Chapter Text
Voryn has never seen such a lively party in his life, but then, there is plenty to celebrate about the Nords being decisively thrown from their land. Every mer, even those born after the conquest, seems to have thrown off two centuries' worth of anger in favor of joy.
Dwemer and Chimer swap alcohol with each other all over the camp; though the tents remain mostly segregated by House, Indoril soldiers laugh with those wearing Redoran's crest, and tipsy Telvanni mages challenge Dagoth sorcerers to meaningless spellmaking contests around the fires. Nerevar, of course, is the man of the hour every hour, and so Voryn hardly sees him.
There is still a long and unsteady road ahead for them, but the mood of the camp is so infectious that even Voryn can hardy think of the work yet to be done now that Resdayn is theirs again. Though he makes sure that the Dagoth forces stay at least somewhat in order, when he has time to spare, he, too, enjoys the atmosphere and the company. Sil in particular is full of breathy ideas of what to work on now that his talents will no longer need to be turned toward warfare, and Voryn's brothers who joined him in the fighting won't let him sit inside for too long.
The celebrations do, after a few days, begin to wind down, though the attentions of Dumac and Nerevar are still mobbed. One evening, Voryn spots Almalexia swinging Nerevar around in some odd dance, her fierce battle-face replaced by bright happiness and her hair made a beautiful orange-red by the firelight. There has been no formal proposal from her yet, but surely it will come very soon, when the dust has had a moment to settle.
So it is a surprise – though certainly not an unwelcome one – when Nerevar ducks into his tent. "I need to be somewhere a little quieter for a while," he says as an excuse, a sheepish smile on his face as he plops cross-legged on the thick rugs.
Voryn understands; the constant noise starts to grate at times. He obligingly pours them both some of his best bottle of brandy, freshly sent from Kogoruhn, and casts a muffling spell over the tent – nothing so strong they won't hear the cries if someone starts burning the camp down, but enough to dampen the conversation and laughter around them. Nerevar sighs, takes a drink, and leans far enough on his spare hand that when he tilts his head back, the ends of his mohawk brush against the red patterns on the rug.
For a moment, the smile washes off his face, leaving lines of exhaustion, the evidence of how much Nerevar needs a rest and how long he has been fighting in various ways. For trust amongst the Chimer infighting, for friendship from Dumac and the Dwemer, for unity between their combined forces, for victory above the Nords. And soon, he will begin the struggle to hold the lines of alliance he's forged together despite the doubts all around that they won't last the next century.
Nerevar can do it, Voryn thinks. Perhaps no other.
"Hai Resdaynia," Voryn murmurs into his own brandy, and the smile reappears on Nerevar's face as he pulls his head upright again.
"I don't believe anyone has crowned me quite yet," he says.
"They have in their hearts."
Nerevar laughs, a deep sound, not as boisterous as what Voryn has heard over and over these past few days but far more warming.
"I have in mine as well," he admits. There's a prickle of irritation deep in Voryn to hear it – something that rankles at seeing a common Chimer from a small House pull himself to exalted rank – but Nerevar has well-earned the fruits of his ambitions.
They drink to that, and then Nerevar reaches for the bottle to refill his cup. It's better to see him like this, still tired, but with contentment softening his eyes and the faint lines at their corners.
He refills Voryn's cup, too, and as he does so, he asks, "May I give you the first order of my reign, then?"
"You've given me more than a few already," Voryn says, bowing his head in silent thanks. He didn't have a complete lack of direction as Nerevar's general.
"But this one will be special," Nerevar teases as he sets the brandy aside.
So Voryn tilts his head, trying to guess what silly thing Nerevar might dress up as an order.
And Nerevar smiles, puts his cup aside, leans in a little; says, "You ought to wear your hair down more often. Whenever you don't require it out of the way for some particular task."
Voryn stares at him.
Then Nerevar does something more shocking still: he reaches forward and pulls the ribbon from Voryn's hair where it is braided and tied neatly back, and he lets the length of silk fall to the rugs. Voryn is too startled to move. An hour ago he was idly contemplating what would make a pleasing wedding gift for Nerevar and Almalexia; now Nerevar is beginning to undo his braids for him.
Touching his hair is an intimacy that very few people outside his family have ever dared to presume.
"For what reason?" he says faintly, clutching at his cup of brandy and still staring at Nerevar's too-close face.
"Because it looks nicer that way," Nerevar says in an amused tone; his attention seems to be entirely on Voryn's hair and not his increasingly hot face as the braids come apart easily in his fingers. "It seems a shame to grow it this long and then never show it off."
Truth be told, Voryn has long been annoyed with how he is always pushing stray hairs out of his face when he spends his hours over his alchemy equipment and enchanting arrays, but like every House, Dagoth has its traditions when it comes to appearances. He did cut it shorter when they began their campaign against the Nords, but it's already grown enough again to fall over his shoulders when Nerevar finishes undoing the braids and runs his fingers through the strands.
Every time he does so, sparks burrow under Voryn's scalp and buzz down to his spine.
It's not long before the braids are all taken apart. While Voryn still kneels frozen, unsure of what to make of the sudden affection, Nerevar runs his hand down the length of his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, running through strands wavy from the braids. His fingers pause to twine with the ends for a moment before he pulls them free. Voryn's shiver must be visible. Surely his flush is as well. Perhaps Nerevar will—
Nerevar sits back, a self-satisfied look on his face. Voryn stares at him again, his scalp tingling, his fingers aching from how tight they've clamped around his cup, waiting.
But Nerevar simply changes the topic to the songs Vivec's been writing to mark the occasion, as though he hadn't just invited himself to touch him.
For the rest of the evening, Voryn is hyper-aware of every time their fingers come close when they pass the bottle of brandy back and forth, of every time Nerevar shifts and his knee grazes Voryn's thigh. Of every movement of his hair against his robes and face. But Nerevar takes no further liberties, makes no implications, and the time otherwise passes like it often has when they had spare moments for rest, except that now there is further room for joy in Nerevar's smiles.
None of the explanations that come to mind quite make Nerevar's overly familiar actions fit, though Voryn tries: that it must have been all the drink in the last few days, that Nerevar must be so tired that he forgot himself to have some amusement, that he must have misunderstood something in the interaction.
When he awakens the next morning, he begins his usual routine, but after he combs his hair, his fingers pause two crosses into the first braid.
He never verbally acquiesced to Nerevar's request. Command. But he can easily recall the grin on Nerevar's face that said he expected it would be followed, as odd of an order as it was.
Voryn keeps his hands raised to his head for a ridiculously long moment, half wishing he could take the whole thing as a joke, knowing that it was too sincere to do so, attempting to guess at what Nerevar meant by it.
Then he lowers them and leaves his hair loose as he finishes readying for the day, and he tries to ignore the way it brushes his clothes.
Once the celebrations are finished, Voryn finds himself all over the place. First he goes to Nchuandhurz, the Dwemer city that dips into Red Mountain, where Nerevar and Dumac begin sketching out the details of their plans for a combined councilship of Resdayn while their respective counsel eyes each other warily. One of the Dwemer clans is especially and vocally opposed to the entire idea, to the point that Dumac has to repeatedly rebuke them, and their clanhead threatens that the clan will break ties with him and move west.
After those exhausting days, Voryn returns home to Kogoruhn, because he has been trying to half run his House from afar for too long. His brothers, as well as the Dagoth council – most of its members, at least – are glad to see him back safely. He is glad to see the familiar halls again and the landscape blooming in early summer, though the alchemy and poison gardens are a bit ragged from being stripped for wartime potions.
Nerevar stops by briefly not long after on his way to Mournhold. Endus takes the excuse to dig up a case of the best alcohol from their warehouses for him. He jokes that Nerevar has earned the Nords’ share that they used to grudgingly hand over as part of their diplomacy with the invaders to minimize trouble for their territory, and in return Nerevar praises the quality and promises to save the rest for a worthy occasion.
Voryn remains busy. There are long meetings with the other members of Dagoth council, reports from his retainers and his brothers, all manner of news to deal with. It is a welcome thing to see what resources they can free up for regular administration and business with no Nords to placate and with the war's end bringing people home. He is keen to help his people finish healing and put them on a brighter path.
Gilvoth leaves almost immediately with troops that still desire action; they aim to fight off a pack of necromancers who sprung up during the war, no doubt filling their lairs with bodies stolen from the battlefields. Uthol, meanwhile, goes to their northern and eastern territory, happy to take on the lonelier work of planning ports. The treacherous waters of the Sheogorad, with their hazardous stone columns and few natural harbors, may never be the best shipping route. But they will be more navigable with the Nord fishers gone and fewer raiding parties to compound the dangers of the stony seas, and there is certainly use to be made of the eastern shore of Vvardenfell.
Nerevar writes him frequently. Sil's brilliant work on the propylon chambers and indexes was incredibly useful for transit during the war, and now they make it easy to send messengers across the whole of Resdayn.
Voryn always opens the letters the moment they make it into his hands, no matter what else he has going on that day. Nerevar writes in a refreshingly chatty style that is nothing like the formal letters he receives from other nobles or even the manner that any of his brothers writes in. (Gilvoth goes to the expense of sending him a note with nothing scrawled on it but Necromancers dead. Nest of daedra at Ebernanit next.)
He writes back with advice in answer to Nerevar's questions, with commiserations about having to deal with the other House heads, with comments on what is happening in Kogoruhn. And when Nerevar asks him to come to Mournhold as summer fades to autumn, he goes.
Nerevar is staying in an Indoril mansion, some thin veil of propriety keeping him from moving into the palace before the wedding. He smiles tiredly when Voryn is shown into his borrowed office; his desk is a mess of papers in both Chimeris and Dwemeris, and the rug, indigo with an auspicious double-cross pattern, is already showing wear from visitors' feet.
They catch up on the plans for the Grand Council while Voryn helps Nerevar sort through all the papers and make a list of tasks in order of importance. Nerevar was a very dependable caravan guard before he was an excellent war leader, but it seems that he is finally a little out of his depth when it comes to the sort of statecraft that Voryn has been trained in his whole life, not to mention the overwhelming number of people who want his ear and attention.
Voryn drafts some of the letters and notes to help with the load and throws out anything irrelevant; Nerevar needs someone who will sort his correspondence properly instead of whoever is doing a poor job of it now. Another task for tomorrow.
It's late when they break for the day, and after they have dinner in Nerevar's personal quarters, Voryn brews him a pot of the trama root and hackle-lo leaf tea he brought with him. It's calming and restorative but not as disruptive to sleep as a potion might be.
Nerevar breathes the steam from his cup in deeply and leans back in his chair. They haven't lit any candles, and the light from the fireplace dances on his face when he turns in his seat toward it. His mohawk is drooping, but there's a small smile on his face despite the long day.
"Thanks for coming so quickly. I know you're busy yourself and have other tasks to take care of than teaching me how to balance a busy schedule and who to tell to fuck off."
Voryn smiles, and he takes a sip from his own cup after casting a minor spell to cool it; the tea is bitter in a pleasant way, and his shoulders start to relax of their own volition. "It's no trouble. Helping you to pull our plans together is a worthy use of my time, and this idea for a new council shouldn't wait too long." If some of House Dagoth isn't happy to see him leaving again so soon, it's mollified by the fact that it won't be as protracted an excursion this time, and that it's another sign he has Nerevar's confidence.
Nerevar gives him a curious sideways look. "You know," he says, "Ayem and Vehk and Seht have all told me that this isn't going to work, not for long. That we should quietly prepare to make war with the Dwemer next. I'm getting a little tired of hearing it, actually, and I know that the same thing is happening on Dumac's side. You may be the only one who hasn't advised me that this peace won't last, and I don't think it's only because your House has the closest ties with them."
There have been times of bitterness between House Dagoth and the Dwemer as well; but his ancestors figured it was better to live in the unpredictable landscape surrounding Red Mountain with allies, when it was possible, rather than yet another enemy. Over the centuries, they have traded ceramics and metal and occasionally spouses. It hasn't helped Dagoth's reputation with the other Houses, but it has suited them.
"It's true that I don't wish to see war between us," Voryn says slowly, "both because of our history and because my House's territory would see much of the conflict. We should be prepared for possibility that the peace between us will not hold, in any case. But there is nothing wrong with being ambitious and attempting to hold it, and everything that I know of Dumac says that he is level-headed and seeks to keep our alliance." The impression comes from both his personal meetings with Dumac and the scraps of information his spies and retainers in Dwemer cities have teased out thus far.
"I'm glad to hear you say that," Nerevar sighs. "It's not new to me that alliances tend to not last forever."
"Nor does any leader's work. Even Veloth could not keep us in a golden age for all time, wise as he was. But the work was still worth doing."
"Oh, don't go comparing me to Veloth," Nerevar says with a chuckle, and he causally extends a hand to brush a lock of hair over Voryn's shoulder.
Voryn takes another sip of his tea and tries to let it calm the sudden spike of anxiety that quickens his heart when Nerevar's fingers stroke along his hair. It is clear to him by now that the gesture means something different to Nerevar, that it's simply a marker of their friendship and something that soothes or amuses him. Perhaps it is more typical where he grew up, similar to how Voryn was taught to be polite in the south by taking a step closer during conversation and in Telvanni territory by speaking an extra step apart.
It doesn't feel unpleasant, anyway, and he does his best not to let his surprise at the sudden touch show.
Nerevar finally takes a drink from his own cup, and he almost melts into the wood of his chair. "This is good," he says, not even looking Voryn's way as he turns his hand over and winds his fingers in Voryn's hair, which tugs lightly as his scalp and makes him need to suppress a little shiver. "Maybe when you have a moment, you could take some to Ayem. She could use it almost as much as me, and maybe some help with the wedding? I've found that I'm not the most useful at planning events for nobility."
"I can imagine you might miss out on the implications of the flower arrangements," Voryn says dryly. "I'm sure she can handle it, but I'll ask."
They turn to chatting about the more pleasant topic of the upcoming wedding, which is planned to take place in early Second Seed next year. Nerevar may not know all the intricacies of court, but the brightness in his eyes as he talks about Almalexia says that she couldn't be engaged to a man who cares more for her. She must be overjoyed. Not only for how politically advantageous the match is now that the war is won, but to have it also be a love-marriage, as someone who has been finding ways to turn down suitors since she was placed on the throne too young.
When Nerevar empties his cup, Voryn refills it for him. Nerevar raises it in thanks and, finally, his hand falls away from Voryn's hair as he turns to fully face him. The sudden absence of the touch is a little startling, too.
"Do you like having so many siblings?" he asks.
"Yes," Voryn answers immediately, then, wondering what the question is really driving at, amends it to, "most of the time, and now that we've grown. Sometimes I'm not sure how my mother managed even with all our nurses and tutors."
She was the head of the House before him, and on top of that, their father passed away when Voryn was still a child. Tureynul, the youngest, had only just learned to walk and was small enough that Voryn could hold him on his lap when they visited their father at his sickbed. Somehow she found time in her long days to give all eight of them some amount of attention and personal lessons while running the House affairs.
"You did sound a little grumpy about Gilvoth in your last letter."
Voryn sighs. "He celebrated his cleansing expedition with too much alcohol, and Odros was saying something that annoyed him, but he couldn't aim a silence spell worth anything after all the shein and brandy and hit Vemyn instead. Vemyn, of course, took offense to that, and – to make the story short, we had to pull the rug they were grappling on out from underneath them before they set it on fire a third time."
Nerevar hides a snort in his tea, poorly. "What a lively family you have," he says, and though his face is growing difficult to see as the fire dies down, his voice is full of warmth. It strikes Voryn, not for the first time, that Nerevar does not talk about his own origins, that House Mora has been curiously mute given that one of their own has become Resdayn's hero. "Gilvoth won?"
"I suppose. Vemyn was certainly sulking about it when I left."
He tilts his head in a silent question, and Nerevar leans in a bit further and says, "Ayem and I were talking about how many we'd like to try for. We haven't decided yet, just that she thinks it'd be nice to have more than one, as she didn't like being an only child."
"Ah." He knows Almalexia's family well – even knows some of the details of what happened to her parents that House Indoril would prefer he didn't – and he can understand why siblings might sound appealing to her. Nerevar leans in further and raises an eyebrow. Voryn shouldn't be giving anyone advice on this topic, seeing as he finds the idea of children unappealing, but he says, "I suppose four would be a nice number if you wanted several."
"Huh. Vehk was very insistent that it should be three."
"It's a more auspicious number," Voryn grants – not that he would listen to Vivec any more than himself when it comes to children. "But four is nicely balanced. Harder for three of them to decide to team up against one than two, as well."
"Speaking from experience, I understand," Nerevar says with a laugh.
They talk later into the night than they should, given how much work will greet them tomorrow, and the fire is only dim coals when Voryn finally convinces Nerevar to sleep and leaves for his own hastily arranged guest room.
In the middle of preparing himself for bed, he pauses and tries winding his fingers into his hair as Nerevar was doing earlier. It takes him a couple of tries to figure out how he did it without his fingers immediately slipping away, and he stares down at his hand blankly for a moment before pulling it out.
He'll leave the fidgeting habit to Nerevar.