realizing he’s doing it, Naemon begins running his thumb across Verandis’s knuckles, tracing up and down the joints of his index finger. Cold they may be, but these hands have never been anything but gentle and kind to him. He deserves an explanation, at the very least; whether Verandis wants to continue their friendship after that is his choice.
“It occurs to me that we have not been introduced,” Naemon says finally. “Not really. My name is Naemon Aldmeri, Prince of Alinor… or former Prince, I suppose. They tend to not let you keep on being next in line to the throne after you attempt to seize it.” He laughs a hollow laugh.
Verandis squeezes his hands. “And we are well met a second time, Naemon Aldmeri of Alinor. I am Verandis of House Ravenwatch, Count of Crestshade… not that there is much of Crestshade left to rule. I, too, have made my share of mistakes.”
They sit in silence for a moment. “And how… how did you become…” Naemon trails off, unsure how to broach the topic without giving offence. His etiquette lessons certainly never covered this.
“A vampire?” Verandis smiles grimly, revealing a pair of sharp fangs. “I was young and foolish, in search of an easy path to power, and Daedric rituals seemed like a brilliant idea at the time.”
Naemon can’t help but groan. “Mages. Why is that always the way with you lot?”
Fortunately, Verandis seems more amused than offended; he offers Naemon a weak smile in response. “I wish I knew myself. Suffice it to say, many lives were destroyed in my pursuit of power. Molag Bal granted me immortality, but the price…” He sighs. “The price was much too high.”
“Estre did something very similar. Though I doubt she’d admit to regretting it, even if she did.”
“Ah. Yes. Your wife.”
“I’m not sure I can call her that anymore. We swore an oath ‘til death do us part, and… it did. Twice over.”
“She still cares for you,” Verandis says, with a hint of… is that reluctance? Surely not.
“And I for her,” says Naemon. “But we’ve agreed to go our separate ways.”
There’s another long moment of silence. Finally, Verandis says, “Will you tell me? How you died.”
Naemon tells him everything. Of Ayrenn’s disappearance and miraculous return, Estre and Pelidil’s scheming, his own madness at the Orrery and all that befell him afterward. His death and resurrection and death again. Coldharbour. The torture. The ice.
Verandis holds his hands tightly as he speaks of the horrors he’s endured, offering no judgement, only listening patiently. When Naemon’s done talking he holds him close, running a comforting hand up and down his back as he sobs quietly.
Then, after a long pause, Verandis tells his own story. He tells Naemon about the Daedric cult he’d joined as a young mer in his search for knowledge and power, his turning at the hands of Molag Bal. About the centuries he’d spent trying to atone for his mistakes, to find a way to live as a vampire without harming innocent lives. About the baroness he had tried so hard to save, and the baron who had been so enraged by Verandis’s failure that he’d set a plague of bloodfiends upon Rivenspire, not caring who suffered as long as someone did.
Verandis speaks with a detached, almost monotone voice, as though he were reading from some dry and dusty history book, though the minute trembling of his hands tells Naemon otherwise. He had clearly cared greatly for the Montclairs, and for the people of Rivenspire. So much so that he’d chosen to hand himself over to Molag Bal in exchange for an end to the curse that had plagued the region, knowing full well the fate that awaited him.
His courage puts Naemon to shame. If put in the same position, could he say he would do the same for the people of Summerset, for the Dominion? He has no answers to offer, no comforting words for Verandis that don’t ring hollow; all he can do is hold him, hoping that some small portion of what he feels comes through in his actions. That perhaps, just this once, he will be enough.
(From the way that Verandis sighs contentedly as he rests his head against Naemon’s shoulder, just this once, he thinks he might be.)
On the day that Galerion announces they will be returning to Nirn, Naemon is surprised to find he almost doesn’t want to go. He’d never have thought he’d be reluctant to leave Coldharbour, but he’s developed a strange sort of affection for the Hollow City, a place that sheltered him when he was at his lowest. As ridiculous as it sounds, it almost feels like home to him - though perhaps that’s not so much the place as the people. Or one person in particular.
Beside him, Verandis is waiting. “Are you ready?” he says.
“I suppose,” Naemon replies. He takes a deep breath, and takes Verandis’s hand in his. Though the vampire’s hand is cold, his touch is still a comfort, firm yet gentle, his thumb rubbing absent-mindedly against Naemon’s wrist as they take one last walk through the streets of the Hollow City. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
What awaits him on the other side, Naemon doesn’t know. If he’ll be permitted to return to his homeland, if his crimes will be pardoned, if Ayrenn will ever be able to forgive him: he cannot say. He can only keep moving forward, and face whatever may come with what courage he can muster. But at least he won’t have to face it alone.
Verandis smiles at him, red eyes sparkling in the portal's eldritch light. "Then come, my friend. Nirn awaits."
And side by side, hand in hand, they step through the portal together.