You Can't Say Mistral Doesn't Love you
A directionless slice-of-life from the perspective of a skooma cat.
Al'khajir's hands shook as he stared down at the empty vial cupped in his palms. His head would pound, every inch of his body felt as though it were vibrating. He couldn't keep his eyes still in their sockets, seemingly to bounce in every direction of his skull while remaining focused on the vial. His body felt hot. No, cold. No, hot again; the pads of his palms and feet felt moist, only to freeze again in the next instant. The intense muscle spasms were constant and uncontrollable. The silence around him was too loud, hearing the blood rushing in his head. The rapid heartbeats in his chest were as loud as a blacksmith's hammer swinging on a steel blade. Each pound pressed up into his throat; the dryness of his mouth and tongue was as though he had just licked sand on the hottest day in the Alik'r desert. Squeezing his eyes shut, his fingers wrapped tightly around the vial as he tried to focus on controlling the shaking. He attempted taking slow, careful breaths as his heart tried to squirm out of his mouth. His jaw tensed, teeth digging into his tongue, the metallic taste of blood quickly apparent. The pain of his teeth digging into flesh helped to distract him from the waves of nausea as they slammed into his throat like waves during a storm. Finally, his eyes popped open, the spasms becoming fewer and providing brief moments of clarity. He glanced around the burrow of snow he had dug out for himself, the snow-caked bark of the base of a tree to his right. His knees were pulled up to his chest, as the small space did not allow for him to stretch out. The break in the snow he entered through above glowed purple with the dim light of the dusk sky. The tension in his body had begun to relax, though he still felt as though he were ill, the right side of his head still throbbing. His gaze wandered down to the empty vial, and he brought it to his mouth, folding his tongue in a circle and stuffing it inside, desperate for one last drop. Unfortunately, he tasted none of the bliss it had previously held. He sniffed as he pulled his tongue out, tossing the vial aside to be embedded in the snow. Around him was an old blanket, wrapped tightly to protect himself from the cold snow that he had made a home beneath. He pulled it tighter, loose strands brushing his cheeks. Tucking his chin down into his chest, he closed his eyes once again, trying to block out the pain of the knife that seemed trapped in his skull. The warm breeze of Khenarthi's Roost felt good as it rippled through his fur, a breath to soothe him from the humid summer air. Old wooden steps quietly creaked beneath his steps as Al'khajir climbed the stairs to his home. A sense of dread filled his chest parallel to this. He could barely lift his arm to open the door to the traditional Khajiiti house. Stepping inside, he could see straight to the back of the room. Clan Mother La’aranji, as well as his mother herself, stood huddled around the bed against the far wall. Their attention was on the Khajiit who laid before them. The strong scent of incense filled Al'khajir's nose as he timidly approached. It was stronger than usual, as though extra had burned to ward out disease. He kept his limbs close to his sides, shoulders still as the Clan Mother turned to address him. She placed a hand on his mother's shoulder, "Go tend to Riss." Clan Mother La’aranji’s tone was soft and solemn as she dismissed the other female Khajiit. His mother had a longing gaze on her face as she turned her body, still focused on the man in the bed. Finally breaking away, she could barely look at Al'khajir before she raised her hands to cover her face with a handkerchief. As she hurriedly made her way out, Al'khajir could not help but to stare at her enlarged abdomen. He thought of his soon-to-be siblings and clenched his fists before approaching the bedside. The Khajiit in the bed had a striking resemblance to Al'khajir; the same greyish tabby-like pattern, though he had a thick, darker grey mane. His eyes were the same icy blue color as they shifted to watch his son approach. The difference, however, was how sunken they were; as were his cheeks. Fresh blood tainted his nostrils and the corners of his mouth. He looked... Tired. The Clan Mother patted the young Khajiit's head as she also turned away, her wise eyes full of sorrow. She looked as though she wished to say something, but in an instant changed her mind, making her way out behind his mother. Al'khajir craned his head as though he wanted her by his side, hesitating for a moment. He kept his eyes down as her footsteps faded out, turning back to face his father. "Papa," Al'khajir's voice was soft, and quiet. It still had that youthful alto squeak. "...Ja’khajiit." A weak hand reached out, unsuccessful at making its way to the top of Al'khajir's head. Al'khajir took the fragile hand in his own, pressing his cheek into his father's palm. “This one does not have much time,” the man managed out. Al’khajir could barely hear what he said, and leaned in. “Papa…” Al’khajir could not think of anything to say, he knew the truth, but refused to accept it. The older Khajiit continued. "You will have to take care of your mother and your siblings." His father's voice was breathy and quiet. He croaked like an Argonian. It was unfamiliar; he was used to the rich, deep, commanding voice. "...You can do that for this one, yes?" Al'khajir pressed his face firmly into his father's hand. "P-Papa... This one cannot, you will...recover..." Al'khajir's voice trailed off. He held back tears, not willing to show weakness in his father's presence. Not now. His father used what little strength he had to turn Al'khajir's head forward, forcing them to meet each other's gaze. His fathers eyes were stern, telling the little ja'Khajiit he had to listen. "You must, Al'khajir. You do not have a choice," Al'khajir hated the weight of his words. Each spoken felt like an anvil dropping into his stomach. His frame trembled as he stared at his father. "This one knows... you will not heed his advice, wild one," Papa continued. "...Please... Go to the docks. Earn an honest living for them. This one taught you well, yes?..." Al'khajir simply gave a slow nod in response, still clutching Papa's wrist. Now he couldn't take his eyes off of his father's frail face. Oh, how he had changed so much in only a few days... He blinked away a single tear before it could fall. Realizing how tightly he was holding his father's wrist, he loosened his grip. "...Al'khajir will take care of them," his voice was hoarse, throat tight. "H-He promises, Papa. He will." Papa took a ragged breath and laid his head back into his pillow. He could barely dip his head into a nod to accept Al'khajir's promise. The cub then climbed up onto the bed, wrapping his arms around Papa's neck and pressing his face into his chest. "Al'khajir loves you, Papa," his voice was muffled by the blanket that laid over the larger Khajiit. "Al'khurjo loves you too, ja’Khajiit." Al'khajir sat on a mossy rock outside of the home, watching his younger brother play in a nearby moon sugar cane field when the wail of his mother's cry broke out from inside. Ice formed in Al'khajir's veins as he saw Riss turn towards the house, too young to understand the weight of the situation. "Is mama okay?" Before Al'khajir could answer Riss's question, the door to the home opened. The Clan Mother stood at the threshold, looking down to Al'khajir below with a solemn gaze. Al'khajir's heart raced as he met her eyes, not wanting to hear her words. Instantly, he rose to his feet, sprinting into the field. The cane brushed against his fur as he barreled through, heading nowhere in particular. He simply kept running, paying no mind to the burning in his lungs, until he could no longer. Reaching a cliff that overlooked the Topal Sea, he finally brought himself to a halt. He stood there, staring out at the calm aquamarine waves as they lapped at the rocky beach far below. Chest rising and falling as he let out a few pants, he suddenly collapsed, holding his face in his hands as he broke out in a silent sob. He let his feet dangle over the ledge, leaning forward as his tears dropped from between his fingers and into the bay. "Al'khajir," he froze as a woman's voice called out to him from above. Slowly raising his head, he squinted and held up a hand to block out the sun as the figure of Khenarthi beckoned to him. "Why did you take Papa? Khajiit is not ready!" He stood as the goddess descended upon him, wiping his eyes. Her expression was cold and brooding. "He sees a greatness in you that I did not bless you with." Al'khajir's ears folded back at the statement, balling his fists. "You are unclean. You are unworthy. A liar. A thief." "This one tried! H-He did not know what S'riss would be capable of! He would have stopped him if he knew," His voice cracked as he argued with the deity, shrinking back as he believed he could have paid more attention. He could have spent more time with his family. He could have been better. "You are nothing like your father," she scolded. "They died because of your negligence." Her words echoed out over the universe, her face twisting into something unrecognizable. A demon of sorts; a dro-m’Athra. "The weight of their lives on your shoulders is a small price to pay for their suffering." Al'khajir shook at the sight of the image, before his own face twisted into a snarl. The soft, fluffy fur of a cub shed from his body as it quickly was replaced by the guard hairs and awn of an adult. His limbs extended as he grew into his current self in mere moments. He felt the age pulling at his flesh below, the scars tearing at his skin as they formed, memories of his many mistakes. "You are not Khenarthi," he hissed at the imposter. He picked up a rock and threw it at the mirage, which instantly dissipated. The sun blinded him and he reeled his head back, "This one did no such thing! He did not mean for them to suffer! He did not know…" Al'khajir thrashed as he awoke, his face colliding with the wall of his snow burrow. Wiping his snout of any snow, he sniffled and raised his eyes to the small opening above his head. Rays of early morning sunlight made the snow glow. As he rubbed his eyes, he noted that the headache had subsided, but left him with a rage in his chest. Restless, he swiped away the snow above himself, emerging from his frozen cocoon. With his head above the ground, he twisted his ears left and right, observing his surroundings. All was silent; a raven perched on a branch tilted its head. A rabbit made no sound as it hopped along in the snow, heading towards a berry bush. His ears picked up on a sound in the distance as it broke the silence. He lifted his hood slightly, allowing his ears to emerge for more clarity. The faint tap-tap-tapping of hooves on a rocky path. The rest of his body broke through the snow as he crept out from the hole, looking through the trees in the direction of the nearby path he had come from prior – just out of sight. Stalking through the snowy terrain, he kept his body low as his sights were set in the direction of the noise. He subtly pulled his mask up over the lower half of his face. Disguised in some bushes, he could see through the fauna the source: A Breton trotting along atop a horse, large bags on either side of the saddle; a trader, likely on his way to a market. The predator held his breath as the prey grew near, the sound of hooves clacking on stone increasing to a crescendo as Al'khajir leaned back into a pounce, emerging from the brush and tackling the unsuspecting Breton off of the spooked horse, which bucked and whinnied before running ahead, away from the danger. Al'khajir took the man down into the snow on the opposite side of the path, grappling for control in a brief tussle. The man yelped, kicked and squirmed, flailing his arms as the Khajiit pinned each limb down. Before long the Breton realized that his panic in the surprise attack was not going to win this fight, surrendering on his back and panting as Al'khajir loomed over him. Quickly drawing a blade, Al'khajir held it to the Breton's throat and leaned in closely. "Goods. Coin. Now." Fear etched its way into the lines of the Breton's face and he quickly nodded, glancing over to the horse who now stood ahead, awaiting a command. Al'khajir slowly lifted his weight off of the man, keeping the blade pointed as the man slowly stood, keeping his hands out so as not to pose a threat to the bandit. "Y-You can take what you want, just please, d-don't hurt me," the Breton's voice was shaky as he slowly backed up towards the horse, not daring to turn away from his assailant. Al'khajir slowly followed, the blade unwavering as he kept it trained on him. The Breton looked as though he almost expected the silent Khajiit to say something more, the worry lines in his face somehow deepening at the lack of any sort of response. The man would bump into the horse, who at this point seemed rather unbothered by the whole ordeal; what could one expect from such a creature, anyway? As he felt around for the latch of the satchel, he scrambled to open it, tossing out anything of value before him: Some packaged meat, milk, bread. A coin purse. "I-I don't have much, it's not harvest season," the Breton continued. "Please, I have a wife and children I must return home to, just take what you want and go." Al'khajir's expression almost softened at the mention of a wife and children, recalling his dream from earlier. His eyes set on a ring adorning the man's finger, which glinted in the morning light. The rage in his chest began to subside, a rare moment of empathy passing the Khajiit as he stared the man down. He sighed softly, still keeping his blade pointed at the man as he crouched down to retrieve the coin pouch and what appeared to be a packaged lunch. A wrapped cut of meat and an apple. Opening his own satchel, Al'khajir dropped the lunch inside. A sense of remorse hit him as he felt the coin purse. His claws cut the string that bound it shut, reaching in to grab just a handful of coins before tossing it back toward the Breton. The man looked surprised that the Khajiit had not taken more, having already reserved himself to be robbed blind. He froze there for a moment, waiting for something more that would not come. Al'khajir gestured with his blade towards the horse, indicating the Breton should leave. At this the man scrambled to collect what now lay on the ground, stuffing it into the saddlebag and quickly hopping on the horse. He looked back once more at the Khajiit, who slowly sheathed the blade and nodded the man off. Without hesitation this time, the man snapped the reins, galloping off in the direction he was originally headed and disappearing around a turn. Al'khajir watched until he could no longer hear the galloping, turning in the opposite direction and beginning to walk. He reached back into his satchel and pulled out the cut of meat, quick to take a bite as his stomach was more than empty. Though, his mouth was still incredibly dry, and he had no drink to accompany the meal with. Fell's Run was not too far, he supposed. Surely it was not too early to visit the tavern? The Khajiit would find himself lost in deep, introspective thought as he trekked along. What was his purpose? Why did he bother continuing his ways if he had nothing to prove? His brows knit as he thought. As of late, he had what he considered... Friends. The thought was peculiar to him. Allowing someone to know him as more than a lying thief. That is, of course, if these so-called friends thought anything more of him, which he was unsure about. He didn't know what they saw in him. After all, that's all he was: A lying thief. What was even more bewildering to him was the fact these friends claimed to worry for him. Worry for what? What good was a Khajiit such as himself? What value did he provide to the world, to these people? He was self aware enough to know all he did when in their presence was bicker, start arguments, or simply keep to himself -- ...This meat is not very good. Tough to chew. -- He did not understand what they saw in him. One even claimed he was "smart." Since when? He didn't even finish his schooling, too busy trying to earn coin to keep his family fed. His greatest feat was the fact he could read and write in two languages, which was essentially standard practice. Not much more came to mind. These "friends" of his were much more educated. Learning magic or having a noble background, going to “Knight Academy” or creating portals out of thin air. He wasn’t capable of any of that. After only a couple bites of the tough meat, he tossed what remained onto the ground beside him as he continued on. In the distance he could see the bridge crossing into Fell’s Run. He stared out at the little town, scanning over to the farmland beside the mill. Cattle grazed at seemingly nothing, whatever little grass for them to feed on was buried beneath the white landscape. He was so used to snow, now, almost comforted by its presence. Yet, he was raised in a place where snow was unheard of. Would he still take to it if he were born in a place like this? Or would it feel suffocating? Al’khajir returned to his thoughts of his so-called friends. What did they do for him? Did he even want friends? It had been so long since he allowed someone to grow… close. The fear of them leaving, hurting him, or worse kept him away from making any. Yet, here he was. The thought of him making a life for himself occurred, and he shivered at it. In his mind, he was not worthy of more than what he already had. Lying thieves like him had no right enjoying their lives. They existed to create a burden for their own benefit. Like mosquitos. He hated to admit it to himself, but making such friendships felt forbidden, like a guilty pleasure. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did. He liked being able to talk to someone, even if it usually ended up in him rolling his eyes and hurling insults at them. It was a defensive mechanism, he supposed. Guarding himself being a wall of criticisms he could apply to himself. It was a struggle to comprehend why they even liked being around him. Looking down at himself, he wondered if it was just for his body. Was he a trophy to stand beside? Surely not, right? But he couldn’t be too sure. He even confided in some of them, telling them his woes, his fears. What happened to him. Then again, they never seemed to pay much mind. His insecurities were miniscule compared to some of their problems. After all, he deserved what came to him. Perhaps what happened to them wasn’t as justified. Was it filling a void that his family had left behind? He imagined each of their faces momentarily, before shaking his head, their images blurring. He could not think of them, not now, not ever. The immense guilt of not being able to protect them dug at him any time he allowed their memory to linger. He hated to think that one day, making friends such as these would reopen the wound. The dryness in his mouth was still ever-present as he approached the steps to the tavern. He didn’t understand why he returned here often. Again, his mind circled back to the fact he found solace in the friendships he made there. His sharp tongue also started fights. The consequences of each didn’t hold much weight to him either way. Though, the thought of losing someone he grew close to still lurked in the back of his mind. Was that a pulling feeling? A new fear? Maybe he guarded himself with his barrier of insults to keep these friends at bay, not to let them grow too close. Inevitably they would disappoint him, or he would disappoint himself. The door to the tavern barely cracked as the Khajiit slipped through, the heat from the hearth filling the room and whispering between his fur. The foul scent of stale mead filled his nostrils as he turned his head to the left, inspecting the patrons present before he approached. Considering the early hour, it was mostly empty, aside from a familiar tall Khajiit clad in the attire of a hunter standing with his back to the door. Al’khajir resisted a small smile at the idea of not having to spend his morning in solitude. Feeling the coin he had taken through the leather confines of his satchel, he approached, desperate to quench his thirst. Though, he averted his eyes as the familiar face turned to greet him.