Chapter Text
Nords. They didn't care how much she squirmed, her many rejections of tea and mead were ignored, and Saathel had nowhere to run: a small feast had been made in her honor, despite her insisting that she hadn't saved anyone.
A small cohort of these overly familiar men and women had ushered her to one of their wooden halls, deployed a long table made of a young fir's corpse, and filled it with a banquet that occupied only wood implements and vessels. Save the occasional tin flagon, pot and kettle, of course. Its walls had nails from which to hang hunt-trophies —an irritating and wasteful practice— and weapons, which was perhaps more acceptable but did not sway the trunk of her despair. Warmth came from a fire smothered under many green logs, smoking the inside of the home, a detail none seemed to mind.
Once seated, comfortably imprisoned between a large man and an even larger lady, Saathel was treated like royalty.
As if.
They made certain to remark on her pointed ears and fiery hair, the color of her face paint and rustic make of her leather clothes. And all through that rough and awkward mingling she was supposed to act grateful and meek, anathema. It made both her and the Wolf stir in discomfort.
Friend, they called her. She was nobody's friend, especially not a friend to the people who supported either one or the other of her would-be executioners. Though, ever the pragmatist, she could pretend for the sake of a warm bite of fowl.
There was an earthly, fresh quality to it, something so unlike the usual deep and ashen of game. Tearing into it was way easier too, the fabric of its meat broken down by a slow boil over a number of hours, only to then be roasted alongside some odd tubers she did not touch.
"You liked the bird, eh?"
Saathel blinked her big eyes, humming through a mouthful. What does it fucking look like? "Mmyeah. Thanks, Gerdur."
They had explained both families to her in hurried introductions, and Saathel had attempted to retain most of it. At least, the names hadn't fled from her grips so far, and she could count that as a small victory over her, frankly put, monumental disinterest in the small town's affairs.
Sigrid was Hadvar's aunt —through marriage with a man named Alvor— and also Gerdur's worst nemesis, if her seething each time Saathel offered the other matriarch some gratitude was to be granted credibility. That both families did not get along would be an understatement: a feast with them was more of a crash course in Skyrim's unpleasant politics; and Saathel was the very unwilling star apprentice.
"What about the bread, lass?" Sigrid slid a brown loaf towards Saathel, cutting into its firm crust with a serrated knife, making a sound much like crunching bones.
Saathel's brow fell on her eyes. She kept chewing.
"Wood Elves don't eat bread."
Now the entirety of the dining table looked at one another as if she had said that Senches were a type of plant. Alvor ceased his chit-chat with Hadvar. The kids stopped bickering over whose dad had the best profession. Ralof closed his sister's gawking flat mouth with the back of his fist and leaned forward.
"Well, now, that just ain't true."
Though she wanted nothing more than to gasp and growl in frustration, Saathel attempted to keep the reins of the Wolf within her grasp. She counted the grain and grooves of the wooden table as if caressing an old friend.
"Don't look like a hangdog," Hod interrupted, patting her back with a too-large hand. "You know, I think someone in this town will wanna see you."
You couldn't trust the Gods to know why that brought a smile to everyone's faces.
The following part of the feast went by without any major complications for Saathel, discounting the mounted Elk's beady eyes staring at her from above the hearth. It was even more inhibiting than having a Nordsman's arm around her shoulders for some joke about the Thalmor "elven invaders". At least, she granted the man, they had that much in common.
It would seem not everyone present was of the same mind. Because of course they wouldn't be.
"I don't think you should call them that."
"Well, then, since you like elves so much, Hadvar," Ralof barked at the other man's attempt to smooth over the insult. "Why don't ya make 'em meet?"
Lightning in a phrase. A spell or blanket fell over the gathering, and it was one of silence.
Where a second ago words had been plentiful, now a fly's buzz was deafeningly loud; and it was all due to that sentence.
Though she wore her confusion clearly on her face, Saathel was not offered any manner of explanation: things wrapped up soon, and with Jone and Jode high in the sky, she was finally led outside.
"What was that 'bout? Who are you gonna make meet?"
Her demands fell on quite the deaf ear. Maybe she wasn't intimidating enough, measuring up to the Nord's shoulder at most. Maybe he wasn't in the mood to talk, despite his easy smile.
"You'll see," was all she could get from Hadvar before his heavy footsteps stopped right before an inn. The Sleeping Giant.
She narrowed her eyes at the sign etched in crude Tamrielic. Everything was in Tamrielic in this place. With a sigh, she found her thoughts wandering back to the days of her childhood, when Bosmeris was heard all around. When they weren't forced to read and write in pieces of paper, like carpenter ants leaving their grooves in wood.
"Come on in."
Led by Hadvar's hand on her back —and beatifically allowing him to keep it in one piece—, Saathel stepped into the loud, bright inn and… admittedly enjoyed the environment. At least his human companion wasn't smiling mockingly.
There were torches everywhere. Lard lanterns with playful embers on each table. A brazier in the middle, behind which a pale bard did something resembling music.
"Who's your friend, Hadvar?" asked the man at the bar, a weary looking one who, recognition due, was trying his best for a smile.
Her chaperone deferred that question to Saathel.
"Why don't you ask her yourself?"
At least she could speak for her own person instead of being assumed little more than the man's latest pet girl; if Hadvar was even that type.
"Saathel," she said, an absent look about her as she pondered about his love life in the middle of introductions. Not that he didn't seem the type to like women; rather, Hadvar looked the part of a once married man who had run out of luck and let the furs grow cold.
"Welcome to Riverwood, Saathel. I'm Orgnar. You need anything, you ask me, alright? The owner, Delphine, can help you get settled in a room, and—"
A fur-gloved hand waved in front of the man's face, near toppling over a mug of ale. "That won't be necessary. Thanks for the hospitality, but I've a place to sleep already." Of course none of her tenets forbid finding said place later, even if she had to climb a tree for it.
Luckily for her, Hadvar didn't seem to care and kept his nose to himself.
So, was that all? The reason for the conspiratory looks her hosts had exchanged after insisting she meet someone at the inn, was it this graying man cleaning mugs with an old rag?
No exploration of Hadvar's face proved useful, considering it was buried deep into frothy ale. Saathel's lips wrinkled despite herself as the repugnant stench of cereal ferment filled her nose and pierced her best attempts to keep the back of her palate closed, so she would not have to know of death and harvest.
"Don't like ale?" came a clear voice from right next to her.
Saathel would have liked to boast recognition, say the melodious lilt of that phrase was telling of a Boiche displaced, just as herself, from the embrace of Green covenant.
But she had run out of lies for the day.
Unconcerned thusly, she did what she could, and spat her words at the stranger without even turning her face, assuming another Nord man was mesmerized by her exotic ways.
"What? Don't you know?"
The answer was what revealed this speaker as one of her people.
"Oh, come on. I've been here for shy of a damn decade, I would have gone insane."
Saathel watched him then, lifting her head over Hadvar's chuckling form, able to look at the man's face.
It embarrassed her, how seeing a familiar set of features in an unfamiliar land warmed her guts like a sip of running honey. And, yes, honey was indeed permitted. Her settlement's Spinner had been very clear.
Eyes of its very color, a liquid amber lit from within to frame the delicate spokes of cross-shaped pupils. An advantage in the hunt, those eyes could spot moving prey farther than any mer and were superior to Khajiiti and Saxhleel sight alike. And just as well aged he was, with grooves printed into his skin that collected its tan color to frame freckled cheeks. He was one to laugh, those lines told her, but also to frown and scream, and hold his forehead taut in moments of pause.
She was all too forgiving, dipping her head in suspended judgement as the stranger indicated the weary man at the bar to bring them a round of Jagga, which apparently he had managed to introduce into the town, to his credit.
Already she warmed up to anyone who knew of her preferences. The fermented drink was far too unsavory to be made in the Valenwood, and she hadn't caught sight of the keg or skin or bottle that contained it, though it would probably be unlabeled either way.
Despite the brewer's obvious lack of skill, she could do with losing herself for a split second, and downed glass after glass with no care for the price. Having Nords who owed her had its upsides.
So time passed and they spoke without exchanging names. A time-honored custom said that names were unneeded when the night was soon to lift, leaving those in her cover to forget about one another. Hadvar was focused on something else too, leaving Saathel free to run a near liter of the stuff down her throat at his expense. That made things easier.
Eventually, and as they discussed in Bosmeris the differences between this land and Valenwood, the mer Saathel had been speaking with turned to his right and switched languages to snort out something like, "I never liked the meat mandate anyway."
His lips drew in a small pout, conspiratorial. Oh. He hoped she would agree.
At any other time, she would have found it amusing, but as the only two Bosmer in a plain of Men, he had committed an offense his cast could not save him from. The Wolf spoke before Saathel could, voice curling into a low gurgle of disgust.
"Salad muncher."
The entire inn fell silent. Even the bard held his strings and caws when the Mer stood from his stool. One could stand to reason that they were adept slur-slingers, recognizing a pejorative term at the drop of a hat. Of course only the Bosmer among them knew the true depth of that term.
"What did you just call me?"
Saathel pushed her own stool back and stood, eyeing him from the angle her height afforded.
"You heard me."