[center][i][b]Requiem for Family[/b][/i][/center]

The fire cackled in Daro’Vasora’s perhephrial vision, a dancing pale orange and bright yellow light that flickered across the trunks of trees and across leaves as the smoke ascended into the canopy above. The fear of the Dwemer tracking them seemed to have faded, and no sign of any other survivors disturbed the night. The Khajiit reckoned that the invaders were more concerned with holding the city than hunting the countryside for stragglers, so as far as she was concerned, they were free and safe. The same couldn’t be said about everyone, however.

She knelt alone in the dirt holding a private vigil that she spoke nothing of to the others. Judena would understand, but this wasn’t the time for an absent minded Argonian who probably didn’t recall why this moment was necessary. Spread out in front of the Khajiit were Zegol’s memoirs and mementos, things that had held significance in the Orsimer’s life from the time they’d spent together. She stared at the words on the pages, hearing his voice with each trace of ink across the yellowed parchment, his infliction coming into her mind as readily as if he were reading them aloud sitting next to her. The faintest of breezes gave the impression that it was true, and reflexively, her hand lay upon her shoulder, imagining his own squeezing reassuringly as if to say that it was okay. She stared at the hole she had dug just beyond.

There had been no time for a burial, and Zegol presumably still lay dismembered on the hardwood floor of the store he had loved so much, that he had spent the last several years of his life turning into a reflection of his life’s work and passions. It was impossible to walk amongst the artifacts and trinkets that they had both accumulated and not feel his essence and joy for each and every thing on display. He had been an accomplished adventurer in his youth, a man who had travelled the world and done incredible things and his name was attached to recovering some of history’s most famous artifacts. It was why Daro’Vasora’s father had send her to the Orc; if anyone could have shaped her ambitions so productively and skillfully without her turning to a life of petty crime and mischief, it was Zegol. 

Ra’Rinjo had called in a favour to his long-time associate, and before long, an ungrateful little brat was at his doorstep, wondering why she was being forced to live with an ugly old man who clearly had no idea of what to do with a teenager. But they found common ground quickly, as Daro’Vasora recognized several of the artifacts Zegol had collected. It didn’t take long for the two of them to spend many long nights talking excitedly of tales of quests and relics, history and politics. They were kindred spirits who never would have known the other existed if it weren’t for the Khajiit earning the dubious honour of her honourific. Under him, it became a source of pride. Following his lead and learning the skills he had accumulated over decades of adventuring, her name meant something and she came to love him as family, as he did her. Zegol had never settled or found a wife, let alone had children, and in a way Daro’Vasora filled that void that he had felt empty for so long. 

She brushed a forearm across her eyes, her fur wicking up the tears and water running from her nose as she heard his laugh, saw his smile, the look of approval when she dropped something truly incredible on the workbench he kept out back. Wrapped around her hand of that very arm was an amulet that Zegol’s sister had crafted for him when they were both young, a bit younger than her when she came to him. He often held it like this when he was concerned, lost in thought, or just missing his family. It was near and dear to him, as were the other baubles she had laid out on a handkerchief, one he had kept in his breast pocket as a part of his formalwear. Now she was considering burying it all in this unmarked impromptu grave for his spirit and soul to make amends for being forced to leave him behind. Her heart was tearing itself asunder, and she hoped nobody could see her.

“Vasora?” A quiet voice came behind her. The Khajiit’s face twisted into a snarl, but she didn’t turn around.

“Fuck off.” She spat, not caring if her vitriol hurt. This was a private moment, and there was no chance in Oblivion that she’d let someone see her in a moment of weakness.

Still, footsteps approached, and soon Rhea came into view, sitting cross legged a respectful distance away, close enough that they could converse without needing to lift their voices, but angled in a way as if to say that she wasn’t trying to snoop. “We haven’t had a moment to talk since we got back to the city. I’ve noticed your disposition’s changed.” The Imperial glanced towards Daro’Vasora with sympathetic eyes that weren’t met. “I can tell you lost someone, and well, I didn’t think you should be alone.”

Daro’Vasora looked up, jeering. “Oh, sympathy. That will bring him back, or make you not meddle with things you do not understand. I warned you. I told you that it was a bad idea, but you had it in your pretty little head of yours that the device would be our salvation. That choice cost thousands of lives, do you understand?” The Khajiit bored into her, staring venomous daggers into Rhea. “Everyone on that expedition who died on the mountain. Balroth, Latro…. Zegol.” She said, deflating as she stared down at the papers in front of her, her hands clutching the amulet protectively. 

“I know.” Rhea replied softly, not defending herself. “I’ve been living with guilt of it all since I made the choice for everyone. Every life lost since that day, I feel as if I’m the one who handled the weapon. There is no atonement for good intentions, but knowing what I do now...” she trailed off, her eyes not wavering. “I would have made the same decision again. I chose to save those I promised to protect, and while it haunts my very soul to know what came of my actions, I kept my word and you are all here and not at the mercy of the Falmer. I know you weren’t fond of that prospect.”

“Fuck you.” Daro’Vasora repeated, her teeth grinding. “You are not going to manipulate me into thanking you for sparing me from what those monsters would have done to me. But…” she struggled with what she was about to say. “I do not think I would have chosen differently. I am a selfish cur and I won’t apologize for it, and I’m a damned hypocrite. I’m never going to forgive you for what you did, but… [I]ugh.[/I] Alkosh damn it, I understand it. However, you’re always going to be the reason that I lost him.” She said bitterly, her eyes clenching even tighter, her claws’ points digging into her palms, eight little daggers that hurt, but she didn’t care. She wanted to feel the pain.

“Do you think he would have made the same choice?” Rhea asked, catching Daro’Vasora off guard. A momentary flare of fury filled her before the rational part of her mind was choked by the question. The realization, and the shame, hurt her.

“No. Zegol… he was a softie.” She said, mostly to herself. The playful teasing words about the kind, selfless spirit of the man that she often came back to her, and she choked on the word. The realization that he was always a much better person that she’d ever be, and that he wouldn’t have hesitated to sacrifice himself to save her burned like her heart was turning to ash in her chest. Daro’Vasora curled over, shaking, her body rocking with quiet, restrained sobs. [I]He would be so ashamed, he should hate me, he should-[/I] her mind began to race, but a hand was placed on her shoulder, and then arms wrapped around her protectively. Despite her misgiving, her loathing, Daro’Vasora reached out and grabbed the arm for support, accepting the support.

Rhea didn’t say anything until Daro’Vasora had stopped shaking, a series of sniffles escaping her muzzle. “I… shit. I don’t know.” The words came without thought or care, but the caustic tone she had carried largely dissipated.  

“What were you planning on doing with his belongings?” Rhea asked quietly, letting go, but returned the grip Daro’Vasora held. The Khajiit stared down at the papers, her tears having wet them like raindrops. “I couldn’t bury his body. I wanted to give him a burial. I don’t know how.” She managed, the words coming like staccato sentences. Her defences crumbled; she felt like a cub again. “I never learned about his culture, not really. I don’t know how to send him off. I don’t want to make a mistake.”

“Whatever words come to your heart, they will suffice.” Rhea said, reassuring her. “You don’t strike me as a temple-goer, and if he wasn’t either, I think he’d just be happy to know you’re safe and thinking of him. Just say the words you never could.” She moved the Khajiit’s hand to close upon the amulet again. “The choice is yours, but if you’ll take the word of a fool, hold onto his affects. That way he’ll always be with you. I promise I’ll make proper arrangements for a funeral in Skingrad for him.”

Daro’Vasora nodded slightly, her gaze locked onto Zegol’s words below.

“I’ll make sure no one bothers you, Vasora. You’re a better person than you give yourself credit for, and that you grieve for someone you love tells me that you loved him as much as he loved you. I think Latro saw that about you.” Rhea stood, placing her hand on Daro’Vasora’s shoulder once more. “Come to the fire when you’re ready. I’ll make sure there’s some food for you if you want it.” She said as a way of parting, carefully tracing her steps back to the fire, leaving Daro’Vasora to her own devices.

As she carefully folded the pages once more and slid them back in the leather envelope that they had been kept in, she felt as if a strong set of hands were guiding her own. She looked up, at Massar’s light above. A familiar laugh that only she could hear sounded in the night.