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“Gore, help me open this panel,” Remiel called to Gore across the Dwarven room. It was small by Dwarven standards, but it outsized an average home.
Gore sighs, rising from his place on the ground. He had agreed to babysit Remiel while his blood set up camp and Xelzaz worked on a meal.
He had been sat against a cold, metal wall, attempting to read a book. It was a choose-your-own-adventure style book that Remiel had picked up for him. They’d read it together, and she said it was good practice to read it on his own. Gore still thought the reading thing was pointless, but the smile on her face when they read together was infectious and warm. Her smile was worth feeling a little silly and a little dumb.
So he reads when she fiddles with dwarven machinery for purposes she almost always fails to explain. Today they followed this routine while everyone else enjoys comfort and warmth and rest. He leaves his book next to his sword and bag, which are haphazardly leaned against the wall.
“What’dya need?” Gore asks, looking at a sheet of metal that Remiel had removed the screws from, and had attempted to rip out of the wall. She’d made a bit of an effort, but the metal looked a bit dirty- possibly with old, dried blood?- and thus stuck in its place. It stands out against the rest of the wall, slightly, but Gore doesn’t think he’d notice it had it not been pointed out to him. It’s rectangular, maybe a foot by a foot and a half. It’s silver in color, but not in material. It’s not Dwarven, or maybe it is, or maybe it’s a metal Gore doesn’t know about. He doesn’t know many metals; he couldn’t smith himself out of a gentle hug. He knows he could ask Remiel what it is, but she would get distracted, and he’d much rather ask her about metal next to a fire with something to eat, rather than underground.
“Just pull it out,” Remiel explains, “That’s like, your specialty, right? Being strong?”
“Ah, I see,” Gore grins, “You need your big strong Nord to help do things you can’t.”
“Oh, shut up, Gore.” Remiel rolls her eyes, but there is no malice in her tone, and she smiles back at the brother. She steps back to let him get closer to the panel.
Gore has to admit- but not to Remiel- it is hard to pry the metal away from the wall.
“I think this panel will let me control, or at least understand, more aspects of this ruin,” Remiel explains. Gore thinks it’s cute when she gets like this, excited and knowledgeable; speaking with her hands, going off on tangents until her original point is completely abandoned, assuming her audience understands detailed dwarven mechanics that they clearly don’t. It’s charming. He doesn’t let her know this, though.
“I’m really interested in the heating and cooling methods here. Obviously it’s not unique to this ruin, but it’s more in-depth than most. I’d assume it’s steam-based, but what about the cooling? I think with everything here, I could recreate it elsewhere. I’m not sure how efficient that would be, given that fire can do most heating in small scales, and it’s hard to find a place that needs cooling in Skyrim. But on a large scale it’d be really useful! I wonder if I could get a contract to work on it in Markarth..? But they’d make me talk to Calcelmo, and I hate Calcelmo, he’s mean to me, and I don’t even like Markarth that much. I mean, the city is beautiful, but the technology there is underutilized and a lot of people there suck, and-”
The metal panel makes a pop as Gore finally removes it.
“Oh! Great, thanks, Gore!”
“‘Course, sister.” Gore places the panel on the ground, setting it gently to minimize the bothersome clang it makes. He’s not sure what to do with it. He steps back to let Remiel take a look.
She looks around at whatever had been hidden behind the panels. From the angle, Gore can’t exactly tell what she’s doing. She stands on her tippy-toes to get a proper view of the machinery. It was a fine height for Gore to reach, but not everyone was a big strong Nord. Mostly a Nord. He doesn’t like to think about it.
“Do you think I could crawl into the wall?” Remiel asks, mostly to herself, “No, but, how would I get out?”
There is a sharp clinking noise, and Gore is alert. Something opens up in the wall in front of them, and a blade is expelled. Light in color, smeared with what was likely blood, longer than Gore’s blade, but not by much.
“Remi!” Gore shouts at her, frantic. She’s not going to react fast enough. The blade is coming towards her. It’ll hit her in the neck. She turns her head, confused. She’s not going to react fast enough. It’s going to hit her in the throat.
He puts his hands on her shoulders, shoving her to the ground with force. Gore doesn’t enjoy the feeling of strength he has over Remiel. She seems to find it useful, but moments like this scratch against his mind in ways he tries to avoid.
Gore feels metal slide into his arm. The blade retracts back into the wall. He feels stinging. The pain hasn’t hit him yet.
“Hey! What was that for-” Remiel’s face falls from anger to surprise, “You’re hurt.”
“I’m hurt,” Gore mimics. He breathes in, and it hits him. His arm sears and aches. It’s wet and warm and open. His body feels light and heavy and sick. “Heh. Tusk. Yeah! That hurts.”
“I’m so sorry,” She rushes off the floor, trips for a moment, catches herself, and goes to his side, “I thought I had disabled everything in this room. I didn’t see it. I’m so sorry, Gore.”
“S’alright.” Gore grips onto his arm, in some vain attempt to stop the pain. It only intensifies at the touch. He pulls it away, his hand returning smeared with his blood.
“You’re bleeding a lot. Sit down.” Remiel orders him, gently guiding him to the ground. She moves her hand an inch away from his cut, attempting a healing spell. Remiel had already healed herself of her minor cuts and scrapes throughout the day, leaving her small supply of magicka pitifully low. If it helps, Remiel can’t tell. The blood keeps coming from the wound.
“It didn’t hit an art’ry,” Gore mumbles, “T’ll be okay.”
“Hhh. Okay,” Remiel presses her hands to the bridge of her nose, “Okay. Okay!”
Remiel quickly unbuttons her shirt. She has a bra underneath it. It’s not ideal, but she’d rather take this bit of discomfort than her other ideas. If she digs through Gore’s bag for bandages, it will waste time and blood on something she’s not sure she’ll find. Xelzaz is several minutes away, and Gore can’t have this wound open for that long. This is the fastest way to slow the bleeding.
“What’d you-” Gore begins to ask, but stops as his sister’s white button-up is firmly wrapped around his arm, “Oh. Sorry ‘bout your shirt, Rem.”
“The shirt isn’t important, Gore, I have more.” Remiel sighs through gritted teeth. Worry and guilt fill her stomach. Her hands shake. They’ve got Gore’s blood on them, and it’s her fault. “Can you walk?”
“Sure,” Gore says with a lop-sided grin, his teeth gritted beneath it, “‘S not on my leg, ‘nd I’ve had worse.”
True to his word, Gore rises to his feet, standing stable.
“Okay, let’s go,” Remiel offers her hand to Gore’s uninjured side, “I’ll grab our stuff after. Don’t worry about it.”
Gore thinks she’s telling herself not to worry more than she’s telling him not to. She’s known to do that, self soothing poorly disguised as reassurance.
Remiel leads them out of the Dwemer ruin. Speeding through corradors to reach the camp set up outside. Every step, minute, second, is a little of Gore’s blood leaked into her shirt.
“This is gonna scar pretty bad, huh?” Gore asks as they walk. It’s deep, spanning the length of his outer arm horizontally. It’s a bit closer to his shoulder than his elbow. “I’m lucky my arm’s ‘lready all burnt up there. ‘Nd it’d mess up my tattoo if it hit the other arm.”
His joking gets no reaction. It fills the rooms with something other than the sound of footsteps, and that is enough.
The pair is tense and bloodied when they make it out the doors. Remiel is near tears. Gore is buzzed with pain. Remi struggles with the large metal doors for a moment, shuffling them both out of them.
Upon seeing the pair, Xelzaz smiles, and waves them over to the camp. His face quickly changes to confusion, with perhaps a hint of judgement. Then, at the blood soaked shirt around Gore’s upper arm, his face turns to concern.
“Beeko-ojei, you’re hurt.” Xelzaz comments, moving over to meet his friends.
“Got sliced up pretty bad,” Gore agrees, “I’ll be fine, though, brother.”
“Let me treat you.” Xelzaz requests, leading Gore towards the camp. Gore doesn’t argue.
Remiel follows the two, hesitant, a few steps behind. She found where her bags had been placed, the ones she didn’t need inside the ruin. She pulls out a spare shirt, one she mostly used to sleep in, puts it on. They’re close to a stream, which she uses to wash Gore’s blood off of her body. The stream tints red. She stares at Xelzaz leading Gore to sit down on a fallen log beside a poorly lit fire.
“How did this happen?” Xelzaz asks, assessing his friend’s state.
“A trap. Sliced my arm.” Gore explains. He winces when Xelzaz removes the wrapping, tossing the ruined shirt aside. Gore distracts himself by looking for the group’s missing member, turning his head as much as he can without disturbing Xelzaz’s work.
“It’s a very clean cut. You’re going to need stitches.” Xelzaz decides. He notices Gore’s glances, and adds, “They’re out collecting firewood. They’ll be back soon.”
Gore thinks about making a quip about the weak fire, and how they’ll need the firewood, and how he’ll fix it, but he can’t muster the energy. The initial shock of pain has worn off, and left him a tired, aching mess.
Remiel fiddles awkwardly as Xelzaz works. She knows the Telvanni would likely find an extra set of hands more frustrating than helpful. She lets him assist Gore on his own and leaves to fetch the abandoned gear inside the ruin.
“I would be willing to do the stitches, but attempting it without anything to numb the area would be quite painful for you,” Xelzaz explains, as he cleans Gore’s wound with a damp rag and applies a poultice, “We’re less than a day’s walk away from Windhelm. As much as I despise that city, they will have the ingredients needed for full numbing. We could wake early tomorrow and have it stitched before the evening comes. Or, I attempt it now, with minimal numbing. It’s up to you.”
“Tusk, Xel, great options,” Gore mutters, “Tomorrow, I guess.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Xelzaz accepts. He wraps actual bandages around Gore’s arm. He offers Gore a bottle, which Gore drinks without question. “The wound has stopped bleeding so profusely. I’ve made dinner. Mother and child with rice. Have some, and rest. Don’t attempt to lift anything heavy, or use your sword, until I’ve cleared you.”
“What?” Gore asks, furrowing his brow towards the argonian.
“What?” Xelzaz asks back, voice laced with genuine confusion, “Your arm is damaged, performing any extra work will further harm the area.”
“No, mother and child?” Gore clarifies, exasperated, “We’re eating mother and child?”
“Ah, quail and quail eggs,” Xelzaz explains, “It’s usually not served with quail, but we had it on hand, and I find it quite pleasing.”
“Messed up name,” Gore exhales, as if he were trying to laugh, but lacked the energy to, “I’ll eat it. You made it, so ‘t’ll be good.”
Gore tested his injured arm while attempting to serve himself the meal. Quickly, he retracted its, holding it close to his chest. His hand didn’t react as it should. Nerve damage after an injury like this wasn’t unusual, and he only had hope it wouldn’t damage his arm permanently. He’d had moments of only having hope to hold onto, and they hadn’t failed him before. After a minor struggle, he had made himself a plate of rice, quail, and eggs, in a delicious sauce. The blood loss had made him crave sugar, it always had, and he was tempted to ask Xelzaz for one of his fruity meads, but saved himself the scolding of drinking after blood loss.
His blood comes back to camp, and he is numb to their conversation with Xelzaz, as Xel explains Gore’s injury with the little information he was given, and the plans for the next day. Soon, Remiel follows. Gore was only vaguely aware she had even left.
She sits next to him, unusually quiet, and eats beside him. She’s faster at eating than she normally is, but still slower than Gore’s pace. He’d eaten more like a dog than a man for most his life, quickly scarfing down his meals, something that always got onto Xelzaz’s nerves. The Telvanni was a strong believer in savoring food, which Gore was never raised to do.
When Gore is finished, Remiel grabs his bowl from him, “I’ll wash it with mine. Go lay down.”
Gore nods, stands, and heads to his tent. It had already been set up for him.
Gore loves his friends. He loves being cared for and shown love, he does, but the pampering that comes with injury doesn’t sit right with him. As much as Gore knows one can be vulnerable and a man, an adult, the two concepts feel mutually exclusive in his mind. Allowing someone to care for him, and to see him so small and pathetic and needy doesn’t come easy. These things bring the feeling of childhood, and exist in the part of his brain he tries to avoid. It’s nice to have the luxury to be weak, as he’s spent his entire life being unable to express it. He is working on these things, unlearning lessons he was taught as a child. He works to find the line between vulnerability and defenselessness, as many years of his life they had been the same.
At the moment, though, these thoughts are distant. Pain overwhelms Gore’s brain, and numbs his thoughts. Remiel pokes her head into the tent. She is a welcome distraction.
“Can I come in?” She asks, and he nods. “Anything you need? Xelzaz asked me to ask.”
“New arm?” Gore suggests.
“I don’t think he has an extra.” Remiel apologizes, and Gore isn’t sure if she’s genuine or not. She sinks down to the ground, and sits beside him.
“Could you help me change into something other than…” Gore pauses, “The several pounds of metal I keep on my person.”
“Oh! Yes, sleeping clothes,” Remiel agrees. Gore shifts his head towards the clothes he had taken out of his bag, only to abandon them when he realized he couldn’t remove his chestplate on his own. Remiel nods.
“Okay. Let’s… Put your arms up, okay?” Remiel asks, and Gore follows. His arm hurts as he does, but it hurts as he doesn’t, so he finds little difference in the action. Remiel places her hands on both sides of the chestplate. She stops.
“Can I?” She asks, and Gore nods. He had asked her to do this, and she had still asked for permission. Gore knows it is to make him feel safe with her, and he does. She manages to remove his chestplate and place it to the side.
Remiel grabs his shirt, and Gore speaks before she does, “I think I have everything else from here. Thanks a lot, sister.”
“Okay!” Remiel says, and places her hands over her eyes to give her brother more privacy. Gore appreciates these gestures. Small things that make the both of them feel safe. He knows Remi has no interest in looking at his body in any sort of lewd way. Perhaps in a technological way, if she had thoughts of turning his body into some sort of half-automaton Gore couldn’t say he was surprised. But she still makes an effort to show him such respect. He loves her more for it.
“‘M done.”
Remiel removes her hands from her eyes. She looks towards the ground. Eye contact wasn’t something Remi ever enjoyed, or made an effort to attempt. Gore knew her well enough to tell when her gaze was purposely avoidant, and when it was simply absent. This fell into the first. Her mouth opened and closed. Gore lifted his furs and curled inside them while Remiel attempted her wording.
“Look, Gore, I’m so sorry. I should’ve been more... I don’t know, careful, with you. I was just so focused on everything in the ruin, because it’s awesome, but you’re so hurt, and I’m sorry, I…” Tears prick Remiel’s eyes, “I’ve seen you in worse condition, I think. I shouldn’t be crying, you’re the one who’s hurt. I’m sorry, brother.”
“Hey, hey, sister,” Gore grabs one of her hands, and holds it in his, “I’ll be fine. I’m honestly glad I was the one to be hit. If it were you, it would’ve hit your neck. I’d take a thousand of these for you, Remi.”
“Oh, Gore! Don’t get sentimental on me, I’ll cry.” Remiel whines, “I love you.”
Gore closes his eyes and brings Remiel’s hand to his cheek. It’s firm and calloused, like the hand of any adventurer’s. They were softer when the two had first met. Skyrim, fighting, killing- these things hardened people, inside and out.
“Love ya, too, sister,” Gore smiles sleepily, partly into Remiel’s palm, “You can sleep in here, tonight, if you want to.”
“Okay.” Gore can hear bittersweet love in Remiel’s voice, joy creeping upon the guilt, holding it and dissolving it. He releases her hand, and she shuffles herself next to him. The warmth is nice.
This is something stolen from his childhood. Comfort and love and care from his sister, his best friend. It is something Remiel gifts to him; love. Tomorrow will be uncomfortable, but tonight he is safe and loved with his sister, and his sister is safe and loved with him, and that means everything to Gore.