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All it took was one slip of the foot to send Erik's world spiraling.
Ice-slick terrain - an overcommittal to reclose the gap between he and his foe - his weight shifting too fast to properly counter as the bandit grappled him by his arm -
Erik wondered which mistake factored the most, what had decidedly sent him hurtling sideways off the broken fort wall -
Until a blaze in his leg consumed any frantic thought.
Fabric teared - metal snagged and fell away - Erik shouted, his vision flashed white. The jagged pressure along his calf fell away as soon as it had raked him, but the searing sting followed him while he grasped uselessly towards a shrinking sky. Inertia shifted with his flailing. Crumbled walls spun into sight - blurred - the ground careened at him - fast - too fast - pain and panic overwhelmed the instinct to move, soften the impact -
- A sickening snap. The world flashed in his eyes again. Erik screamed as loud as his muscles did.
Through the cacophony of combat, the sound hit Ko'zajjat like lightning in a storm. Where she'd been shadowing Faendal up the eastern rampart she now stood frozen; her head whipped to Erik as he collided with the overgrown bailey below. The young man's arm was twisted awkwardly beneath him. Blood wept from a torn greave. He lay slumped, still.
Far too still.
Ko'zajjat urged herself forward, but her nerves jittered, muscles too abruptly tense. Her mind raced. The din around her rose to a terrible degree of clarity -
Scuffing boots on stone.
Clashing metal.
Shouts and bangs.
Magic residue weighing the air.
Claps of thunder, smoldering flesh -
- pressing into her like needles, locking her in place with a crushing wave of anxiety. Ears and eyes and nose fought for focus on what was the most immediate danger at every angle.
Yet Erik remained at the center. A lump of metal and muscle torn and broken; his red hair obscured his face. Ko'zajjat could only imagine - didn't want to imagine -
Grinning lips downturned in horror.
Unscathed face marred with mud and blood, never to wear a fully realized beard.
Bright blue eyes - unblinking, drained of their luster.
Just another discarded body as the skirmish raged on - feline shapes flitting across the fort with blood-cloaked men meeting them at every bastion -
"-zajjat..."
A firm squeeze of her wrist by a small hand - dagi-raht? - no -
"... Ko'zajjat!"
Vertigo made the sight of Faendal looking up at her unsteady, his voice distant. His normally grim expression was strained with concern. The bosmer's angled eyes searched her.
"Erik needs us. Needs you. Come on," Faendal pulled at her wrist just hard enough to try and coax the khajiit out of her trance. Ko'zajjat knew he was right, past all her inner panic. Closing her eyes, she willed her stolen breath back by running through a mental exercise: palm bending unbroken in the sandstorm, a great pine amidst the blizzard... Khenarthi, grant me your winds to guide me where I cannot. Subduing her flopping stomach, willing her limbs to act in time with her racing heart, Ko'zajjat broke away from Faendal's grasp as she ran ahead in a single stride.
With poise and desperation, her digitigrade legs bent, and she sprung over the battlement.
Erik peeked past his web of hair at the sound of steel dragging on dirt. A set of plated boots trudged toward him; the head of the warhammer this bandit wielded dug a trail into the earth from weight alone.
"... 'Nother rosy-cheeked boy thinkin' he's part of a fairytale..."
Erik scrambled for his sword - his shield - but found the pain in his right arm flared to a consuming degree when he tried to move it. Through agonized tears he pulled himself by the elbows until his fingers curled around the metal rim of his shield. The bandit was lifting his hammer,
"Think I'll brand miself a tally for your ilk once I'm -!"
Adrenaline had willed Erik into a defensive posture, half-laying half-sitting, shield held steady above him - but his next few breaths heralded only a bestial roar and a sudden shout from the bandit. Erik's muscles remained taut for an anticipated impact that never came. The young nord peered around his shield. A hulking, spectral sabre cat had accosted the chieftan; massive paws pinned the man at his back while curved canines proved their prowess, jaws snapping around head and neck. There was a crunching from the skull. Erik almost wished he'd kept himself ignorant of the sight. The gore reminded him of his leg, and without an immediate threat to focus on, he dared a glance downward.
The sight made him light-headed.
His heart stuttered. Blue eyes swam, registering the flitting shapes of Ko'zajjat and Faendal as distant while black faded into the corners of his vision. Their hands were upon him, but the touch felt numb.
"... Faeen?... Ko'jjat?..." Erik slurred. Their hazy faces crowded his view. "My lleg, I - it didn' -"
A clawed finger pressed his lips closed.
"Save your energy, Erik," the words didn't quite seem like they were coming from Faendal's mouth, although his lips were moving. "We've got you. Promise."
Erik caught his breath, eyelids drooping heavy. He resigned to closing them as Faendal offered a small hand for the nord to squeeze; a tether to reality that he was starting to fear slipping from him. Thunder and steel echoed around them, but the ethereal growl encircling the three ensured that he was safe to be worked upon.
"Krosho jan thas - leg up - higher than heart," Ko'zajjat spoke with clinical calm. Clinks and shuffles from her satchel, brief and efficient. "The wound depth..."
As the wound was pressed upon with cloth, a cool sensation wisping into his calf, a breath stuttered out of Erik. Their voices swayed.
"What about his arm? It... would a spell fix it easy?"
"Accelerating its repair too much risks complications. Once we cease the bleeding, we shall first assess..." followed by a clerical explanation Erik knew he wouldn't be able to retain even in a clear state of mind. Faendal responded with a grunt. He never skipped a beat in his assistance; keeping Erik's leg elevated, checking breath and pulse when prompted. Erik kept a grasp around the bosmer's bicep all the while. He didn't bother to test his other arm. Even now, he knew it'd been broken.
The nord was climbing out of his state of shock, enough to squint his eyes back open, when he processed the pause in the surrounding battle. Kharjo's distinct lilt carried an unsteadiness in it.
"Erik! Moons above..."
Steel plates clicked together in the khajiit's approach. Far lighter footfalls followed close behind. Marcurio.
"Do you have it all handled, Ko'zajjat?" Though guarded in the same pinched way Ko'zajjat's tone was, the imperial's words were stripped of his usual condescension. He stepped to his fellow mage, fishing through his satchel. Kharjo crouched down by Erik's head and looked closer without intruding. Bare worry twisted his face.
Ko'zajjat, in contrast, was set in her stoic glare. "The wound is not as grevious as the blood tells. It will need cleaning, however."
Marcurio nodded. He tossed Ko'zajjat a small, rectangular case. Sharing a look with the imperial, Kharjo spared Erik a firm pat to his uninjured arm, then rose with purpose, mace in his hand before he even stood to his full height.
"We shall sweep the perimeter for stragglers," Kharjo snarled.
Sparks crackled between Marcurio's fingers as the two men bounded away. Erik wished he'd been able to join them.
Discarding the now bloodied cloths, the golden wisps curling around Ko'zajjat's claws faded once she confirmed her mixed methods had clotted the bleeding. Erik soon watched her uncase the item Marcurio gifted her. The distinct bronze-gold color of dwemer metal glinted; a small, polished scope with a sturdy sling the khajiit managed to fit around her head until the cylinder securely covered one eye.
Erik marveled at the device. The first thing to distract him from the pain since his fall, his eyes brightened as his mouth shaped a silent 'woah', and he almost forgot not to move until Faendal placed an admonishing palm on his chestplate. He returned to feeling like a corpse dissected for study in the following minutes. Ko'zajjat set upon cleaning the wound while instructing Faendal through an assessment of Erik's broken arm. The nord's two companions questioned him on sensations. Asked him to close his eyes while they touched and pinched skin. Had him move fingers. As elusive as this procedure was to Erik's understanding - it made him trust that he was in good hands. Not that it was ever in doubt. These were his friends.
"A sling will do, then," Ko'zajjat decided. She'd just finished spreading a poultice over the wound. "Ko'zajjat can do the rest. Tonsh jer."
Nodding, Faendal stretched while he stood. Erik heard a pop or two. "I'll check on Marc and Kharjo, then. What's the plan for the night? Claim this fort while Erik recovers?"
"Jat. Targeted restoration can accelerate the recovery, but administering it steady and slow is safest."
"Alright. I'll let them know. And we'll find... the least dirty bed in this rathole for Erik to rest on."
"Thanks for everything, Faendal!" Erik called after the bosmer as he jogged off; he turned just enough to shoot Erik a rare smile before disappearing through the moss-ridden door Marcurio and Kharjo had entered.
He didn't expect the air to change so starkly when Faendal left.
An unnamed weight underlined the silence between Erik and Ko'zajjat; the man meant to speak his thanks to her as well, but his throat felt thick again, and he ended up staring dumbly ahead while Ko'zajjat procured a roll of linen. It wasn't as though Faendal was a model of optimism... but something within the large khajiit's eyes, her curled lip, her flattened ears, felt far more cold without the presence of any of the other men.
It was in that thought, where Erik realized... he can't remember the last time he was left alone with Ko'zajjat... has he ever, before now? The nord had always kept a respectful distance from her, for reasons that'd been quite clear since the first time they met -
- Rorikstead. His hometown. Erik's innocent plea to the latest band of travelers stopping to rest at the Frostfruit - and the sudden, bristling rejection the normally taciturn woman answered with.
"I, um... thank you, Ko'zajjat," he managed to utter.
Ko'zajjat grunted.
Erik debated if he should leave it at that while he watched her return Marcurio's dwemer optic to its casing. He gazed up at a break in the clouds above and smiled. Chose to try and bring levity to the forefront. Now that he wasn't at active risk of dying, that was as easy as it always was for him.
"Is that wound going to scar?"
"... Jat, most likely."
"... This is my first true battle scar!" Erik grinned. He locked onto Ko'zajjat's pointed stare briefly, then drifted his attention back upwards - towards the broken rampart where he'd fell. "I guess it'll make an interesting story - bravely charging to the top of the fort to put myself between my friends and the bandit chieftan -"
"So this is what you did?"
The hiss in Ko'zajjat's tone caught Erik off guard. Her hands maintained a firm gentleness as she sat him up and began to wound the linen around Erik's broken arm, but her tail swung behind her restlessly. "You prattle about heroics still, engaging a fight you know you cannot win and spin it as if it's another cute bard tale. How old are you?"
Erik frowned. Unconsciously he brushed his good hand across his face, felt the awkward scruff for a moustache and goatee that stubbornly refused to grow to a respectable nordic beard. The young man muttered,
"I'm eighteen. I, I'm not a child, I -"
"Then cease acting like one!" Ko'zajjat snapped. "Scars are not jewelry to gawk at. You must either understand how fortunate you were here, or prove this one right all along, and Ko'zajjat shall dispute the men's choice to carry you with us!"
The words floated around Erik's head while he lost the gumption to contest it. The ache of his arm was alleviated by the now secure sling, and a soothing warmth spread through his body as golden tendrils of magic sutured the wound on his calf, but it didn't reach the quiet pain in his heart.
Erik was grateful when the other three men soon emerged. Their chatter and shared concern diluted the strained air left in the wake of his and Ko'zajjat's exchange from the moment he was helped to his feet, to when they fell into place around him on his way into the fort. There was only a jagged line in the skin that marked his leg injury, but a phantom sting remained. Out of caution Erik placed as little weight on it as possible.
Thankfully the sleeping quarters were not far into the barracks. Erik plopped down on the bed suggested to him. Bedrest. The frame may creak dangerously at his every little shuffle, but it was clear his friends had already gathered what plush and padding they could for his comfort. That, to him, made it just as good as any tavern.
And the nord assumed Ko'zajjat would be more than pleased with taking her leave of him now that he was relegated to bedrest. He was wrong. The healer deigned to sit bedside, using some magic and practical exam to pinpoint the fracture again before pouring a thin, steady stream of healing magic from two fingers.
Neither of them broke their mutual vigil. Marcurio, Faendal, and Kharjo's footsteps pattered on stone from the neighboring dining hall; their laughter echoed. They tried to include Erik in the conversations by calling out for his two septims occasionally, passing by to check on him.
"Alright, Ko'zajjat - I believe it's due time for Erik to be fawned over by a *proper* restoration mage."
Marcurio's condescending voice brought more relief than Erik wanted to admit. He opened his eyes to Marcurio walking over; the imperial's resting face looked more pinched than usual, but he leveled Ko'zajjat with a smirk.
Erik noticed a shift. The khajiit's ears perked - the first time since the battle - though she remained fixed to her work.
"You wish to embarrass yourself, rishajiit?"
"Oh, no - I wish to upstage you," Marcurio said. Boldly leaned closer to Ko'zajjat, hands folded primly behind his back. "And to save *you* the embarrassment of exhausting your sluggish magicka reserves."
In Erik's peripheral, Ko'zajjat's tail whipped at Marcurio's ankle.
"You let a draugr shrug off your turning spell pitifully - and this one should trust you to know where and how strongly to target your healing?"
Marcurio scoffed, "A mistake I swiftly corrected by melting its mort flesh from the bone."
Erik had heard their banter before - tones of mock challenge, their words carried light enough to seem... significant. Erik could only dream to have anywhere near a rapport as them. Was it because they were mages? Shared interests? Either way, it made him turn his head up to the mossy ceiling, cheeks flushing, as if privy to a conversation he wasn't meant to hear. But it didn't last long, as Marcurio added,
"For someone who dislikes the kid so much, I would have imagined you'd jump and run at the chance to be relieved from your duties, hm?"
Ko'zajjat had betrayed nothing in her face when Erik looked back. Yet she had twisted fully towards Marcurio. He held an expression that said he'd already won.
"If rishajiit insists," Murmured the khajiit. She rose to her full, towering height. "Do try not to damage more of him, yes?"
The two men watched Ko'zajjat exit. Marcurio assumed her seat with a self-satisfied smile and crossed arms.
"How are you feeling, Erik?"
The younger man smiled, "I'm better, thanks to everyone's help."
"Aren't you glad you're with us and not some dubious client that'd throw you to the wolves?"
"Oh, yeah... definitely better..."
Though Erik trailed off, forgetting where he was going with his words as he kept glancing towards the narrow hall leading away from the dining room, where Ko'zajjat had disappeared. Back to Marcurio - the memory of the ease between him and Ko'zajjat - and out popped an inkling of an inquiry.
"Marc? Do you know why Ko'zajjat is so... so, well..."
"So antagonistic towards you?"
"Yeah. That."
Marcurio's lips pressed into a line as he deliberated, bouncing his crossed leg slightly. Squinted at nothing in particular.
"I can't really speak for her, if I'm being honest. Your guess is as good as mine." He responded.
"Ah. I just figured you might know, given you can hold a conversation with her."
The mage didn't even bother to stifle his disbelieving snort. He leaned forward under the guise of confirming the fracture point on Erik's arm himself, and asked, "Recall what I said to you back in Rorikstead?"
A nod, "Keep your business clean?"
"Correct. I do try not to pry into my employer's personal matters. If there comes a time I must pack my shit and go, it's far easier to do so without attachment involved."
Oh, that was comforting. It seems like Erik has been doing it all wrong from the start. Did Marcurio only pretend camaraderie between his fellow men? Erik didn't want to place that worry atop the mounting pile. Stayed on track.
Tilting his head, Erik squinted at the imperial. "You and Ko'zajjat's banter doesn't seem that conditional. You two actually sound like friends."
Marcurio didn't meet the nord's gaze. He focused his healing spell into the same targeted trail as the khajiit had done, but he wore a cocky little smile Erik couldn't help but chuckle at. "Pssh. I just have that effect on people - inborn imperial charisma in spades."
"Well, if it works, I guess!"
"Of course it does. I never act with intent to miss my mark," Marcurio pretended to pat the nord's shoulder. "Enough about that infuriating woman. Tell me honestly - has this little mishap made you reconsider Hoe-Pusher as a more apt title, now?"
It was the same type of message as Ko'zajjat had uttered - 'you aren't cut out for this, are you?' But something held in Marcurio's expression, the lightness carrying his words, spurred a different emotion in Erik. This wasn't an ultimatum. Not derision. This was a challenge, as it always was when Marcurio called him that jesting title.
And hidden in that... respect.
"As if I'll let you hang that over my head for the rest of my career!"
"Mmm... you're certain?"
"I will be."
I never act with intent to miss my mark. If the older man's intent was to draw the resolve back into Erik's eyes, that remark was proven. Pleased with his work, Marcurio made his move to leave.
"Then by all means, prove us wrong. But until you're out of that sling - rest. I'm going to scrounge up something that actually resembles dinner, for once."
"What say you, men?" Kharjo bellowed with exaggerated bravado, reminding Erik of many a drunken nord that had waltzed into Frostfruit on a rally for adventure. The nord had just sat at the dining table, shuffling on his own from bed at the call of food and the succulent scent of roast phesant. "Shall we claim this fort as our own?"
"Divines, I won't even be able to spend tonight sleeping among this lichen and rot!" Objected Marcurio, to no one's surprise. All three men paid him a brief look. Faendal, however, lingered on how the imperial stared at the pot he stirred as though it owed him septims.
"For once, I agree with Marc and his enormous nose," the bosmer said. He checked his cards as Kharjo dealt.
"- I'll have you know my nose has been lauded as one of my most attractive -"
Faendal ignored him, raising his voice over him, "I already have a house! And what would Camilla say if I retreated to a grimy fort like some hermit?!"
"The two of you are no fun! It is the least we can do, after Erik almost died here. We could make more out of this than the bandits ever could!" But by his toothy smile, Kharjo wasn't serious. He rarely ever tried to be, in the casual moments.
Their card game paced on with their talk - Erik doing his best to maneuver cards with one arm - and Marcurio doled out dinner. An especially generous portion was given to the younger lad, along with a cup of bone broth. Faendal smiled to himself seeing Erik in better health - and in glowing spirits now that he was doing something with his companions.
The bosmer wanted to be content knowing that. But his mind kept drifting to that strange moment in the thick of the fight, where he and Ko'zajjat had first seen Erik fall.
Ko'zajjat's reaction.
Faendal wasn't sure how to go about broaching it, until he saw Marcurio leave the room without so much as looking to fill a plate of his own. He quickly ate his fill, decided this next disastrous hand was a sign for him to forfeit, kicked his feet back onto the floor and went to track down the mage.
Marcurio was outside. Standing out in the middle of the bailey, he was taking in slow breaths, eyes closed, hands twitching to correct undone hair that was both more frazzled and curlier than normal. His face was a mask of substantial irritation.
At first, Faendal considered turning around. Obviously Marcurio was seeking a moment alone. But the imperial looked his way without even opening his eyes; likely due to his enchanted earrings.
"... Yes?" He muttered.
Faendal lingered at the doorway. "Sorry, I can leave you be if you need a minute."
Marcurio's nostrils flared with a quiet huff. His eyes fluttered open. "No, it's fine. It's just astonishing how this cesspit of a fort traps heat and humidity so well - it makes my hair feel like I'm one skooma bender away from taking a nap in the Ratway." Bunching the locks together to rebind his ponytail, his face scrunched further. "Not to mention it still feels so greasy all the same - ech!"
While at any other time Faendal might've been humored or annoyed with the man's complaining, he couldn't help but feel this really was serious to Marcurio.
"Oh. Uh, I thought you only really hated the cold?" Pointed ears twitching lower, Faendal jabbed a thumb behind himself with a frown, "If you need some time, I can take care of the food. Would you rather eat out here where it's cooler, or?..."
Marcurio waved off the offer, "I'll eat later. The festering smell of dank earth and worm-eaten wood kills my appetite..." He swallowed. "I appreciate it, though. But I doubt you came here to hear me prattle like a snob. Or are you also taking an escape from that charming atmosphere?"
Faendal shook his head. He hadn't even noticed such details; even Kharjo, who's nose was the strongest among them, hadn't been visibly bothered as Marcurio was.
"No. I actually wanted to ask you about Ko'zajjat."
Quirking a brow, the mage crossed his arms as Faendal stepped closer. "Ugh. Pray tell, what about her now?"
"Well, during the fight, me and her were together on that rampart - and when we heard Erik scream - when we saw him fall... I saw Ko'zajjat freeze. She had this faraway look - I had to grab her to get her to come out of it... and I didn't know if you knew anything about it? Why she reacted the way she did? Because it was, well... worrying."
But by the way Marcurio's eyes widened as Faendal spoke, brows furrowed high with a noticeable slackening in his stance, the bosmer perhaps already had his answer.
The breeze sung to fill the momentary silence. That look of genuine concern faded from Marcurio's face as soon as it had appeared.
"This is the second time today I've been presumed as some secret repository to the machinations of Ko'zajjat's mind. No, I didn't know about this either. But as her hired protector - thank you for bringing it to my attention."
Faendal could've concluded it at that. But he didn't feel right doing so. He gazed up at Marcurio squarely, remarked honestly, "As folks who try to see Ko'zajjat as our friend, I think I can speak for us all when I say - we'd like to try to know what's going, so we can maybe help, yeah? And since you two are close, you'd have a better idea on how to approach her about it."
"Me and her are not close." Marcurio sighed, exasperated.
The bosmer didn't respond, but eyes narrowed into slits. Crossing his own arms, he tapped his foot.
"Mmhmm."
For what it was worth, Marcurio kept his composure under such a probing stare. "You're not going to give it up, are you?"
"Nnnnope."
The mage made a dismissive flourish of his hands. Turned on his heel. "Very well. I'll seek her out. Return to your cards, and do not sabotage my expertly roasted pheasant."
Faendal laughed to himself as soon as he closed the fort door behind him.
Leathery flaps of wings circling overhead signalled that Ko'zajjat's twin Winged Twilights had been dispatched to patrol the fort. Not that Marcurio was tentative in strolling past the walls; his earrings picked up nothing for a giant's throw in any direction besides waking crickets and browsing elk. He noted from the fleeting glow of the sunken sun mirrored in ripples on Lake Honrich that dusk had just passed. Ko'zajjat was outside. This he knew for certain. The woman never missed Azurah's sacred hours.
His inkling was further confirmed when he sensed Ko'zajjat's inherent magicka signature. Not far - just across the road from the fort entrance and down the shoreline a couple bounds.
Marcurio halted at the crest of the hill when the khajiit came into view. He knew she'd heard him - one ear angled his way - but her focus was set on prepping her fishing rod. Blazing feline eyes seemed brighter in its natural reflection with the sky; long, silver-black dappled fur was awash with the dimming tint of deep orange. The suthay-raht's massive, nigh seven-foot stature was less imposing when she was hunched forward, casually cross-legged on the ground.
Words escaped Marcurio.
He pored over their surroundings - her features - once more. Attempted to fit the woman he saw now to the one Faendal had described, frozen and shut down amid the battle's most harrowing moment. Where was the connecting thread? Would Marcurio truly be able to draw it out of her?
He was not lying, when he said they weren't close.
When he chose to stop observing, he put on his regular veneer of effortless snark. "I don't know why you waste your time with rods. I could achieve more of a catch more efficiently with a snap of lightning."
Ko'zajjat looked at him as though he was stupid for even possessing such a thought. Marcurio chuckled. Flicked on of her earrings as he passed.
"Oh? No bite from you? Mimicking the fish you vie for? Out of all the quips I can best you with..."
"Hanozay lipith... you scare the fish away with your blathering."
Marcurio stood next to her. Gazed out at Lake Honrich. The gentle breeze caressed him, carried a far less oppressive smell than the fort. It's accompanying chill wasn't ideal, but he found Skyrim's temperature was ever rarely a perfect middle ground; and he at least had his robes' fur lining to buffer it. This was a pretty spot to steal a moment for oneself.
"I can be quiet when I feel like it." Marcurio stated.
And Ko'zajjat actually laughed. "Prrft - hah! That is a feat that deserves recognition from the Arcane University - should the grand rishajiit ever achieve it."
With a genuine, almost warm smile spreading from the sound, the imperial leaned down towards his fellow mage.
"Mmm? Do not believe me, my wonderfully imposing khajiit hermit?"
"No. See to it as a challenge, if it gets you to shut up."
"Very well," Marcurio lowered himself - not too close, as he almost thought to do - but situated so that he was sitting against the nearby tree. "But I will warn you I take our little tests quite seriously."
And he resolved for that to be his final declaration. He decided then that he wouldn't interrogate Ko'zajjat, though not out of discouragement.
In truth... while perhaps not the exact same as whatever had come over Ko'zajjat, he could relate to such feelings on a broad scope.
Moments when the world simply felt like too much.
Marcurio knew he preferred not to be probed about it, when such overwhelm came over him. He'll give her the same respect for bounds. Besides, he thought as he pulled out a book from his satchel while Ko'zajjat cast her line: it was a rare pleasure indeed to be able to spend a slow, innocuous moment with his fellow mage. No expectation of physicality. No words. No hazardous ventures. Just simple confirmation that they could simply exist in the same space, and enjoy their time together all the same.
"- and there are certain claw-dance stances that may help condition your reflex in such situations. Once you are healed, khajiit can guide you through the motions, yes?"
Filled on a fair share of dinner and cards, Erik had sought to stretch his legs on a careful walk across the ramparts, while Kharjo accompanied him for what was their first truly one-on-one conversation since before the battle. Long overdue; if there was one person who's estimation held most value to the nord, it was Kharjo. Erik had found himself being taken under his wing from the beginning. A living whetstone to sharpen his skill in blade and shield. The khajiit looked at him with the same easy patience he always did, but Erik hoped Kharjo didn't secretly think the accident had been of his own failing as a teacher.
"That could help! I always am interested in that..." Erik uttered. Frowned downward at where his leg wound once was. "... but I do think the real issue was that - I was being too headstrong. That's my fault alone."
Kharjo chuffed. "You charged ahead to confront the chief while he took an advantageous spot, focused and entirely unharmed."
"... Yeah. Sounds about right. Ko'zajjat said I played heroics like a kid in a storybook."
"Mrrft! Always the grouch, she is." Kharjo shook his head with a click of the tongue. Erik followed his gaze to where one of the Winged Twilights perched on a battlement. It acknowledged the two men with a quick glare as they passed, but that only made Kharjo laugh again. "Even her winged women are taking after her! Hah!"
Erik shared in the humor, making to say something until Kharjo clapped him on the shoulder. "Let her words pass by you like the wind, Erik. I doubt she means them in earnest. You are alive, with all limbs, and a scar for memory's sake."
They passed by Faendal, sitting on a wall with his legs hanging over the edge, surveying the land with one eye and writing in a journal with the other. Writing a letter for Camilla, probably. Beyond a wave of acknowledgement, Faendal let them talk uninterrupted, while Erik was somewhat taken aback by Kharjo's remark.
"But scars aren't... accessories."
"Of course they are not. Scars are lessons," Kharjo clarified.
He pulled Erik in as the khajiit rolled up his sleeve. Erik's eyes went wide at the gnarled cluster of bare skin on his forearm. "This, my friend - is from a debt collector, amidst the incident that landed me in the Imperial Prison. It is only through the good fortune of my connections that I even stand here with you now. It is not a proud memory for me - but neither is it one I take for granted. It reminds me I've been blessed by another chance to make better choices."
"I see..." Erik said, taking in the burn scar - and the meaning surrounding it - for as long as Kharjo cared to keep it uncovered. They stopped to lean against the wall above the fort gate, Erik smiling in appreciation, "Thanks for telling me that, Kharjo. I've been worried you'd think less of me, too, for that blunder."
"I know what it is like to make mistakes. What matters is how we grow from it afterwards."
"You're just full of wisdom today! You sure teaching on a larger scale isn't in your future?"
Kharjo's teeth glinted in the sinking sunlight, gums upturned to complete an almost sheepish look. He stared ahead at Lake Honrich, but Erik thought he might be looking to somewhere much farther away. "Prrr-haps when Kharjo at last returns to Elsewyr to settle down. For now, I am enjoying my time in this group we've found ourselves part of. Besides..."
Erik caught sight of two figures across the road. Tensed, before he swiftly recognized them as Ko'zajjat and Marcurio. Marcurio was reading; Ko'zajjat, fishing, whom Erik's eyes lingered sharply on as Kharjo spoke:
"... khajiit will help you prove to her you belong. And for the mouthy mage - one day he shall be forced to call you Slayer with complete sincerity, yes?"
"Right. I'll keep proving my place among us. They'll see." Erik spoke with the same resolve he'd expressed to Marcurio earlier. That adventurous spirit. Not broken down; merely tempered, like any reliable blade. With their mage companions' efforts, Erik knew his recovery would be swifter than any normal warrior, yet he almost wished he could be out of this sling right now so he and Kharjo could start.
Distracting himself from his enthusiasm by observing Ko'zajjat and Marcurio by the lake, the nord's mind began to trail into another idea. One which he asked with the tone of someone who'd just pieced something together.
"Ko'zajjat has scars too, doesn't she?"
Kharjo hummed low. Erik looked back to see his ears flattening as his expression morphed into something almost weary. Somber.
"This one thinks so. I just hope that the lesson she learned from them does not keep her in self-made solitude for the rest of her days."