He woke to the sound of music, a soft lilting tune plucked from the strings of a lute, gently rousing him from the depths of his sleep.
Nibenor blinked, eyes heavy and blurry, his ears straining for the sound of the lute, pinpointing its position at the other side of the room. He turned his head slowly, looking up, finding Farkas perched on a chair that was far too small, plucking at the strings of the beautifully carved instrument. He had never heard him play before, though he had oft seen him polishing the wood and tightening its strings.
His lover barely seemed to notice that he had woken, his head down, presumably watching his fingering.
The elf himself couldn’t play any instrument to save his life and had been told on more than one occasion that his singing was more akin to a howl of agony than anything that resembled music. The sight of his partner playing fascinated him, the lingering tendrils of sleep falling from his mind as he watched thick fingers move with a surprising deftness.
The only other person he knew, other than the bards, with any particular talent for music was Erandur, though perhaps that was obvious given that he had been a member of the bards college for a short time. Though the Dunmer seemed to use only his voice. The older mer had once sang for him, a sad lingering song in his native Dunmeri that had filled Nibenor with a sense of loss and longing. Perhaps it was what the Dunmer felt when they thought of all they had lost throughout history. In the end, Nibenor had had to ask him to stop, overwhelmed by the emotions it had stirred in him, unable to understand how Erandur’s slow lament had caused such a reaction.
Listening to Farkas play, he didn’t ever want him to stop. Save to hear his voice. He couldn’t say what emotion the song struck within him, save that it reassured him. It seemed to soothe, or at least distract him, from the aches building in his battered body. The one thing he did know was that the song was for him and him only and that it made him love Farkas more than he thought possible. It was at times like this that he simply couldn’t understand how someone could name him ‘ice-brain’, or accuse him of being dense or indifferent.
How could anyone say that about a person who could coax such a wonderful sound from a piece of wood and metal?
The music quietened, the notes seeming to shimmer and fade in the air before Farkas. Except that it wasn’t notes. He flushed to think he had been so moved that he could see the music, when it was just the glimmer of a chain around Farkas’s neck that was catching in the dim lantern light.
Nibenor frowned. He had never seen Farkas wear anything about his neck before and the thought puzzled him. He only forgot about it when the Nord suddenly looked up, his dark hair falling back from his face as he set his lute aside and stood, pacing barefoot to the bed.
He stooped, crawling into the bed once more, pulling Nibenor into his arms and the elf let himself be manhandled until they were both comfortable. Nibenor smiled, pressing his face against the rough stubble of Farkas’s throat, his hand lifting to rest on the opposite shoulder.
Re: Misfire: Welcome Returns, sequel to 'All creatures great and small' 6/?
Nibenor blinked, eyes heavy and blurry, his ears straining for the sound of the lute, pinpointing its position at the other side of the room. He turned his head slowly, looking up, finding Farkas perched on a chair that was far too small, plucking at the strings of the beautifully carved instrument. He had never heard him play before, though he had oft seen him polishing the wood and tightening its strings.
His lover barely seemed to notice that he had woken, his head down, presumably watching his fingering.
The elf himself couldn’t play any instrument to save his life and had been told on more than one occasion that his singing was more akin to a howl of agony than anything that resembled music. The sight of his partner playing fascinated him, the lingering tendrils of sleep falling from his mind as he watched thick fingers move with a surprising deftness.
The only other person he knew, other than the bards, with any particular talent for music was Erandur, though perhaps that was obvious given that he had been a member of the bards college for a short time. Though the Dunmer seemed to use only his voice. The older mer had once sang for him, a sad lingering song in his native Dunmeri that had filled Nibenor with a sense of loss and longing. Perhaps it was what the Dunmer felt when they thought of all they had lost throughout history. In the end, Nibenor had had to ask him to stop, overwhelmed by the emotions it had stirred in him, unable to understand how Erandur’s slow lament had caused such a reaction.
Listening to Farkas play, he didn’t ever want him to stop. Save to hear his voice. He couldn’t say what emotion the song struck within him, save that it reassured him. It seemed to soothe, or at least distract him, from the aches building in his battered body. The one thing he did know was that the song was for him and him only and that it made him love Farkas more than he thought possible. It was at times like this that he simply couldn’t understand how someone could name him ‘ice-brain’, or accuse him of being dense or indifferent.
How could anyone say that about a person who could coax such a wonderful sound from a piece of wood and metal?
The music quietened, the notes seeming to shimmer and fade in the air before Farkas. Except that it wasn’t notes. He flushed to think he had been so moved that he could see the music, when it was just the glimmer of a chain around Farkas’s neck that was catching in the dim lantern light.
Nibenor frowned. He had never seen Farkas wear anything about his neck before and the thought puzzled him. He only forgot about it when the Nord suddenly looked up, his dark hair falling back from his face as he set his lute aside and stood, pacing barefoot to the bed.
He stooped, crawling into the bed once more, pulling Nibenor into his arms and the elf let himself be manhandled until they were both comfortable. Nibenor smiled, pressing his face against the rough stubble of Farkas’s throat, his hand lifting to rest on the opposite shoulder.