Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is Enthir who breaks the news. Which makes sense, in retrospect. Out of all the College mages, he seemed to be the only one fully aware of what that thuggish Orc not-quite-apprentice was getting herself involved in during her regular disappearances beyond the borders of Winterhold.

Drevis might have known something about all her chaotic comings and goings, too. After all, he was the woman's instructor.

The entire purpose of her joining the College in the first place was to “find some book-diddler to teach me how to make myself invisible”. She announced as much on the night of her arrival, her deep booming voice cutting through the whistling of the wind like a knife through (deeply frozen) butter, as she stood amid the wreckage of the College’s supply crates. They were mostly empty, thank Julianos, but it was still quite… unpleasant, to hear her threaten to keep smashing them until the mages agreed to take her in.

So, it fell to Drevis to placate her. Sometimes, his fellow mages have asked him how he could possibly stand teaching such a brute: all muscle and sinews and hair and piercings in impossible places, obviously getting up to something illicit when she was not poking around the College hallways, turning her already squashed and broken nose up at “this weird mage crap” and making jabs at Urag for being “a bookish Orc; not like me — not like me at all”.

But whenever any of his peers as much as uttered the first “barb” in “barbarian”, Drevis would them a round-eyed look of blank disbelief, and then shake his head, and say softly, in that airy way of his,

“Oh no, no, that can't be right! Umtaz is a keenly intelligent woman, very diligent in her studies... And pleasant company, too! As for what she does when not at the College — that is her own business that I am not privy to, but I will never judge her for it”.

And that has always been that. No point in trying to get anything useful out of Drevis.

Enthir, on the other hand... Oh, the sly, shrewd, down-to-earth Enthir. He always noticed far more than his trusting, absent-minded Dunmer colleague; and if one were to linger in the College’s drafty hallways after dark (well, after the slate-grey day turned into an even greyer night), one might have notice something curious as well. How he may or may not be passing heavy, jingly pouches to Umtaz, in exchange for tightly wrapped parcels, and may or may not be talking in a half-hushed drawl about “bounties” and “deals” and “mutual contacts”.

All of this time, he has been privy to her life outside the College, very much so... Up until now.

Now, he is in Mirabelle's office. He has sauntered in without so much as a knock, completely disregarding her attempts to shoo him off with “If this is about Arniel, he is a grown man and can settle his debts to you on his own!”.

There is a carelessly folded letter pressed between his index and middle finger. He wobbles it in the air, and announces, preambles be damned, that Umtaz's life — the entirety of it, at the College and beyond — has come to an end.

“It's that simple, Mirabelle,” he says, his bark-brown face frozen and unreadable. “Umtaz will not be coming back to the College. An… associate of mine reports that she has been killed by a certain traitor working to undermine his, uhm, organization”.

“May I see?” Mirabelle asks brusquely, grasping upwards for the paper. Half-obscured as it is by Enthir's fingers, all she can make out is “about the lass” and “Shadow hide you”.

“I am afraid that is confidential.”

 All of a sudden, Enthir seems in a hurry to fold up the letter more carefully and tuck it inside his robe.

“But if you are a smart woman, Mirabelle. Surely, you realize that I have no reason whatsoever to make this up. For a prank, that would be in rather poor taste — and I...”

Something shifts in his amber eyes. A dark shadow, like one of the nameless creatures darting about in the waters around the College’s cliff. It almost resembles... sadness.

There is only one other occasion when Mirabelle — when anyone — ever sees him like this. One particular day, every year. When that day dawns, he locks up his room — where he keeps all manner of goods, from shoddily carved mammoth tusks that he tries to sell as unicorn horns to actual gold and garnet jewelry that just might have once adorned the head and shoulders of a travelling Imperial noblewoman — and goes off on a long journey to Whiterun Hold. According to some overly snoopy apprentices, he makes it as far as Riverwood, and places a candle at the foot of the standing stone marked with the constellation of the Thief.

“...She was a good asset, that Umtaz,” Enthir cuts off his own line of thought, before seeing himself out.

And thus, the news spreads around the College: Umtaz is dead.

The hapless supply crates will never again come into danger of being punched into splinters. The corridors will no longer resound with crass expletives as a muffling spell fizzles out, again and again. Urag will no longer have to worry for his Atronach assistants because a fellow Orc insists on brawling with them.

And for most mages, this is the end of it. Master Aren himself hears out Mirabelle's report with a look of weary resignation, and then mutters to himself, massaging his temples,

“Such is our way, it seems… So many young mages keep dying.”

The others are even less emotional, and less surprised.

Tolfdir does get a little weepy — but then, Tolfdir is the type to gently use telekinesis when he finds a living snail in his salad, guiding it to safety.

The fact remains: everybody around Winterhold knows Umtaz as a big, rude, green, tobacco-chewing, curse-spitting walking mess. Not someone you are going to awfully miss. Everybody — except five people.

One of these people is none other than Urag the archivist. He and his far less learned kinswoman used to have a bit of a feud going on. Umtaz always kept grousing, rolling her tobacco wad from one side of her mouth to the other, about how Urag has cobwebs for brains. And Urag would object testily that he is still very much a sure-green Orc, “and just wait till I have you pay the blood price for any books you ruin”... But then, one night, as a sleepless Urag was shuffling along to get some water, he heard a suspicious clicking noise coming from the Arcanaeum. Rushing in to defend his precious books from sneaky mage thieves, with a fire ball in either hand, he discovered that Umtaz had broken in after hours and built a veritable book fortress for herself, nestling in the middle with a stack of opened volumes in her lap and a flicker of mage light over her head.

After a brief back-and-forth, Umtaz, who had whipped to her feet, knocking the books all around her, unexpectedly broke into angry tears and spat out at Urag,

“'S easy for you to be so bloody open about your love of reading! You're old, and you've been a fucking bookworm all your life! Me, I grew up in the streets! I was raised to crack skulls, to rob people blind, not… do any of this! I missed my chance to turn out like you, and now it's too late to — to make myself into something different! So I have to hide, and laugh at all your mage crap, and pretend that I don't give a spit about books — because Orcs like me… we don't read! We are not supposed to!”

She may have blathered some more along the same lines — but eventually, Urag grabbed her by the shoulder, shaking those damn tears out of her eyes, and told her sternly,

“Listen here, cub. There’s no single rock-solid path in life, and you can turn yourself into something different at any time, if you put your mind to it.”

He was not able to punch the shame out of her skull entirely... But at least, from then on, when she felt like doing some clandestine midnight reading, she would find the Arcanaeum’s doors wide open, and the librarian waiting for her, a knowing little grin on his face and a tray with two mugs full of steaming Elsweyr cocoa by his side.

And now — now one of these mugs will forever stay empty, feeling heavier than the hugest weapon wielded by one of those proper, sure-green Orcs that never read. And the cocoa's warmth will never again caress Urag's large, callused hands, either. He does not drink from his mug any more. All he does is pick it up, and clean it, again and again, in a redundant mechanic motion, like a malfunctioning Dwemer automaton in some long-forgotten ruin.

When he puts the mug away, he takes to smoothing out the dog-eared pages of the passages that Umtaz once found interesting, while the bulky creature of ice shuffles behind his back, and the whirr of its snowy aura sounds like a mournful sigh whenever Urag says, “No, little Atronach, there will be no more brawling.”

Then, there are Umtaz's fellow apprentices.

They, too, started out treating Umtaz coldly at best, because she kept pushing them away, curbing all their attempts at genial banter with pointed hostility, and saying repeatedly, through a long tobacco spit, that “holding hands and going on about the magic of friendship is for wimps”.

It is truly astonishing, how quickly one can become a wimp.

Onmund, who used to get quite sheepish whenever Umtaz silenced his tentative talk about proving himself as a mage with some cynical remark or other, unexpectedly warmed up to her when she took him dungeon-delving. Together, they tracked down the lair of the sorcerer who’d bought the poor lad’s heirloom amulet off… off Enthir, of course. Except that this sorcerer had now “ascended” — as he announced to his two guests, greeting them with a grin full of razor-sharp, blood-stained teeth… And next thing Umtaz and Onmund knew, they were being chased by an entire vampire coven across the Whiterun Plains.

Their pursuers were barraging them with blasts of vile-looking (and just as vile-sounding, squelch, squelch, squelch) blood-red magic. It did not take a winded, stumbling Onmund too long to get himself wounded, so Umtaz had to cover the remaining distance in huge leaps over boulders and tufts of grass, with a slack-limbed, bleeding, and very apologetic Nordling under one arm and a sack of odds and ends (which she had miraculously had time to loot from under the sorcerer's flat bat-like nose) under the other.

When the bloodsuckers finally fell back, Umtaz and Onmund slowed down to a crawl, her healing him along the way, and waddled up to the village of Rorikstead, where they plopped themselves in front of the counter at the local inn, stretching their tired legs... At which point Umtaz parted with her hard-won look, without so much as a blink, to help buy armor for the innkeeper's son, who desperately wished to become a great warrior. She, of course, scowled the whole time, and insisted she was “not being mushy”; but Onmund begged to differ. He has been begging to differ for as long as she was still alive.

Brelyna would be inclined to take his side. How could she not, after watching a magical projection of her all-mighty Telvanni relative get yelled at by her outraged Orc dorm mate, till its ethereal blue aura began to turn a deep, suffocated purple.

What an evening that was! One moment, Brelyna was stifling her squeaky sobs with a pillow, while Great Uncle Neloth ranted about what an utter failure she was, and if she was not absolutely perfect at the arcane arts, why bother being a mage at all... And the next, Umtaz, who had been lounging in her bunk, pretending not to be interested in the historical novel she was flipping through, slid her feet to the floor with a heavy stomp, walked up to the Telvanni magister's shimmering double, and bellowed at the top of her voice,

“Leave her alone, you moldy mushroom chewer! A fat lot of good you do as an uncle, if you love some made-up ideal mageling child instead of the real Brelyna, who’s right here in front of you!”

“What are you insinuating?” Neloth gasped. “I do not, and shall not, ever love anyone!”

“Oh, but you're gonna love these babies,” Umtaz smirked, slowly and dramatically raising two middle fingers in the magister's livid face.

The projection vanished with a tiny pop, never to manifest itself “for the purpose of checking on Brelyna's progress” ever again, much to her relief. While the giggles at the memory of Uncle Neloth's face very much did manifest, silly and delighted, during the subsequent sleepovers, as the two women swapped stories from their pasts — Umtaz seemed to be very wary of giving away specific names and locations, but Brelyna did not mind — and talked about books, and made bets on the color of their professors' smallclothes, and even did each other's hair once or twice.

When they turned in for the night, Umtaz would still wrap the blanket around her shoulders far too tightly, even for Winterhold’s bone-chilling weather, and warn Brelyna not to be too friendly to her, “I can see right through you, you are just coddling me outta pity. Well, I’m having none of it!”

But Brelyna thought that at times, her reassurances that no, she really wanted to get along, almost cracked her dorm mate’s gnarled, thick shell... Not that any of this matters now.

Now, the sleepovers are off forever. Now, Umtaz's bed remains empty, so carefully made that the smoothness of the covers is almost chilling: no crumbs on the sheets, no overstuffed pouches of “loot” scattered all around, no empty mead bottles rolling across the floor. And then, some day, another apprentice will move in, and if they last long enough without setting themselves on fire, their companionship might begin to heal the pain in Brelyna's heart.

But that is not happening any time soon. For now, all that Brelyna has is the gaping void of the empty bed, and Onmund's arms wrapped around her as they sway side by side and twist their mouths in an ugly sob, and the soothing purr of J'Zargo, who is also here to comfort them, who is also hurting on the inside, try as he might not to show it.

Because he also came to like Umtaz (as much as he is capable of liking anyone other than himself). When she discovered that he had been trying to trick her into testing some rigged flame cloak scrolls, she challenged him to a duel on bound weapons. It lasted for over two hours, with them darting all across the College's roof and raining purple sparks over the snow drifts, and ended in a tie. Breathless, a bit charred around the edges, and, by his own awkwardly chuckling admission, “somewhat aroused”, J'Zargo offered Umtaz a truce. If they ever clashed again, it was in a completely non-life-threatening way.

But there will be no more such clashes now, will there? No more jabs at one another, no more elaborate pranks that revealed just how good at Illusion the Orc was getting, no more revise-offs, during which the Orc and the Khajiit furiously spat whole memorized extracts out of textbooks (and Umtaz later denied everything, because come on, her kind does not read). No more.

No more Umtaz.

And only five people in mourning. The librarian, the three apprentices — and Drevis.

Drevis. When Faralda pointed to him as “the book-diddler who could teach her Illusion”, very first sight of him made Umtaz forget to breathe, let alone to wear her trusty Orc bandit mask.

And she kept forgetting both ever since. In his presence, she would often grow quiet and thoughtful and considerate, only baring her tusks when someone dared to mock or belittle him for his absent-mindedness, or his choice of magic school, or (in the case of the Winterhold Nords) his Dunmer heritage.

With the mask off, Drevis, in turn, will always remember Umtaz as the owner of the brightest blue eyes, which would glimmer like miniature star planes whenever she figured out how to cast a spell. And oh, how her gaze reflected the silken billows of turquoise and blue when he — always bad at figuring out how one is supposed to give incentives to good students — took her out to watch the northern lights as a reward for completing all tasks on a magical test.

And that was only the first of her successes! With each of her visits to the College, Umtaz’ illusions became more and more complex... To think: she actually took him for a walk in a mushroom tree grove under curly lilac clouds, recreating the description he gave her with such finesse that he was ready to believe that he was back home again, young again... What a fine, fine illusion!

And with each of her visits, he started treating Umtaz more as his friend, his equal, rather than his student — which made her back away in shock at first. Gods, how pain pierced his heart when he glimpsed the horror in her eyes.

“You... You can't offer me friendship!” she barked, her fingers peeling at the scar on her cheek, like they always did when she was nervous. “I am... I am a bad person! Always have been, since childhood! All I get, will ever get, ‘s a life in the gutter! These… trips here are just… play-pretend, like I am better! Doing magic, being all smart, making friends… I don’t deserve any of this!”

Back then, he merely shook his head — because he has always been rather... mediocre at this whole social interaction thing, and did not know what words he could have used. But now — oh, now he knows. Now, when it is too late, the words have finally come to him.

You do. You do deserve it, Umtaz. You deserve all that is good and bright and pure in the word. Because no matter what darkness your life has tried to thrust you into - you are beautiful. Of body, and mind, and heart. You have constellations glimmering in your eyes, and the deepest melodies living in your voice. You are one of the most gifted scholars I have ever met — and you actually do not treat me as a joke, or an embarrassment. Seeing you, talking to you, practicing spellcraft with you — it is the highlight of my day. You have been a dear friend, and I do believe that I am falling in love with you — and it is me who does not deserve this. The happiness of being around the woman you love is clearly not made for a foolish old mer like me. But still, thank you for this.

So many words. So many flowery phrases. What is the point of mulling them over? He is speaking with silence — and there will never be an answer. There will never be cocoa in an empty mug in the library, or hearty Orcish laughter in the apprentices' quarters, or a warm, grass-green hand in his as he walks beneath the northern lights.

There will never be anything, any possible magic, any clever illusion, that can replace the part of him that is now painfully, irrevocably missing.

Chapter Text

The truth of Umtaz being gone, gone for good, beyond the reach of all magic, does not properly sink into Drevis' mind straight away. When Enthir's message is passed on to him by a pale, tense Onmund and a puffy-eyed Brelyna, he responds with a small, nervous laugh and says,

“What nonsense! Umtaz is not dead! She can't be dead! She just went away on her out-of-College business, as usual — and she will be coming back any day now! She always comes back exactly when she promises!”

Yes, exactly when she promises… And that ought to have been a week ago. But Drevis shuts this thought off, brushes it away like a bothersome mote of mage light that has floated into his eyes during an experiment, and walks off to watch the icy bridge that links the College to the decrepit little town of Winterhold.

He has done this plenty of times before. Spurred on by the restless longing to see his Orc friend again, to hear her voice, to share some exciting new magical discovery with her, he would often leave the (highly) relative warmth and comfort of the familiar hallways, and plunge himself into the frothing snowy crucible beyond the College walls. Out in the open, he’d keep himself warm with a summoned flaming cloak (which would flap and curls up in the wind just like one woven from physical fabric), spending hours upon hours gazing out into the wintry blackness, until he was finally rewarded for his patience by the most heartwarming, joyous sight of all. Eventually, a small inky clot would separate itself from the rest of the churning dark, drifting past all the rippling, shimmering layers of grey, deep-blue, and fuzzy white. The closer it drew, the more clearly it would shape itself into a certain tall, sturdy figure. And the merest glimpse of it would, without fail, male Drevis grin with recognition, the corners of his mouth tingling and his heart feeling both huge and so very light inside his chest.

Any moment, any moment now, this will happen again. She will emerge from the snow storm, and wave at him, and call out hoarsely,

“Master Neloren! You should really… get back inside! It's bloody freezing out here!”

And he will give her a good-natured little reminder not to be so formal — “Just Drevis, please!” — his voice completely lost in the weather’s rage, and in the loud, triumphant drum rhythm in his own heart. He will amplify his flame cloak spell, as always, so that it softly coats her as well, highlighting her face... Oh, that beautiful face, with its strong jaw and curious metal adornments and huge, vivid blue eyes...

Any moment now...

The moment never comes. No matter how stubbornly Drevis waits for it. Each time he thinks he can see Umtaz, trudging through the churning slush, just about to approach the bridge, to reach out to him, to call his name, her silhouette turns out to be just a cloud, or the outline of a Nordic cottage's porch, given the illusion of movement by the rushing torrent of snow. Really, he should know better. He should spot an illusion.

And whenever that happens, he feels an invisible fist, punch him violently from inside his chest, with a strength that only matches Umtaz’ own, leaving the flesh of his heart sore and bruised.

The bruise keeps growing, darkening, throbbing with an incessant ache — threatening to overtake Drevis’ entire being.

Faralda comes up to him many hours later… Or is it days? Weeks? His eyes began to sting at one point, with all those lashes of wet snow scorching his face, and he rather lost track of the passing of time; but he can vaguely recall witnessing a few sunrises… sunsets? And maybe… eating? Sleeping?

It is Faralda’s duty to patrol the bridge to keep out unwanted visitors… And apparently, unceremoniously haul lost mages back inside.

“I know who you are waiting for,” she says sternly as she drags Drevis past the cloaked statue in the courtyard. “You must still be in denial — but I can't let you freeze out there, just because you are being... your Drevis self! It’s bad enough our apprentices keep dying!”

He stumbles meekly in Faralda’s wake. His protective flame spell has simmered off into nothing, his legs feel numb and stiff, like he is some manner of bizarre frost atronach… taur, from the torso down, and his skin has broken into a net of burning cracks. At first, he did try to shake her off a couple of times — but not too persistently.

He does not really care enough to be persistent. Caring does not come easy when there is an ugly bloated bruise where his heart ought to be. Perhaps Faralda is right; perhaps he is being his Drevis self. Seeing things that are not there, expecting to get an answer while speaking with silence, getting himself absorbed in a make-believe world... A world where Umtaz is still alive, still out there, and all he has to do is be patient, and she will return, and everything will be as it once was...

His head swims. Somehow, it is as though part of his essence has floated out of his body and is now observing how he’s fumbling about in the snow, with an idle, half-bored curiosity. What an adorable spectacle he makes: the naïvely hopeful old mer who has decided to play pretend. Because he cannot face the fact that the main source of warmth and contentment in his life has been snuffed out; that he is back to being the loony, ludicrous, lonely Drevis, with just the cold, lifeless blue light of his own magic — nothing like the blue of Umtaz's eyes — to keep him company. Look at him sniffling, and blinking, and whispering “what if Enthir was wrong; what if that's just a rumour'... As if his pathetic antics can ever change anything. As if this will suddenly make Umtaz... less dead.

He does not remember how he makes it to his bed. Faralda must have shepherded him right to his quarters and helped him lie down. He only becomes aware of his surroundings — the stone walls of his little room, the papers littering the floor, glowing white in the moonlight, the alchemical ingredients merging into black shapeless stacks in the far corner — when a searing pain begins to spread through his slowly thawing limbs, turning his marrow to lava.

The fiery stream devours everything: his legs, his back, his ribs, even his teeth. Even still, the pain is nothing in comparison to the heart-shaped bruise in his hollow chest. He spends some time tossing and turning, trying to wrap his stupid, unwieldy old body into a pose that will ease the pain, but to no avail.

Then, sighing heavily, he rolls to his back and tries to distract himself again — by another round of play-pretend. This may not bring Umtaz back to him — but what if it subdues the pain?

Gaping up into the blank ceiling, he bends his elbows, flexes his wrists with a dry crack, and starts conjuring up illusions: pale reflections of Umtaz as he remembers her, glowing silvery-blue in the murk of his room.

First, he pictures Umtaz laughing. Not smirking after some rude jab at the snooty senior mages, but actually laughing, the way the other apprentices and Drevis would make her laugh. She’d start out shy, stiff, as if unused to the very concept of sincere mirth — covering her mouth to hide her tusks. She is… was so self-conscious about them, Azura bless her; she once told him she’d been brought up in a human orphanage, “a lone green toad in a herd of soft pretty pink things”. But eventually, that awkwardness would melt away — and he recreates this moment in his illusion. The projection keeps on laughing, with more and more boldness, more and more vigor, throwing her head back and letting her happiness flood over her. Making it nigh impossible not to join in… And Drevis would have done so, gladly, if she were here with him, in the flesh.

Then, comes a vision of Umtaz casting her spells. Again, first constricted, unsure, convinced that this is not an Orcish thing to do... But swiftly getting into the flow of the magic's enthralling dance, her muscular arms moving with breathtaking grace, while her fingers, hardened and chipped with many old cuts, gently pull at the invisible threads in the air, weaving them into complex sigil circles and ribbons

of light.

And oh, how about Umtaz moving, turning, putting her hands behind the back of her head while stretching after long and strenuous research work. Umtaz just... looking at him, happily, sadly, thoughtfully. Umtaz being herself, daring to be comfortable and unafraid of being judged — just as he was, with her beside him. Once.

These illusions do not quench the fire in his bones, or alleviate the sore throb of his heart-bruise. On the contrary, all they do is worsen the poignant longing that claws at his throat, until it manifests into a low groan. With that, his focus is broken, and his silly little copies of Umtaz dissolve into the dark, the last specks of ethereal silver floating down to Drevis' flaming face. All alone, he is left exhausted, and crushed, and drained of all his magicka… and also… parched?

Wait a moment... Parched... That's it! That's it! He knows just the thing that will wash off that bruise, and put out these hungry flames! Indeed, he has heard it is a time-honored Nord tradition! Drinking oneself stupid!

Mouthing a little “Oof” as something cracks and snaps at the small of his back, Drevis staggers out of bed and snaps his fingers several times: first to rekindle his flame cloak, and then to cushion his feet with a muffling spell, so as not to disturb Faralda, or anyone else. Once thoroughly prepared to push himself into oblivion, he creeps outside again and heads for the Winterhold inn.

He has not had much experience with drinking. A couple of sips of sujamma are usually enough to make him flushed and giggly and so eager to talk about the wonders of Illusion that it would surely go beyond all limits of patience for just about anyone who isn't Umtaz. And he has no idea how things will fare for him when he is confronted with that bizarre yeast-based concoctions that Nords imbibe. But he is certainly going to find out tonight — by forcing the stuff down his own throat if need be. He has to embrace that dizzy, brainless, spinning haze, to wrap himself in it like he has wrapped himself in his flame cloak.

Because the snow storm has died down, and he can see the stars, pulsing faintly through the green pall of the northern lights, and that is yet another agonizing reminder of how happy he used to be when he gazed at this very same sky with Umtaz.

He hesitates for a moment in front of the door to the Frozen Hearth, suddenly remembering how his last encounter with Nords and liquor resulted in him getting stabbed by some raging drunk, who took the grey of Drevis' skin as a personal insult (Umtaz chased the fellow down to the Jarl's longhouse, threatening to break the arms of every guard until the drunk was charged and arrested).

Maybe... Maybe this is not such a good idea after all? What if this place is packed full of hostile locals? Well, in that case, he will set all the... all the n'wahs on fire and clear the inn for himself! He came here to get intoxicated, and get intoxicated he shall! No-one is going to stop him!

“That's the spirit, my friend,” a low voice purrs in Drevis' ear, while a warm, heavy hand rests on his shoulder.

Drevis is so utterly taken by surprise that he almost shrieks and leaps into the air. Has he been thinking out loud? Well, that must have been really embarrassing!

But the stranger who has… manifested out of nowhere behind his back, does not show any inclination to mock him.

Still a bit jittery, Drevis turns and looks warily into his ruddy face, which almost seems to float in thin air, as the man’s black hooded robe is merging with the nocturnal shadows. And he reads in his heavy-lidded, bloodshot blue eyes is understanding... And a little bit of mischief.

“I have a feeling we are going to be fast friends, you and I,” the man continues, grinning and opening the door for Drevis.

“Name's Sam. And I have a little drinking game to propose. What say you?”

“Let's have a drinking game,” Drevis agrees, all caution thrown to the wind.

This will probably catastrophically tarnish his (already dubious) reputation at the College.

But after losing Umtaz, losing everything else will seem like a bit of mildly amusing slapstick.

Chapter Text

“Ah, there you are!” Umtaz coos, reaching elbow-deep into the weapons and armor cache that the fin-haired Forsworn lady, Kaie, has prepared for the prison escapees outside the city walls.

The supplies include Umtaz's own gear. Which she was stripped of — fucking rude! — when the bloody bucket-head guards took advantage of her becoming exhausted by all the fireball-hauling and ice-shard-versus-sword-fencing that she had to do: first in the narrow box that’s the shrine to Talos, and then out on a slippery ledge above a frothing waterfall, which some Dwarven wise guy decided to call a street.

She is more than eager to slip on her armor again, and then to spread her shoulders and feel its steadying, grounding weight. It’s all here, safe and sound. First, and most importantly, her prized cuirass. A fine piece of work, one of kind: crafted out of jet-black plates of polished ebony that are linked together with intricate chainmail. It might seem a tad too clunky for a thief to wear, but she has mastered the Muffle spell for a reason. And plus, its magic wreathes her in smoky dark shadows whenever she crouches down to sneak, actually making it easier for a big, clumsy thing like her to lurk about undetected.

It has a whole story behind it, too. She got it from a bunch of crazy cultists who were punching each other near the statue of some creepy snake lady: bumped into the lot on her way to do a sweep job in Windhelm. She thinks it's one of the Dunmer gods; a precious... a mer like Drevis would not worship such a cruel, bloodthirsty being, but when she sees him again, she's still gotta be respectful to him and learn the god's name.

The cultists would not let Umtaz leave in peace until she completed some fucking mess of a sacrifice ritual… And she has to admit, she could not resist the temptation to bring them Grelod — the old hag who had been in charge of beating Umtaz into a “proper child”, until she got into her first big mess for robbing the Temple of Mara and ran away to join the Thieves Guild. What a reunion, huh?

She nabbed the crone right in the middle of lecturing an all-new batch of kids about how they were useless, unwanted brats and how she was doing them a favor by beating them. Smoothest, longest-lasting invisibility spell she ever cast; but course, Drevis must never know of this. She did warn him that she does bad things when she is away from him.

The oddest thing: Grelod did not scream as much as Umtaz remembers herself and the other kids screaming at the strikes of her iron poker, or broom handle, or whatever she happened to be holding at that moment. Or as much as Umtaz screamed when the hag discovered the secret stash of food she’d pilfer at the market stalls and cook for her fellow orphans at night, and splashed a panful of boiling grease into her face, giving Umtaz her largest scar, which takes up all of her right cheek. She still can scarcely believe how Drevis can stand looking at her. In all her ugliness.

So yeah. For that sacrifice — and killing some bandit lord — Umtaz got this sweet ebony get-up. The old Riften orphanage Grelod is in good hands now, and Umtaz even drops some skimmings of her loot now and again at their door as a “donation from a mysterious benefactor” (hopefully, none of the folk at the Guild got wind of that). And even though, with the hag’s death, all those things she used to say do not ring any less true — Umtaz is still just as hideous, broken, and unlovable — but at least when she is wearing the cuirass, she can pretend that she has won.

Oh, it’s good to have it back! Such a welcome change from the skimpy furs Team Madanach had her pull over herself in the Dwarven escape tunnel. She really, really does not appreciate wearing garb that threatens to slip off and make her tits whip about all over the place at any sudden move. And the “old magics” that are supposedly woven through her new beast pelt undies, adding flickering green highlights to the matted fur, make her kind of queasy... Like there's someone whispering cryptic crap at the back of her skull.

But she takes care not to mention any of this out loud. She still remembers the toothy grin that split across Kaie's face and the glimmer that danced in her pale eyes, while she described in meticulous detail how many guards she had to kill, with quiet, merciless swiftness, in order to get Umtaz's confiscated belongings back.

They are ruthless, these wild Reachmen. They do not stop to get lovey-dovey and cuddly when something is getting in the way of their mission. Best not get on their bad side if you are happy with the way the gods have decided to glue your limbs together, and to fill your mouth with teeth, and to keep all the blood flowing on the inside.

This is what any pragmatic person would say anyway; and she's doing just that, right? Right? Being pragmatic?

Ah, fuck it! Who is she kidding! She doesn't wanna hurt the Forsworn's feelings because she has kinda... befriended them. Just like she has befriended those stupid Winterhold apprentices. She may try to deny it, but this knowledge has crawled into her mind, deep, deep down, and lodged its claws good and tight, refusing to get kicked out or shaken off. She… uh… maybe, in a way, sort of, likes the Forsworn now.

Together, they have mined silver under the flying, cracking whip of the Orc overseer. Together, they have opened up the escape tunnel into the ancient ruins, and dodged the staggering steam attacks and slashing swipes of the Dwarves' metal guardians, and finally crawled towards beckoning daylight. Umtaz even had to give Madanach, the King in Rags himself, her shoulder to lean against, as he was almost pushed off his feet by the burning wave of sunlight that seeped through his coarse, dust-eaten skin for the first time in twenty years.

Together, they have raced into the great wide open, raining flames and lightning on any Nord guard that dared to stand in their path (nothing more gratifying than setting guards on fire; Umtaz does not know if the folks back in the Ratway would have approved, but she sure as Oblivion had one mammoth of a time).

And together, they are all one gang. And in order not to disappoint her gang mates, Umtaz decides to come up with a better explanation than “I’d rather wear my old armor cuz yours leaves too much of me open and talks to me weird”.

“I still have work to do in the city,” she says, flexing her muscles and smoothing out the chainmail.

She must remember to use as much rough lingo as possible. The proper words is “colloquialisms”, as Urag taught her, but she always downplays her vocabulary and intelligence, unless she is with that old codger. Or with Brelyna. Or with Drevis. Otherwise… It’s too much effort to be someone other than a gruff, stupid Orc when folks expect to see — want to see; demand to see, even — a gruff, stupid Orc.

“The local folks remember me as this screamin’ green bitch in Forsworn get-up who roasted guards with Madanach — they don't remember the Orc warrior in black. So if I want the Nord pigs outta my hair, I’ll meet the court mage in this.”

That’s the next order of business for her. The sole reason why she came to Markarth in the first place, actually, before she was so badly sidetracked by people getting murdered in the marketplace and the Forsworn rebellion needing her help. She was supposed to find some High Elf geezer and prod him with questions about the Falmer language. She could never have foreseen that the so-called “safest city in the reach” would be filled with so many fucking lies and schemes and plots, which all twist into a slurping slimy mess… Like bugs that live under the wall panels of one of those houses that look all fancy on the outside but in reality, are rotten to the core.

Umtaz squished most of the bugs, thankfully. Dealt with some of the rot. And now she can get back to the Markarth job. Time to part ways with her all-new gang.

“Guess I will be seeing you lot around,” she says, going through their last round of farewell handshakes.

“Oh, you will,” Madanach says, his upper lip sliding up and baring his teeth and a sliver of gum. “As

the sky above us rains red”.

“Told ya,” Madanach's huge, impossibly hairy, one-eyed bodyguard, Borkul the Beast, grunts under his breath when it is his turn to get a handshake. “Can't spell Madanach without Mad. Or so the saying goes. Me, I never was much for spelling.”

Umtaz snorts at the joke. He evidently likes that. She can feel the gaze of his only eye on her back for a good while after she turns into the street she needs… Or she thinks she does. Fuck, they a look the same. But she’s got to get this over with. The sooner she figures out what has been going on with the Thieves' Guild, the sooner she can show up back in Winterhold and explain that she has not vanished off the face of Nirn. To the apprentices — and to Drevis! They gotta learn that she is not dead. She was, for a while — but she got better.

After going through way, way too much shit.

As her feet wander the narrow, winding paths all over Markarth’s thousand rocks and crags, Umtaz tries to untangle the mess that’s kept happening to her through these fucking side quests… So. First things first.

She and Mercer Frey went on this long and kinda tedious dungeon crawl in search of the double-crossing Dunmer that was scheming against the Guild. Fucking Mercer, too preoccupied by singing praise to himself for being such a great and cunning thief, kept walking into traps, and Umtaz had to pull him out of spike pits and the like by the seat of his flaming pants. And at the end of that crawl, the Dunmer emerged in person: long brown cloak swooshing all mysterious-like and a pair of amethyst eyes ablaze under her leather cowl. She had an arrow all notched and ready. And with a brief, echoing twang, she released it, hitting Umtaz straight in the one narrow sliver of her skin that was not protected by chainmail. With such skill and effortless precision that Umtaz might as well have been a chunky straw dummy rather than a fully armored warrior.

And when Umtaz hurtled into nothing, and the ruins around her slipped askew, she saw Mercer, striding across the ceiling, with the charred mark of the exploding traps still glaringly visible on his arse. He explained, in that insufferable storybook villain tone, that he had been the traitor all along, and that he had framed the Dunmer because she posed a threat to him, just as Umtaz did, he leaned down — and stabbed her, the shit-eating bastard!

Or did the stabbing come first, and the arrow followed later? She is honestly somewhat fuzzy on that part.

All she remembers is the bright orange flare of Mercer's Dwemer blade (looted from some stuffy, endlessly booby-trapped ruin like this one, no doubt). And that jagged groove along its edge, which formed one of those square maze-like patterns the Dwarves seemed to go wild over. She could see how the maze was slowly getting filled with little streams of crimson: her blood. Then, her vision grew blotchy with the fuzzy chunks of green fluff — the same chunks that clogged up her ears and replaced her tongue. The green gradually darkened to black, which flooded the whole damn world around her, like icy water flowing on a moonless night... And Umtaz thought to herself, pushing through the pain that was splitting her skull, like someone was trying to crush it under an anvil,

Well, shit. This is it, huh. I am dead. So… what Malacath will make of me? Probably nothing too good. I did a pretty shoddy job at being a proper Orc. But what would he expect? It's tough to be a proper Orc when all your knowledge of Orcs comes from people who hate them. And besides… Malacath likes hardened souls, and mine went all soft and squishy after meeting Urag… and these apprentice wimps and... Drevis... Oh gods, Drevis! He will go to Azura's Halls after he dies, won't he? I will never see him again, for all eternity! Damn it, I hate being dead already!

What a bloody relief, then, that she did get better. That when the blackness cleared, she woke up not in the Ashen Forge, but at a little campsite in the heart of the snowy wilds. All cozied up in a cocoon of blankets, with the Dunmer watching her closely as she squatted in front of a little makeshift fire pit and stirring the embers with a stick.

She must have used fir cones for kindling, because Dibella's tits, the rich, heavy smell was something else! It reminded Umtaz of that little solution she and Drevis had brewed once, to cleanse the acrid fumes left over from some botched experiment or other. That was when they discovered that, apart from spell-casting, they both were great fans of potion-making — and this made Drevis' eyes sparkle brighter than any of those fancy floating rubies she keeps finding, and a net of tiny wrinkles spread out of their corners as he smiled... And the look on his face, together with a lung-full of that fresh piney smell, made her go all giddy, and... And now the scent of pine has the same effect on her as skooma, she guesses?

Whatever. When the Dunmer — the thief, not Drevis; fuck, everything makes her think of Drevis — saw that Umtaz was awake, she smirked at her, shoved a bunch of potions into her still kinda limp arms, and introduced herself as Karliah.

Umtaz's first gut instinct was to snarl at the little elf for using her for target practice. But Karliah reassured her that her arrow shot had actually kept Umtaz alive: the special paralytic poison had slowed down her heart and prevented her from losing too much blood when Mercer stabbed her. Hence the “getting better” part.

As the restorative potions set to work, bolstered by what little healing magic Umtaz groggily managed to cast on herself, Karliah went on and on about Mercer, and what a despicable flea-bitten weasel he was. The blighter had betrayed the Guild — the first place ever in her life where she could return to more than once, the way normal people return home (the second being the College, but she still has her doubts that she belongs there, or ever will). He had made a bloody piece of Orc kebab out of her and left her for dead. But most horribly of all, he had killed the man Karliah loved!

That last part had Umtaz fully sold on helping Karliah bring Mercer down. After all, if someone ever gets it into their head to hurt Drevis, she is ready to do anything to make them regret it!

Not that she... Not that she loves Drevis. She just hates seeing him come to harm, is all. Who wouldn't hate for something like that to happen to such a brilliant, gentle, sweet, handsome elf? Who wouldn't want to make sure that he is safe and happy and able to cast his incredible spells in peace, and look so goddamn gorgeous as the illusions of lush, many-petalled flowers and silvery trees spring up all around him during morning practice, and little blue sparkles float over his head?

Anyway. As Umtaz is the one who weaves spells, while Karliah is more of a sneaky cloak and dagger type, the Dunmer asked her to establish a magical link with Winterhold, to try and reach her dead lover's best friend, and ask him for help. That friend turned out to be none other than Enthir. Fucking Enthir!

The little bastard would be the best person to spread the news that Umtaz’ stab wound was far from permanent! Imagine him waltzing into Drevis' quarters, with that sly look of his, and saying,

“Guess who's returning soon?”

But… But Enthir had no idea she was there. Umtaz was still too weak to create a magic projection of two people; so all Enthir saw was Karliah, prattling on and on about betrayals and coded journals and wizard experts, while Umtaz remained behind the scenes, all of her innards aching as an unuttered scream thrashed inside her body,

“Hey! Heeey! Enthir! It's me! Umtaz! I am all right! And I will return, like I promised! Pass it on to Drevis, will you?”

And then, the spell frizzled out. And off Umtaz went to Markarth on an errand for Karliah, with her Winterhold friends (she can call them that, right? she can call Drevis that?) still being left in the dark.

She considered writing to them, but Karliah talked her out of it.

“The longer everyone thinks you are out of the picture, the more advantage we have over Mercer.”

Makes sense, kinda. And she never did tell Karliah the whole truth. She never let Karliah know that, among the people she knows in Winterhold, there is someone who is as special to Umtaz as the dead Gallus was to her. Because that would have been stupid. Drevis is not... They are not... What is she thinking… Really! Borkul would be more her speed!

The big guy seems to have taken a bit of a shine to her. She brawled with him for the right to access Madanach's cell back in Cidhna Mine. And won, too — which he was almost girlishly thrilled about.

Apparently, everyone in that joint was too scared of him to as much as try to tackle him in a fight, and her arrival had been his first true challenge in years.

“Been a while since I tasted my own blood,” he said, getting up from his knees. He sounded so nonchalant about it; cheery even.

“Sour. Thanks for the brawl, new meat. It was fun”.

Since that moment, during their entire escape, Umtaz would often catch Borkul sizing her up approvingly. A part of her even felt flattered. He is a proper Orc, after all, so confident in his skin, the way she herself has never been, not fully.

And while she thinks of him as a friend, someone to grab drinks with maybe, to spar and talk shop, a part of her knows that, if she ever feels desperate for something more than her hands and an occasional dwarf curio from Enthir’s bottomless stash, he might be her only option. He will even take her without asking her to hide her face, the way elves or humans have done while bedding her. And this is all she can ever ask for, right? She cannot really take her fantasies seriously, can she? The ones where Drevis looks her in the eyes the whole time, and actually begins with kissing, like they do in books. Where his hair is silky-soft under her fingertips, and his lips are expectantly half-parted as she traces them. Where he touches her skin, the brush of his hand butterfly-light, and smiles at her, his cheeks flushed and his pupils widened. Where he is slow and tender and thoughtful, like no lover has ever been with her, and even… shit, what an insane thing to think about… cuddles with her afterwards...

None of that is ever gonna happen. Not with her. Not with him. Daydreaming about him is like speaking with silence.

He is way, way out of her league, and it goes without saying that he does not feel the same way about her... And hey — maybe he is not worried at all. Maybe he is relieved to see her gone, with her puppy eyes and pathetic attempts at magic. Maybe she should stop running around like this, racing through the streets to the rhythm of her own memories.

Yeah. She should slow down with that Gallus mission. Just lounge about in the city for as long as she can. Pay a visit to Dibella's Temple to chat and play with that kid she had to rescue for the priestesses last time she was in these parts, after that statue job went sour...

The goddess may have “blessed” the little thing with visions and all that crap, and she may need to train to become the next Sybil of Dibella — but she is, what, ten years old? Imagine being ten years old and getting stuck doing your homework and shit in some stuffy temple all day, every day, separated from your parents and all the things that used to be so familiar to you... Maybe even with an added sprinkling of nightmares from the time you were kidnapped by the Forsworn for one of their “let the skies rain red” rituals. Those bastards sure are intense, much as Umtaz likes them now.

Sure, at least the kid is cared for, and has a roof over her head, and Umtaz can place a safe bet that the priestesses don't beat her. But just because she herself had it worse as a child, doesn't mean she gets to scoff at the tiny Sybil and tell her to suck it up!

That's settled then. She is gonna snoop about that court wizard and his Falmer decoding thingamabob, then cheer up the Sybil... And then, well, she doesn't know — drop by to say hi to the Forsworn again? Get fucked by Borkul to get Drevis off her mind?

She'll see. For now, as she changes direction in the Markarth streets yet again, her heart suddenly feels the same color and texture and weight as her cuirass.

Chapter Text

It hurts to be dragged back into existence: out of some black, rotten mire. Quite rotten, judging by the stale taste that lingers at the back of his mouth and under his heavy, sticky tongue.

It hurts to blink. Each excruciatingly slow bat of his eyelids sends a drilling pulse back to his temples… And also clears off the fog around him, bit by bit, until everything is flooded by angry bright yellow light. It burns through his eyes so much that he has to shut them all over again and shrink his head into his shoulders, whimpering softly... Which also hurts.

And he cannot even get started on the noises. So many noises. So much brushing and scraping against the floor (might as well have been against his own exposed, throbbing brain); so many thunderous footsteps... And so few words to describe how much it all hurts.

The voice is the worst. Filled with anger, shrill and sharp, like a long needle passing into his ear and scraping at the inside of his skull, it rings out of nowhere and demands that Drevis wake up.

“That's right! Wake up!” it repeats, over and over, each exclamation point a club that pounds against his poor head.

“Time to open your eyes and clean up your mess, you drunken blasphemer!”

That last part makes Drevis comply — out of sheer terror more than anything else.

Blasphemer? What... How? Why? Has he committed a crime? When did he manage to do that? And where exactly is he?

A few more agonizing blinks reveal that this is not the Frozen Hearth: the building where he has landed… on the floor, he thinks… has a much taller ceiling (which does keep continuously floating up and down a couple of inches, but the fact remains). And its walls seem to be made not out of brownish wood, but out of something grey... Stone? Is stone supposed to be so fuzzy? And oh dear gods — the searing orange blob that keeps yelling at him is gradually shaping out to be a human woman in a priestess' robe.

“Oh, right,” she jeers, putting her hands on her hips. Her foot stomps the floor, causing a tiny but still rattling earthquake. “Now you’ll say you don't remember bursting into the holy sanctum of Dibella, turning it upside-down... And fondling the statuary!”

The sanctum of Dibella? But Winterhold has no major shrines dedicated to this Divine... Not that he knows of. Has that “drinking game” he supposedly had with that bleary-eyed human — Sam, was it? — brought him all the way to Markarth?

Or has he been at it for so long that the people of Winterhold have managed to build a whole new temple, without him even noticing? He does not remember... He does not remember anything... Not even whether or not the game was actually entertaining.

“He did not fondle the statues, Senna,” another voice rings out — friendly, but just as painful to listen to. A second orange blob has floated up to him, a deep-blue orb hovering by its side.

Drevis thinks he can recognize it, his mage's reflexes sluggishly awakening. It is a Restoration spell used to treat minor diseases — and when it glides up to him and touches his forehead, a faint chill tickles his skin, and most of the burning pain subsides. He is still woozy, and it takes a couple of tries for him to stand upright; but at least, the rotten taste in his mouth is gone, and his gut has settled. He will be spared from the crushing indignity of vomiting.

The stone chamber's walls and ceiling have also stopped bobbing about among tufts of mist, and the two priestesses' voices no longer make his ears bleed.

“He just sort of... hugged them round the knees,” the second priestess goes on, nodding in satisfaction at her handiwork. “And then sobbed and asked me why none of the statues were of Orcs, and don’t we consider Orc women to be worthy of Dibella’s grace?”

Drevis’ back and armpits grow sticky with cold sweat. He... He did that? He must have been thinking about Umtaz, even in a drunken daze... The intoxication did not bring him oblivion, after all; not in the way he wanted to. His heart is still bruised and aching. He can feel it now, more and more acutely, what with the fog being gone. So only thing that he forgot was what an utter fool he had made of himself.

“A thousand apologies,” he stutters, pressing his hand against his forehead and shooting a tentative glance up at the Dibellan statues that line the hall — tall and imposing, with smooth, glinting carved arms and... bared breasts that have been rendered by the sculptor with a rather discomforting realism.

While he is looking around, he also discovers that the less friendly priestess, Senna, was hardly exaggerating. He has, indeed, turned the sanctum upside-down. The floor is littered with empty bottles and scraps of greasy paper that must have been used as wrappers (he is not certain that he wants to find out for what). Some of the pews have been turned over; and incense bowls, shattered to bits.

With a tiny squeak at the back of his throat, he makes a swaying step forward and forces his freshly awakened mind to focus on a telekinetic spell. After a couple of initial hiccups (figurative, thank the gods), his feeble puffs of magic flare into a steady glow, which he commands to split apart into several long threads and drag the scattered furniture across the floor to places where he thinks it belongs.

This is by far not the first time when he has inadvertently wrecked someone else's property — but that does not make him feel any less sheepish. He should never have listened to that Sam... Who is nowhere to be seen, by the way. Maybe... Maybe he imagined him. Or conjured him up as an illusion — an ethereal drinking buddy to make himself feel less pathetic.

He is so caught up in berating himself that he does not even notice that there is a small human child straddling a pew that he is trying to get in line. Her dark hair is slightly frizzy for not having been properly combed, and she is wearing something that could be both a white ceremonial vestment and a night gown.

“I think an Orc statue would be great, Orla,” she says to the friendly priestess, dangling her legs carelessly as the pew floats above the floor.

“My friend Umtaz is an Orc. She saved me from the wild men and carried me in her arms all the way back to Markarth because I was so weak and scared, and didn't even break a sweat. She was also worried that I was still sobbing — just a little, though! I am not a baby! So she told me this incredible story about a brave rogue who beat traps and ran from guards and saved the prince who'd been captured by an evil wizard. And then I smiled, and she smiled too, and suddenly I felt much, much better. So I think... If an Orc did me such a good turn, and I am sort of your boss now, I could order you so Orcify one of the statues as a present to her.”

At some point during her little speech, the pew came crashing down, no longer sustained by the telekinesis spell. Drevis has suddenly found himself drained of all strength, barely capable of doing anything save for taking deep breaths through his nose, his mouth tightly pursed lest his heart leap out.

It is only Senna's intervention that prevents the child from tumbling down and getting injured.

“You are not our boss, Fjotra,” she says sternly, after catching the girl into her arms and setting her down to the floor. “You are a Dibellan Sybil in training — and you should be having your meditation session with Mistress Hamal, not prancing about with your bed hair! And you...”

She glares at the apologetic, slightly trembling Drevis, who has picked up the threads of telekinesis again.

“If you are not more careful, you may find yourself falling down the stairs with fire up your...”

She inhales deeply, evidently figuring that such language is not for the ears of a child, even one anointed by the goddess of... adult pursuits.

Fjotra seizes this moment of hesitation to prance up to the awkwardly mumbling “blasphemer” and stand firmly with her back to him, shielding his downcast self from the grown-up's wrath as best she can.

“Don't be mean to him, Senna! This is Drevis — he was the prince in the story!”

Drevis loses control of his spell again, almost hitting the poor innocent Orla on the back of her head with an empty bottle.

“How do you know my name?” he mouths, his heart working itself into a frenzy again.

The girl turns to him, frowning.

“Oh. I called you Drevis before you introduced yourself, didn't I? I do that a lot. Sometimes I look at people and just... Know things about them. Mistress Hamal is helping me make sense of that. Which means lots and lots of boring lessons. But yeah — I know you are Drevis, and I know that Umtaz thought of you when she told me that story. So... You must be her friend, too, right?.. Wait, why are you crying?”

He... He really is doing that, isn't he? Drevis is barely aware of it, but… He seems to have sunk to the nearest pew, which he has just finished rotating into the correct position. And his face has suddenly become flushed and wet.

He does not know how the adult priestesses have responded to the little scene — the stinging salt in his eyes has reduced them to orange blobs again — but the child has promptly climbed onto the seat to nestle close to him, and is now searching his face with her round, worried eyes.

Perhaps her Sybil powers have already made the little one aware of what happened to Umtaz, but Drevis does not have it in him to tell this sweet, trusting child that her friend, her protective, courageous friend, who tore her out of the wild men's clutches and brought her to safety, and made sure than her sobs turned into a smile, is gone forever. So instead, as soon as he conquers that sharp-edged, hard-to-swallow lump in his throat, all he says is,

“I... I am crying because of how much I care for Umtaz”.

His voice cracks… And that crack runs deep through the inner dam pressing down on all his thoughts of Umtaz, keeping them locked away… Until now.

Now, the crack has set the thoughts free — and before he knows it, the dam is no more, and out comes a torrential stream of hasty, breathless speech, uninterrupted save for an occasional squeaky hiccup.

“She... She is the best thing that ever happened to me. When she is near, I feel more myself than

when I am left alone with nothing but m-musings on magic to keep me company. I... I do not usually feel like this when other people are near. I get awkward and clumsy andlu... ludicrous... But Umtaz... She is the best research companion — the best friend! — I could ask for! For some reason, everyone thinks that she is coarse and uncultured and not very intelligent... But the truth is... She — she is brilliant! And beautiful! She has such striking eyes! And that scar! And that thing she does with her hair, and all those earrings, and the black war paint she wears... Of course, she is what young people would call... out of my league, but I can still — still admire her quietly... And sometimes... when she stands against the arcane light — a b-black silhouette, with these fine strokes of... of bright blue on her forehead, and nose, and li-lips — I can picture myself kissing those lips... Oh, oh gods — you are a child! I should not have said that! I should not have said any of that!”

He closes his eyes, as the stinging has gotten too much to bear, and presses his fingertips against his lids. The temple falls silent — but not for long.

Soon, the heavy air around them all is stirred by a hoarse outcry, and by more footsteps, hurrying towards Drevis, accompanied by a distinct metallic clamor.

Fjotra giggles joyfully for some reason — and a low voice whispers, “Hey kid” to her... A voice that he recognizes; a voice that he should not be hearing ever again.

So he has gone beyond visual to auditory illusions, then? Conjured up a spell — without even realizing what he was casting — that allows him to bring a tiny bit of Umtaz back?

Drevis wonders if she will be there if he opens his eyes; if the voice is accompanied by an image, like it was in his delirium about Sam the drinking buddy... His stomach clenching tight, his heart turning to molten metal, he dares to look — and there she is. Sitting next to him, as Fjotra has gotten up and moved aside to make room.

It is overwhelming, Umtaz being so close to him, so solid, so lifelike... Just as he remembers her.

She is crying too, her nose twitching a bit and her eyeliner and war paint running down her face is a greyish stream.

This... This can't be right! Illusions are based on mental images, on memories and fantasies, and he has never seen, or imagined, Umtaz cry before. Not like this - not giving herself fully to her tears, letting them flow without reservation.

He may have caught sight of moisture glinting in her eyes when she drew herself up to her full height and lashed out angrily at whoever mocked her or threatened her friends. But this... this is unlike Umtaz; and it frightens him. He has to make it right! He has to offer her comfort, even though none of this is real. Even though he is actually speaking with silence.

“Hush, my love, hush,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his cheeks against hers, so that their tears mix together. A most... realistic effect; just as the feeling of her scar's rough texture against his skin.

“Please do not cry... Whatever caused you pain, we are going to work through it together, I promise”.

His words may not carry any weight now, when it is far too late, but he likes to believe that, if Umtaz were truly here in the flesh, he would have told her the same.

“I am sorry...” she sniffles, her voice softer than he can ever recall.

“I just... I had no idea that you cared...”

Oh, so that's what this is about. The purpose of this illusion — or of this haunting — is to give him a second chance. So he can say the things he has never brought himself to say when she was still alive.

Well then, so be it. He can hardly make the priestesses think him more of a Shivering Isles case than he already is, right?

“I do care,” he says earnestly, drawing away from her and straightening his back. “And it saddens me that you would believe otherwise. There is so much more to you than you give yourself credit for — and the more time I spend getting to know you, the deeper my affection grows'.

He blushes and looks down, his chest filled with so much frantic fluttering that one would think he was pouring his heart out to an actual person.

“I... I know that... That when a man confesses his love to a woman, this can be taken for... A demand to love him in return. But I know that you would never love such a fumbling old mer... I just wish you could love yourself. That's all I ever wanted...'

He hunches his back again, tears getting the better of him — and then almost falls off his seat, as Umtaz leaps up and bellows, in a more familiar gruff Orcish voice,

“All right, that's it! This creepy Dibellan magic is way too much! Will you lot stop cookin' up visions of the... things I... was totally not thinking about!”

“Oh no,” Fjotra gasps. “You think it's not real too?! Drevis thinks that you're not real, and now...”

“What? Like he is?!” Umtaz’ voice thins, tears rippling through again. “What would he be doing in Markarth?! Why would he be saying all these things to me?! No, it's just some weird... Mind control shit! An illusion spell — or something the air, maybe! Psychedelic Dibellan incense! Mauloch's hairy butthole, I just came here to visit you, Fjotra! I didn't ask for my heart to be messed with like this!”

Senna coughs.

“Oh, he is real all right! Staggered in not long ago, drunk as a dead skeever in a vat of wine, screamed something about a goat from Rorikstead, and then caused more wreckage than all of the Hold's Reachmen combined!”

This is getting more and more confusing. The priestesses can obviously see Umtaz too, as can Fjotra (who, all by herself, may not be too reliable a witness, as she has powers that go beyond observing the physical world). Can this mean... Can she be... But... But everyone told him... that he was just in denial... Speaking with... silence...

And oh dear stars, he is in Markarth, after all! What an impossible journey that must have been! In the company of a goat from Rorikstead, too! Goodness, he will have to seek out that poor animal and make sure that he did not set it on fire. Later.

“Now I know that drowning my sorrows was an awful idea,” Drevis says meekly. “But I had to do... something about the pain of losing... someone so dear to me.”

Umtaz's jaw hangs almost unhealthily low, revealing that her tongue has been pierced just like so many other parts of her face… Despite the gravity of the situation, Drevis cannot but note to himself that, were he actually desirable from Umtaz's point of view, this tongue could find so very many uses... Stupid Dunmer blood. Stupid mid-life crisis.

At length, she snaps her mouth shut, and opens it again just wide enough to whisper huskily,

“So what you are saying... You are really here? You really did mean all of this... about me? And you were so hurt by me being gone that you... You tried to — Oh Drevis!”

Again, the scowling bandit vanishes, giving way to the sweet, tender mage, who throws herself on her knees before her flabbergasted research partner and lays her head on his lap, holding on tightly to his legs.

“Drevis — I am so sorry! I am not dead! I was never dead, I swear! Not for long, anyway! I was just... I got hit with a poisoned arrow, and people assumed I was gone! Bryn… some folks I know must have told Enthir, and he must have told you, and... But I am here now; you have not lost me! I am real — we are both real!”

She lifts her head and gazes up at him, her eyes filled with that enchanting starlit blue which not even the most masterful illusion could ever quite replicate. It is at this moment that it hits him, with the speed and impact of a Dwemer spinning blade trap.

This is not a dream. Or a spell. Or a hallucination. Or a ghost. Umtaz is alive, and by his side, and she knows how he feels about her inner beauty — and by Azura, he does not care if there are people watching!

In the meanwhile, she goes on talking, moving her hands up to clutch at his.

“Oh gods, Drevis — I... I do love you. I think I fell for you the moment I saw you. What you call your ‘fumbling’ is what makes you special! I have never been so... smitten with anyone before! But I could never dream that you would like me back... Even a little bit...”

“More than a little bit,” he chokes, pulling them both to their feet — and, with a look into her eyes that he imagines a brave diver would give the sea before vaulting off a cliff... He kisses her.

He leans away from her almost the very moment their lips touch. But Umtaz hardly gives him a second to catch his breath. She yanks him towards her again, and begins kissing him back, in long, thirsty draughts that are interrupted by bouts of inaudible laughter. And her tongue does come into play, after all, touching his in teasing motions that he tries his best to catch up with — while both of them begin to cry again, this time with happiness.

“Yay!” Fjotra sings in the background. “Dibella is gonna love this!”

Hearing that, both of them have to stop, gaping a bit cluelessly at their surroundings. Umtaz instinctively steps in front of Drevis — ready, as she always is, to shield him from any ridicule he might face.

But the priestesses, it seems, are not inclined to mock him. Orla even wipes at the corner of her eye. Senna seems less moved, and tugs at Fjotra’s sleeve to have her look away. But at least she is no longer yelling at Drevis.

“Well, then, Dunmer,” she says, looking over the rearranged furniture. “You have done your share of the work to make up for your atrocious behavior. Go now, with Dibella's blessings. Please do hurry up towards the door.”

“Yeah, about that,” Umtaz comments after she gives Fjotra a parting bear hug, plays a swift but very complicated hand-clapping and finger-waggling game with her, and heads out by Drevis' side.

“A goat from Rorikstead?”

Oh no. She remembered that bit. Will she hate him now? Will she decide he is beneath her, after all?

“I do not remember any of this,' he says nervously, almost stepping off the steep drop just outside the temple's walls. “I do not remember anything except grieving for you... and wanting to forget...”

“Oh, don't give me that look!” she cries out, catching him before he falls. “I know that feeling — waiting for people to judge you! That’s my worst fear… But it doesn’t have to be yours. Not around me. You can always be sure of that. I only asked because I was wondering if you might want to investigate what exactly happened in Rorikstead. To ease your own conscience.”

“The thought did cross my mind,” Drevis admits — and hesitantly reaches for Umtaz's hand. “And if you are not too busy... Perhaps we could... Make the journey together?”

“Of course!” she replies.

And grips his hand tighter.