In practice it will be done properly; Mirabelle must have everything done properly. Enthir said more than once the old bridge held on for so long only because Mirabelle Ervine expected it to stand. Faralda can understand its position.
The ritual will be shorter than the succession of an archmage, and the faces in the crowd… they will each be what they are. She will guard them through every turning season as she has always done. The college will be rebuilt. The wounded will mend. Faralda will limp to the front, with her arm still hanging in its sling, to be named and recorded in a long chain of the dead.
She’s put too much thought into the matter to struggle with the idea of it now. Only she had always assumed Aren would be there.
All week her prentices have peppered her with hopes and fears. Will she still teach them how to juggle lightning. Will their warding runes still be due at the end of the month. Does the Staff of Magnus grant extra credit. And so on…
The night is turning into morning. Faralda files her grading away and snuffs the candles with her fingers. She hikes up the salted bridge from the gatehouse much slower than she’d like. But it is a windless night, calm as you can get in far northern Skyrim; the stars are clear as glass.
Mirabelle catches her attention, standing alone in the courtyard. It’s unlike her to wander the grounds this late.
“Archmage,” she calls. Mirabelle turns and lifts a hand. Her dark hair is dusted in snow.
“You’re up late.”
“A week left," Faralda replies. She stumps noisily on her crutch and her good knee to the archmage’s side, and they set off, of all things, together. “A week until you’ve a master wizard to irritate and disappoint. Six days, even.”
“No regrets, I hope.”
“Why, have you seen any?” She pretends to look over their shoulders.
“I’m sure they will come to you.” Spoken so archly it could even be a joke. “You will serve as the College of Winterhold’s master wizard, Mistress Faralda. Not mine.”
“Not only yours,” Faralda corrects her.
The archmage issues a sharp stare.
“I used to sail crow’s nest, you know,” Faralda begins for the hundred-thousandth time, and Mirabelle nearly cracks a smile. “The ship was the soul of the captain; and the captain the soul of the ship.”
“And which were you? — the brain, I suppose.”
“I’d rather be the liver,” Faralda muses.
Mirabelle raises an incredulous brow. “Catching lightning?”
“A brain…?”
“The thoughts,” Mirabelle says, as if it should be perfectly obvious, and thumps open the front door. Even faced away like this Faralda can tell she’s coming dangerously close to a fit of good humor. “The— ideas. Crackling.”
“I don’t follow,” says Faralda, to be obtuse. “Did you hear what I said?”
“I don’t follow,” she repeats, with a flicker of a smile, “what that metaphor has to do with you.”
“What is the archmage of Winterhold?”
“That depends upon the person wearing the robes.” She offers Faralda her elbow and clasps her hands behind her back when it is refused. “For my part, I believe the archmage ought to serve as the college’s caretaker; to nourish and protect its students and staff. But I hardly think you were fishing for a lecture on pedagogy.”
“You know my feelings on the matter.”
“I thought I did.”
It’s late. It’s too late to be up talking like this. Faralda’s eyes and knees are aching. Her arm is worse. Besides she’d languished on the edge of a cold well before Ancano torched everything. It’s late and the halls of the college are cold.
“There are nights… I wonder at the things you say to me,” Mirabelle says, lowly. Her eyes shine like black seawaves. “Yes, on nights like these. Sometimes I can almost see you. I start to think— I’ve been looking the wrong way.”
She reaches for the bandages on Faralda’s arm, where she lays a light charm to relieve its pain.
“Have I?”
“That remains to be seen,” Faralda lies.
gatehouse headcanon by @jiubilant edit: the HC that faralda used to sail as a storm-mage is jiub’s too. can’t find the exact post to link </3
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Faralda stands, a statue at the end of the timeworn bridge, her hands laced behind her back and her eyes staring on into the drifting white of a light snowfall. Mirabelle can just see her from the window-seat where she likes to take her tea, if she cranes her neck.
The window is mazed and ice distorts the view into a wavering mirror of Mirabelle’s own drawn cheek and sleeplessly-bruised eyes. Faralda, far below, is a colourful blotted blur of auburn hair and ash-grey robes against frigid stone and white-frozen walls.
Mirabelle draws a rune on the window with a fingertip, the intense cold shocking after cradling the heat of her cup. A misted breath of magicka and Faralda comes into sharp focus like a spriggan's taproot still oozing sap beneath the microscope, or perhaps a soft-winged moth, furred yellow and pink, made of naught but conjured granite.
Mirabelle sips. The tea sits in her mouth a snowberry-flavoured coal, sinks into her gut and warms her to her bones. Yet, a sympathetic chill steals across her tightening skin as she watches that implacable figure, sturdy and solid against the snowfall, unmoving and patient in only the way a destruction master who has learnt how to take all the stillness of a glacier inside herself may be.
The snow doesn't melt where it caps the points of her ears like silver bells, settles on her hair and her shoulders like a cape, clings to her robes as the wispy fingers of ghosts do. She does not shiver as her robes whip around her ankles from a stray scream of wind.
Mirabelle crosses her legs at the ankles and tucks a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. She sets her cup down, careful, precise, and takes up her quill. The scratching of nib on parchment is reassuring, like knuckles into the tense knots of her shoulders. Mirabelle adds three lines to her to do list; Restock reagents in A’s quarters - v.dust?, Answer for Synod?, and Invite Faralda to tea.
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