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Milk Thistle and Morning Glory tied with a green ribbon in a neat bow.
They laid innocently on his pillow, softly illuminated by the candles decorating his rooms. Martin finds them after dinner and immediately looks around, first for the culprit then for any witnesses. He finds neither. He closes the door, and then stares at the flowers. He stares for a long, long time.
Words and spells can bring many a foe to his knees. Poisons and potions can send many to their graves. Martin has many tools up his sleeve, and he has never faltered in the face of danger. Worshipping Sanguine had taught him that.
Here and now, faced with hope, he is completely defenceless.
“Oh, Anna,” Martin sighs as he allows one finger to trace the ribbon. Green like her eyes.
It would be easy to crush them, dice and slice them, and mix them into an elixir. He could give it to her… her.
Anna.
Warmth blossoms in his chest, effortless.
A huff escapes him. Although he wants to send them up in a bright flame, he grabs a glass and fills it with water and fits the flowers inside. He holds them against his chest for just a single moment, and places them carefully on his bedside table. He gets himself ready for bed.
And when the fire is put out, moonlight spills in from his windows, casting a romantic light on the unwanted gesture.
These are foolish times to have hope, and even more to be in love.
-
Anna’s first attempt at a confession had been much less subtle. Martin didn’t even need to read her mind: it was written all over her face.
It took a great feat not to read into what was so plain to see on the girl's face. Wilful blindness to every smirk and batted lashes. To the pretty flush of cheeks, the brush of bold fingers. A soft smile gracing her features.
Bolder as each day passed, until one day the girl's hand settled over his.
Middas, in the middle of the Great Hall. Anyone could have seen, could have walked in. He snatched his hand away as if burned. A panicked drumming in his chest, jitters dancing their way down his spine. His fingers twitch.
He’d been a fool to ignore it. Even more for falling for it.
Anna swallowed, but ploughed forward. “Martin, I -”
“Do not,” Martin said.
“But -”
“No. Do not.”
An irritated huff. “Will you just listen?”
“I am well aware that you so enjoy breaking rules, but unless you forgot, I am to be your Emperor,” Martin said, “But heed my words: I do not play games. I will not play yours.”
“It’s not a -”
“Do. Not.”
-
She left with less fuss than expected, really. Only to make her move once the sun has set, once the disapproving eyes are gone. It’s by the moon that Anna professes her love in a secret language, known only to them. Aloe Vera and Lily of the Valley. Primrose and St. Jahn’s Wort. Dragon’s Tongue and Mandrake.
He brews potions in the evenings, nutritional elixirs to encourage the longevity of the flowers that now cover every empty space of his rooms.
She does not need to know the change she has made to his space, she does not know she has brought colour back into his life. She’ll never step inside, and Martin will never reveal his heart.
He won’t.
He won’t.
Every morning Jauffre and the Blades paint a portrait of death and despair and destruction that Martin sees every night in his dreams. He never feels closer to turning the petals to ash than when he wakes to memories of the blackened Gate, the burning of the Chapel he called home. The floral rainbow that greets him is a mockery. Silly, useless ornaments that he keeps alive when he couldn’t -
When he couldn’t save -
There is too much blood on his hands, and more to come. They are at war. War against a Deadra, the Prince of Destruction no less. There is much left to accomplish.
Anna, the young Breton who fancies herself in love. Who excels in Archery and cheats at cards. Who travels Cyrodiil for him, bringing what he asks for. Who must see him -
But it’s not fair. She’s only a girl. So young, so full of hope.
A girl Martin can never touch.
A doomed, beautiful girl who wastes her days reading about flower language, who sneaks silly offerings into his rooms at night.
It is always this thought that stops his hands. As his fingers caress Lily of the Valley, all of the anger falls away and his fingertips kiss the white petals.
The other Priests of the Chapel had once whispered about the power of love. He thought, once, the power of it would cure the poison on his soul. The lily does not wilt under his touch. He almost wishes it would. Martin closes his eyes and breathes in the scent. It conjures a vision of Anna: teeth digging into plush lips, eyes narrowing in concentration, fingers flipping yellowed paper.
Eyes set on Martin like a target. Fingers resting on his hand. Lips parted around a confession he feared. A confession he drowns in.
He pours himself a glass of wine. He drinks and he drinks and he falls asleep and he dreams of a field of flowers, soft fingers caressing petals white and soft like snow.
-
Worship has seen a rise in popularity since the Gates to Oblivion have begun opening. The Chapels have seen a resurgence in visitors, people leaving offerings to the Gods. Children weaving wreaths of good luck and health for their parents. People flock to Divination, to the Divines.
As if prayer and offerings would keep them from the wrath of Mehrunes Dagon. As if candles and worship would protect their loved ones.
The worst tradition of all is the return of courtship. Love letters sent by couriers. Poetry performed in courtyards of Castles. Handpicked flowers, handmade gifts. Handholding by day, liplocking by night. Even the Blades are not immune.
Martin fears he’s being courted himself when he finds a bouquet on his table next to his books. Motherwort, Tiger Lily, Lady’s Mantle and Alkanet wrapped in blood-red ribbons.
He stalks around the Hall casting detect life spell but no no avail, either because Anna is long gone, or because he’s shaking.
-
Saturalia brings gift-giving and parties and merry songs. A Gate opens near Bravil. A gift of brown leather gloves.
Martin wears them for utility, not sentimentality. It does snow often, at the Temple. It is the brightness of the sun and the snow that blinds him, not Anna’s smile.
In the absence of my hand, let these warm you.
Late Evening Star brings grim tidings. An entire Guard Watchtower slain. Reading the Mysterium Xarxes late into the night. A gift of obsidian. As if a stone roughly the size of his palm could wash away the blackness staining his soul. As it offers protection from Magicka and bloodbaths.
He keeps it on his table all the same.
Candles are lit in the evenings. Blood and fear decorates Cyrodiil. Martin drinks himself into a stupor and dreams that he coughs up petals, and they pool in blood at his feet. He wakes to Ginseng on the pillow beside him.
Flowers and gifts exchanged in the Hall. Every laugh is sharp against his nerves. Jauffre catches his eye and frowns in concern. Martin clenches his fist and resists the urge to bounce his leg.
Anna’s eyes find his across the Hall. They see too much. They always have.
Martin dares not to meet them.
-
“You must stop,” Martin tells her in a dark corridor.
Anna lifts her head away from the parchment, a list of books he requested her to read for better understanding, and lifts a brow. “You asked me to get these.”
“Very clever,” he snaps. “You know what I mean.”
She snorts. “Yes, I know what you mean. It’d be nice if you understood what I mean.”
“And what meaning is that?” Martin demands. “You and the Blades play silly games while -”
“Not this again.”
“ - people suffer under Camoran and Dagon and their wretched plan. You sing and dance -”
“We’re not ignorant, I know -”
“ - pluck life from the ground -”
“ - exactly what is happening, you forget who -”
“ - and present them as if your charm and beauty will save you.”
Anna grins.
Blast it.
“Beauty?” she prompts.
“Do not change the subject!” Martin snaps.
“Charms?”
“I’ve had enough of your mockery.”
There was a time when Martin would’ve thought this a mockery, but he knows better now and he’s known better since the beginning. Looking back, Martin cannot pinpoint when exactly it started. As if this bond between them had existed since birth; that he knew before knowing, and felt when he called it another name. As if arguments and heated discussions were declarations of love all this time. Perhaps they were.
“I’m not mocking you!” Anna drops the quill in her hand on the table and rises. Martin stands back and she leans forward. “These aren’t games, I know full well what’s at stake! We all do! You can’t blame them for taking joy where they can.”
“Learned much from Jauffre I see.” She sounds just like him, sometimes.
Anna ignores him, of course. “And you can’t blame me for - for trying - “ Her jaw locks up and her eyes fill with tears that she tries to blink away. Martin gapes in horror. But no amount of flinching will spare him the sound of her roughly clearing her throat, or the agony in her voice when she continues. “You could die, Martin. Any day now I could lose you, and I -” she ducks her head, auburn hair falling from her shoulders, over her eyes. He swallows. “I’m not going to waste any time we have. If I die, or you die - then at least, at least you’ll know. You’ll know.”
“And what exactly will I know? That you have an eye for colour?”
Anna laughs and shakes her head. “You really are a piece of work sometimes, Martin.”
When Anna takes his hand, Martin does not pull away. They stand together in silence, Anna lacing their fingers together, Martin leaning in to breathe the scent of her hair. Lavender, he knows now.
And when the clock strikes midnight, Anna squeezes his hand and leaves.
-
Peony and Water Hyacinth are next. He fights a smile when he sees them.
-
Martin never meant to reveal his heart. When he goes to collect ingredients for health potions with Baurus, he plucks a single Morning Glory. Perhaps it is tainted by all it has seen, but Anna will find meaning in that.
Her cheeks are pink the next time he sees her, and she trips walking into the Hall when she spots him at his table. He fights harder and harder to keep the smile off his face.
-
When Anna sends Foxglove, he sends Dragon’s Tongue in return.
When she leans in for a kiss at their next reading session, Martin nearly lets it land. They must make the most of their time, after all, but he can’t let himself sink so low as to kiss a girl so many years his junior. Anna smiles in reassurance, and kisses his hand instead. As if he’s a fair maiden. Martin pinches her chin, and she laughs fondly.
There might be some joy in stealing what one can, he understands now. Better to be drunk on flowers and laughter than wine. Better to drown out the scent of blood with the scent of lavender, and Anna’s soap. Better to take her hand and memorise the feel of her skin. To remember if -
If -
Lady’s Mantle won’t cure Martin’s broken heart, but Martin does not plan to live long enough to suffer if she goes before him. If Dagon does not kill him, then -
Then.
-
In their next session, Anna writes down important bits of information. Martin likes this best for maximal staring. For glimpses of her smile or the way she pushes her hair out of her eyes. Or, better yet, when she stretches and he catches a glimpse of her neck when she moves to tie up her hair.
They don’t speak much. They don’t need to.
And when the clock strikes midnight, Anna hands over her parchment, and then holds out a small mandrake shrub. Martin blinks in surprise. Anna’s teeth worry her lip. Martin reaches up to tug it free, and cradles her face in his hand. He waits until her anxious eyes meet his before he nods.
Anna beams, and kisses the palm of his hand.
-
Blades are exchanging small gifts in the Hall, and trade kisses in the corridors. They plant flowers where they can. As if all of Tamriel's darkness can be erased by colour and laughter.
For all that darkness haunts him, hope beckons him forward with her seductive light.
-
Dancing and singing continue into the night. Drinking and feasting, fighting and lovemaking. Martin will not be among them. Instead, he leads Anna into the wilderness. She carries a basket and pouts for show all the way into the trees.
However dangerous the woods are, it’s the only safe place for him and Anna.
In the darkness and silence they walk. Through mud and rough branches, through thorns and webs. Deeper and deeper until they reach a clearing.
The moon offers little light, the keeper of secrets that she is. Torchbugs provide a light glow, twirling around the arch of roses he erected before dinner. Others swarm near a sea of flowers. Arrowroot and Lady’s Mantle, Flax and Dragon’s Tongue. They create a riot of life in the dreary forest.
Martin hears her quiet gasp, and watches as Anna glances around in amazement.
“Martin,” she breathes.
“Come, we don’t have long,” he warns.
“Yes,” Anna says. She bends and sets down the basket. Carefully she retrieves two matching circlets of Flax and Ginseng. Martin narrows his eyes, but bends down for her to place it on his head nonetheless. Next, she carefully braids together ribbons of white, gold and silver. Anna smiles in satisfaction and hands it to Martin.
“We don’t have an officiant,” she says, wiping her hands on her dress.
“A powerful enough ritual will not require one.” Martin steps towards the arch, anticipation thrumming through him. “The real concern is if you love me enough to marry me without a third party.”
Anna’s eyes gleam in the Torchbug light. “I do."
Martin quirks a brow and beckons her forward. Anna eagerly rushes to him.
How anyone so bold and so beautiful can bear to look at him with such awe, he does not know. Nor will he ever. All he knows is that he hungers for this, for Anna, and as the end draws near he cannot find the strength to deny hope or love any longer.
“Know now, before we go further, that our lives have crossed, we have formed ties between us. As we seek to enter the bond of matrimony, we will strengthen these ties, by magicka, by soul. Do you still seek to enter this ceremony?”
“I do,” Anna says.
“I do, as well.” Martin lays the ribbons on the ground between them, and when he stands he laces their fingers together. “These hands are the hands that will cherish you, will love you, for a lifetime of happiness.” For as long as that lifetime might be.
As they speak their vows, the ribbons glow, brighter and brighter. Anna’s eyes never waver, her voice strong. She promises her love and fidelity. Martin offers his in turn. He promises that she will never be alone, even if he does keep to himself that he will follow her, even in death.
Martin will never know when he began to love her. If there ever was a beginning. There will be no end. He will love her for centuries, until the end of the world. He will love her til death, and he will love her beyond that. He wants nothing more.
Once their vows are complete, the ribbons shine brightly. The light sears their eyes, blinding them. Through tears he stares at his Anna, and she stares back. In a flash, Martin feels the thrum of the ritual through him, and it feels as though his heart could collapse. Martin squeezes her hand tightly, and Anna squeezes his back.
Just as suddenly as it struck, it dissipated. And in their shock, they collapse into each other.
Kiss, at last.
Martin does not know who leaned in first, or when. He only knows the softness of her lips, the sweet taste of her tongue. The warmth of her body, the smell of her skin.
“Make love to me,” she whispers into his lips, “Please, Martin.”
Martin breaks away from her mouth to kiss her cheek, instead. Her hair. “We have no time,” Their handfasting was risky enough. As much as he wants to take her now, he cannot. “We should go before we are missed.”
“Just another minute?” she asks, grasping his hands and kissing his knuckles.
Martin snorts. “We have the rest of our lives, dear wife.”
Despite knowing how short their lives will be, his chest warms as he says those words. His wife.
Anna grins, “Husband.” Her smile turns sly, and she says, “You can spare me a minute from the rest of your life, surely?”
Martin, never able to resist her, obliges.