Count Only The Happy Hours

Part 1: I

Vivec chased stories. He always had, and he suspected that he always would. If there was a chance to immerse himself in inspiration–however dangerous that might be–he would never say no to it. Nerevar often told him his need for grandeur would be the death of him; his reply was always the same: with a grin, and a cheerful quip of, "I can think of no better way to go."

So perhaps it was a story he was chasing that rainy day, when he found his way to a ruined town. The damage was recent, and very thorough. Buildings still vomited smoke, fires burned in spite of the rain; in some of them, he could see the black forms of bodies. He had seen much death in his relatively short life–he was a warrior, after all–but this was overwhelming even for him. He started to turn; he was far too late to do anything, and it seemed that the entire town had been killed in the attack.

But then there was a very small noise, a shift in the rubble. Vivec turned back, and he clambered over the fallen buildings, darted around the fires, and followed the sound. There may yet be survivors, and he wasn't going to leave them here.

He found the source quick enough, and he couldn't help pausing in surprise. A boy, right on the edge of childhood based on his gangly limbs, stood in the ruins of a house; his golden skin was stained with ash, and his eyes were wide and unseeing as he remained stock still. If it weren't for the rise and fall of his narrow chest, Vivec might have thought him as dead as the others. He started to approach the boy, only to freeze as a dark figure caught his eye. Four arms raised, each with a wicked blade–a ruinach, he knew, which answered the question of who had caused the destruction. It spotted the boy and lumbered toward him, clearly intending to finish the will of its master. The boy didn't even look up as it came; it was very possible, locked in his head as he seemed to be, that he didn't register his oncoming death at all.

But Vivec did. And he was very, very quick.

The ruinach was so focused on its prey that it never saw the mer coming, and Vivec's blade was plunged deep in its side. He shouted for the boy to run as he tore it back out, dodging four blades now clumsily falling his way. But the boy remained unmoving; he may not have even blinked. Vivec hissed a curse; that made things much more difficult. But the distraction was enough to get the ruinach's focus off of the boy and onto him, and he was, at the risk of bragging, very good at what he did.

One blade landed, cutting a deep wound in Vivec's side. But the pain only served to strengthen him, and with a grand leap and sweep of his sword, the ruinach's head rolled onto the ground, its ruined corpse joining the rest of the carnage. Blood sang in Vivec's ears, and despite his wound, adrenaline rushed through him. With a strength that would have surprised outside of a battlefield, he hefted the boy up with one arm and carted him out of the smoldering ruins.

They weren't out of eye-sight of the town, but quite decently far when Vivec's strength started to fail him. He nearly stumbled, just barely catching himself to keep both of them from crashing to the ground. Every breath was like a new wound, and a glance downward showed the river of blood that had rushed from the slice in his side. He set the boy down, arms shaking, and tried to keep his wits even in the face of an injury that may very well be fatal. Perhaps he'd ask him to deliver word of his final act of heroism; hopefully the boy had some poetry in him.

He tore a length of cloth from his shirt, going to staunch the wound and biting back a cry as he did. That wouldn't be enough. Did he have a potion? Oh, by the three, to think of dying from a small fight like that! His arms shook more as he pulled the cloth away. Still bleeding. Bleeding a lot. He needed...

Just as his head started to feel light, another hand–smaller than his, but with the promise of growth still in it–reached out toward his wound. There was a flash of golden light; when it faded, Vivec found his wound wholly healed. He looked up at his rescuer; the boy still wasn't looking at him, or anything. He wondered if he'd healed him out of habit; if so, then he'd found quite the magical prodigy.

Even without this new development, Vivec's heart was soft. A young boy who had lost everything certainly shouldn't be on his own. He lightly touched the boy's arm; finally, pale, wide eyes looked up and settled on his face.

"Come with me," he said, voice quiet. "If you'd like. I can take you somewhere you'll be safe; this will never, ever happen again."

The boy blinked, long and slow, and he didn't say a word. But as Vivec stepped forward, he followed. And he kept following, even as the rain stopped.

Vivec's new companion wasn't much for conversation. He hadn't pressed through the first day of their journey; he wasn't heartless and he wasn't stupid, and he knew that sometimes silence was the best method of grief.

But he couldn't deny the type of person he was for too long. So the next morning–as they walked onto the road now clean of the blood and soot that had covered them–he told stories. Inconsequential ones, some of his own, some he'd heard from others, some he made up on the spot. He tried to goad reactions out of the boy; nothing worked.

Finally, though, as they came to rest for the second evening, he needed to pry. The boy had thawed out enough to roll out his own bedroll–with the rain-clean air (and lack of a nearby inn), Vivec had elected they spend the night under the stars–and returned to sit by the fire. Vivec rested his hands on his crossed legs, looking the boy over.

"Your town, what was it called?" he asked.

No answer.

"Did you have family there? What were their names?"

Silence.

Vivec tried not to show his frustration; he couldn't make things better if he didn't have any information. One last try.

"Well, you must have a name. Why don't you tell me that, first?"

The boy simply stared into the fire, and Vivec wilted. Perhaps it had been too much. It wouldn't be surprising, but disappointing all the same. Sheogorath claimed people for less, so perhaps...

"Sil."

The answer was so soft Vivec nearly missed it. He looked over; the boy–Sil–continued staring at the fire, like he hadn't said a word.

"Sil? Quite the name." Vivec adjusted his position, elbow on his knee, chin in his hand. "There's an old Aldmeris saying that I love. Vas lor, sil shanta. 'Through darkness, light arrives.'" He gave the boy a smile. "Perhaps you're the light that comes from this darkness."

The boy's eyes moved, flicking up to look at him. His pale brows drew together.

"You know Aldmeris?" This time, Vivec had proof that Sil spoke; in spite of how hoarse he was, there was curiosity teeming in his voice.

"Certainly. I know plenty of things." He stretched out on his bedroll, hiding his relief at the conversation. "I collect stories, Sil, from everywhere I can. I even collect stories from myself. Like, for instance, the story of how I, Vivec, was hatched from an egg."

A deep frown crossed Sil's face. "No, you weren't. That's impossible."

"Ah, but you see, Sil, I was there ." He propped up his head with his hand, grinning. "And it wasn't just any egg. It was a dreugh egg."

The frown deepened, and the disbelief across Sil's face finally broke through the mask of shock he'd been wearing thus far. "That's impossible ," he repeated. "Chimer can't come from dreugh eggs." As Vivec shrugged, Sil followed up with an impatient, " How ?"

"Well, you see, that's the nature of stories," Vivec said, head falling back onto his pillow as he smiled. "Sometimes it takes another to flesh out the first. And I haven't found the story of how yet. But I'll tell you as soon as I do." He shut his eyes, then peeked one open to look up at the younger mer. "Now, though, it's time for the stories our dreams tell. Get some rest, Sil."

Sil gave him one last dubious look, but he did as he was bade. Vivec was sure to keep his eyes open until Sil was safely under his covers, and he didn't dare shut them until the small bundle beside him started to breathe in soft, easy breaths. He gave a little smile before committing himself to his own dreams.

What a story he had found.