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The house of the greatest archmage in elven history was (surprisingly) spotless; some devoted, tireless housekeeper must have spent their days organising mounds of books flung open on every available surface, collecting phoenix quills and returning them to their rightful places and sweeping away the excess ash that came with combustive magic. Not a single ritual blade to be seen out of place.
The delicate tendrils of plants living in hanging pots over the bookshelves were well tended to; they looked plump in the vines, with vibrant leaves and petals in the streams of light coming through the great windows.
“This is your home?” Elarion wonders out loud—the dismay in her voice borders on insulting.
How dare a wizard be brilliant and have his affects neatly organised. She remembers the libraries of the village masters; cluttered, books never in their rightful place. Abandoned quills on tables. Ink splots everywhere. Dusty, with the smell of old air. Wasn’t there some unwritten rule that all wizards must be unkempt and a disastrous mess?
Aaravos merely chuckles. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you live here, yes?”
The startouch elf hums. “I am living, anywhere I go.”
Elarion breathes in, as if her lungs could hold back the urge to groan. She was still trying to accept the fact that she might never hear a straight answer ever again.
So wise, so special. So above it all.
Elarion meets the elf’s eyes, unimpressed. Aaravos’ eyes twinkle with apparent delight.
**
“Elarion.”
For an all-powerful mage, Aaravos did not seem to know how to darn his own robes; he never seemed to notice any tears or broken seams, until Elarion did and brought it up. What did he do when things ripped and fell apart? Magic it away with moon illusions? Get his mysterious housekeeper to fix it? Turn back time? Let it be, because nothing really mattered?
He sat in front of the fireplace, cross legged, bare and sparkling, waiting for her to be done with his cloak.
“You asked me if this was my home.”
“Forgive me, I should know better than to ask a startouch elf what their home is.” She laughs to herself.
Aaravos takes a moment, head tilting in amusement at her quip. His palms are open on his knees, faintly glimmering.
“You are.
You are my home.”
He stares at her as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.
Elarion feels as if time has paused; she looks up to meet Aaravos’ gaze but her hands continue moving on their own, needle darting through the light cloth with swift ease. It pricks her finger, but the pain hardly seems to register.
“You are surprised.” Aaravos smirks, relishing in her wordlessness. The stars across his nose flicker gently.
“I’m…”
She was not going to tell him the truth—on the other hand, she couldn’t just lie to a celestially connected being.
“I’m honoured.” Elarion finally settles on with as graceful a transition as possible from flabbergasted to unrattled.
It wasn’t a lie, and it did not give away any of the fireworks that had gone off in her stomach.
Aaravos’ smile tells her otherwise, but Elarion sweeps away the thought like an impatient maid.
Of all things to be straightforward about—he couldn’t tell her where he kept his spare quills or where the bathroom was (did he even have one?) but this came out with no strings, no winding lesson about the nature of existence?
“Allow me to show you a most noble art in return.” Elarion offers.
“And what greater method have I yet to learn?”
“The art of sewing, O Great Aaravos.”
Aaravos raises an eyebrow—Elarion ignores what could have been a pout and gestures to the space next to her.
“You, who moments ago, pricked herself, will teach me?” the elf asks, moving next to Elarion.
“To mend broken things can be a painful experience.” Elarion jabs the elf with her elbow playfully; it hits him in the ribs, pushing him forward, his face suddenly close to her own.
Aaravos takes the newfound proximity in stride.
“You’re holding your breath.” He notes casually into her ear.
“Are you paying attention?” Elarion asks, turning her head with a questioning smirk.
“Why, I’m always paying attention. Perhaps you are the one who is not?”
Elarion’s finger meets the needlepoint once more; this time the sting comes through and she retracts her hand with a sharp inhale.
“Shall I try?” Aaravos asks.
The elf takes the bundle and needle, weaving the thread through fast and sure the rest of the way. He smiles at the completed needlework, satisfied.
“You knew? All this time!”
Aaravos stares at her. “Of course. What am I to do, walk around in tatters for all of time? Who is there to do it for me? The moon?”
He chuckles to himself, shoulders quaking as Elarion groans to herself.
“You are eager to help others, but…perhaps you are unaware that they may not need it.
You do this out of love and kindness, which overflows in you. That is not such a terrible thing.”
“I’m such a fool.” She says, closing her eyes wearily.
“I didn’t say that.”
Elarion feels a warm touch—her eyes open to find Aaravos before her, touching his forehead to hers for a moment before getting to his feet.
“Good night, Elarion.”