Chapter Text
Rumarin sat stiffly across from the projection of his mother, knowing that his father was somewhere invisibly off to her side but simply not having the emotional range at the moment to acknowledge that fact. Instead, he focused on the reason he’d called and just tried to brace himself for the fallout. “I want you to release a prisoner from Northwatch Keep,” he said, so slowly and evenly that it didn’t even sound like him.
“That’s a big ask, love.” He knew that, but short of raising an army he didn’t really know what else to do. “We haven’t even heard from you since Otero died. Thank the gods that Ulundil had the foresight to write us of your safe arrival.” Snitch, he thought, unfairly. Ulundil was under the distinct impression that everyone should get along and everything should and could work out with just a little faith, trust, and honesty. Rumarin hadn’t had the foresight to specifically ask him to stay out of it, maybe even a little hopeful back then that the guilt of not contacting them could be assuage by knowing that someone was.
“I know, but you...really have to.”
“Have to?” She said it in the skeptical tone that parents take with children when they sense any amount of naivete like a slaughterfish sensing blood in the water, but he tried valiantly to ignore the awkward, sinking feeling it gave him. He was not trying to compel them out of any ignorant idea that they should care what he thinks, nor was he even really appealing to a sense of justice that he didn’t know whether or not existed in them anymore.
“The prisoner is a Bosmer, about yea high,” and he gestured with what he hoped was an unshaking hand to the spot on his chest where Tsabhi presses her head while she thinks, assuring himself that the deep keening feeling in his ribs was exactly the reason he was subjecting himself to this. “She was arrested for possessing an Amulet of Talos, but I can happily testify that she was going to turn it in and the Justiciar ignored her explanation.” He didn’t know if that was true or not, but Ondolemar had asked her for one, so it’s the best story he’s got.
(Tsabhira does, on occasion, tend to simply accumulate garbage that she has no real use for. He knows she objectively believes in the divinity of Talos, because something something Aedric Relic something something Martin Septim, but he also knows she hates the very concept of Tiber Septim. Regardless it doesn’t matter because despite everything, he doesn’t actually care.)
“That’s a serious enough charge in Skyrim. Can I ask why any of this matters?”
He swallowed hard because this was going to be the difficult part. “She’s my wife.”
Perfect, pin drop silence fell. Any breath or muttered conversation between his parents ended completely as they stared at him, and he wondered for a moment if he should have specifically requested a secure line. They wouldn’t have bothered to get him one, since they naively believed that the desire to be a good citizen was perfectly equivalent to being a good citizen, but maybe it would have tipped them off to send any help they had away.
And his mother, a roughly mid-level Thalmor bureaucrat, sighed deeply.
“Ru,” she scolded. “Now you’ve upset your father.” His father, some sort of ranking officer but not notable enough to command more than a small squad of unspecialized cannon fodder, tended to become upset at quite a few things. Back when Rumarin was a child and before his parents abandoned the troubadour life to serve and protect Altmer interests as the longest lived race on Nirn , it had been a dramatic flair. He could honestly say that regardless of anyone’s interests in either side of the conflict, he simply missed the parents who were more excited about taking him to his first play at the House of Reveries during one of their yearly visits to Alinor than whatever soft-sold racial superiority that the Thalmor discreetly packaged as long term Altmer interests .
It was frequently difficult to even reconcile those people with the two before him, as his father staggered into frame.
“Since when?!” he asked with the same level of drama he used to bring to puppet shows for the children of Imperial City. Apparently Ulundil’s letters had left out the wedding, which was just sensible on the horsemaster’s part. Sheer, blinding optimism could only withstand so much direct scrutiny, and apparently balked against the idea that Rumarin’s Thalmor parents would be anything but disappointed that their only son had a Nord wedding to a Bosmer.
“A year and four months, but who’s counting?” He’d been separated from her in the forest of Falkreath for six days and seven hours, which was a much more granular and urgent number. While he did fancy her chances at starting a large scale prison riot, she was only one elf and it ultimately wouldn’t leave her with many hale and whole bodies to fight with, and he didn’t know how to help her on his own. She wasn’t important enough as an individual to rally any army but a handful of concerned faculty at the College.
“So you want us to exert our influence—”
“That’s about it, yes.” He didn’t let her finish because the rest was going to be more self-congratulatory than was warranted. It was a habit encouraged by the Thalmor: everyone had to be better than anyone else, and so you had pencil pushers tormenting their sons about their influence on Alinor while he tried to manage the mid-to-high level panic attack that he’d been maintaining for six days, seven hours, and now fifteen minutes. “She didn’t do anything wrong. It was a misunderstanding by a Justicar who was probably wound too tight from the general trauma of living in Skyrim.”
His father gnawed his knuckles, another melodrama that was more entertaining before he’d become a patriot. “A Bosmer, Rumarin? If you’d told us you were looking to get married—”
“I wasn’t. She just sort of happened.” He didn’t report it with the normal warmth that idea brought him, because he knew it just made things worse for his parents who’d already viewed him as impulsive for heading out to Skyrim after Otero died instead of returning to the island he’d literally never lived on nor particularly liked. Gods forbid he miss out on the joy of signing things for the cause. Perhaps if he was lucky they would ask him to get stabbed in the heart by some sweaty Nord for no real reason besides prolonging a foreign conflict!
His mother nodded a few times, looking deeply put upon; again, nothing that he hadn’t expected when he’d put in the request for a projection at the college, for Tsabhi’s sake. Brelyna was to his left, respectfully pretending she had suddenly forgotten how to comprehend language. “It’s doable, I suppose, since her crime was minor and she’s no one of import.” Not that his mother knew that, but he’d happily let her assume that a Bosmer couldn’t possibly be a high priority prisoner if it got her out faster. “We’ll naturally have some conditions—”
“I’m not getting an annulment. If that’s what you want we can stop here and I’ll figure something else out.” The next step would be to take Tolfdir and go to beg Idgrod to cooperate; she liked Tsabhi, as his wife was endlessly fascinated with Nord soothsaying despite its abject unpopularity with the citizenry of Hjaalmarch. Hopefully that meant he could gently trick her into standing in the crosshairs of the Thalmor for the sake of Tsabhi’s freedom.
“No, a year is too long for that— although if you wanted, I’m sure it could be arranged—”
He just barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “No.”
“In that case, I think you’ll find what I’m asking to be perfectly reasonable. We haven’t seen you in years, after all.” Not since Otero, who’d taken over the whole guardianship thing for them after they decided to run off and play Auri-El’s favourite children, died. They’d returned to Cyrodiil for the funeral and been extremely stiff and awkward in Bruma, and then assumed without asking that their son would follow them back. Of course by then he’d already made up his mind to wander and in the high pressure position of having to explain that impulse, he’d used visiting longtime family friend Ulundil as a smokescreen.
He nodded. “Fine.” He highly doubted that his parents were wholly capably of reason anymore, but he’d done more uncomfortable things for Tsabhi’s sake.
. . . . .
Mystery was part of what made the pursuit of knowledge worth all the effort. If one truly knew everything, then what was the point in wondering? Han-Ilu, a skooma-addicted Dunmer who was older than Tiber Septim and so deeply immersed in magic it frequently felt like time simply slowed into a pudding around his person, had taught Tsabhira that when she was a child. For all Dro’Baad, their caravan leader and another in Tsabhi’s motley array of parental figures, called him a sugar-huffing Dwemer scarecrow stuffed into the skin of an Ashlander two sizes too small for his bones, she’d always respected his views on magic, the daedra, and life in general; she’d thought she’d end up a lot like him.
She had and hadn’t in many ways, but in following him in his worship of Hermaeus Mora it was prudent for her to develop a love of not knowing alongside her hunger to know.
She decided that the Thalmor coming down, politely returning her clothes to her, and escorting her out of Northwatch Keep was something that fell hard into the need to know category. Her eyes spun as they marched her out into the snow, until they finally fell on her husband who looked like he’d just swallowed a mouthful of Blackbriar. “Give my regards to Estoril and Solinar,” the officer with her sneered before turning back to reenter the keep. Two unfamiliar names, and a sudden release from a presumably permanent sentence apparently orchestrated by Rumarin.
She opened her mouth but he shook his head minutely. “As charming as everyone here surely is, I would love for us to be literally anywhere else right now. I’ll catch you up on...everything, later.” He frowns when he says everything, which makes her hands twitch.
“That just makes me want to know more,” she chided him, but quickly slipped her cloak on and followed him out of the compound. “I missed you. Planning a jailbreak is such a drag with only desiccated political prisoners for company.” She expected him to retort with something funnier, as he bore the burden of humour in the marriage, but he just...didn’t say anything. “The Stormcloaks all thought I was a plant, so I didn’t end up making friends anyway.” His head was on a swivel as they tried to find the path in the fresh snow, and she...didn’t even think he was listening. “Azura’s tits, Ru, did you sell them a baby to get me out or what?”
He smiled, small and flat. “See, this is why I need you with me. That would have been so much easier than what I actually did.”
“Made a deal with Clavicus Vile?”
“No, I’m perfectly capable of making bad bargains on my own.”
“Is the College still standing?”
“When I left, yes. As much as it ever was, anyway.”
“Is that where we’re going?” He’d unconsciously— or consciously although it would be extremely out of character for him— taken the lead and was walking with enough urgency that she had trouble keeping up with him.
“No. I already explained the situation to them so assuming you don’t leave me on the spot, you’re technically on sabbatical.” She tried not to be disappointed about her classes, which was easy enough because Rumarin still didn’t say where they were going and she was more curious than invested in Theory of Alteration, a class which many despised on principle because they thought theoretical philosophy was less entertaining than setting things on fire (something that children could do unprompted and without any magic at all). “How are you with long boat trips?”
“I’ve never taken one.” He was still on the lookout, presumably for Thalmor. She hoped he wasn’t...traumatized by their parting, or anything. She tended to repress moments of fear like that, which wasn’t healthy but their burden was her own. She’d hate for Rumarin to linger unnecessarily on the transitory terror of not knowing where she was in a dark wood full of hostile government officials. “Can you tell me where we’re going yet?”
He stopped, casting one last wary glance back in the direction of Northwatch. “I suppose I have to, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“Am I engaged in a political marriage to Ulfric Stormcloak?”
“What? No, gods no.”
“Are you?”
“He wishes.”
“Then it’s fine, Rumarin. Tell me what happened.” Ideally they’d get to Solitude and rent a room first, if only to spare her the cold, but he was a picky sort of person and if he steeled himself on the way then she might never get it out of him.
He watched her for a moment, his expression unusually inscrutable. “My parents got you out.”
“Of the Thalmor—” It clicked, suddenly, and she frowned. “You never told me—”
“Believe me, I’m not proud of it. I was being one hundred percent honest when I said I didn’t care, but my parents were completely taken in by the idea that we’re supposed to be inherently better at government because we’re alive longer than everyone else. They left me with Otero in Cyrodiil, Otero died, and I left them at his funeral to go anywhere but Alinor.” He shifted around awkwardly for a moment, then grinned. “It sounds so dramatic , doesn’t it? It isn’t. It’d be a very boring story if they weren’t complete cultists about it, no offence.”
“None taken. It sounds like my cultists are a little bit better adjusted.”
“No kidding. Imagine my shock when I found out that in comparing my parents to daedra worshipping loons, I was being unfair to the loons.” She laughed, still feeling a little...confused. Not everything made sense quite yet.
“Ru, did they ask you for something in exchange for getting me out?” Annulment, surely. It was hard to pinpoint what, in the vast array of possibilities, they didn’t like about her, but given the variety of choice they had there was surely something. They hadn’t been at the wedding, although she wasn’t sure if that was because they disapproved or because Ru hadn’t invited them; maybe some combination of both, which only made the likelihood that their union was on thin ice with the in-laws stronger.
“It’s fascinating to watch you think, do you know that?” He fiddled with some of the embroidery on her cloak. “How many high elves do you know besides me?”
“Ulundil and Arivanya.”
“They don’t count.”
“That weird handsome Thalmor agent we found in the swamp?”
His nose crinkles. “No. I don’t like him.”
“So he doesn’t count?”
“Right. Neither does Calcelmo or his nephew, Niranye, Ondolemar, or Nurelion.”
“Not for the same reason?”
“No I don’t think you’re attracted to Nurel— look that’s not the point. My point is that, how many Altmer do you know besides the ones you’ve met in Skyrim?”
“None.” Bosmer and Khajiit were as close as Dro’Baad was willing to go with inviting those technically affiliated with the Aldmeri Dominion into the fold, and even then only because she was a baby, Gaeleg and Berelin had harboured a deep personal hatred for the Thalmor, and as a Khajiit himself he wasn’t in a position to start turning people away out of prejudice.
He nodded a few times. “There’s a big difference between island High Elves and High Elves that have to be around real people. Even Ondolemar—he was a complete ass when we met him, but he warmed up to you right away.”
“In his own way.” He was still kind of an asshole, but one who was generally pleased to see her. “All right, so we’ve established Alinor is weird. What does it matter?” Hopefully he wasn’t winding his way down to explaining to her exactly why his parents disliked her enough to insist on getting rid of her.
It took him a moment, but eventually he got it out. ”My parents want us to go to Alinor and get married there.”
There was a heartbeat of silence, and then she audibly sighed in relief, pressing her hand to her chest. “Shegorath’s ass , Rumarin, you could have led with that! I thought— well I thought it’d be worse than that!”
“Well that’s the thing, you’re giving me a very relieved reaction while I try to explain to you why this isn’t as easy as it sounds. The Thalmor here are mostly nice to you because they’re just relieved you’re not a Nord, but on Alinor you may as well be. Marrying you is a big enough deal that they think they can do damage control by trying to own it, and the worst part is that it’s not going to work but trust me when I say we’ll be bearing the brunt of the general commentary.”
“Not to be dismissive, but we’ve been married a year and change and people still refer to us as companions because they think elven relationships are strange and exotic, for some reason. I did it once and I can do it again.”
“You say that now but I feel like it would be remiss of me not to warn you that everyone is going to be on their absolute worst behaviour because while I find your height and tendency to talk to apex predators coy and endearing...” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck in a compulsive gesture of stress. He was clearly worried that she would feel awkward or marginalized by his parents, but she suspected a small part of him was also worried about the extremely real possibility of her not liking them as a result.
She took his hand and squeezed it tightly, making sure he was looking at her directly. “Rumarin, I promise you that they’ll have to do something nearly gymnastically bigoted to make me dislike them more than I already dislike Windhelm in general.” There was a certain threshold of hatred they’d have to clear, and that was the level where she’d convinced Rolff to follow her out of the city to the old shrine of Boethiah and ritually killed him for a god she only mostly knew about.
He smiled, faintly, and pulled her in so she could lay her head down on his chest (well, not precisely; lower than that, right at the part of his ribcage where if she pressed down too hard she could snap a bone that would puncture his lungs, but he said it wasn’t as romantic when she said it like that). “Maybe we’ll get there and I’ll just come off as a paranoid jerk for assuming that everyone would be horrible to you, and we’ll all laugh about it over some weird seafood thing.”
“That would be nice.”
“Just keep in mind as a general goal, we want to avoid having the Thalmor drag you off into another dungeon while we’re there. My parents are exactly influential enough to bully some justicars on punishment posts in Skyrim, and that’s it.”