The "Americanization of the global internet" post and slow deterioration of local native culture gave me an idea: many users don't even know there is native language communities on this website, so if you know of a regional group/"subculture" on Tumblr, reblog/comment with the tags they use so people can find them and connect with other folks from their countries or speakers of a language they'd like to learn
I will try to update this post with every new addition to hopefully make a comprehensive list of Tumblr regional communities
The list so far:
Europe
Czech
#česky, #hezky česky - general Czech language posts, frequently featuring user-written poetry, art, sometimes politics and current events, warning: often contains vent posts
#čumblr - Czech but frequently used by Slovaks as well, primarily memes and fandom things, shipping, art, cultural things, frequently overlaps with #česky
#obrození, #obrozujeme - memes and fandoms as well but with more emphasis of maintaining and developing Czech culture, is a mostly humorous parody/self-proclaimed continuation of the Czech National Revival of the 1800s, overlaps with #čumblr and #česky
Slovak
#slovensky - general Slovak language posts
#slumblr, #sumblr - Slovak, general posts, memes, fandom and culture things, sometimes overlaps with #čumblr
Polish
#polska, #polish - Polish, general posts, art, politics and current events
#polblr, #polishposting, #polskie rzeczy - Polish, more humorous general posts and memes, often overlap with the above
General Slavic
#slav, #slavic, #slavposting, #slavic stuff - mixed Slavic, usually cultural things, memes, art and photography, sometimes politics, sometimes visited by other East Europeans
Irish
#gaeilge - Irish, general posting but especially cultural things and memes, often features posts for language learning
Romanian
#romanian - general Romanian tag
#romanisme, #vlandom - Romanian, mostly memes and humor
Singird felt as though reality was slipping away from him. It was Yrith he had hugged. It was Yrith he had kissed. She had not forgotten him. She had gone straight to him and he did not care for whoever might be watching. Suddenly, she was there, in his arms…
Everything should feel right. She was back. But right was not the word he would use. She had changed beyond his wildest imagination. His Yrith had grown into a hard, fierce woman. Too powerful, yet somewhat too vulnerable. If someone drew a picture of her, perhaps he would not know the difference. She still had those beautiful silver eyes, that captivating look in her face, both keen and distant… and still, he could hardly recognize her. Her cheeks were less round, cut sharper. Her arms were covered in distinct lines of muscle. Despite all the exhaustion and hardship, her grip on him was firm and strong. The way she carried herself… he could not decide if it was prouder, or more burdened. Perhaps both, however absurd it sounded. Her recent experiences must have taken a toll on her. And yet… she was so beautiful. Perhaps more than before. Even with her face covered in sweat, grime and blood. Even with the look of a hunted animal that has run its share.
He wanted to keep her locked in his embrace, to claim her, to taste her warmth. But even if he tried to ignore them, he still felt all the looks on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the intent gaze of Cain Aldaryn. Instinctively, one hand of his sank from Yrith’s shoulder. Those crimson eyes were burning their way into him. For sure, the Dunmer did not approve. Perhaps some time ago, he would have ignored a mere student expressing his disagreement. But now, he was a different man. Yrith had taught him to listen. And observe.
He stepped back, looking around. Contrary to his expectations, only Cain Aldaryn and Leyna Travi seemed surprised. The Dragonborn’s beady eyes sparked with amusement and Qassir Tahlrah looked hardly moved at all. Kharjo’s cat face was as unreadable as ever.
He felt something brush against his forearm. Instinctively, his other arm followed, catching Yrith just before she could hit the ground. She hung in his arms limply, her face pale with the effort to keep her eyes open despite her wretched state. Still, she smiled a painful smile.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed.
He should have realized. Instead of selfishly claiming her, instead of only following his own desires, instead of painting images of her in his mind, he should have looked at her properly. He lifted her in his arms and she looked at him weakly.
“Don’t be,” he shook his head. “Let’s find you a place to sleep.”
Everyone moved from their places in apparent will to help. Kharjo dug in the pile of things they had managed to gather by the entrance and pulled out one of the bedrolls he had snatched on their way from some unfortunate Imperials.
“Here,” he said as he spread it just by the fireplace. “The furless cub needs some warmth.”
“Thank you,” Singird nodded, laying Yrith down gently. She was so light. Much lighter than he remembered her. He wondered how much she had been eating. Whether she had been resting properly. In the end, one could hardly rest when all Skyrim was up on their feet to hunt them down. He touched her face lightly. She was burning.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “A long day, I suppose. Or three. Or a hundred…”
Singird’s lips curled up. At least she kept her good humor about her.
“Rest,” he told her. “There are many more long days ahead, I’m afraid, and you’ll need your strength.”
“Mhm.” She closed her eyes. Or, rather, they seemed to have closed by themselves. Immediately, she was fast asleep. He looked at her with care, wishing to curl up by her side. Instead, he raised his head back to the rest, his gaze meeting the Dragonborn’s.
“That was fast,” he commented for lack of other words. “A truly long day it’s been, hasn’t it?”
The lizard gave a sigh. He bent down, finally dumping all of his burdens on the floor. Then he stood astride them, measuring them with his eyes as if their size could express how much Yrith had been through.
“You don’t know the half of it,” he said wearily. “Yrith especially has been… well, I think she’d better tell you herself. Just know that last night’s battle was only the tip of the cake. Some things even I can’t fully grasp. And I daresay I can understand a damn lot of things.”
Singird nodded, unable to express how much he felt those words himself. Even before Yrith had left the College, there were far too many mysteries about her. Now, he could not fathom even his own part. He wondered how long it would take for Yrith and himself to exchange everything. Surely after the long days, there would be many evenings full of stories ahead. Oh, how he wished to be back in Winterhold. How he longed for those lazy days when time just went about its own way and he cared little for it. He looked toward the cave entrance, to the coming winter outside. Just two mountain ridges. That was all that separated him and Yrith from that comfort. Two mountain ridges of potential battles and running in fear. He contained a sigh.
“I suppose we’d better go to sleep ourselves,” he muttered, eyes fixed on Yrith’s gently heaving chest.
“Indeed,” the lizard seconded. “I’m tired as it is, and I haven’t even taken a race in a crippled state after fighting my worst nightmare, like certain someone.” He too glanced toward the sleeping Yrith, staying with her for one pensive moment before he turned back to Singird. “But, awkward as it may sound, we’ve never been properly introduced. So before I choose to sleep with you in the same room, or cave, my name is Keneel-La. You may have heard of me once or twice.”
He extended a hand, holding it out for a shake. Singird’s brows shot skyward. So this was the Dragonborn. Even when he did not face the fire, it seemed that two merry sparks danced in his eyes. True, as the Chosen of Akatosh, Alduin’s Bane, and whatever other titles he had, he had likely lived through worse. Still…
This was not a defense mechanism. He had managed to convince Yrith to come back. Singird truly believed that his smile, whatever its source, was genuine. It felt warm and soothing. However he had doubted General Tullius, now he knew the man had chosen the best protection for Yrith there was. The best for both her vessel and her spirit. Suddenly, he felt a rush of gratitude toward the sturdy lizard. He took the hand in his, shaking it firmly.
“I am Singird Larkwing. You may have read about me once.”
The Dragonborn’s jaw widened. “Ah, I’m sure General Tullius mentioned you more than once in the letter he sent me.”
“That is very generous of him.”
“Indeed. Hmm, and here I was warned about you being overly serious, but you seem quite fine to me,” the lizard laughed, causing Singird to blush instantly. He was lucky the Dragonborn was now preoccupied with stuffing his rucksack to the side of the cave, looking around for a place he could make his bed for the night. Or day. “Well, time to hit our bedrolls, I suppose. Hopefully there will be a chance to exchange some stories later, because I am very much interested in your prior adventures.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Singird nodded in accord. “Kharjo mentioned some underground tunnels. Blackreach? I thought that place was a legend.”
“I would say that’s quite accurate. But it’s a long story. One I would rather leave for when we are fresh enough to enjoy ourselves. And I reckon Yrith would have something to say as well.”
“And her story is the one I’m most eager to hear,” Singird whispered.
“I’m quite sure she feels the same about yours,” Keneel-La said, kindness creeping into his rough voice. He turned away as though embarrassed, scanning the cave absently. When his eyes found the pile of crates and other properties Kharjo had gathered near the entrance, his face brightened. “I see we got ourselves a bundle of spare bedrolls, some food and… a keg? Kharjo?”
The Khajiit wiggled his ears as he stood to attention. “Our Imperial friends were much willing to share. Such goodness is unheard of in these troubled times.”
“Tell me about it.” The Dragonborn smirked, or so Singird guessed from the way his reptilian jaws parted. He clapped the Khajiit on the back, chuckling lightly before he made his way to one of the crates and grabbed several apples. He threw one of them to Singird who barely managed to catch it. But then, the lizard’s expression sobered again as he gestured toward the mouth of the cave. “We will need some protection. Kharjo, can I count on you to take the first watch? As much as I hate to admit it, I could use some sleep.”
The catman sniffed and narrowed his eyes. Over the recent encounters with his kinsmen, Singird had learned that this meant assent.
“Kharjo would prefer the night watch,” the Khajiit said, “but he will wait for that till there’s some proper adventure to be had.”
“Don’t you worry, there will be enough adventure for everyone. Though with our Yrith here, you might get more than you bargained for. Speaking of which,” the lizard gave Singird a meaningful look, “perhaps we should raise some magical protection as well this time.”
Before Singird could open his mouth to speak, Qassir hurried to his side.
“May I?” he asked, dropping a curtsy. “I’ve been helping Master Larkwing with this since Whiterun anyway. Not that he needs any help, of course.”
Just by sheer instinct, Singird’s hands clenched into fists. Of course he needed help. Every time, he relied on the courtesy of his own student, a Redguard with reputedly no aptitude for the arcane arts. He could very well stand Yrith exceeding him in every way possible. In case of Qassir Tahlrah, the circumstances felt rather aggravating. Especially since the boy never failed to remind him in the most irksome way possible. He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly to regain composure. The lizard watched him with his head tilted to the side, then just smiled and shrugged.
“Whoever wants to take care of it, as long as the protection is functional. Preferably something to ward off both magic and physical missiles and to keep outsiders out.”
“I suppose I can let Mister Tahlrah do it then,” Singird said slowly, trying to sound as indifferent as possible. “He always provided the barriers.”
“Please, do. Now then, let’s not waste any more time. I won’t risk staying for more than a day, and I’m afraid tomorrow will come sooner than we’d wish.”
With that, the Dragonborn made to spread his bedroll, leaving everyone to their own devices. Qassir walked away with a single nod, his hands flaring with magic. Everyone went about their own way, not sparing another word. Watching their backs, bent with the gravity of the recent events, Singird bit into his apple and set out to find his own place to sleep.
--
The bedroll he had picked for himself smelled of sweat and liquor. Of course. It had belonged to some Imperial soldier, and everyone knew how soldiers liked to spend their long evenings. Singird felt his face twist in disgust. He forced himself to carry it across the cave and spread it in a cozy corner, as close to Yrith as possible. On the other side of her, he could spot Cain Aldaryn doing the same. An uneasy feeling settled just at the nape of his neck. Something about the Dunmer made him feel almost unwelcome. And he was quite certain it had something to do with Yrith.
He burrowed into the bedroll, closing his eyes in hopes to chase all the uninvited thoughts away. They were all tired. Perhaps his mind was playing with him, making him doubt the boy for no reason, just as he had back in Winterhold. It could be just his own prejudice. Perhaps when they have all rested, he would see things in a different light. Sleep would surely bring relief. He listened to the rustle all around, as the others laid themselves to sleep, letting the sound lull him.
But the smell of the bedroll distracted him.
After all the travelling, battling, finally meeting Yrith… he was distracted by a godsdamned bedroll. He tried to focus his thoughts on something else. Winterhold. Perhaps soon enough, they would be back, and his room would be cozier than this place. He opened an eye to view the fireplace. To feel its warmth. But the fire was slowly dying and the fading glow of the embers was drowned in the light coming from the entrance.
And now, it was the light that tore through his thoughts and invaded his senses, even when he tried to close his eyes.
He groaned quietly, turning onto his stomach. The ground underneath was so hard he had to roll back. He gritted his teeth, watching the frozen ceiling through his fingers. It glared back at him, crackling, laughing at his futile attempts. Godsdamned ice. Godsdamned winter. Godsdamned exhaustion with its clutches of steel that took even his sleep away.
At last, he gave up, leaving the time to flow at its own pace. The half-slumber he had fallen into brought no comfort whatsoever.
A quiet snap of the dying embers woke him after what felt like long hours. In reality, judging by the light from the entrance and the shadows that had only moved a slight bit, it couldn’t have been more than a few short moments. Singird sat up, his head feeling heavy on his shoulders. Everyone seemed to be asleep now. That was, everyone except Cain Aldaryn, who was staring up just as Singird had been a while before. He took a moment to observe the boy. Even he had changed. His face was now marred with a long scar. It was apparent how much weight he had lost over the time he had been away. For sure, this was not a choice he would make willingly. Singird should have no reason to doubt him.
And yet…
The Dunmer wriggled and tossed. Their eyes met. Instinctively, Singird averted his gaze, but then he turned back, trying to appear as casual as possible. The boy fixed his crimson eyes on him.
“Can I help you, Master Larkwing?”
Singird quickly shook his head. “Just… looking at who’s awake.”
The boy nodded, rubbing the back of his head against his bedroll.
“I’m surprised that they can sleep so soundly,” he muttered to himself, but Singird could almost agree. Almost.
“Even in Yrith’s case?” he asked, feeling a wicked tingle of curiosity.
The boy’s eyes found her heaving chest, then slid to her face, watching the cloudlets of steam rising from her lips with every breath. Singird had never seen a look so gentle in the crimson eyes of a Dunmer. He felt his own face flare. Perhaps he should have never asked.
“No,” the boy uttered quietly. “She’s… had it different.”
For a moment, he kept his mouth open as if to continue, taking a few breaths. But then he closed it, falling silent. Singird could nearly feel all the thoughts running through the boy’s mind. All the thoughts that mirrored his own, the care, the concern, the…
Affection.
So that was the answer. No malice, no ulterior motives. Singird closed his eyes, rubbing his fingers against his temples a little too strongly.
“You… love her,” he voiced his thoughts without planning to. The silence that followed felt too long, even if it was but a few short moments.
“So do you,” the boy whispered into the furs of his bedroll. Singird could not see his face anymore, even if he wished to. But even so, the muffled sound of the boy’s voice gave him a strange feeling of unease. No. In fact, it strengthened the one that had settled there the first time Singird had met the Dunmer’s gaze.
“You hate me for it,” he dared. And, to his great surprise and unease, he realized that he cared.
The boy wiggled and squirmed in response. The bedroll creased as he clutched it.
“Do I?”
“I certainly have this feeling.”
“I don’t.”
The answer was too quick, too curt. Singird glowered at him, wondering what expression the boy was wearing. What he was feeling. After all, Singird himself could not decide on how he truly felt.
“If you say so,” he muttered quietly for lack of other words.
The Dunmer sighed. He laid himself on his back again, watching the flowers of frost on the ceiling, as if he could find his own feelings there. Instinctively, Singird’s eyes drifted the same way. The winter could surely paint beautiful images. If he could take one of those flowers and put it in Yrith’s raven hair…
Perhaps Cain Aldaryn was thinking the same thing. Perhaps there was so much on his mind that he could hardly bear it.
He looked back at the boy, studying his distant expression.
“You can talk about it,” Singird told him, surprising himself. “Whatever you say will stay in this cave. At this moment, I’m not your teacher.”
The boy raised himself on his elbows, eyeing the still figure of Kharjo, sitting at the entrance, face turned outside so that he would see any potential intruders. Singird nodded in understanding. But contrary to his expectations, the Dunmer spoke.
“Yeah, I hate you.”
For a moment, he let the sentence hang there. Singird blinked at the sudden honesty, opening his mouth to reply. But the boy continued.
“I hate you… for noticing her sooner. I hate you for being there for her while I was busy figuring her out. I hate you for sending us to fetch the godsdamned fish together and giving me the chance to… change. To know myself… And now I hate you for saving my life and making me watch from the sidelines.”
Singird stared at him. There was no trace of hatred in the boy’s voice. Quite the contrary. Just how in Oblivion had he managed to make Singird feel so defeated? Guilty, even. He too found himself hating the Dunmer. Hating him… for giving praise above any he had ever received in his life.
Indeed, Yrith had been in good hands. Perhaps he himself couldn’t have done a finer job protecting her than this boy and the Dragonborn.
He looked at the Dunmer with a mixture of envy and respect. What should he say now? All the words that came to his mind sounded so ridiculous in the shadow of this confession.
“I…” he began, already feeling stupid. “Thank you. For being there for her while I wasn’t…”
Suddenly, the boy shifted his gaze toward Singird, looking him directly in the eyes.
“You thank me?”
“That’s what I said, yes.”
He gave a snort. But then, his face brightened with a smile so dazzling Singird almost felt the need to shade his face. “Well. I suppose I should be thanking you.”
“For?”
“Helping me find the courage to say this. You say you’re not my teacher at this moment, so I’m not talking to you as your student. I’m talking to you as a rival.” He took a long breath, sitting up straight. “Giving up is not my strong point. So,” he raised a hand, pointing an ebony finger at Singird, “make one wrong move, one step astray, and I will take her. This is a showdown… Singird.”
Singird would have clenched his fists. He would have hissed at the Dunmer, glared into his dark face, made him repent for the insolent words. The old Singird would have surely done that. But now, he couldn’t. He laughed. He could hear himself laugh at the top of his lungs, like he had not laughed in a long time. There was something intrinsically annoying about the boy. And yet, he could not help but like him. There was no pretense in Cain Aldaryn’s speech, no hidden motives. In a way, this Dunmer had faced him like a true Nord.
“Very well,” Singird said, his lips curling up by themselves. “Let it be a showdown. Cain.”
--
Quiet murmurs broke through the throbbing in Yrith’s head. No… they caused it. On and on they went, perhaps inaudible for others, but very much apparent for her, like continuous drizzling of water. Not the peaceful drizzling one observes from the safety of their home, but the annoying, cold drizzling that prickles one’s skin and soaks through. She rubbed her brow, then buried her face in the furs of her bedroll, pressing its fabric against her ears. It did not help. The sound seemed to come right into her mind, unhindered. Whispers in a language that she could not speak, yet it felt so familiar. Whispers of suffering and death. Memories of wicked triumph, turned into sheer power.
She tried to breathe, relax her body. Feel each part of it. Instead, she felt her bones and muscles ache and her wounds pulse with pain that had nothing to do with the voice in her head. She felt how parched and hungry and tired she was, despite the hours she must have spent lying in the cave. And yet, she felt as though she had barely slept at all.
Drowsily, she lifted herself, looking around. Half of her companions seemed to be sleeping, as far as she could tell in the faint glow of the embers. Kharjo kept watch at the entrance, sitting so still she would have easily confused his cat frame for a stuffed decoration. Keneel-La, nestled in the tightest nook of the cave, was trying the sharpness of his dagger. Qassir, similarly to her, seemed to have only just woken up, looking around and trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.
Her eyes drifted to the Dragonborn. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, the movement of his fingers against the blade almost instinctive. But when Yrith’s eyes found his figure, he turned to her, shaking the stupor away.
“Morning,” he said quietly. “If I can even call it that.” Momentarily, his gaze roved to the darkness outside. Then, as he stared back at Yrith, he noticed her unease and tilted his head to the side in question. “What is it?”
“A bad dream, I suppose,” she muttered. “I… it’s like I hear voices. In the Dragon Language.”
Keneel-La’s eyes narrowed. “In Dovahzul? What do they say?”
“Something about… killing… for honor.”
Slowly, he put the dagger aside, his eyes following its blade, from what Yrith could tell. Then, he looked back at Yrith, examining her as though he had just found a rare historical artifact.
“You truly are sensitive to these things, aren’t you?” he said thoughtfully. “What you hear is no dream, nor illusion. Down this cave is a crypt. Hidden there is a wall, a memorial to the Nords of the old. If you ask me, they hardly deserve it for driving the Snow Elves off the surface, but… well, the wall has a hidden purpose, which you might have guessed. It contains a fragment of draconic power. There are many walls like that hidden across Skyrim.”
Yrith nodded. “There’s one up at the Throat of the World, isn’t there? Paarthurnax showed it to me.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, that’s bad news,” a voice issued from the shadows. The two of them turned to Qassir who was now slouching over his bedroll, his handsome face uncharacteristically grave.
“Beg your pardon?”
“I thought I was mistaken when I woke up and didn’t feel any connection, but this cave was supposed to be shielded from all sides. I created the protection myself. If the urchin can hear the wall, then it has either died out, or it has been breached.”
“Well well, I couldn’t have asked for a better start of the day,” Keneel-La snorted as he pulled himself on his feet. “Time to wake everyone up, I suppose.”
At the entrance, Kharjo gave a quiet sniff. “Kharjo does not see or sense anything,” he reported.
“Neither did I on my shift,” Keneel-La sighed. “Could any of you guess how long it’s been since you felt the barrier missing?”
Qassir shook his head. “I’ve just woken up.”
“So have I,” Yrith seconded, “though I can’t say exactly how long I’ve been dreaming of the voice.” She looked around, as though an enemy should materialize out of the thin air. After all they had been through, she would not even be surprised anymore. Then, she turned back to Keneel-La.
“Permission to scan the surroundings?” she asked, her fingers stretching and curling back up to suppress the need to let her magic out just yet.
“Granted,” the lizard said absently, his eyes already roving through every crevice and corner they could find. On his knees, he crawled to Leyna who was closest to him, touching her face. The elf wiggled unwillingly in her slumber, turning to the other side.
With little hesitation, Yrith allowed her power to spring out on its own, guiding it to spread around. Instinctively, she closed her eyes, focusing on the shapes and life it touched. The vast area she covered was nearly empty, save for a very few people walking around. For sure they were patrols, pacing back and forth, armed, mostly dressed in light armor of Nordic cut. Some had more of a wanderer attire, though Yrith doubted many would just aimlessly travel through the winter Skyrim lands. Still, nothing she would call outright suspicious. She sent her magicka further, but found only still, peaceful land, disturbed only by wild gusts of wind whirling up ruffled puffs of snow. She could feel her own brow furrowing as she searched for traces of any kind of illusion, and still, she found none. No ripples in the power currents, no strangely lifeless or static places, no anomalies, no unnatural patterns. Nothing…
“So?”
She shook her head as she opened her eyes, withdrawing her magic.
“Nothing. If there is any kind of illusion in effect, it’s none that I can detect. It just looks like there are only occasional patrols, never more than three people together.”
“Hmm…”
Keneel-La scratched his beardless chin, or so Yrith could trace in the dark. Other than that, he was motionless, staring somewhere on the ground where the sleeping lot of their little party lay still deep in their dreams.
“So it’s either some undetectable illusion, or…”
Yrith waited for him to finish, but he never did. She wriggled in her place.
“Or?” she pressed.
“Pardon me. Either that, or they have become… afraid of you.”
Yrith felt her shoulders stoop, as if someone had draped over her a mantle of worry too heavy to bear.
“A… afraid of me?”
“Indeed. You managed to devour the man that had, at least figuratively, risen from the dead to haunt you. He had every advantage over you but still couldn’t best you. What do you think this tells the one who is after you?”
“Probably that now they can become serious,” Yrith uttered grimly.
“They’ve been serious all this time.”
Yrith followed the new voice with her eyes, squinting at the new silhouette rising from the ground in slow, fitful motion. Singird had woken up and joined the conversation. At last, Yrith sent a ball of magelight to the ceiling to gain a better view. She had never seen his hair so unkempt and his eyes so droopy. Despite that, he looked keen and awake.
“But I’m still alive.”
“And all of us, including you, made it harder for them to change that. You underestimate your abilities,” Singird said, adding a low grunt as he stood. “He’s been afraid of you this whole time, hiding in the shadows, never daring a direct attack. Now you’ve just proven to him that he has a good reason to.”
She looked away, feeling her stomach turn. Was that a reason to be happy? Did Singird, he of all people, the obstinate, uptight Nord, the man of principle, approve of her wicked tactics? Was he encouraging her in them? Or was he talking out of pity? Was it a good thing that their enemy was afraid of her? Perhaps short-term, it could bring them advantage. But what would happen to her and Singird once everything was over? Would he become afraid of her too? He would have every reason, after all.
“I’m not sure I’m happy about this,” she muttered into her bedroll as she pressed her face to her knees.
“You don’t need to be happy about it to use it to your advantage,” Keneel-La said to her gently. “Defense mechanisms don’t always feel right. Still, they are there for a purpose.”
Yrith raised her head to look the lizard in the face, feeling heat in her cheeks. The damn reptile was so unfair. Always knowing the right words…
She gave a silent nod, wishing above all to find a place to contemplate in solitude. A wish that she knew would not be granted for days to come.
“In any case,” the lizard continued, “I’m afraid we can’t stay here. How scattered are the patrols, Yrith? Any chance we could simply make our way through without being noticed?”
Yrith forced herself to sit up. In the end, this was her rescue mission and she should at least play her part. Leave the wallowing in her despair for later.
With a sigh, she shook her head as if to clear it and sent out her magic once more, forcing her mind to refocus on the guards. They were spread rather evenly, but the land was mountainous, the forests in the valleys were lush and the occasional wall of stirred-up snow left them at a disadvantage too.
“Theoretically. If they don’t know where we are already… I’m not even sure how many of them are Imperial and how many are… whoever else can be.”
“Right, this is still Stormcloak territory… hmm. Let’s just have a quick breakfast and be on our way. I’m not too convinced that this place is safe anymore.”
And then there was food. She did feel hungry. Yet filling her stomach was the last on her list of desires. Kharjo was already on his feet, giving out slices of smoked fish, fresh apples, bread and goat cheese. The first real meal Yrith had seen in ages, likely the courtesy of some charitable Imperial they had met on their way. And still, she found no appetite in herself.
Taking the precious meal with little enthusiasm, she suppressed a sigh and watched as the Dragonborn tapped Leyna on her cheek, shattering her peaceful slumber into the cold, unpleasant unreality.
--
Yrith had no idea how long they had been walking. It felt like days, although it must have been less than an hour. The air around them was pure white, biting into them as though their clothes were nonexistent. She was quite convinced that this was no weather to be treading around in, and that the Dragonborn would have happily agreed with her if he hadn’t considered staying at the cave even more dangerous. She gritted her teeth, forcing her legs to move, half with willpower, half with magic. Despite all the magic she had stolen the previous day, she felt weak and tired. Instead of her feet, she had two weights of lead, and the muscles on her shins felt like paper, ready to be torn at any moment. The only thing she wished for now was a warm bed. But that comfort was still a long way ahead.
For the umpteenth time, she checked whether all the others were still with her. They were almost solely relying on her magic now, having no other means to navigate in the gale. And Yrith did not bother taking long detours to avoid the guards. There could have been a guard right before her and they wouldn’t have spotted her. At least in this case, the snowstorm was convenient. So, with the assistance of Keneel-La, she chose the shortest route possible, only careful not to bump directly into a patrol.
“Well, Kyne, thank you for the gifts, but you didn’t have to be so generous,” she heard Qassir mutter behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see the Redguard bent low in his struggle to keep up against the harsh wind.
“I didn’t know you worshipped the old Nordic gods,” she commented, kicking away a clod of snow to clear the path. She tried to ignore the pain signals her recently injured leg kept sending her. At least the storm swept away her quiet hisses and grunts. Nobody needed to know. Especially Cain and Singird.
“It’s more of a… figure of speech, really,” Qassir huffed his way along the freshly dug trail. “Let’s say the gods did very little to make me believe in them. And even if they did, what have they done to deserve to be worshipped?”
Yrith laughed. “Those are the words of a heretic, friend.”
“Only if they prove it to me. I am in the Nordic land and we were talking about Nordic gods. Who says I was talking about gods in general? I am a Redguard after all.”
She could almost feel him winking at her. If she’d had the strength, she would have kicked him for the inept joke. Instead, she only gave a snort, keeping her eyes fixed on the nonexistent path. They fell silent again. In her head, Yrith recited a mantra to keep her feet moving. Left and right, step and go, left and right, step and go…
Her eyes were nearly closed, formed into two thin slits just to see ahead. With the snow, perhaps it wouldn’t have made much difference if she closed them entirely. Still, she kept looking forward, into the endless white. She was frozen to the bone, but their steady tempo helped her get used to the chill. Almost like a Dwemer automaton, she walked and walked, oblivious to the wind. The mantra resounded in her mind, a music box lulling her into a sweet trance until its cogs stopped turning. Or until something came and broke it into pieces. But nothing happened.
Their journey was peaceful as could be. No guards spotted them, there were no surprise attacks, no avalanche, no unexpected occurrences. Only white everywhere and wind in their faces. Yrith had fallen into her pace, nearly comfortable at its steadiness. The pain seemed almost bearable. No… it had even ceased. Just like all the other discomfort, the cold…
She took a deep breath and the air slipped smoothly into her lungs. The wind was still there, yet she hardly felt it. As if it simply passed them, as if the swirling air was just a pleasant, warm breeze leading her onward. Into sweet oblivion…
Oblivion. No, it couldn’t be…
She froze, barely keeping balance when Qassir crashed into her. Never mind that, she quickly checked that their group was whole. All six of her companions were standing behind her, eyeing her with curious looks.
“What is it?” Keneel-La asked. She could feel his voice hardening into that steel-cold tone he adopted every time things became serious. The mere sound made her hairs stand even more effectively than the gale. More so that he had read the situation right.
She focused on the magic laid all around them, touching the land. Only it wasn’t. The image blurred in her mind, as if someone had poured oil in her inner eye.
“I think we’re walking in a circle.”
“What do you mean? That’s impossible. We’ve been walking upward all this time, and you read the terrain…”
“I’ve seen this at work once… in…” she cast an uncertain glance at Singird, then Kharjo and Qassir. Then she shook her head, deciding to put her worry aside. For now. “In the Shivering Isles.”
Singird’s reaction was instant. “In… where?!”
Keneel-La waved his words away. “Not now, Master Larkwing. Let’s exchange stories later… Yrith, what do you mean?”
“Bent space… going somewhere, never reaching your destination, only to eventually find that you’re back where you started. This. But I don’t think he can bend the space. At least not here, on Tamriel. I would bet on an illusion. Just like everything else he does. Which means I have no idea where we are in reality.”
“You sure know how to put a person at ease. And your vision is not working?”
“It’s…” Once more, Yrith tried to see around. It almost hurt. Instinctively, her hand reached for her eyes to rub them. “… distorted. Though it wasn’t just a while ago. Whatever he’s trying, I don’t think he wanted me to notice that I’ve lost track.”
“So, this tells us that he knows exactly where we are. Is he playing with us?”
“I…”
“Frankly, I think he’s trying to exhaust Yrith as much as possible.”
Yrith turned to Cain who seemed to hate his own words. His eyes were turned to the white ground, his fiery brows knit together.
She looked at him in question. “But why would he do that?”
“Think about it. He always avoids direct confrontation with you. Doesn’t that mean he wants you as weak as possible?
Keneel-La put a gloved hand on Cain’s shoulder, patting him lightly with his fingers.
“Indeed, that would make sense. But it would mean our nameless friend is a lot less divine than he would prefer, eh?”
“Still, to command an illusion of this scale…”
“Hush, Master Larkwing, let’s discourage our friends only after we’ve made it to safety. For now, let’s focus on the problem at hand. So, if I understand correctly, we are all under some sort of illusion?”
Yrith gave a nod.
“Right then. How do you break an illusion?”
“Well, the easiest way is probably simply finding the source of the spell and cutting the flow. Although the safest one would be with another illusion… so that the caster is convinced their illusion is still in effect. It’s a lot more complicated when there is seven of us though.”
At her side, Leyna was playing with her fingers, deep in thought. As she turned to Yrith, one finger gestured to the path ahead.
“Wouldn’t it be enough for one of us to break through the illusion and lead us out?” she asked. “Not all of us have magic, after all.”
Yrith rubbed her brow, staring at the swirling white through her fingers. “Technically,” she admitted slowly, “it could be possible. But not if we want to keep pretending we’re still in. This way we’ll be in for some serious retaliation.”
“The question is,” Keneel-La said, “do we have a choice?”
His fingers snapped around a snowflake. Yrith’s eyes followed them as they crushed it. It did not melt. Curiously, she touched the air before her with magic. She could feel the snowflakes toss and dance. She grabbed one and turned it. It glittered. Upon closer inspection, it shone like a mirror, reflecting… anything and everything. A world of pure white. She shook her head. Of course. The presence of the storm would be no coincidence, would it? She must have been ensnared since the first time she examined the land from the cave.
“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, pulling off a glove and reaching for another snowflake. It was not cold. She did not even feel the touch. “It’s not just our minds that are affected. This whole place is. And something… I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something just… doesn’t feel right.”
“Of course it wouldn’t feel right,” Leyna snorted. “We’re under illusion.”
“Yes, but there’s just more to it than simple mind control or mirages. An additional layer of… something.”
“Kharjo can quite feel it too,” the silver-furred catman nodded. “Or, can’t. He can barely feel his whiskers. And that is bad.”
Keneel-La looked the Khajiit up and down, his face stiff in concern. Only his brows moved, slowly knitting together.
“I have a bad feeling about this. But we can either go along with it until it’s too late, or break through and try our luck. Yrith, will you do the honors?”
“With all due respect,” Singird said before Yrith could utter a word of response, “I think Yrith’s had enough. Isn’t there any other way? Perhaps one of us could…”
Yrith put a hand on Singird’s arm, pressing slightly into his muscle. “I’ll have to be involved anyway. No one else can… see around.”
She looked away, feeling foolish for claiming to be superior. Then again, if superior meant hunted to the edge of the world, then she would happily give it away.
Singird gave a sigh. “I can never protect you, can I?”
“You don’t have to protect me,” she said to him gently. “I can’t always run away from my own fight.”
He nodded in silence. She could feel all the words behind his pained face, but he spoke none. She would have spent eternity looking into it, but instead, she forced herself to close her eyes and search for a way out. If only everything wasn’t so distorted…
“I think it’s best that we hold hands, just in case something tries to separate us,” she said absently, tucking her gloves into her pockets and extending both her hands for someone to take them. For a moment, they stayed empty. Then, she heard Keneel-La’s voice issue nearby.
“Won’t you need them for casting spells?”
Indeed, she had never tried to cast without her hands. But then again, she considered magic a rather good friend of hers.
“I’ll manage,” she replied, keeping her hands out for the taking. Strangely, they still felt no cold.
“Very well.”
She could feel both of her hands being grabbed. One was surely the Dragonborn’s calloused lizard hand. The other… a humanoid one, too big to be the slender Leyna’s, or even Cain’s. A grip she knew all too well, firm, but gentle. So that was Singird, seizing the chance to take her before anyone else could. She suppressed a smile, forcing her mind off the daydream threatening to absorb it. Way out. She had to search for a way out.
If everything was distorted, the illusion had to be superficial. No strange lands, no complete Oblivion to get lost in. It covered a great area, but the Demon obviously had his limits. Still, it was something affecting them all the same way, creating a mirage of… of what? She could only see a storm made of myriads of fake, mirror-like snowflakes. Was it that simple?
No, it wasn’t just the storm. There was that something. If they had been under the impression of going steadily upward, then it must have affected their state as well. Something to completely fool all of their senses. Still, the question was whether the feeling came from outside or inside. Perhaps addressing the storm would still solve the issue. In the end, it was the only thing she knew how to deal with, given she had already defeated one of the greatest gales on Tamriel back in High Hrothgar.
She took a breath and spread her magicka in a thick layer. It swirled and undulated uncontrollably, like a sea of wild waters that run wherever they please. Yrith gritted her teeth. This was much harder without being able to channel the magic through her hands. She had to find something. Something she could move at will. Feet? No, she could not do it while standing. So…
She opened her eyes, showered with immediate curious looks.
“What is it?” Keneel-La asked, frowning.
She shook her head. “Nothing. I’m going to use my eyes to control the magic. I will have a blind spot, so I will sometimes turn. If I do, please, follow my lead.”
“As you wish. Tell us if you need assistance.”
“Will do.”
Once again, Yrith made a connection with her surroundings. She could not spare the time to look at her companions now, but she imagined she must have looked quite surreal, with her eyes glowing brightly with magic. The current gave her a strange, ticklish feeling that made it hard not to blink. Still, with eyes stinging and misty, she persevered, penetrating the wall of white just ahead of her. Just as she had expected, it worked similar to the storm covering the path to the Throat of the World. Magic was everywhere, changing the space, creating a myriad of fake images reflected in countless icy shards. How elaborate it was. She could not imagine the amount of effort it must have taken to create. In a way, she had to admire whoever had built such a wonder. If only they could use it for other purposes. How the world could change for the better had they been a different kind of person.
She sighed, carefully undoing shard after shard, flake after flake, cutting through the fine web of magic to see beyond. In her hazy view, she could not even spot guards. They could be found out at any moment, but if they ever wanted to escape their white prison, it was a risk she had to take. And so she worked, chipping away at the magical barrier separating them from reality.
The bits glistened as she worked at them, despite the absence of sunlight. A lace was undone, the strands fell off all too easily. A frown formed on Yrith’s brow as she looked at the pathway forming before her. She had expected resistance, but there was none, except the fact that it was hard to see a difference in the endless white. Still, she sensed it, the clearance and the sudden touch of cold. A film seemed to have come loose, uncovering her skin. She hissed and jerked to the side, but maintained the connection with gritted teeth. A thousand tiny needles pierced the skin on her face, a white-cold blade slashed through her lips. Her senses were finally returning, bringing a shock, if not to her body, then at least to her mind. The effort to keep going took away her breath. With all her might, she had to focus. She could not afford to get distracted now. Not even by her own perceptions.
“Yrith…!” she heard someone call her name, but she couldn’t turn after the voice.
“No,” she said without a thought, squinting in attempt to keep her concentration intact. “If I stop here, it’ll all be for nothing.”
“Yrith! Gods above, stop! Please!”
She felt Singird’s hand leave hers, only to touch her face. She recoiled, her magic finally giving way. His touch burned like the fires of the Deadlands. Everything burned. The cold had crept under her body, the infinite needles assaulting every inch of her. Then, the needles became white-hot razors, cutting deep, tearing off her skin, blinding her. Something snapped as she moved her legs, and a new eruption of pain paralyzed her. She wanted to scream, but found no voice.
The glistening white mist around them hardened, aiming for Yrith’s skin. It was too cold and too hot. Yrith’s senses stopped working. She could not understand the signals anymore, her sight blinding her with splatters of color, her hearing sending in a series of cacophonic whistles and buzzes. She felt her tongue as she bit it. Only vaguely, she could hear screams around her as something hit her companions. Soon, it would crush them all.
Blindly, with no sense of direction, she mustered all her remaining strength, producing a ward as hard as she could make, wrapping them all in a humming sphere. Her fingers trembled, the magic still threatening to go wild in the wake of the pervading pain. She fell to her knees to gain support, only to be flooded with a new wave of shambolic signals.
“H-help me…” she breathed, clenching her glowing fingers instinctively. “Help me!”
She could not touch them. Everything hurt, everything ripped her skin into pieces. And so she just sent her magic forward in a tangled mass, making contact, connecting with everyone in their group. She heard gasps, screams, even, but she could not focus on them. The ward. She had to protect them…
Leyna caught on first, if she could trust in what the last functional bit of her senses told her. She could feel the calm of her soothing, golden magic stabilizing the connection, taking hold of the barrier around them, gripping it firmly to keep it steady. The pain subsided one tiny bit, only for her senses to fully wake and send in more. Yrith moaned. And prayed.
Then, thank all the gods and spirits, she felt a pair of different people join, strangers whose magic she had never touched. That must have been Cain and Qassir. Cain’s magic was warm and gentle, protective like a mother’s embrace. She wished to take it for her own, to nestle in it and find peace. But she couldn’t. It was all meant to hold the ward. Yrith’s teeth screeched and hurt as she gritted them too strongly in the effort to stand her ground.
Qassir’s magic was fierce, strengthening the ward with a repelling power. Another bit of pain receded, but the tremor would not go away. It was too late. Too late…
The last one to join, to understand at last what was going on, was Singird. But he did not fortify the ward. He focused on… Yrith. She felt her body gaining new support, her muscles relaxing against all odds, the cold giving way. Her limbs trembled with the sudden change, the warmth making her feel weak. She breathed deeply to keep herself from falling or breaking away. But she would not last long. The ward would not hold forever. Something had to happen. Something…
“Keneel-La…” she whispered, hoping he would hear her in spite of all the humming and swooshing. Hoping her quivering voice was enough yo reach him. The Dragonborn’s reaction was instant.
“Yes?”
His voice was so alien, so distant. A strange buzz in her ears. She tried to focus on the words. Just a bit longer…
“Can you… the Shout…”
“What Shout?”
Her ears hurt so much. The lizard voice came through a thick wall, quieted down into a mere rustle in the wind. The words…
“The one…” even her breath was failing her, “you used… to clear… the path… to Paar… thur… nax…”
No. She could not hold up any longer. The pain was too great. Warm or cold, her skin was torn, her leg was hurt, her head hurt with all the muddled impulses and the effort to keep the ward in place. The shards of the storm were too many, attacking from too many places. They came at not just the ward and the air. She felt them inside, in her head, assaulting her mind, trying to take over. She had to repel the illusion as Master Neloren had taught her. Fake being controlled, give a false impression of triumph… but she was so tired. What was the Demon trying to do? What would he do once he took over? She could not understand. Not this time. She could not fake anything. He had succeeded. She had no strength to fight anymore.
Her breath. She had to focus on her breath. On their magic. On the ward. On anything.
In and out… her breathing slowed. Her mind dimmed. There was nothing. Nothing to hold onto. Everything was slipping away.
Singird, Cain, Keneel-La… how they would hate her for this. But she was so, so tired.
And so at last, she gave up and let herself sink.
--
“Yrith…!”
He wanted her to stop. He begged the gods, the Daedra, anyone… just so she would stop. She didn’t seem to notice all the blood on her. She just continued, stubborn, blind to everything happening to her.
“Yrith! Gods above, stop! Please!”
Her skin… the whole of her. Even without the blinding light of her magic fiercely bursting out of every inch of her body, he almost couldn’t recognize her. Thousands of minuscule wounds covered her, spreading over her, disfiguring her. No, no! This could not be happening. Not now, when he had finally found her…
“Yrith!”
She could not hear him anymore. He wanted to touch her, but his touch seemed to bring her even more pain. Singird found himself crying. The tears stung and burned on his face, but this excuse for pain could not compare to her torment. He was so powerless, and everything he tried to do only made things worse.
Frantically, he looked around. Everyone else seemed to be fighting the same battle as him. Wearing the same, desperate face. Why? Why? Why?!
Why did it always have to be her?
A shower of piercing snow, or whatever it was that came at him, hit him. He shrieked and covered his face. Several people screamed. He tasted blood on his lips as he bit into them. And then, despite everything, Yrith had somehow managed to raise a ward to protect them. A magnificent sphere, worthy of an Arch-Mage. But as she held it up, it flickered and quivered. It would not last too long. He raised his hands, ready to cast his own ward, weak and only able to protect them from one side. But as his fingertips flared in blue, a new wave hit his senses. No… it hit his mind directly. Yrith… this was her magic. With it came more. Pain beyond anything he had ever felt, shredding his flesh and burning him to ashes. Visions of… everything. Mountains, trees, snow, people… the inside of them too. Their minds. Their pains, joys, memories… information flooded him as though all of Mundus suddenly entered his mind. Unbearable, crushing…
He yelled and yelled. He could not focus on a single thing. His head hurt so much it could split any moment. And still… he felt her above all else. She was on fire. White, blinding fire, ice-cold, yet scorching. There was numb pain spreading in her leg, and he felt it in his own, suddenly weak and barely able to keep balance. And her skin… her skin…
No, no, no! She must have had a reason to do this. This was not something that would happen on its own. She had raised a ward. And now…
The ward. It was stronger now, he noticed. The gale was outside, not hitting her anymore. Three other people supported it. And still, she must have felt too weak to go on. There had to be something he could do. Something. Anything.
This was her magic. There was so much of it, so easy to grab and simply manipulate. He did not have to think about not using too much. He took it in, then sent it out along with his own. It embraced Yrith gently, squeezing her in a warm, protective embrace. If only he could make the pain go away. If only he could pull her out, into safety. She was so fragile. But he could not let her go. And so he held onto her, becoming a pillar she could lean on, a cushion she could fall into.
And then, she fell, her magic finally dying out.
At the same moment, a deafening shout shook the land and resonated in his bones. The Dragonborn stood beside him with his legs spread, panting as a wave of untamed magic left his lips. The ward disintegrated and so did the storm. The air cleared. The sudden quiet drummed in Singird’s ears.
He stood there, trying to catch his breath. The moment he did, he dove down to Yrith, raising her head into his lap, embracing her with his arms. Her chest rose and sank, but her breath was shallow, accompanied with the faintest wheeze. She was motionless, not even shaking, the few spots of skin that did not bear the bloody wounds ashen gray.
“Yrith, please,” he whispered into her raven hair, his fingers clutching her arms. “Please…”
Someone else had kneeled next to him. Cain Aldaryn. Leyna Travi. Even Qassir Tahlrah. They all watched in still, wordless terror. Only the Dragonborn and Kharjo the Khajiit were still standing, preoccupied by their own matters.
“Damn,” Singird could hear the lizard utter above himself. “This is… no way. That’s Anga’s Mill down there, so we’re in… Eastmarch?”
There was a moment of quiet. Singird stroked Yrith’s hair gently, his fingers running through the strands. Then, the Dragonborn’s words sank in. Eastmarch… the home of Ulfric Stormcloak. And, of course, his generals. That would mean… no, impossible.
He lifted his gaze, staring at the Dragonborn in disbelief.
“Eastmarch? No, how could we…?”
“That over there is the lift that’s exactly between Irkngthand and Raldbfar and that bridge is the first one on the road to Windhelm, so right now…”
Singird slid Yrith gently into his arms, standing despite the sudden rush of exhaustion.
“So instead of going up, we were going down all along? This is bad news. We need to get out this instant.”
“It is bad news for sure, but what’s on your mind, Master Larkwing?”
Instinctively, Singird pressed Yrith closer to his body. Not again. He would not let it happen.
“General Toddvar is,” he uttered gravely. “He is most likely the one in command of the Fake Imperial Army.”
The lizard gave Singird a look that would make a dragon crawl away. Singird shuddered.
“Then we are in some serious trouble,” the Dragonborn said.
--
A/N: Happy New Year!
I wanted to post this chapter on New Year’s Eve, but it needed some polishing and improvements. At last, this chapter is edited by courtesy of RealityGlitch who is, aside from being an amazing writer, the best damn beta in the land! Here is my thanks to her and I hope you guys enjoy.Mirwen
Chapter 32: The Story Does Not End Until It’s Truly Over
Yrith would have liked to think that they ran. That their speed was fast and furious, that her hair waved behind her like a standard over a proud city. But she did not run. She stumbled, rather, one foot sinking before another in a free style that was not so free. Keneel-La was kind to her. He did not force her to let him carry her. He did not even suggest it. He walked patiently by her side, one arm extended to provide support which she, at times, gladly accepted. She wondered deep inside whether they would have moved faster had she allowed him to hoist her up in his arms. But he didn’t pursue it and she was grateful.
The lift could not be farther than just a few hundred yards. Still, it took her so long. She fought every step, secretly strengthening the bone and muscle in her leg with magic so that it would hold, knowing full well there was a lot more strain ahead. The two of them, she and the Dragonborn, walked in silence, letting the rhythm of the place take over.
The entrance to the lift was sneakily hidden just under the ledge with the control pillars, leveled with the top of the Dwemer mechanism sphere. Yrith could see the path had been cleared, pieces of rubble tossed or kicked out of the way without much order. Glass had been shattered everywhere, covering the place with a glittering crust. Only the beam of light remained, its magic untouched by Yrith’s raving. She gave it one last look. The power inside her surged like a wave, and then fell back into the ocean of her subconscious, leaving but a gentle ripple on the surface.
“Looks like we’re both going to bear the brand of this place for the rest of our lives, aren’t we?” Keneel-La commented as he noticed her look.
She gave a nigh inaudible snort.
“I wonder…”
He left the sentence hanging in the air, unfinished. Yrith did not ask.
They entered the short corridor leading to the lift. Yrith could hear Cain and Leyna talking quietly. She could not make out what they were saying from the distance, but she found comfort in hearing their voices. As if she had a home to return to. As they slowly approached, the words became clearer.
“… should be happy here, being a Dunmer, no?” Leyna’s tone was conversational, with a tinge of amusement in it. A theatrical snort came in response to her statement.
“What? Have you ever been in any place in Morrowind that is not Blacklight? I’m not a Redoran, we don’t live in burrows!”
“Well, how should I… oh! Yrith! You’re standing!”
The two elves turned toward the newcomers at once, Cain’s eyes bulging at the sight of Yrith. She hinted a smile, but did not reply. Keneel-La gave them a nod.
“The path was well cleared. Thank you. Now, on to the surface, I suppose.”
There was longing in his voice, one that had long been suppressed. Yrith was not surprised. If dragon blood was what coursed in Keneel-La’s veins, then he would surely be drawn to the skies. But there was also something else. Fear?
“What will await us there?” she asked in a quiet, timid voice.
“Let me put it this way. When I emerged a while back, I saw a group of men in red kill my brethren down in the valley. I should mention that the Tower of Mzark stands on the border of The Pale and Whiterun.”
Imperials far out of their territory slaying dragons, Yrith translated in her mind. So they were surrounded.
“So why are we resurfacing?”
“Because,” Keneel-La said as he entered the round platform of the Dwemer lift, placing a hand on its lever, “this tower at least is thought to lead nowhere and we might have a chance to sneak past them. They are expecting to find us in Alftand, which is much closer to Winterhold and also much more explored. Every known exit from Blackreach will be guarded closely.”
As he said it, he prodded the rest to join him. When the last foot landed on the lift platform, he pushed the lever down with all his might.
Deep underneath them, an engine rumbled and thrummed. Yrith felt the vibrations deep in her body and had yet again to hold her body with magic. Instinctively, Cain held out a hand to support her. She took it gingerly, more for his comfort than her own.
“How in Oblivion are you standing?” he said, his voice sounding more like a whisper in the grating noise.
She shrugged. “A miracle, I suppose.”
“Will you be all right? If I remember the map correctly, there are two mountain ridges between us and Winterhold.”
“I can only hope. There’s little I can do about it anyway.”
He was not happy with her answer. But in the end, all he could do was watch.
“I still don’t understand why we didn’t fly to Winterhold,” Leyna muttered over the noise. The Dragonborn gave her a light pat on the shoulder.
“Because, Leyna,” the Dragonborn hurried with an answer, “aside from the danger of being easily discovered and taken down since the enemy would be prepared for it this time, dragons are proud creatures. To have them carry you out of the goodness of their heart is not how they think. I had them carry you out of that mess because back then, they considered you nothing more than a piece of baggage. It took me all the resources I had to make them. They only respond to power. But if I asked them to carry three people who are in full strength and health, capable of walking on their own two feet, they would rather kill those people to show their superiority over them.”
“Yrith rode on a dragon.”
“That’s not the same. She made an impression. And Paarthurnax is different. Unlike the rest of his kin, he responds to wisdom. But,” he raised a hand when Leyna opened her mouth again, “no, he would not take you either. He will not leave the Throat of the World. He has a good reason to stay in seclusion.”
Leyna turned to Yrith, her golden brows raised sky high.
“Just how in Oblivion did you manage to impress a dragon?”
Yrith felt her cheeks heat up at the recollection. A dragon that could become a true friend in an instant. One day, she hoped, she would come back to the mountain with a story to tell. She would offer the old drake a good tinvaak…
“I… gave him a name,” she said quietly.
At her side, Keneel-La started coughing.
“You… what?!”
“Well, it’s more like I gave his name a meaning, but…”
“Doesn’t matter, you… oh,” he shook his head in disbelief. “Now I see… I knew you must have done something for him, but a name… a meaning that he, a dragon, the Master of the Way of the Voice, no less, accepted… ‘impressed’ doesn’t even begin to describe it.”
“Is a name that powerful?” Cain wondered aloud. “Would a name really change so much?”
Keneel-La’s jaws widened.
“What would happen if I told you to take this,” he raised the Dwemer tube that had served Yrith as a splint just a few hours back and that he had decided to hold onto, “and jab it into one of the cogs that move this thing up?”
Cain raised a brow. “It would probably break the lift?”
“And what would happen if I told you to jab it into Yrith’s chest?”
Underneath his ebony skin, Cain paled visibly.
“Why…”
“Hypothetically, let’s assume you would do it. What would happen?”
He shook his head. “She’d… die… probably… but I wouldn’t!”
“Exactly. Even in this conversation, it makes a big difference when I say ‘cog’ and when I say ‘Yrith’, because that’s how you identify what we talk about and what you interact with. For Yrith, it makes a difference when I call her ‘Hatchling’ and when I call her ‘Yrith’, because when I use her name, I imply a certain level of seriousness. And now, we’re only speaking of words. Imagine that merely saying a word would hold power. As if you grasped the owner of that name and could do anything to them that’s within the limits of your power. But then, as the shape of the object you hold determines how easy it is to control it, that name would do the same. Someone who is free will never be as easy to control as someone shackled by their own nature. A name describes your nature, and for a dragon, whose language is equivalent to magic, a name is everything. If Yrith offered Paarthurnax such power, then there is no measure for how grand a gift she gave him. He will be, to put it quite simply, forever in her debt.”
“So the Demon’s name could really destroy him? Literally?”
“It is quite possible.”
“Say, Keneel-La,” Yrith began quietly.
“Hmm?”
“Paarthurnax said that dragons are born with their names. How…”
“Ah,” the lizard’s smile darkened, “indeed, this may be quite confusing. A name can bear many meanings, as you yourself probably discovered. A dragon name is never just one word. It is a combination that can have many interpretations. A dragon is born with a name, yet only his deeds decide the interpretation. When the deed is great, the dragon’s name is pronounced officially, which, on one hand, gives him power, on the other hand, it gives others the means to control that dragon. Many dragons remain formally nameless, but within the system, they mean nothing. Quite a nasty way to exact power if you ask me, but Alduin was never known for kindness.”
“So when I suggested to Paarthurnax that his name might have a different meaning…”
“You gave him freedom. Freedom he was seeking for thousands of years. Even if he, wise as he is, might take time to process it in all its greatness.”
Yrith stared at the Dragonborn a good while before she realized she was smiling. Smiling like the biggest fool of all, feeling like the biggest fool of all. What was greatness? A simple blow of wind that would move all the small specks of sand out of their places? It took so little. It felt like so little. And yet, apparently, it meant so much. Greatness… she wondered if it truly existed.
The tremble in her magic-infused legs and the sound of stone grinding against stone woke her up from her trance. The lift was slowing down, until it finally stopped. She had not even realized the coldness of the wind that bit into her cheeks. Everyone trembled now. The warmth of the Dwemer complex had made them forget what Skyrim winter felt like. As she focused her eyes on the sight before her, the snow, shining even through the gilded grating of the tower gate, painted colorful smudges in her vision. The air stung in her lungs. Everything in her screamed for the comfort of the Dwemer cities. And yet, she welcomed the roughness as an old friend. As if new life spread in her, she took in all the air her lungs could accommodate. Finally, after long days, weeks, perhaps, they were on the surface.
“Now this feels surreal,” Cain breathed, and she could see the same kind of rapture that she felt in his eyes, even if closed ajar in the sudden deluge of light.
“It does so every time indeed,” Keneel-La concurred. “Now, we will have to cross the mountains. As bad as I feel about this, Yrith, could you scan the perimeter?”
“So we will not be covering our tracks this time?”
“The dangers of it outweigh the merits, I’d say. Better to know what’s around, risk being found and having to run than dashing right into the tip of someone’s blade. In the end, we will have to fight. It’s not a question of if. It’s a question of when and how.”
She nodded, letting her magic out. The region was mountainous, every inch of it hard to traverse. She imagined they might be at a great disadvantage with rucksacks on their backs and Yrith’s injury, not to mention the numbness that remained in her after all those days spent in the depths of Oblivion. Surely, the Imperials would have supplies nearby, places to return to without having to carry too much weight. And they were trained to fight too.
Yrith tried to shake off all the unsettling thoughts running through her mind. There was a cliff behind their backs, impassable with its jagged crown. To their left was a plateau, gently rising into a slope. On its far end, amidst a few lichen-covered pine trees, a great bonfire burned up to the skies, with several creatures roaming around it lazily. She examined them, her teeth unwittingly sinking into her lower lip.
“There are… giants to the left. And mammoths. Is that the western side?”
The Dragonborn gave a nod.
“It is indeed. Giants don’t scare me much, but we don’t want to go that way. It would only bring us further and eventually we would run into a dead end. What’s on the other side? The valley down the eastern side and around? There is an altar with a stone circle and a statue of Talos that we should pass. Further that way are two Nordic barrows that lead up to a mountain pass. That’s where we are headed. If your magic allows it, search the pass too. It should lead us straight to Alftand, although we want to avoid the old city itself. We will instead go along the mountain ridge and turn just before Saarthal to reach the Shrine of Azura. That should take us to Winterhold from the eastern side which, hopefully, no one is expecting.”
“Isn’t that risky? What if a storm hits us?”
“Every path is risky. I’ve survived a few storms in Skyrim. They are not kind, they will tear your skin off if only you let them. But they are not impossible to survive if you know what to do. An Imperial blade and a magic bolt though, they are a different story.”
“Well, so much for safe passage,” Leyna uttered quietly.
Yrith kept her thoughts to herself. She did not feel entitled to question the safety of their journey. After all, she was the reason for all danger. She was the reason for this journey to begin with. And all she could do now was to ensure all was as safe as could be.
She searched on. As Keneel-La had suggested, there was a valley eastward. There were two forts to the north, one full of men and women in full combat gear, a professional army, it seemed, and the other occupied by rough, hard people whose weapons mostly consisted of silver. Vampire hunters, perhaps. Neither of these should present much danger.
She focused on the other side. To the south, she could find another giant camp. There was less snow in that direction. She could feel that the blanket of white covering the vast fields of vegetation around was fresher. So that was the Whiterun tundra. There was a patrol a few hundred feet from the camp. Two men, walking back and forth in laid-back gait. It was hard to discern colors with just magic, but the shape of their uniforms was definitely a Nordic cut. Not Imperials then. Or, not appearing to be Imperials.
“You probably know about the forts on the north,” she said to the Dragonborn, half of her mind still scanning the land, “and the giant camp on the south. There’s a patrol, maybe Stormcloak, maybe some hold guards. And to the east…”
She left their destination to the end of her search. As Keneel-La had said, there were two barrows. Yrith felt a chill run down her back as her magic touched their guards. There was no life in them, just like the skeletons of the Midden. The power that steered them was different from her magic. Dark, otherworldly. They were shadows of the people they had once been. Lost, trapped in this world until they would serve their purpose. She left them, not eager to explore them more. She doubted the Imperials would dare approach the ancient burial sites, but she scanned their surroundings nonetheless. To her surprise, there was life. Three people. Different from guards, different from bandits or any kind of hunters. Travelers. Or not.
No, that was impossible…
“Yrith?”
She recoiled before the lizard’s touch, realizing she had been holding her breath. She let it out, drawing in new air.
“What did you find?”
Her magic link was still working. What had she found? Was he real? So close? Did he really know where she was?
“Yrith?”
“I… that’s… Sin… Master… Larkwing. I think. With two other people.”
“Here?”
“I… think so.”
“So he has found you as well. That wave of magic you released must have given him direction. Is he headed toward Alftand?”
Yrith shook her head. “I think they’re coming this way.”
“I see. So Kharjo must be with him.”
“Kharjo?”
“S’kharr. The Khajiit that helped you survive when you were captured.”
“I see…”
Yrith recalled the silver-furred cat man. It felt like ages ago, that day she had first seen him, when he had put her out of starvation. And the day after that, when she had called him… and the third day, when she had met the Dragonborn for the first time, in the middle of something that pretended to be a negotiation. So he was with Singird now. Why did that even surprise her?
And then there was the third one. Someone Yrith had not been expecting to come into her life ever again.
“Who is the last one?” Keneel-La asked as if reading her thoughts. She shook her head in disbelief.
“Qassir. A classmate of mine…”
“I see…” He fell silent for a moment, ignoring the surprised looks of Cain and Leyna, eyes clouded with thoughts. Then, he gave a nod. “In any case, that means we’re going to meet them. They, at least, are good news. Hopefully, if there aren’t any trackers on their tail. Any bad news? Patrols, scouts?”
Yrith tried to get her attention off Singird’s group. She would have loved to follow them, to stay with the familiar, comforting presence. With little eagerness, she broke away, scanning their surroundings and the path further up to the pass. The life up there was scarce.
“A few ice wraiths, two trolls in the pass,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll be able to circle them.”
“Not much of a problem. Any people?”
Yrith shook her head. “None that I can see.”
“Very well. Let’s set out then. We’ll keep to the northern mountain wall. I know,” he raised a hand as Yrith made to speak, “we’ll have to pass the barrows. I fear the undead less than I fear people. They, at least, won’t strategize and set out targets. People will.”
With that, he opened the gate. It gave a creak that spread far and wide and rebounded from the walls of the surrounding mountains. All four of them twisted their faces. Yrith knew that just like her, the others wished few souls heard the sound, and that those who did were not human.
Before them opened a gentle slope that descended into a steeper one on their right and the plateau with giants on their left. She could vaguely discern the two monumental figures and their animals in the distance. The bonfire around which they stood illuminated the surrounding area like a beacon, bright even amidst the snowy landscape. In a way, they simply seemed like campers, sticking to their livestock and the warmth of their fire.
As the four of them took the first step outside, Yrith felt the snow crunch under her boots. What an unbelievable sensation. The coldness hit her with triple the intensity now, and she felt another wave of shivers. Movement was difficult. Even more difficult than before, as her feet sank in the snow and she had to raise them high to take another step. She dug her fingers into her sides. Her injured leg kept sending lashes of pain into her system. She was still helping it with magic, concealing it from the sight of any potential passersby, as well as her own friends.
“Will you be fine?” a voice issued by her side. She turned to meet Cain’s gaze. His expression was that of a person having a light conversation over a mug of tea, but she could still see the worry underneath. “If I can help with anything…”
“You mean carry me?” she smiled despite herself. “That would be counterproductive. And there’s nothing you can carry for me. But thank you.”
He gave a sigh. “I know. I just… wish I could. Why is it always you?”
“Not always,” she shrugged. “But maybe because ultimately, I am the target?”
“Not for the Falmer. Or Dwemer machines.”
“When you deal with the Daedra, you never know what’s going to target you,” Yrith said wisely. Now she was talking like the Dragonborn.
“The Daedra… right.”
By their side, Leyna gave a quiet snicker. Cain cast an exasperated glance at her, but she only smiled back.
“Now,” the Dragonborn cut in, “I know the three of you have a lot to share, but we should really move as quietly as possible. Yrith, the moment you can’t stand, you’ll let me know. There is no room for pride now. What we need to think of are solutions.”
Yrith lowered her head in understanding. She hated even hearing him speak like that. But if that was the only option how to protect their lives, then she would do as he said.
They set out. Yrith tried to guess what time of the day it was, but it was nearly impossible with the sun hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds. It was simply grey in the skies and white under their feet. She had loathed this weather in the past. Now, she was happy to be back.
--
Crossing the road connecting Whiterun with Dawnstar was easier than they had imagined. The trees were thick and lush, offering shelter from both the harsh wind and unfriendly sight. The snow that occasionally fell from the branches in feathery clouds covered their footprints well. Now, they were nearing the belt of mountains embracing the Alftand basin on the north. Yrith fought for every step, limping by the Dragonborn’s side. He paid her no heed, staring at the path ahead with a deep frown that had hewn sharp, jagged shadows into his lizard features. Eventually, he stopped under one of the few bare trees in the area. Yrith used the occasion to prop herself against its trunk, basking in the sliver of comfort it provided.
“Can you look around again?” he asked.
It was about the fifth time in that short while they had been traveling. Nevertheless, she nodded without asking, spreading her magic. Singird was closer now. Pleasantly close. Except for his group, only a few ice wraiths roamed the area around the altar of Talos and the stone circle that was, according to Keneel-La’s information, called Weynon Stones. Then, a lone raven in the sky. Otherwise, there was no one.
“Still the same,” she commented. The Dragonborn sighed.
Cain tilted his head to the side. “Are we expecting someone?”
“Indeed,” the lizard snorted. “Don’t you think it’s too quiet?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I took the lift to see the situation, I saw Imperials. Now there are none. Anywhere. It makes no sense. As unknown as the Tower of Mzark is, I wouldn’t expect to find no resistance at all. I don’t like this.”
“Were they really Imperials?” Leyna asked, looking here and there as if the said soldiers should jump from behind a tree at any moment. “Couldn’t they just be some vagrants?”
“No. Not even vagrants in Imperial uniforms. Their fighting style was too synchronized for that, they looked like professional soldiers. Unless my own eyes deceived me.”
“Deceived…” Yrith repeated slowly, mulling the word on her tongue. No, this couldn’t be… not on this scale…
She closed her eyes, focusing entirely on her magic. She had to find traces. The slightest trace of magic other than her own. A hem of an imaginary cloak. A so-called cloak of invisibility… only this one would be woven with threads of magic instead of fabric, it would not cover its wearer, but instead blind the eyes of an observer. She felt her teeth grit until they hurt, her eyelids press into each other, her nails dig into the skin of her hands. Someone was talking to her… No, she needed to concentrate. The slightest lingering spark…
She found it. No. Them. Many, many sparks. Her breath quickened as she focused on them, dismantling the spell that had been working against her this entire time, thread after thread. The land changed. There were footprints, beaten paths amidst broken brushwood… people. Many, many people.
She felt all the blood retreat from her cheeks.
“Keneel-La…”
She forced her eyes to open and look into the lizard’s face. He gave her a long, knowing look.
“How many?” he asked plainly.
“I’m… I’m so sorry…”
“How many are there, Yrith?”
“I… don’t know. We’re surrounded. From every direction.”
It was the end. It took one great illusion to deceive her unskilled mind. There were too many. She scanned the place again. The image of Singird was no illusion. It remained. No. It had changed, in fact. It moved fast, here and there. He must have been running from something. Fighting… No. He could not fall with them. No…
“Leave me here,” she said quietly.
“Yrith!”
She could not choose which of those three voices to follow. She chose none.
“It’s over. If you leave, maybe at least you can save yourselves. I…”
Two firm, calloused hands gripped her shoulders and shook her.
“What did I tell you back in High Hrothgar?”
“I…”
“What did I tell you? Tell me now.”
What was he talking about? She didn’t know. Everything was surreal, grey, drowning in darkness. What had he told her? What would it matter?
“I don’t know… I don’t know!”
“Shouldn’t we run…?” Cain tried, but Keneel-La shook his head to silence him.
“There’s nowhere to run. Anywhere we run, they will have the advantage. Yrith,” he turned back to her, “remember. After I put you through that trial with a blindfold. After I told you my story. What did I tell you?”
“I…”
His story…
“… that…”
How he had come from Morrowind. How he had nearly died when running away. How his sister had nearly died. How he had nearly died again when crossing the border to Skyrim. How Alduin had attacked. How his mortal enemy had saved his life. Was that it? No…
“You said,” she whispered between the shallow breaths, “that the story does not end until it’s truly over.”
He lowered his head in confirmation. “I did. Etch those words into your mind. Repeat them, wallow in them, feel them with every inch of your body and soul. Feel them as the magic courses through you. Feel them as you face your enemies. Make them your purpose. And remember,” he said as his own fists clenched tightly on her shoulders, “that if you don’t take the life of the person that points their blade at you, they will take yours. And Cain’s. And Leyna’s. They started it. They have come prepared for whatever fate they may meet. So deliver it to them. No holding back this time, Yrith.”
“The story does not end…” she whispered.
… until it’s truly over, she finished in her thoughts. He gave a nod and patted her on the shoulders. Then, his hands left her, aiming right for the hilts of his two blades.
“You know the drill,” he said to all of them. “Yrith, you stand side by side with us.”
Cain stared at him incredulously.
“But…”
“They outnumber us heavily, Cain. We’ll have better chances if we go all in.”
“Chances? What chances?” Leyna snorted. Yrith could sense the restraint in her. Her voice shook. She too was clutching her dagger, even if Yrith knew it would not be her weapon of choice.
“The story does not end until it’s truly over,” Yrith muttered mechanically as she positioned herself so that she stood back-to-back with the Dragonborn. Before her was a wall of trees. A wall from which someone could leap at any time. She fixed her eyes on it, wishing she could just set it on fire that would consume anyone who would try to pass through. After a few silent moments, she felt the nudge of Cain’s arm on one side and Leyna’s soft touch on the other. It wasn’t a triangle anymore, and she wasn’t in the center. It was a square.
--
The buzzing arrows were easy enough to deflect. These people were weak. Perhaps not weak, but weak enough against magic. They ran against them with their swords pointing at their hearts, but they never reached their targets. The more skilled of them dodged the magical missiles, but even they could not get close enough to deal damage. Arrows were the only thing that reached the Dragonborn’s group, if they could get through the trees. Yrith took them down, leaving the killing blows to the others. The men fell. The snow underneath them melted, turning into a mixture of blood and dirt. Yrith could taste iron on her tongue and her nostrils filled with death. She stared in horror at the bodies before her, both those that moved and those that lay at their feet. They were mindless. Their eyes were empty, perhaps they did not even see Yrith and the rest. They just charged, one after another. Many, many people, throwing their lives away in the blink of an eye. Did they have families? Friends? Not anymore…
“Damn,” the Dragonborn cussed behind her.
“Are these… decoys?” Cain yelled over the fray as he fired a bolt of pure magicka from both of his hands.
“Decoys, distraction, whatever they are, they’ve been used as scapegoats. Don’t you three even dare think of who these people are. Someone knows full well the extent of our power and our weakness. And they will use every advantage they have against us. That said, the numbers they have…”
He didn’t finish. Instead, he released a roaring Shout.
“YOL TOOR SHUL!”
Yrith had heard this one from Paarthurnax. Even with her back to the lizard, she felt the heat from his fire breath. She did not want to imagine the scene before his eyes. She did not want to hear the screams. She forced herself to look at the arrows. They, at least, did not have a heart that would stop beating upon the impact.
The story does not end until it’s truly over…
She repeated it, again and again, the words becoming a mantra she would hold onto. Her only hope. Cain’s only hope. Leyna’s only hope. Singird’s only hope…
Just as she thought of him, something in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She sent a scorching wave toward the coming arrows and shielded their whole little group before turning her head to see what it was. A glimmer on the horizon. Flashes of light. Magic… magic against magic, sparks setting the snowflakes alight, giving halos to the white trees. Their fight was not the only one. But why were the mages there and not here?
“Yrith!”
She turned just in time to block another volley of arrows. Behind them, she saw the faces of the exhausted, desperate soldiers. They seemed more exhausted than her. Some had seen through the ruse and decided to run for it. In vain. Somewhere behind those trees, another circle began to shrink. Those who ran met their fate in the shape of a fiery magical missile. Whichever direction they would choose to face, they would only find death. Yrith’s eyes met with the eyes of the closest man. He gave a sad but relieved smile as he sank to his knees, not minding the cold. She saw his lips move. He was begging her. She let out a shaky breath.
For the first time since she had met the Dragonborn, she raised her hand to deliver the killing blow.
At least he would die with honor.
She released an ice bolt. It never found its target.
As it flew toward the poor man, it was cast astray by the same beam of magicka that sent the man flying until he hit the closest tree, his life left to wane away at time’s mercy. She stared at the caster. It was an elf, standing in the front line of a whole mage squad. An elf she knew all too well.
“Long time no see, little Yrith,” he said amiably.
Her breath stopped. The cries of the battle stopped. Everything stopped.
“N-no…”
He should have been dead. She had killed him. Countless times she had replayed that moment in her mind, the pain he had inflicted on her vivid as much as the pain of taking a life, even if rotten. He had fallen right there before her eyes. And yet, here he stood.
She could smell the mint on him even from the distance. She still tasted the wine he had dripped on her chapped lips. She still felt the dark blade on the skin of her neck.
She retched. He gave a light chuckle as if observing his own child. Then, he lifted a hand, fingers sparking with magic, and fired. Not at her, but to her side. At Cain.
No, he wouldn’t. Not Cain.
As if someone had pulled a Dwemer lever, all the sounds returned at once. Yrith produced a ward just in time to shield the Dunmer boy at her side who seemed to have been yelling something at her for a good while. Both of his hands were burning with magic, sending one ball of fire after another, even if now they seemed smaller and weaker than before. Leyna was warding them from the other side, the magic shield tattered and flickering on its edges. Keneel-La kept Shouting, his voice becoming raspy and wheezy. They were running out of resources. And now, the mages had come. What a flawless plan.
Yrith’s face hardened. Whatever trick he had used to come back, she could not let Erinor kill a single one of her friends. She could not succumb to his ruthless tactics.
The story does not end until it’s truly over…
She did not even aim. Magic burst from her clenched fists, forming into atronachs. They would not last long against the casters, but still, they could provide some distraction. If only she could create an opening…
The mages against them moved, spreading to cover more area. This did not look good. And yet, she could still see a path to the north-east.
“Cain?” she yelled.
“Finally listening?”
“Never mind that,” she brushed him and his worried tone aside as she cast a ward with one hand and a poorly aimed bolt with another, all too aware he had been trying to reach her all this time, “can you still go? I’ll give you magic. Your aim is better than mine.”
The brief moment he took to reply felt like eternity.
“Are you serious? Of course I can!”
The sudden smile in his voice gave her courage. She did not hesitate to give him her hand, careful not to gaze into his mind as she flooded him with magic. Their hope was a decision, not a state. It would only take a while until the ecstasy of the moment would evaporate. And so they would fight now. She would let Erinor and his men taste all the rage she felt toward him. She would make him pay double.
As their hands broke apart, Cain’s missiles flared with new life. He fired rapidly, not giving the enemy time to think. Speed was his only way to occasionally hit. When he hit, he hit hard. One in the head, another in the chest. Mages fell. Not Erinor.
The slick elf glided among the others as bolts of magic followed him. At times, he hid behind someone else’s ward. Others, when there was no ward to protect him, he would simply grip the shoulders of a fellow mage and send him to death. Once, his living shield survived the blow. He did not hesitate to use him again.
Yrith felt her mouth twist by itself. She hated his ever-present smile. She wanted to wipe it off his face. She wanted to strangle him. Her missiles missed as well. The Dragonborn’s Shouts, now less frequent as the lizard, protected by Leyna’s ward, took longer breaks to draw breath, did not seem to affect him. Something was not right. Yrith was quite sure he had not been this quick and resilient the last time she fought him. Was it the surprise back then? No, certainly not.
She quickly produced a ward as a bolt of lightning flew at her. With the other hand, she sent a fire atronach to the side of the enemy line, followed by a dremora. The effect was opposite to what she had intended. She wanted the mages to back away. Instead, they rained on the creatures like skeevers on a slice of cheese.
She could not even think of an appropriate curse before she had to block another bolt. There were too many. They did not mind dying. Where one fell, two others took his place. Were there even so many mages in Tamriel? And most of them high elves too. All men. Not a single woman. That said something about Erinor.
She sent a dremora on their other side. The trick did not work. Erinor had read her intentions well. Now, the mages were firing from the distance and even extending it. Slowly but surely, they moved to block the passage entirely. Yrith’s chances slimmed yet again.
“How do we break through?” she called to Keneel-La. With shock, she realized he was panting. His Shouts had ceased entirely.
“By force, it seems,” he grunted, slipping behind Leyna’s ward to avoid a fire bolt. “Can you and Leyna do it again?”
Yrith assumed he was talking about the ward they had used against the Falmer. She would have liked to look at Leyna and confirm. The constant fire did not let her. It seemed the mages against them grew fiercer and faster with every moment. No, that wasn’t it. It was her that was becoming exhausted. It was her who was now too slow.
She took a breath as she fired another missile. It went wide, disappearing somewhere in the treetops. As if answering to the moment of weakness, Erinor’s face appeared out of nowhere, just before her. She gasped and backed away instinctively. Her back hit the arms of Cain and Leyna, causing them to miss their shots and barge into Keneel-La. Erinor did not bother with magic. He pulled out a thin sword with a gilded leaf-shaped guard, thrusting its hilt into Yrith’s chest. Dull pain hit her like an avalanche and spread far into her body. She staggered. Her injured leg gave way under her. In a desperate attempt, she sent forth a ball of fire. Erinor sneered and waved it away with magic. She could see Cain trying to get to the wicked elf, but a wall of fire rose before him, separating him from Yrith. On the other side, Leyna cried out as the first shot hit her. Not magic. An arrow. In all the chaos of fire, ice and lightning, they had forgotten the remaining soldiers. Keneel-La’s huffs were drowned in the ringing of blade against blade. He too was preoccupied with his own opponent and much too weary from the previous fight.
She lifted herself on her elbows, only to be hammered down on the ground again. She could not find the breath to cry out. Erinor was playing with her. He would not kill her. Again, he would savor her torment with gusto. She retched again. And then, she felt stabbing. Stabbing in her forearm. Stabbing in her thigh. Stabbing in her hip. Again, and again, and again, white hot pain flashed through her like lightning in a thunderstorm, but the pain was not the worst. The pain, at least, reminded her she was still alive. But with it, came the cold. It was the cold of nothing. Through the tears in her flesh, her magic was, by some inconceivable force, leaving her.
Until it stopped.
She was barely breathing. There was hardly any life left in her. The stomped snow under her felt even colder and harder than it was. She gathered all her strength to look up. The elf stood above her with a soft, yet triumphant smile. In his hand, he twirled a thin dark blade, sparks of magic running along its edges. It was quiet now. The battle was over. Yrith could not hear her friends. She was afraid to think of the reason.
“I do not lose, little Yrith,” Erinor said with a smile. “Not even in death. You are out of magic, and so are your friends. Well, well, well. Who would have thought I would gain myself a nice trophy by postponing the time I finally deal with you. The Dragonborn’s head will fit nicely in my collection of dragon heads.”
“You wish, scum” she heard Keneel-La’s muffled voice. At least he was alive then.
“Oh, did I hear something? Perhaps a rustle of the wind…”
The mages standing behind him laughed. Then, their line broke to form an aisle for several newcomers. Five other elven mages, dragging along…
Yrith’s heart shrank. No. No…
“We found these at the foothills,” one of the elves said as he tossed his burden on the ground. So they finally met. Yrith stared into his dark eyes, her heart beating faster despite the fear and exhaustion.
“S-Singird…” she whispered. Even in her situation, she found solace in the name. In his presence. He was alive. Beaten, covered in blood. But breathing. Alive.
He said nothing as he looked at her, but she could read the words right off his face. Words of regret. Words of shame.
I failed you…
She was the one who had left Winterhold. Who had failed who?
“Well, well, well,” Erinor sang sweetly. If only she could silence him. If only she could turn that smirk into agony. “Look at what we have here. A kitten,” Yrith had almost missed the silver-furred Khajiit friend of Keneel-La’s, “a naughty child of the desert,” Qassir lay the furthest from her, his eyes staring absently into the sky in spite of the barely noticeable cloudlets of steam rising from his mouth, “and a mediocre mage calling himself a Master. And his own student calling him by his given name? Intriguing.”
He cast a wicked glance at Yrith. The dark blade moved over to the nape of Singird’s neck. If she had not been pale before, Yrith paled now. They had just met. They had just met! Would he kill them all? One after another, slowly, painfully, right in front of her eyes, before he would finally kill her? She wanted to cry out. She was scared to. He would take it as an incentive. Every move, every gasp or moan, every word was a sign to Erinor. But then again…
“What is it, little Yrith? You’re not scared, are you?”
Silence was as well.
Yrith glared at him with all the hatred she had for him. She wished to kill with her eyes. Why was the world so unfair? If only it would end already. If only it was over…
“Indeed, you have a reason, don’t you? You’ve gotten so used to your borrowed power. It’s not yours, abomination. And you are out. You can’t do anything but watch, can you?”
If only it would end…
The story does not end until it’s truly over.
“You’re out…”
The words were so sweet on his tongue. He laughed and twirled the blade again. The magic on it gave a light crackle. Magic. Yrith’s magic.
She was out. He had deprived her of her power.
She stared at the blade, understanding clearing her mind of all doubt. A smile formed on her lips. A bestial smile, wild, uncontrolled. She laughed with him. She laughed louder. He tilted his head to the side, amused.
“So you have finally lost it, haven’t you, little Yrith? Poor, powerless, little Yrith…”
She was still laughing. And then, she stopped.
“You’re right,” she hissed as she stared right into his beautiful, cruel eyes. “I’m out of magic.”
“I’m glad we understand each other.”
Erinor raised the dagger. His final moment of glory. His final mistake.
“But you’re not!” Yrith cried. It was her magic. It would answer to her. Her fingers clutched the air. Her blood was still warm. Warm enough to provide the tiniest bit of energy. It was all she needed to create the link. She did not aim for the blade. She aimed for Erinor.
One moment he laughed. Then, horror marred his face as he realized what she was doing. He realized too late.
The dagger fell from his hands and jabbed itself into the ground just next to Singird’s head. The spell Erinor tried to cast did not work. His magic did not obey him anymore. It was all under Yrith’s control. With a hint of cruel satisfaction, she pulled. He screamed. The sound of it cut deep under everyone’s skin. But he was powerless. The more he screamed, the more hunger she felt. She pulled. And pulled. And pulled.
“Stop her…” he rasped. “Stop her!”
Only a few of his mages dared turn to Yrith. She did not give them time. It was too easy. Too easy to just seize their life force and take it for herself. To shatter their souls like porcelain dishware tossed down from its shelf. Vaguely, she realized she was baring her teeth. Power flowed into her, filling her with new life. She ignored their screams. The sight of him, lying before her, helpless, his eyes begging her to spare his soul, was exhilarating. She wanted more. She drank his life in great, satisfying gulps. She drank theirs too, all those that tried to oppose her. The rest of them ran, stumbling through the snow, falling and rising again to get away from her as fast as they could. Run, away from the abomination. Away from the damnation. Never mind their fallen comrades.
--
It was quiet. Yrith’s fingertips burned. Her head throbbed, her heart raced. She had done it. She had devoured the foul elf’s soul so that he could never come back again, she had broken the cursed blade and undone every threat. The bodies lay in her feet, lifeless. She had saved her friends. She had cleared their path. She had…
Her eyes found Singird. He stared at her with wide eyes, face twisted in shock. He said nothing. But his long, piercing look was impossible to bear. She turned to Cain. The Dunmer’s mouth was open, as if the hinges holding the jaw had come loose. She turned to the Dragonborn, but his face was carved in stone, unreadable. Questioning, perhaps. Leyna, Qassir, even the silver-furred Kharjo…
There was no joy in their stares. No triumph. No gratitude. Of course, there wouldn’t be. She had just devoured the souls of several mages. She had denied them the path to Aetherius. She had the power to erase people from existence. She scared them. She was an abomination. Now, everyone could see it. Now, everyone knew.
In the end, she had lost. She had lost everything. They would hate her and fear her. They would avoid her and never speak to her again. Perhaps it was just right that she would die by the Demon’s hand. She did not deserve to live.
She found herself struggling for breath. Her throat felt tight, barely letting in any air. She had to leave. Get away from them, leave them to their safety. They would be better off without her. They had always been.
She staggered backward, barely keeping her balance. One step, two, three… then she stopped, turning to Leyna for the last time. They were all lying on the ground, their limbs covered in nasty gashes. She knelt beside her elven friend, finding her fingertips. The hand yanked under her touch, but she held onto it, sending in a wave of magic. Magic that was not hers…
“For healing,” she rasped, feeling the tears fall on her lips.
Then she turned away, forcing her feet into motion. Run, run away. Away from the madness, away from the hurt. Away from their looks, away from the blame.
She would run until she would be out of breath. She would run after that too. She would keep running forever, despite the pain, despite the innumerable wounds on her, despite her body that was crumbling apart.
--
Singird could not find the right words. What had just happened? What had he just witnessed? This was… Yrith? The look in her eyes, the mindless ferocity… he did not know this Yrith. This wasn’t the same person he had met back in Winterhold. Where was she?
He looked up where she was standing, despite the quite obvious wounds littered all over her slight frame. He gazed into her face, long and deep. No, he was wrong. She was still there, that beautiful girl he had been searching for. She was there, and under that layer of false triumph and demonic smile, she hurt. She hurt so much he had to clutch his own chest. It was all there, not just this battle, but all those months of struggle and solitude, all the suffering she had gone through, all the hard lessons she had had to learn. She must have known the elf, he was sure about that. She loathed him, feared him. He had driven her into this state. He had all but deserved his fate.
He wanted to stand and embrace her. To finally hold her in his arms, after all this time, after those moments when he thought he never would. But he did not find the strength. He did not find the courage either. She was so close, yet so far. Perhaps she would crumble under his touch. Perhaps she would burst and consume him.
She turned away, her eyes roving from one person to another. And then, out of all people to approach, she chose… Leyna Travi. Why?
They shared something intimate. He could see Yrith touch the Altmer’s hand, and his heart yearned to be in her place. Magic flared between them, and then it was gone again.
Her next words were accompanied by tears. He watched as she stood again and broke into a run. Why? Where was she going? Yrith!
“Yrith!” he cried, but she did not hear him anymore. He was not alone. Three other people were calling her name. All of her companions with whom she had come here.
The Dragonborn was the quickest to turn away.
“Damn it, damn it!”
He fought to stand. Singird beat him to it, even if barely able to keep upright. He limped to the closest tree, propping most of his weight against it as he tried to circle it. If she could run, he would never catch her. Still, it would not stop him from trying.
“Wait, Master Larkwing… let me…”
Singird didn’t want to let him. He took a step away from the tree and fell into the smooth blend of snow and dirt.
The Dragonborn hissed under his breath.
“Dammit. Leyna, can you…?”
Miss Travi nodded, flooding the Dragonborn with golden magic as she crawled to him. His wounds ceased their bleeding. He was visibly relieved. Still, he grabbed his rucksack, pulling things out of it without much order. A waterskin, a belt, a non-transparent bottle filled with splashing liquid, a stuffed burlap pouch, spare shirt. As soon as his fingers clutched the shirt, he ripped it apart, quickly using the long, thin shreds in place of bandages or to strangulate his limbs. He rose the instant he tied the last knot, shaky, but determined.
“I’ll get her,” he said, nodding to Singird as he passed him. Singird gripped his arm, losing balance once more as the lizard moved.
“I’ll go with you,” he still tried, knowing full well how pathetic he must have sounded.
“Merciful Talos,” the Dragonborn shook his head. “Yrith was quite a handful on her own. So now I have two fools with no preservation instinct on my neck, eh? You stay here in Leyna’s care, she’ll fix you right up. I’ll bring the hatchling back.”
He took two steps before turning around to glance at Singird once more.
“I promise,” he added. And he was gone.
--
She did not know how long she had been running. Time had lost all meaning. She only knew it had become dark and she could not see. She did not care. She did not care when her injured leg finally buckled under her and sent her to the ground. She did not care about the pain that spread throughout her body, or the coldness of the snow she was now lying in, or the fact that she had nothing with her. No food, no water, no bedroll to warm herself up. It did not matter. Nothing mattered.
She had killed so many. Not just killed. She had devoured them. Their own life was now coursing through her and giving her a semblance of strength. Erinor’s life too…
Her stomach knotted. She didn’t know how she managed to stand and lean against the closest tree when the contents of it decided to leave the entirely wrong way. She felt disgusted with herself. It had felt good. For a moment, she had been literally drunk with power. She had craved more. She might have taken more…
What if, one day, she would lose control? What if she would turn against her friends too?
No, that must not happen. Never.
She stood there, head against the tree, her mouth open, even if nothing came out anymore. There was nothing left inside. She felt so sick. Sick of herself. Sick of this life.
A while or two, or an eternity later, she was staggering through the snowy pine forest. She let her feet work on their own, until they gave way again. She found herself half buried in the snow, staring into the coldness below. But who cared. Who cared about anything…
--
Warmth woke her. A tight, strong embrace. Arms accustomed to hard physical work and heavy burdens, firm and solid as a rock, yet tender in their own way. She opened her eyes, realizing she was resting against Keneel-La’s chest. But how…
She pulled away. The Dragonborn looked at her gently.
“Apologies. I didn’t find the strength to carry you in my state, and I didn’t bring anything with me. This was the only way to warm you.”
“I…”
They were alone. He must have come after her, even after everything she had done. She didn’t know what she wanted to say. Everything felt so wrong. She realized she was sweating and shaking.
“Y-you… you should have left me…”
“And what good would that do, eh? What happened to your purpose? What happened to the Elder Scroll you hold inside?”
“It only makes me more dangerous…”
“No, Yrith. Despair makes you more dangerous. It’s natural. Even the most docile animal will bite if you drive it into a corner. And you have the misfortune of being a very powerful mage.”
“But I felt… I…”
“It felt good, didn’t it?” he said quietly. He knew. There was naught but understanding in his lizard face. Painful, agonizing understanding. “The power, the triumph, the knowledge that he is gone, it all made you feel good, didn’t it?”
“But…”
“I know the feeling. Even killing a stranger can have this effect.”
“I devoured his soul…”
He gave a sad, yet warm smile. “And he would have done the same to you if he only could. Perhaps he was going to. You did exactly the right thing. You used his weakness against him.”
“Doesn’t that make me the same as him? How can this be the right thing?!”
“You managed to save yourself and all of us. How is it not the right thing?”
“I devoured their souls. All of them. Ripped them apart, denied them the right to exist, the journey to Aetherius. It’s just…”
“It was their choice, Yrith. Until the last moment, it was their choice.”
“To die like that?”
“They picked their side.”
“Did they even know who they were fighting for?”
Keneel-La let out a long, weary breath. She felt his hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t ask yourself these questions, hatchling. Ignorance is also a choice. In most cases anyway. You can’t spare everyone just because they might not be aware of what they are doing. This was their souls or yours. Ours. You were trying to save our lives. And you did.”
Yrith shot him a dark look. He made it sound so noble. So purposeful. He made her look like a hero. Easy for him to say when he was one.
“I was trying to take revenge,” she uttered grimly.
He laughed. She wished to hit him in the face.
“Indeed you were. It would be strange if you weren’t. The short display he presented was enough to help me understand how much he must have done to you back when you were captured. Hurt, Yrith, is not a sickness. Hurt has to be healed. Wounds on the soul can fester too.”
“But I…”
“It’s all right, Yrith. He is gone. He can’t hurt you anymore. He can’t hurt any of us, thanks to you.”
Tears were flowing uncontrollably, like rivers bursting their banks. No matter how many walls and dams she tried to build in their way, they just poured.
“You wouldn’t be in any danger in the first place if you weren’t constantly trying to protect me,” she sobbed, feeling foolish for receiving comfort from him on top of everything else.
His smile grew brighter.
“But that’s a choice as well, isn’t it? Our choice.”
She blinked as she tried to clear her vision.
“What?”
“To be honest, you’re not being very fair. By shifting all the responsibility onto yourself, you’re denying us the right to make our own choices. What would you do if the tables were turned?”
“I…”
She couldn’t find an excuse anymore. Of course she would do the same. Of course she would give her life for Cain and Leyna, for Singird, for Keneel-La, perhaps even for Qassir and the silver-furred Khajiit. It was for this reason it all hurt so much. It was for this reason she had to cry. But, curious as it felt, it was for this reason that she could smile too.
She shook her head.
“I’m so sorry…”
“If you are, then come back with me. I think young Cain may have ripped all his hair out with worry by now. Not to mention Master Larkwing. Such fine hair he has…” he laughed. “I have to give it to you, you never fail to surprise me.”
Yrith paled. And there was that too. Upon their arrival, she would have a lot of explaining to do.
--
The sun was peeking over the eastern horizon when they finally reached the cave. Yrith’s eyes fell on the Nordic burial urns at its entrance, but the Dragonborn passed them with no concern. She could feel the warmth of a campfire coming from the inside. They entered in silence, but the quiet voices echoing through the place told them all was in order. She hesitated before stepping up from the shadow. But then, she drew a breath and took a resolute step forward. All eyes turned to her in an instant.
“Yrith! By the gods…!”
Cain cast aside all restraint. He flung himself on her person, wrapping his arms around her so tightly it hurt. Then he pulled away, stepping into the line formed by all others.
“You’re alive,” he commented wearily. “We were so worried…”
“I can only concur.”
She looked at Singird. He, on the other hand, held onto all of his restraint. She could see his hands fidgeting. His jaw trembled, his eyes were shaded by dark circles. But deep underneath all that, there was the joy from seeing her in one piece. Quiet, grateful joy.
“I know,” she whispered.
“Then why did you run?” Even Leyna joined them. The snort she gave could not be more unconvincing. “What were you thinking?”
Qassir and Kharjo simply observed, but their eyes did not leave Yrith for a split moment.
“Foolish things,” Yrith shook her head. “I was worried that…”
“That we would look down on you, or fear you, or whatnot, as always, eh? Don’t you ever learn?”
She flushed fiercely as she looked away. There were more burial urns. A brazier filled with dead embers. The remains of a dried-out snowberry wreath. The places they had to pick for shelter just to transport her safely across Skyrim.
“Damn you fools and your stupid choices,” she snorted quietly.
At her side, Keneel-La laughed. There was a moment of silence, save for the crackling of the campfire. Maybe now they were finally regretting…
“What?” Cain’s voice issued just a tiny bit louder than the softest crackle.
Yrith turned to him, wondering if the weakness in her knees was due to injuries and exhaustion or her own silly words.
“Who asked you to protect me?”
They all stared. All except Leyna who gave another snort.
“You’ve gone completely troll, haven’t you?” she asked, shaking her head. Her voice was so light. She was smiling a contagious smile. Yrith felt her own lips curl.
“Likely,” she said. She really felt tired. So, so tired. In a good way.
“Welcome back,” Cain said, his face bright with relief. “I haven’t seen that smile in a while.”
Yrith gave a nod. She had not felt that smile in a while. But still, it had come. They were there, after the spectacle she had given. They were there, not judging. Not forcing her to go back. What had she seen in their faces back then? Perhaps it wasn’t disgust after all.
A gentle pat on her shoulder made her turn to the source. Keneel-La was beckoning her forward, the merry sparks back in his eyes. She nodded. There was one last thing to do.
She crossed the empty space between her standing spot and the group of people by the fire. When she stopped, she was standing before the person she had most yearned to see and most feared to face. He had changed. His robes were ragged, his hair way less shiny and obedient, his face hard and weathered. And yet, his eyes shone brighter than she remembered them. They were fixed on her, and even with no words, she could guess his thoughts. She took a breath.
“It’s been a long time,” she said.
He gave a slow nod. “Too long,” he managed. His voice was shaking more than hers. And then, with no concern for whoever might be watching, he pulled her close and aimed for her lips.
The scent of starched linens was gone from his person. But he was still Singird. Too tall for her, and much too straightforward.
Indeed, she’d have a lot of explaining to do.
--
A/N: Did Erinor survive, or did he die and come back? That’s the question… ;)
And I know, I might have cut it right after Yrith ran away and made the chapter shorter. But I thought wrapping it up here would be more fitting than a forceful split. Not every chapter needs a clilffhanger. :)
Those faces were familiar. Wrinkled, worried faces. Always worried. Always full of shadows from this angle. The greenish light from the surrounding lamps gave them an extra tint of unhealthiness. They were still, contrasting the constant drumming of the engines somewhere in the background, echoing from wall to wall, supplementing the heavy scent of dust and oil. Dust and oil for the old Dwemer automatons, sweat and blood for Yrith. She could feel every inch of them on her person.
She tried to feel her body. Bend her fingers. It did not listen. Her leg, the one hit by the venomous dart, burned, yet the pain felt as distant as the day it had been injured. The rest lay slumped, unable to move. She opened her mouth to speak to the faces above her. From her mouth came a primal, raspy sound, like the grinding of a whetstone. It hurt.
“Water,” one of the faces said, and in that instant, a hand appeared just by Yrith’s lips, holding a waterskin. She let them lift her and pour the soothing liquid in, fighting not to cough and spit it out instantly. A cold wave sank down her throat, spreading new life. Yrith blinked. Her vision sharpened almost painfully. She took in a deep breath to get her body to work.
“Welcome back,” a voice said, “to the world of the living.”
Yrith frowned, pondering whether the Dragonborn knew where she had gone, or if it was simply a figure of speech. At his sides, Cain and Leyna only expressed relief.
“How long...” Yrith wheezed quietly. The rest of the sentence froze on her lips. How many times had it been already that she’d asked this question?
“Divines only know,” came a thoughtful reply. “We don’t know ourselves how many days we spent searching for you all around Blackreach. Daylight doesn’t reach here... We only found you when we gave up all hopes.”
Yrith’s eyes widened as she fought her exhaustion. “You... searched for me? When? Where? How did you find me?”
Three pairs of eyebrows arched at the question. Yrith scanned them cautiously, one after another.
“What?”
Keneel-La shook his head. “You don’t remember getting separated from us?”
Yrith did not reply, but his nod told her he had read her face.
Leyna gave a quiet snort. “We lost you when the Falmer were chasing us. You helped us escape, remember? The two of us... raised a ward,” her voice fell into a whisper. In the shadow of her face, dark against the bright, greenish light likely coming from one of the Dwemer lamps, Yrith could swear she saw a flush creep into her elven face. A flush and a hint of modest pride. “But then, when we broke into a run, you were suddenly just... gone.”
“Gone where?”
“You tell us. The road did not fork anywhere.”
Both Keneel-La and Cain gave supportive nods.
Yrith let her eyes close by themselves. She was quite certain she had not just lost her way. She had been led away from them, perhaps by none other than Hermaeus Mora. The only thing she did not know was what part of her journey had been a dream and what part had been real.
“Where are we?” she asked just to keep the conversation going. She heard a light chuckle in reply.
“That’s the thing,” Keneel-La hummed thoughtfully. “There’s a story about this place. I will tell you once you regain a bit of strength.”
His words woke her up with immediate effect. She opened her eyes, inspecting her surroundings. They seemed to be at the end of a strangely curved corridor. The path wound around something akin to a huge kettle made of the gold-like Dwemer metal. Occasionally, it was adorned by circular engravings. Lenses made in green glass had been planted on the perimeters of the circles, forming constellations of sorts. Strangely enough, they seemed untouched by the layers of dust which could be found everywhere else. From the top of the kettle shone light in many separate beams, painting a glowing kaleidoscope on the outer wall. The rest of the corridor remained shrouded in shade save for the few places lit by lamps.
Yrith tried to send out a thin strand of magic, touching the walls and sliding up. The kettle-like wall led to a dome elevated high above them, holding a rather complex mechanism of movable glass panes. And on top of it was...
She could not contain her gasp as her magic touched the object. If it even was an object. A great rush of energy greeted her, so strong she had never felt anything like that before, even counting the focal points at the College of Winterhold. It was ancient. It was powerful. She drew back out of fear of being swallowed. Then, she gave the Dragonborn a shy look. He frowned. He must have guessed what she had done.
“Later,” he said firmly. “Let me bring you something to eat.”
She was not hungry, but arguing with Keneel-La would be about as effective as trying to chase a skeever away with a slice of cheese. She sighed, trying to ignore the curious looks of Cain and Leyna, sitting by her side and roving between her and the Dragonborn. The lizard moved away, disappearing from Yrith’s sight.
“Did he tell you what this place is?” Yrith turned to her friends. They shook their heads.
“First time hearing about a story,” Cain muttered. “The two of you... spend a lot of time discussing things we don’t know about.”
If she had not spent the recent days lying injured in the middle of a Dwemer maze, Yrith would have blushed. Now, only the tingle at the nape of her neck reminded her that poor Cain knew nothing of what had transpired between her and the Dragonborn. Nothing about Apocrypha. Nothing about the Elder Scroll. She exchanged silent looks with Leyna. The elf gave an unreadable smile and nodded.
Yrith looked at the Dunmer boy at her side. When had she grown so fond of him? There was nothing left of that sly, mean classmate she remembered back from Winterhold. His eyes spoke pure affection. Devoted, unsuspecting, almost like a child that had not known perfidy. She sighed. He of all people...
The truth would hurt him. She could not do anything but help him conquer that hurt.
“Cain, there’s… something I should tell you,” she said, feeling a familiar lump settle in her throat. “A lot of things.”
Cain froze. Then he frowned, forcing an unconvincing smile on his lips.
“You don’t have to push it. I understand you have a lot on your plate as it is.”
“No, I have to push it. You’ve given me so much… I know you’re afraid for me. So then at least… let me be open with you.”
Cain’s frown deepened. “Which also means I will have to openly let you risk your life at every moment, won’t I?”
Yrith looked away. It would be so easy. So easy to just take him up on his offer and back out of the conversation. The fruit of ignorance smelled too sweet. But she would only be extending the wait.
She shook her head. “Don’t we all risk our lives at every moment?” she uttered softly.
“This is different…” he muttered.
“How is it different?”
She could see Cain’s hands clench. “You’re playing with divine powers here. If you get involved…”
“I was involved before I even knew it. And now it is too late to go back.”
Cain did not like what he heard. She knew from his furrowed brows, from his bent posture that leaned slightly over Yrith as if he was trying to shield her with his own body. She knew from his trembling lips. But she also knew he had been expecting her to say just that. And hoping he would be wrong.
His fingers slid over the floor, his nails scraped the stone as his hand clenched again, producing a sound that gave Yrith the chills.
“Did something happen?” he asked.
Yrith tried to shrug in her prone position, half to shake off the unpleasant vibe. “I just spoke to two Daedric Princes.”
There was silence, only disturbed by the constant pumping of the engines. Yrith felt the looks of her friends bore into her with the intensity of a swooping dragon. Then, three voices rose above the rhythmic thrumming.
“What?!”
Yrith’s eyes slid over the sitting friends and up to the Dragonborn, standing now above them with a waterskin in one hand and a burlap sack in the other. They all shared the same, incredulous expression.
“I’ll explain,” she said.
--
“How are you still alive and sane?” Keneel-La wondered, handing Yrith another piece of dried meat. She did not take it. Hunger was the last thing on her mind. She felt the eyes of Cain on her person, urging her to at least take a bite. But it seemed the recent events filled not only her mind, but her belly as well.
“Is it so strange?”
“Strange? It’s unthinkable! Normal people go insane after visiting just one realm. Exceptional minds, or people protected by things like dragonblood, like me, can take one. You just stormed through two and you don’t seem even remotely disturbed.”
“I was at my limit by the time I left,” Yrith conceded. She was almost ready to ask what would have happened if she’d succumbed, but she did not want to imagine Cain’s face after such a question.
“You could at least look it.”
She gave a weak laugh, shifting her eyes to Cain fully. He was not looking at her, staring instead at the outer wall. Yrith doubted, however, that a wall was what he saw. Since the moment he had learned about the Elder Scroll and Apocrypha, he had adamantly refused to look at her. Leyna, it seemed, had given up all efforts to placate him, listening in silence, albeit intently, to the conversation. Yrith was almost afraid to ask the next question. And yet, it was all she could think about. She could still feel that field of energy up there, even without reaching out to touch it. It attracted her like a piece of lodestone would attract a hobnail. She was quite certain about what it was. After all, Septimus Signus had told her before.
“Will you tell me about this place, then?” she dared. The Dragonborn gave a long sigh.
“You will not rest until I do, will you?”
She shook her head and felt a smile play on her lips. If she had been tired before, all that exhaustion was now gone. If not for the fact she could barely move, she would have forgotten all that she had been through. She would have jumped on her feet and run to explore. Why she suddenly felt so eager and fresh, she could not explain. The gravity of the situation did not feel so heavy anymore. Even if somewhere at the back of her mind, the fear still lingered. Or perhaps it was the fear itself that now fueled her.
The Dragonborn’s twitching jaws reflected her own curiosity.
“Somehow,” he started slowly, “you were led in your delirium to the ruins of Mzark. The only thing left of them on the surface is the old tower – inaccessible if you don’t have the right key. Which is the only thing that keeps me relatively at ease, because when you woke up, you gave a nice clear magical sign to everyone who might ever be looking for you. And to those who don’t as well.”
Yrith gazed at the lizard with wide eyes.
“I don’t understand... how? Where are we? What happened? I mean... I managed to get in, didn’t I? And what exactly is this place? What do you mean by sign? And...”
Keneel-La raised both of his hands. “Slow down,” he said, drawing in a long stream of air as though he wanted to take Yrith’s share too. “I know this is important for you, but let’s take it one step at a time. In reverse, that is. I will have to answer your last question first.
“I suppose you didn’t realize when you woke up, but... you screamed. And not just that. You released... a wave, I would say. A wave of magicka, not something that would shake us, but we all felt it. We felt your voice in it. Even if I’d been up on the surface, I could have guessed where you were. If the Demon, whoever he is, is looking for us, it’s probably only a matter of time before he finds us. He must have already located us. Now he only has to find the way. This place is quite safe, but there is no place in the world that would be completely impenetrable. We need to get you on your feet and be gone as soon as we can. And as for how you got in,” he took another breath, casting a long look someplace afar, which Yrith suspected to be the exit, “We found this lying by your side.”
He took a moment to fumble around his pockets until he pulled out a metal ball, just enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Grimy but unscratched, it was covered in Dwemer ornaments, only partly discernible under the dirt. As the Dragonborn turned it in his fingers, it gave off a quiet, melodic hum. The sound faded as quickly as it had started. Leyna stared at it in unconcealed awe. Yrith could almost swear she saw her fingers fidget with desire.
“What is it?” Yrith wondered.
“A Dwemer key. This was used to access the secret parts of their ancient cities.”
“The Ayleids used similar keys,” Leyna added quietly. “The Altmer seem to have... lost this technology. But the tunes remain.”
She fell silent. Yrith watched with her brows raised, but only the rhythmic pumping of the place came in reply.
“Tunes?” she asked.
“Melodies. These keys are attuned to the melodies of the lock. You can’t hear the lock with your bare ear. But they correspond... similarly to how a normal key fits into a lock with its grooves, there are patterns that go together, but... it’s practically impossible to make a replica of an attunement sphere. The lock and the fitting keys were made together by a Mastersmith. Once the keys were lost, well...” She threw up her arms to imply impossibility.
Yrith stared at the weathered sphere. So ordinary on the surface, yet...
“Unbelievable,” she whispered. “But... I don’t remember having one. Or finding one.”
At her side, Keneel-La gave a soft snort. “Indeed. I would be surprised if you had. My guess would be that the daedric magic led you. No Daedric Prince can directly manipulate our world, but if they made a connection, it is quite possible that you, under their influence, walked the path they wanted you to take. Which leads me to the nature of this place.”
He paused, staring into nothingness as he pondered his next words. Yrith wriggled in her bedroll, watching his jaws for a hint of movement. But then, her attention was swayed by his eyes. Eyes that bore the distant look of someone who was recalling something he would rather forget.
“Mzark,” he said at last, “is the place where I found the Elder Scroll that helped me defeat Alduin.” He let the sentence hang in the air for a moment. As Yrith opened her mouth to mark her triumph, he spoke again.
“I never thought I would return here. Maybe I would roam around through the Blackreach on my travels to disappear from people’s sight, take the lift, but the oculory... Obviously, fate had other plans for me. Perhaps I am meant to be your guide. Although I find it rather curious that this place should host another Scroll. It would suggest that the one I found had not been here from the start, but rather it was pulled from elsewhere.”
So it really was an Elder Scroll. Yrith fought to contain her smile. She finally understood the words of Septimus Signus. She really had found it.
“What do you mean, pulled from elsewhere?”
Keneel-La opened his mouth, only to close it again. He scanned the ceiling and the inner, kettle-like wall of the curved corridor, up to its top and down again. “That is...” he paused again, then shook his head. “Perhaps it would be best if I showed you instead. It’s better to make haste anyway. Lest someone come... I suppose you cannot stand?”
He did not wait for her to reply, reaching out to help her up. Cain, despite his lasting deep frown, jumped instantly to her other side. She felt a fierce flush in her cheeks.
“Don’t,” she gasped, trying to raise her hands. They hardly listened. She closed her eyes to call for her magic. The touch of the Dragonborn’s calloused fingers on hers stopped her.
“You don’t,” he said softly. “Save your magic. You might need it sooner than you’d wish.”
“But...”
“Look at you. You’re all bone and hardly anything else. How much strength would one need to support you?”
No amount of flush was enough to express what Yrith felt. Fortunately, there was no mirror to look into. She always hated mirrors.
She gritted her teeth, letting the Dragonborn and Cain lift her, raising her gaze to the kettle-like structure they were about to circle. Leyna kept in tow. Yrith tried not to imagine what the proud elf must be thinking of her now.
They walked in silence. The narrow corridor was rather barren, only the grey stone wall embraced it on the outer side, while the inner shone with the Dwemer gold. In her mind, Yrith painted tiny stars on them, just like on the way to Septimus Signus. Stars were magic, and now she felt closer to them than ever.
At her side, Cain gave a low grunt. They had entered a ramp and continued upward, against all gravity. The Dragonborn on the opposite side held firm, but she could feel him huff almost imperceptibly. Her brows knit into a single line.
“Let me do the rest,” she muttered, calling upon her magic once more.
“No. You need to preserve your magicka in case...”
“And what good will it do if the two of you drain yourselves instead? Let me...”
She infused her torso, her limbs, every tendon in her, the spine that held her head, with the glowing energy, until she herself seemed ethereal. There was no need to hide her magic now. She was not cuffed and led to her death. And so she walked proud, leaving the three stunned figures behind. They would rouse themselves soon, and walk in her footsteps. But now she was her own master.
She steered her feet onward, up the ramp, watching the artificial horizon. The light from above drew a clear line where the ramp peaked. But then, her eyes found the ceiling, a dome of sorts, only split into a number of hexagonal panes. The light drew crooked ornaments on it as it shone through the mechanism. As Yrith ascended, she turned to whatever cast the shadows and found a number of massive metal arms, each holding an equally massive ring. The rings carried up to three glass lenses. From what it seemed, Yrith assumed they were supposed to move so that they could redirect the light that came down in the center in the form of a wide column. When she looked at the base where it fell, it all made sense.
A narrow bridge led over what she had thought to be a kettle, up to a small circular platform in the center. Instead of a kettle, she now saw a large gold sphere, holding another circle filled with lenses at is top. It was enclosed with a series of hoops of various sizes, one sitting on top of another. The one in the middle was adorned by four star-spangled arrows, each directed, as far as she could tell here under the ground, toward one cardinal point. She took a moment of silent observation, holding herself not to laugh. She knew what this was. She had seen it so many times already. But then, there had to be something to make the whole mechanism move.
She did not have to search too hard. The ramp she walked on led to a wide ledge. Six pillars were raised on it, if she could call it pillars. Five of them were cylindrical with chamfered tops, the four on the sides each holding a button while the middle one exposed what she assumed to be a star chart. The pillar closest to Yrith was different. A prism of sorts, reminding her in shape of the Arch-Mage’s tower in the College of Winterhold. Atop of it sat a holder for something that was obviously missing. A cube, Yrith assumed instantly. It must be a cube.
She slowed down, until she was standing, forgetting her magic. She stumbled as her body broke, and quickly restored the flow. Her gasp felt almost like a roar. This place was strangely disconnected from the rest of the Dwemer complex. Quiet. Surreal.
The machine before her – underneath her – around her – even if made in Dwemer metal and style, seemed as though it did not belong here. There was something sinister about it. She inspected it, finding connections. There were tubes around the room and in the machine as well, connecting it to some outer sources of water and energy. There was wiring linking the pillars with the massive arms and their lenses. But there was also something else. The pillar of light shining from above was not just light. It was magic, in its purest form, and it came from elsewhere. No Dwemer complex could provide so much, and there was no end to it. As if Mundus itself powered this place.
She laughed at her own ignorance. It was not the Elder Scroll she had sensed earlier. It was this pillar. And the Dragonborn was indeed right. There was no Scroll here. It had to be summoned.
Her smile grew wider yet.
A huffing sound made her turn back where she came from. The Dragonborn stomped after her, Cain and Leyna at his heels.
“There’s nothing one can do once you’ve made up your mind, is there?” the lizard snorted. Behind him, the Dunmeri boy gave an entirely different kind of snort. Leyna did not listen. Like Yrith, she was silently inspecting the place, her face motionless, but her eyes ablaze.
Yrith shrugged.
“So here we are.”
Keneel-La’s wistful tone made Yrith turn after him. He watched the pillar of light absently, fingers fidgeting with the buckle on his belt. She wondered what he was remembering now, but did not dare ask.
“It’s been a long time,” he said. “But not long enough.”
“I’m so—”
“Don’t be. We had to come here. Well,” he quickly masked his face with a smile, “you can enjoy the place. Astonishing, isn’t it? The Dwemer have quite a few of them.”
Yrith raised a brow at the sudden change, but chose not to pursue it. She scanned the six pillars that would control the mechanism, then the lenses and the beam of light in their middle.
“Quite a few of them?” she inquired quietly. “Exactly like this?”
“Well, not exactly. The puzzles are different. The outcome is usually different. The system is often similar.”
“So completely different,” she concluded.
“Well, that’s a bold statement,” he laughed.
She shook her head. “This is no puzzle. And the outcome is the only outcome there can be.”
Now he was the one to quirk his bony brows. “What do you mean?”
“This,” she sent out a strand of magic, not bothering to make her arms wave in the direction of the mechanism, “is a conjuration circle. Well...” Her magic touched the light. A wave of raw power washed over her. She retreated, touching her chest as she took a deep breath. “Not a circle. A... something. It is three-dimensional.
“What Singird Larkwing wouldn’t give to just get a glimpse of this,” she added, more to herself.
“Your conjuration master?”
She stared at the lizard beside her. “You know him?”
“Well, given he was the one who made a deal with General Tullius that I be hired to rescue you, I’ve at least heard the name.”
“What?!”
Yrith’s eyes wandered to Cain and Leyna, both staring at the Dragonborn with the very same question on their lips. The silence of the following moment resonated in her ears.
So it was Singird. Not the Imperial General, but Singird... who appeared to have just the right connections. She forgot the machine, tossed the image of the imposing pillar of power aside. Singird... He had mentioned his parents had been recruited by the Imperial army. Now, despite all the undesirable effects, he had used this connection to... help her? How in Oblivion could he manage to convince General Tullius to invest the Imperial resources for such a cause? Unless...
Unless the case of his parents and myself had something in common.
She replayed that thought in her mind many times. As if reacting to her instinct, her magic made her body pace, but she ignored the movement. The physical reality, no matter how fascinating, faded in the shadow of this new knowledge. Singird had managed to get her out of death’s grasp. Saving her... from Imperials. On the orders of their own general...
The Imperials had abducted her in the middle of a battle with the Stormcloaks where Leyna’s father, a former runaway Thalmor, had also perished. And then she had been saved by the most powerful person in Skyrim, on the order of the Imperial General, because Singird had pleaded to him. This alone made no sense at all. Who was her enemy? Stormcloaks? Imperials? Thalmor? None? All? Had even her rescue been a ruse? Was she walking into a trap?
No. No...
Why Singird? Why would General Tullius listen to him?
Questions. So many questions and no answer. Just moments before, she had felt so close to the end of the journey. Now it was as though she had only just begun.
General Tullius would never have arranged for her rescue had he not had a good reason. Singird must have found something. Something that would make the General think it was worth hiring the Dragonborn...
“Yrith?”
She had not registered someone had been tapping on her shoulder. Or that they had been calling her name for quite some time. Up until now, she had not even taken notice of the three people staring at her with the intensity of a Winterhold blizzard. Even Cain kept his eyes on her now, his fiery brows furrowed.
“Yrith?” Keneel-La repeated. “Are you with us now?”
“I...” she exchanged looks with Cain and Leyna. For some reason, they seemed to be bothered more by Yrith’s own shock than the fact that it was Singird who had arranged for their rescue. She gave a silent sigh. “I’m just confused.”
“I can see that. Can you please be confused after we finish here? We shouldn’t stall.”
She nodded, trying to focus on the machine before her. A conjuration circle. She just had to arrange it correctly so that it would indicate a certain time, just like Singird had taught her.
Singird...
Singird and his conjuration ritual... his attempts, more successful than he would have imagined, to make Yrith study conjuration circles. To call his great-grandfather’s soul from the depths of Aetherius, or perhaps from the depths of time itself. Because his parents had been, by his own words, obsessed with him.
Coincidence? She did not think so. There was something she was missing. Unnatural chill ran over her spine and spread across her body. Now of all times, she was afraid to take a step forward. Now, she realized how dark and deep the tunnel ahead of her was, and how she had no idea what was inside. In slow motion, she turned to the beam of light in the center of the room. She had to. She just had to do it. She would retrieve the scroll, return to Singird and ask him about it. That’s what she would do.
She took a breath and turned to the Dragonborn.
“How do I work this?”
“That’s a good question,” he said as he made for the ledge with the pillars, gesturing for her to follow. She stepped toward him cautiously, inspecting the buttons and the tiny map on top of the pillars. “Last time I was here, I had a Dwemer Lexicon to activate the device. But I don’t have it now. So, what surprise will you have for us this time, Yrith?”
Yrith’s lip twitched. So she served the Dragonborn as a good source of amusement. She entertained the thought of asking him to pay her instead of him receiving all the reward. Perhaps she would one day, when they would stand on equal footing.
“What is a Dwemer Lexicon?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“The way I understand it, it’s a sort of medium to store information. Something like a book, only this thing looks like a small dice that fits into any pocket and stores infinitely more content. It’s supposed to go here,” he patted the closest, prism-like pillar, “where it will activate. The Lexicons were apparently commonly used by the Dwemer back in the day. Though I suspect no living mortal can decipher them now.”
So she had been right. A cubic thing belonged on top of the closest pillar. She touched it lightly and ran a finger through the empty space on its top. Three cogwheels skirted it, angled so that they would enclose three sides of the cube. Her fingertips found gentle patterns embedded in the cogs, likely something to fit into the Lexicon. A wave of energy pulsed in her fingers and shot up, into her arm and further. She gasped and pulled away.
She felt a presence at her side and raised her head to look into Leyna’s face.
“May I take a look?” the elf asked.
Yrith stepped aside in a wordless invitation.
Now, Leyna’s hand ran among the cogs and over the glistening surface of the pillar. She moved here and there, finishing at the same place as Yrith, on the cog engravings.
“These cogs don’t turn,” she commented thoughtfully. “So there is no place for combinations. I assume this one doesn’t read mechanical inscriptions, but uses magical imprints instead.”
Yrith raised a brow. “How can you tell?”
“My father’s dictionaries. They contained information on all means of communication, even those long lost in the past. This could make it quite easy for you. A magical imprint is like an identification of sorts. Maybe just a bit of your magic would be enough to activate it.”
“And how would it work?” Yrith asked, doubt in her voice, but she was already moving back to the pillar.
“You said this is a conjuration circle, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“And you are trying to summon an Elder Scroll, I presume?”
“I am.”
“So wouldn’t it make sense to make an imprint of yourself?”
“So you’re saying,” Yrith said slowly as she processed the suggestion, “that I should feed this thing magic and it would somehow allow me to summon the Elder Scroll?”
Of course she would have to use magic, but she would have to first know when and where the object she was trying to conjure was. She would have to mark its time and place. Enter the coordinates and persuade the machine to reflect them. And only then she could summon the Scroll, provided she had enough resources to do that. Now that she thought about it, what was the use of launching the mechanism when she did not know the Scroll’s location?
“There are far too many unknowns...” she added in half-whisper. “I suppose the Dwemer Lexicon gave the machine coordinates?”
“And your magic would too,” Leyna concluded almost dismissively.
“I don’t understand. How would that work?”
“It would work,” Cain said, the suddenness making Yrith flinch with surprise, “because the Elder Scroll is tied to you.”
Yrith outlined his figure. He stood with his head high, crimson eyes fixed on Yrith’s face. She stared at him. There was certain clarity in his features, something she had not seen there before. His voice too had lost the familiar tremble. For a moment, Yrith struggled to concentrate on what he had said instead of how he had said it.
“W-what?” she asked dumbly, unsure what her own question was directed at.
“The Elder Scrolls, whatever they are, are tied to things. People. Creatures. Objects. Places. Time... Maybe all of them. That Elder Scroll was probably linked to you the moment you were conceived, and it will be linked to you the moment you die.”
He was so calm. Unlike just a few moments before. As if he...
“Cain...”
He raised his hands in a silencing gesture.
“Don’t. I know what you want to say. It is fine. Looking at this place, considering this whole situation... I should have known. Don’t worry though,” he added with a remarkably wide smile, “you won’t get rid of me that easily. I wish I could have peacefully told you all that I harbor inside. But perhaps I can hold onto that wish and hope that one day, it will come true.”
He gave a weak laugh. Yrith reached out her hand, but he shook his head.
“Fetch that Scroll. The story that is written inside it, or one of the stories, one of the possibilities it may present to you... hopefully it will bring an end to this.”
“Indeed,” Keneel-La joined. “But be careful. The Elder Scrolls are not supposed to be read just like that. Even the most erudite of Moth Priests can only gaze into one or two at most before they lose their sight... or mind.”
Yrith frowned.
“But then, why am I supposed to retrieve it?”
“The Elder Scrolls work in mysterious ways. The one I recovered was the one used by the old Tongues to cast Alduin out of time. It was the Elder Scroll that revealed to me what had happened back then. It literally took me back in time. But it only worked at the Time Wound on the Throat of the World. I did not truly read it. I just... let it take me wherever... or, rather, whenever it would. Didn’t Paarthurnax suggest you need something similar?”
She nodded.
“Then go and do your magic.”
With a hint of hesitation, she touched the pillar again. So, a magical imprint...
Three of her fingers rested on the flat side of the cogs, letting her magic pour into the ornaments. A drop... just a tiny drop was enough for the whole mechanism, all six pillars, to light up at once. The stars on the central cylindrical pillar suddenly moved, taking the form of a new constellation. She blinked and stepped back. The light remained. It worked.
She backed a few more steps to observe the result. The buttons were alight with bright turquoise glow. The stars in the diagram on the central pillar shone the same, connected by a glowing line that went along the movable circular panes the map consisted of. So Yrith would have to transform this image into something three-dimensional. She was relieved it was only this and not something harder, like the five-dimensional charts of Septimus Signus. This, at least, seemed doable.
“So this... is my path,” she said, half a revelation, half a question to the Dragonborn. He lowered his head in approval.
“Now the buttons...”
Yrith stepped forward before he could finish the sentence. She had to lift her hands to touch the buttons on top of the pillars that had likely been constructed with an elf’s height in mind. She, small even for a Breton, now felt even smaller.
She tested the buttons gingerly, only giving each a light tap. One to move the lens arms clockwise, the other counterclockwise. One to move the sphere and the loops on it, the other to move them in the opposite direction.
The mechanism played a light game. Every now and then, a different lens redirected the light from the central beam. Or two lenses. Or three...
She just needed to find a match. All the lenses had to be involved. She had to recreate the constellation. Add a dimension. If she had Singird’s maps with her, she could have easily found where it was, and perhaps even what time it indicated. Sadly, she had neither the maps, nor the time to do so.
Soon, her fingers moved almost on their own, following her thoughts. One forward, shift the loops twice, one backward...
The mechanism responded slowly, making her wait every time she pressed a button. It rumbled as multiple engines propelled the massive structures, but there was no sound of rust in the bends, nor did any dirt hinder the cogs. The lenses danced smoothly, if slowly, sending flares and glints on the metallic sphere, the stone walls and the four figures standing on the ledge and watching in awe and expectation. They turned... and turned... and turned... The whole world seemed to be turning.
Yrith was so immersed in her work she almost missed the correct combination. Her finger froze above the button just when she was about to press it. No. Wrong button... It was not the lenses she had to move now. It was the sphere. One more step, one more push... and the lines would connect.
She hesitated. Then, her hand moved to the right pillar and let the finger sink.
The device turned for the last time. Yrith squinted as the light assaulted her eyes. All the lenses were now connected by beams of light that broke apart only to join again, taking sharp turns, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. The machine made a resonating grunt, then a creak as a cocoon-shaped casket made of emerald glass made its way down to the center of the loops. It split in two as its ends moved apart and revealed a set of gilded bars. In their midst floated a scroll like none Yrith had ever seen.
It shone light silver, as though reflecting the color of Yrith’s eyes. Its spectral fabric revealed the patterns and inscriptions recorded inside. She could see them move, constantly reshape themselves as the scroll turned in the air. Yrith wondered if she could even touch it. At her side, the Dragonborn released a sigh of astonishment.
“Now this is something... why does this look so completely different from what I found here?”
“I think...” Yrith whispered, almost afraid to break the silence, “I think it reflects how I imagined it in my thoughts.”
The lizard stared at her, then the scroll. “Truly?”
“Except for the moving script, that is... Can’t an Elder Scroll take on any form, depending on the kind of magic that summons it?”
“It is possible. I suppose I am more matter-oriented than you.”
She smiled lightly as she stepped down the ramp, toward the scroll. But then, she stopped, gazing at its translucent form.
Matter-oriented...
So she was magic-oriented then.
With her breath held, Yrith sent out her magic. It bolted out in a clear line, illuminating the ramp and the gilded sphere in pale blue. The instant it touched the scroll, time stopped. Nothing moved. Silence was deafening. And then, it burst back. The scroll dissolved into a cloud of silvery glitterdust. Absorbed by Yrith’s magic, it fired toward her. It enveloped her, head, limbs, torso, it filled her eyes and ears, it entered her mouth and soaked through her skin.
She knew this feeling. She had known it long before, when her magic began to awaken. Master Neloren had tried to describe it to her. And yet, this time, it was different. It was... everything. Pain and joy. Happiness and despair. Hurt and comfort. Hunger and satiety. There were people, both unknown and known. Memories from the past, snippets from the present, perhaps shards of the future, or things that may not happen at all. She felt them in her blood and bones. Instinct led her to focus on those she knew. On the hateful Cain, whose anger she could now taste from the other side. On the crying Cain. Smiling Cain. Peaceful Cain. Hateful Leyna. Joyful Leyna. Regretful Leyna. The Dragonborn and his thousand faces, his knowing smile that almost hurt to wear. Singird, uncompromising, then kind and loving. Then fearful, desperate... She stayed with him longer. Was this a premonition of the future that was to unfold? Or his past? No...
It hurt. Why did the pain feel so real? It was everywhere. On her skin and in the bones, it slashed through her muscles, it tore her lungs. A trickle of blood came down her brow and hindered her sight. His sight. She could not breathe. Her, his body had been ripped apart. The only thing that remained was one last, desperate thought.
Not her...
She screamed. Out. It had to go out. Out of her mind, out of her system, someplace she will not see, not feel...
“No!” she heard her own voice, drowned amidst the torrent of crackling blue light. It spurted out of her in every direction, wild, uncontrolled. She heard a crack. An arm of the ancient mechanism broke. It would never work again. Glass shattered in a myriad of glistening shards before they melted in the storm. Just like her own flesh melted in the pain. It would not leave. With every passing moment, it cut deeper and deeper. Without the help of magic, her fingers found her stomach and clutched it, locking her in an eternal loop of implosions and explosions. She screamed more, only to lose breath and triple the agony her torn lungs brought to her.
“No...”
“Yrith!” someone called. She could barely hear the voice. Her ears – her whole body – failed her. Sounds were distorted. Images wrapped in the fabric of the Elder Scroll, strangled by its script and buried beneath the scenes it showed.
What was reality? Was it inside? Was it outside? The voices multiplied, both in and out. They yelled, and whispered, they begged, and cried.
“Yrith! Yrith! The scroll!”
“No! No...”
“Let go!”
“No! Sin...”
“You have to!”
“...gird...”
No. It couldn’t be reality.
“You can’t...”
She had to listen to the right voice.
Not her, please...
The right one. Listen. Focus. You’ve done it before.
The scroll pressed on her mind. She felt her body hit the ground as the magic holding it upright sprang out of her control. Her fingers moved aimlessly, lightning crackling between them in explosive sparks.
Footsteps. She heard them all around, distant thuds, then fading patter.
“No...”
Her name. It was her name they were calling. Again, and again. As if it was a magic key to bring her back.
Name... a key. Names were good. Names meant something. She had to find the Name. End this, just like Cain wanted. Just like she wanted too. The Scroll was her tool. It was the key. She could not become its slave.
Her fingers clenched. The magic around them swirled and formed humming spheres. More images flashed before her eyes. With gritted teeth, she forced them out, crushing them and casting them to a remote corner of her mind. If they would not leave, then she would become their prison. She would bar them and not let them out. The Scroll would remain a hidden demon locked deep inside. Until she would need it.
They fought back. Her head throbbed, her eyes burned. Her magic changed color to fiery orange, then vermillion. Beneath the image of helpless Singird, Oblivion burned a thousand flames. Her teeth screeched. Yrith tore the scene apart and crumpled its remains. In her mind, she thanked the Scroll for the warning. She would not let it happen. Determination bloomed on her face. She was back in control.
“Yrith!”
The voices thundered, gaining in strength as their echo bounced over the circular wall. Yrith resisted the urge to cover her ears. She was panting, lying on the floor with her arms and legs spread wide in odd angles. Her whole body was sore and trembling.
“I’m alive,” she muttered numbly.
“You are lucky to be.” Keneel-La’s usual mirth was now noticeably shaken. “Luckier than most of this place for sure… And here I thought this couldn’t get any worse.”
“I...”
“The Elder Scroll... what happened to it?”
“It’s... inside. In my mind.”
“Blazes,” he breathed. “One doesn’t get bored with you, eh?”
Yrith didn’t have the strength to smile.
“Well, that at least saves us the trouble of having to carry a huge scroll all the way to Winterhold. Now, let’s take you back. Rest as much as possible. We need to leave this place, but I can’t imagine we’d have to carry you all the way.”
“I...”
“No, you can’t use your magic that way. You did it once now and look at yourself.”
She wedged a hand under her head to get a better view of her body. Her clothes were torn. She was covered in a not too tempting mixture of dirt, sweat and blood. The leg that had been pierced by the dart now also seemed to be broken. Broken, just like the summoning machine that had offered its last Elder Scroll. At least the leg was not in thousand pieces, half of which had been melted into puddles of goo.
“Oh,” she produced.
“Too tired to even be bothered. Now that’s serious. Let’s see if that stays. I’ll try to carry you as gently as I can. No promises though.”
He slid his arms underneath her to lift her up. As he raised her, cautiously, Yrith felt the weight of her injured leg pull on the supportless muscle and tendons. Her whole body tensed, teeth grinding against each other. But she could not moan. The Dragonborn was right. This was her fault.
--
“Leyna.”
The bundle beside Yrith wriggled rather unwillingly. Despite the general warmth of the place, the only thing visible of Yrith’s Altmeri friend was a flood of white-gold hair. The rest was huddled up in the furs of a bedroll. Keneel-La was out, scouting, it seemed. Yrith lay in his own bedroll, as it seemed she had managed to lose all her borrowed possessions on her journey. Cain’s breathing on the other side of her was steady and peaceful. She would only have a short while.
“Leyna,” Yrith raised her whispering voice slightly to add some urgency. The elf turned ever so slightly to gain a view of Yrith through the slits of her eyes.
“Hmm? Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I’m worried.”
“Helps nothing at all,” Leyna muttered, burrowing back into the fluff of her furs.
“No, Leyna! Listen to me!”
Twisting her face in apparent annoyance, the elf turned back to Yrith. “What?”
“Can you heal me? As much as you can. I’ll give you magic. Just fix my body.”
For a moment, Leyna just stared at Yrith, dumbfounded. Yrith did her best to appear as though she did not know how foolish her request was. She did know. She knew too well for her own liking.
A good while of staring later, Leyna sat up at once, eyes fully open.
“Have you lost your mind?!”
“Shhh! You’ll wake Cain...”
“So what? You know it’s impossible. People have met fate far worse than death when healers experimented with speeding up the healing process. Your body needs time.”
“Time that we don’t have. It’s enough if I can move again. You don’t have to heal it fully.”
“Yrith, I have less than a year’s worth of experience in healing.”
“You’ll still the best healer of us all.”
“I could ruin your body!”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that...”
“You won’t. I am a walking Elder Scroll. If that was my fate, I would have known.”
Leyna did not reply. She did not even move. As if frozen, she sat still, gazing at Yrith with wide eyes. Her features slowly reformed, from denial to sheer shock. She opened her mouth, but no sound left her lips. She closed them again.
“What did you just...” she mouthed, almost voicelessly.
Indeed. What had she just said? As if someone had said those words for Yrith. Was she really so bold as to claim she was a walking Elder Scroll? She had one inside her. One that could easily go berserk and take over, no matter how much she wanted to believe she had tamed its wild magic.
But now she had to say something. She had to heal. Both Cain and Leyna, and perhaps Keneel-La as well, would gladly die for her if she was in danger. She could not allow that. She could not afford to be immobile.
“The Elder Scroll showed me a lot of things,” she said calmly, even if deep inside, the memory of the horrid display the Elder Scroll had revealed was all except calming. “I think Cain was right. They were possibilities. Eventualities. I saw so far past this moment. I don’t think you can harm me.”
“These things... they are fickle. You can’t just...”
“I know,” Yrith hurried with her answer. “But even so. Is there anything at all that can be done? I don’t want to be a burden. I can’t be. If anything happened, the three of you would not leave me behind, would you?”
Leyna sized her up, raising a brow. Then she shook her head. “Foolish question.”
“Indeed. So can you heal me?”
“No. It’s impossible. I can release some tension in your muscles, I can glue things together inside you, I can help you forget pain, perhaps. I can’t heal you.”
Yrith sighed a bit more loudly than she had intended. “Then do what you can, please. Do everything in your power so that I can move again.”
The look Leyna gave her was all but disapproving. But she had not said a definite no. She was mulling it over. Thinking of her options, perhaps anticipating a challenge. Slumping her shoulders, she rubbed her temples, deep in thought. After a good while of silence, she finally set her golden eyes on Yrith.
“Maybe there is a way. I will try to fix you just a trifle. But I need you to work with me. To focus inside. To feel my magic in you and stop me the moment anything feels wrong. Can you do that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Close your eyes.”
Hesitantly, Yrith obeyed and let herself sink into darkness. Suddenly, the pumping felt louder and sharper. The floor underneath her felt harder. Her magic swirled, replacing her sight with mental images that were just as clear, if not clearer.
“Now,” Leyna continued, “direct your magicka into your stomach. Touch it, don’t interfere with it. Can you feel the stomach moving?”
It was harder than it sounded. Yrith had manipulated things outside before. She could send the magic to the focal points interacting with the outer world or withdraw it from there. She could manipulate her vessel, all those muscles that she normally controlled at will. But seeing her insides was another story. No, not just that. It was difficult to even locate her stomach properly. There was a whole new world inside her. Everything moved. Everything had a life of its own.
“Is that even... possible?” she tried.
“It should be for you. You can feel or manipulate anything with your magic. You would feel yourself, correct? It’s the only way I can think of to make this safe. I need your feedback.”
“So you’ve never tried this before?”
“No, but you can’t really go wrong with mere observation.”
Yrith gave a nod in the direction of Leyna’s voice. She took a breath and tried to focus all her attention inside. To touch one piece of tissue after another, to feel every undulation, every friction. Little by little, an image formed before her closed eyes. An image of a vast network of nodes and connections. Veins, tendons, tubes, organs, joints, muscles… and things much, much smaller than her bare eye could ever see without the use of her magic. There were too many for her to observe at once. Too many to conceive.
“…rith?”
Somewhere in the distance, Leyna seemed to call her.
“Hmm?” she replied absently.
“What is it?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re panting. Yrith?”
She opened her eyes and the image dissolved into the murk of the Dwemer corridor. The sound returned, the engines began pumping again. She had not even noticed them ceasing.
“I… I’m… sorry. There’s a lot…”
“I suppose there is… specially for someone like you. Can you just focus on one place?”
She nodded again, taking a few more breaths. Her heart was beating fast, she could feel it. Now, even her magic responded to it. The things she could do this way. Every healer on Nirn would give their left hand to have just a glimpse of what she had seen. Why had she never thought of gazing inside her before?
Yrith closed her eyes again, inhaling deeply to calm herself. She synchronized her breath with the resounding hisses around. When she gained a steady tempo, she turned her attention inside in attempt to navigate through the infinite maze of links and intersections. She found her heart, the loudest of all. Its rhythm had stabilized, now beating in a series of pleasant staccatos. Yrith’s magic poured over it lightly, leaving it to its own life. She found the lungs, air pouring in to freshen her blood, and then out again. The magic zigzagged through her, going from organ to organ, seeping through the tissue walls until, at last, she reached the stomach. It pulsed, very softly, hardly having had anything to digest in a very long time. It gave off a slightly painful tremble. A sensation that she, Yrith, as a whole person, had hardly registered beneath the layers of excitement and restlessness. A shaky sigh escaped her lips.
“I feel it,” she said. “I feel my stomach.”
“You feel what it does? What’s inside? What’s around it? How it is structured?”
She scanned the stomach again, sliding slowly along its inner wall, then outside, feeling all the folds and protrusions, the tubes it connected to, the liquids flowing inside and around.
“I do.”
“Good,” came the response. “Now, can you feel the legs? The wounds on them?”
It wasn’t difficult now to steer her magicka down the leg muscles, feel the bones, the tears in her skin, the numb toes. In fact, it was much easier than navigating to her stomach. She was quite certain the previous task had been a test. A test with raised difficulty... She smiled. Leyna could very well compete with Singird Larkwing in teaching methods.
As she touched the muscles in the legs, she felt them prickle. Her whole body yanked up and down at the sensation. Leyna frowned.
“What is it?” she asked again.
“I feel them,” Yrith exhaled. “It’s a strange feeling.”
“Very well. Can you tell me the state of your broken leg? Is the bone fixed right?”
Yrith’s magic touched the bone where it had broken. The makeshift splint, made out of a light Dwemer tube that Keneel-La had brought from gods knew where, held it stable. At a closer inspection, however, Yrith noticed a slight twist, unnoticeable from the outside.
“Not entirely,” she said.
“I see. So before I begin, you will have to fix it. This is a mechanical process, so you will do better there than I would.”
“You mean, move it to the right place?”
“Precisely.”
Yrith nodded. She strengthened the flow of magic, trying to move the bone. As if a razor-sharp blade cut through the limb, burning-cold pain flashed through it and shot up toward her spine. She hissed and gritted her teeth as she tried to contain the moan. Somewhere near, Cain was fast asleep, a state she wished to prolong as much as possible.
The bone moved ever so slightly. She rotated it again, fighting the tears that poured through the thin gaps between her eyelids. Just a bit, just a bit... until, finally, it clicked inside and the bone seemed almost whole. Almost.
Yrith let out a shaky sigh and opened her eyes. Her arm felt numb as she moved it to wipe away the sweat on her forehead. But at least that she could now move.
“It’s there.”
Leyna lowered her head, half in a nod, half to inspect the limb. She touched it lightly, almost too lightly, her fingertips tickling like feathers. Yrith’s hairs stood upon the sensation. A few moments after, Leyna raised her gaze to meet Yrith’s.
“Good. Keep concentrating on the bone and everything around it. I will feed it some magic. Note that it will not grow right away, I can’t do that. But your body should be able to regenerate the tissue on its own within a few hours, maybe a day. At least to the point you can move it. Though it will still be fragile. But if you feel any change in the structure, you must stop me immediately. Do you understand?”
“A day is...”
“The best I can,” Leyna said uncompromisingly. “And if Master Marence heard me talking, she’d skin me alive.”
“Suppose Master Marence never expected us to get into a life-threatening situation?”
Leyna gave a bitter laugh. “We were in one from the start. A well-played game...” She shook her head. “Can we begin?”
“Take my hand. I’ll supply you.”
With a light flush, Leyna extended a hand, touching Yrith’s. Soft blue glow enveloped their joined fingertips. Instinctively, Yrith’s eyes closed again. She felt the energy inside her flow both ways now, out to Leyna and in to her leg. And then, a pool of warmth poured over the limb. The golden glow of healing magic gave her eyelids a gentle hue. It tingled on her skin, then underneath. It caressed the bone and the loosened threads of her muscle. Yrith gritted her teeth, expecting pain. But instead, relief was what spread through her, easing the tension, bringing comfort. Leyna’s magic danced around the tissues, wove its way through their strands, filled them with new life. The elf’s concern had been groundless. There was no restructuring. If Yrith had not known Leyna, she would have believed she’d come to a true master healer. Thread by thread, the golden magic formed a tapestry around the bone, then permeated the muscle, until it formed a protective shell over the skin. Yrith had not even realized how cold she had been before. Now, it was warm. Inside, and outside, amidst the furs of the bedroll, in the endless beat of the humming engines. Her mind stayed with the limb, otherwise pleasantly empty. The hue on her eyelids blurred and faded until it was peacefully dark.
--
“Yrith!”
Someone was calling her. The voice was strangely distorted. There were a number of other sounds, loud, piercing, tearing her from the depths of her slumber. Her brows creased by themselves. She tried to cover her face, but someone took her hand in a firm grip and pulled it away.
“Yrith, wake up! Hatchling!”
“Uhhh...”
A rough, calloused hand gave her a light slap. The touch was cold and sharp. Her eyes cracked open in an instant.
“What...” she uttered drowsily, but the sentence was promptly cut.
“No time to explain. We’re leaving. Work with me a little, I’ll carry you...”
Yrith took a breath to wake up. It did not help that the air was warm and the furs around her soft and cozy. She took another.
Leyna had been working on her leg...
She tried to move her toes, then raise her knees. Both of her legs obeyed.
“I can walk,” she said.
“What? That’s...”
With a quiet grunt, she forced herself up, finding purchase by the closest wall.
“I can walk,” she repeated with growing confidence. It was not perfect. There was tension in her legs, something pulsed inside the muscles and around the bones. She could feel Leyna’s magic still working, tingling, wading its way through the tissues one tiny strand at a time. Still, she could walk. At least walk, if not run.
The Dragonborn’s eyes bulged for a split moment. He quickly shook the surprise off.
“I don’t know what deity I should thank for this miracle, but that’s a relief. Then come. I sent the elflings ahead. We’re taking the lift.”
“The lift? To the surface?”
“Yes. Come, I’ll pack this.”
“But you said...”
“Move now, talk later. Let’s go.”
Yrith was not much help with the packing. The Dragonborn’s eyes shone the dangerous glow she remembered from their battles. He moved swiftly, with no hesitation, no needless gestures. The bedroll seemed to roll up by itself under his fingers. The scarce supplies soon rested among the few requisites he carried in his rucksack. One last check to make sure they had not left anything behind. Then, they moved.
For the Dragonborn, this might as well have been a light walk. For Yrith, after long days of motionless trance, it was a furious rush. She did not complain. She said nothing, even if her freshly healed legs prickled and stung. The wild tempo had taken the air out of her lungs. She closed her eyes ajar, fixing her gaze on the lizard’s heels. She pricked up her ears for the steady pumping of the ever-present machines.
Hiss and whistle. Drum and thrum.
Tudum, tudum.
She set the rhythm and ran. Her mind was empty again. Unpleasantly empty.
--
I know it’s been a while! Almost 9 months… and boy, does it feel good to write again! I can’t believe it!
Since some of you might be curious, I haven’t been sick and it wasn’t work that took my time. It was something far better, though not always pleasant. I’ve gotten myself a baby! So now you can imagine what it feels like to write with a tiny squeaking bundle of cuteness by my side. :D
Anyway… I hope this chapter read well. I feel extremely rusty, I’ve done a dozen times more editing on it I normally do and I’m aware it contains an insane amount of information that will later need to be addressed. Don’t worry, it will.
That said, I mentioned this earlier, but I had to increase the estimated number of chapters this is going to have from 35 to 38. That’s the thing with mystery stories… piles upon piles of information that I somehow have to distribute and cram into chapters. But it’s fun, hehe. :)
Yrith was falling. The world had turned upside down, then askew, all the shapes becoming blurry smudges on her way. The platforms with their tall fences disappeared from her sight. The air swooshed around her and stole her breath, whistling in her ears, sending tears in her eyes. But she refused to close them, looking ahead instead, to where the greenish surface was mercilessly coming closer. Soon, she would touch it.
But then, it opened.
She stared into a whirlpool raging underneath her. Masses of dark liquid swirled in an endless circle, inviting her inside. She was still falling, deeper and deeper, until the liquid was all around her. But she never made contact. Before she could, the world became dark, all vision fading into a shapeless blur. The sound of the wild waters all around her filled her ears. The uniform humming deafened her, taking away all sense of direction. It grew louder. Closer. Darker. Until it took every inch of her. And then, there was nothing at all.
She could not determine the moment it had become so quiet. There was nothing around, only emptiness, devoid of color, or sound, or warmth. Her world had shrunk into the sheer essence of her presence. She tried speaking, but she had no voice. She tried touching, but there was nothing to touch with and nothing to be touched. She tried looking, but there was nothing to be seen. It was void all around.
She wanted to scream. Her only companion were her frantic thoughts, searching for whatever was happening. Was she dead? Had she ceased to exist? But her mind still worked. It was the only thing that worked. She could not feel her body, she could not see. She was alone in complete darkness, in the middle of literally nothing. She would close her eyes, but she had no eyes either. Even a tremble of her body would be a welcome sign, but there was nothing. Fear gripped her. This could not be her destination.
She did not know if time passed here, nor if there was any at all. Words were difficult to form in her mind, as if they too did not exist anymore. There was something primal in this way of existence, like that single thought preceding all creation. It scared her that she could not take a breath to calm herself, or grip something, or do just about anything. She needed to calm down. She needed to find a way. But how when nothing seemed to exist here? In the end, there was still fear... fear of not having control. Fear of forgetting. Fear of vanishing entirely.
Instinctively, she clung to every memory she had. She pictured them in her mind as best she could, shapeless, colorless, odorless. But still hers. There was the sound of flapping books. The smell of dust on them, and the joy of sifting through them. There was Cain’s lonely face, yet warm smile. Leyna’s slender figure, sharp tongue and secret longing for affection. Keneel-La’s beady eyes, lightly sparkling with kindness and hard with determination. Urag’s brute features, and the grumpy voice that made her feel comfort. And Singird... the ever so demanding Singird, with his hard look, yet a gentle side that he so carefully hid from others. The smell of starched linens and smuggled tea on him. She fixed her mind on the memory of his person, picturing every line in his face, painting it on the canvas of nothingness before her.
The darkness threatened to swallow her, but sooner than that, she would swallow the darkness. She would drown it in thoughts, break free of its curse.
Slowly, her mind found peace. She kept picturing things. Everything she could remember. Everything she could think of. Mountains and snow, and the flapping of dragon wings. The sun’s warmth. The sound of wind in her ears and its caress on her face. Trees and hills, and seagulls on the horizon...
The air was lukewarm and salty. She felt herself breathe. And shake.
She opened her eyes. She was staring into plumped dirt, smelling the fresh soil. Her body lay on the ground, twisted but unhurt. Shakily, she gathered herself and sat up. The land she had entered was not Apocrypha. There was sea, but its color was a welcome bluish green, revealing fringes of multi-colored kelp in its depths. Water lapped gently on the shore of dark soil and littered pebbles. She turned to the other side, finding a grove of larches and oaks. The sky was blue and white, sunlight streaming down from behind a bushy cumulus. Her eyes scanned the land over and over again, wide in disbelief. If she was in the Shivering Isles, they looked surprisingly... normal.
She stood, testing her strength. Her body listened without a hint of protest. Surely then, she could not be awake in her own world.
The trees in the grove rustled, inviting her inside. Yrith looked around, but there was hardly anywhere else she could go. Hesitantly, she took a step toward the wall of greenery. The ground seemed to hold her firmly. The air smelled of salt mixed with the freshness of the vegetation. She remembered this scent from long ago, when she had always stared at the vastness of the sea from the Daggerfall embankments, embraced by home, yet invited by that glittering horizon. She could imagine spending an eternity here, just looking, with no need to go anywhere. Her memories would keep her company.
She sighed, slapping herself lightly on the cheeks. The image of the Dragonborn and the purpose she had back where she had come from seemed so distant now. More distant than the far edge of the sea. Perhaps if she stayed long enough, she would forget them entirely.
Clenching her fists, Yrith walked into the grove. Immediately, the air felt cooler. She shivered, stepping over the roots of a crooked, ancient-looking oak tree. It seemed to have a wrinkled face, or, rather, several faces, looking into different directions. She stared at it, wondering if it was only an illusion or if the tree was staring back. She waited, but nothing happened. It simply gazed at her, as if measuring her worth. At last, she shrugged, searching for the place where the ferns and brushes would be the thinnest. There was no path to follow, no indication of the way she could go. And so she simply walked, letting her feet choose the way.
The infinite brushwood was difficult to cross. Her feet rose and sank in a nearly scripted pattern, scratched and whipped by the numerous twigs. She could see no regularities, nothing that could even remotely lead her in a definite direction. She looked up at the sky, but the thick vault of branches above her head obstructed her view. The leaves moved back and forth in a hypnotic motion, capturing her in a moment of stillness. The wind that brushed them whispered in her ears. Somewhere far beyond the rustling, she could hear its voice. And her name in it.
She turned abruptly to where the wind blew. It created a path, opening the branches and leaves to form passage. Yrith watched it with doubt, extending her hand into the air. If it was illusion, then it affected her sense of touch as well. Was she being led after all? She scanned the area around her. It was still the same place with plants anywhere she looked, wild, impassable. Safe for that one path that she was sure had not been there moments before. She searched for the way she had come. There was nothing. The thicket she had kicked down to let her pass seemed to have grown back to its full height. Maybe even taller. She bit her lip. This pattern seemed awfully familiar.
There was no other way but to follow the path that was created for her. Her feet trod lightly on the grass, finding the free, soft spots, following the whispers. She felt them more than she heard them, the beckoning, just like back in Daggerfall, but now they were so clear to her. Sweet. Meant for just her and her alone.
They seemed to lead her further and further into the wood. She stopped counting the time or thinking about her purpose. The whispers were now all she needed. This voice caressing her arms and hair. It was gentle, soothing. She could forget all the pain. She could leave it behind. Stay here forever.
The breeze had become fresher as she went. She looked curiously at the path ahead, stopping for the briefest of moments just to take in the scent. It was familiar. Too familiar. She buried her hand in the curtain of ivy just before her, moving it aside. Salty wind filled her nostrils. She stared at the shore before her, the same one she had initially left. Dumbstruck, she took a few steps, her feet finding the pebbles. It felt just the same as when she had woken up. She looked up and blinked. The clouds had not changed. The sun still shone from behind them, sending down golden pillars of light. She looked back at the grove, but the path she had walked was now lost. She must have spent hours there, but still, everything was the same.
“Impossible,” she said out loud, wincing at the sound of her own voice. She put a hand on her chest and huffed. She was still breathing. She could move and speak. But the world around her was frozen in time. Or, perhaps, in a loop.
She looked around, but there was no way of circling the grove. On both sides, the rocky beach was surrounded by looming cliffs of black and red sandstone, too steep to be climbed. If she didn’t want to go back, she had to step into the sea. But she doubted the same thing would work twice.
The grove twinkled at her with tiny droplets of water on its leaves. Yrith looked at it pensively. Before she knew it, she was making her way to it again, removing the branches that obstructed her entrance. This time, she circled the crooked oak from the other side, taking a different way. Again, she found no regularities, nothing to focus on. She took a random path, stepping over roots and vines of thornbush, removing the giant ferns. Again, as she went, she could hear the wind whisper to her, carrying the sweet sound of her own name on its currents. Sometimes it swirled around her, making her turn after it. As she did, she saw out of the corner of her eye the bushes move, closing one way, opening another. It did not matter anymore. The wind knew her heart. It wanted her to forget everything. The path did not matter. The purpose did not matter. She did not matter, and the thought was strangely liberating. She took in the air, stopping in her tracks. The moss was so soft and warm. She sat for a while with her back to a patulous tree, smiling at the patches of light showing through the canopy of leaves. What else did she need in the end?
She closed her eyes. The breeze was so gentle. It was warm enough to provide comfort, cold enough to feel refreshing. The moisture from the wood felt nearly drinkable. She did not miss anything. Darkness engulfed her. Sweet, soothing darkness...
Her hand reached blindly for the moss, brushing its surface. It felt almost like a duvet. Soft and welcoming, like an island of warmth in the middle of eternal winter. Except...
There was no winter.
She opened her eyes. How could she ever forget? Where would all the comfort go if there was no struggle to counter it?
She rubbed her temples, trying to focus on a single spot. A twig on the ground... but the ground moved. Just like everything else, even the moss under her was moving, shifting endlessly. There was no place that would stay steady, nothing that would not try lulling her into some sort of forgetful delirium. Why was she here? She closed her eyes again, visualizing a memory. Now, a single image was enough. A blind creature with ashen skin, raising its chitin blade to strike. Of course. That was where it had all begun. She needed to find Septimus Signus, talk to him and then go back to where the Dragonborn and her friends waited for her. She repeated it to herself once, twice, thrice. She kept repeating it as she jumped to her feet, covering her ears to shut out the voices from the outside. Blindly, she rushed through the woods, letting the twigs whip her and leave a vast net of thin red lines on her skin. She ran, kicking the vegetation away, not looking, not thinking. When the vines caught her hand, she twisted it out of their grip. When she tripped, she stood back and ran on. It seemed to take ages. Until, again, she felt the salty breeze on her skin and opened her eyes, finding herself back on the shore, still under that same cumulus obstructing the sunlight. She sighed, sinking to her knees.
“What in Oblivion is this place?” she hissed under her breath.
A laugh came in response, accompanied by the sound of clapping hands. Yrith turned around abruptly, staring at her unexpected company.
“What in Oblivion indeed? What in Oblivion... oh wait. This is Oblivion!”
The man’s hair and beard were greyed, yet his golden cat-like eyes were full of life. He was thin, scrawny almost, but bore no signs of hunger. His garments were rich, half purple, half vermillion, almost like a jester’s. He stared at her with a strangely crooked smile, seemingly enjoying himself for no apparent reason. Yrith stared back, wondering how she was expected to react.
“So... I take it I have reached the Shivering Isles?” she tried, feeling the ground become wobbly under her.
“Technically, you could say that. Although it has been long since my isles have actually shivered. Suppose they grew heavy with all that cheese their inhabitants consume!” He laughed to himself.
“Your isles? So you are...”
“No! Not yet! Don’t say my name!” His voice fell into a whisper as he put a finger over his lips. “You’ll spoil the surprise!”
Yrith studied his face, unsure what the man was trying to tell her. But after all, if this was the Daedric Prince of Madness, then she could expect just about anything. She cleared her throat, giving herself time to think before she dared respond.
“Surprise? For whom?”
“What?!” the man exclaimed, his eyes bulging. “Me, of course! Who else? Or wait... it could be the boneman standing right behind you, couldn’t it?”
Instinctively, Yrith glanced over her shoulder. There was nothing. The man laughed.
“Ha! Gotcha! Can’t see him, can ya? Well, he’s really there! If you’re mad enough to see him, that is.”
Yrith smiled at that. “But I couldn’t compare with Lord Sheogorath himself, could I?”
“Ah, now you’ve done it! You said my name! Trying to appeal to my ego? Or throw me off balance? Oh, you can’t do that. You see, I have no balance!” He laughed maniacally. “Well well, but you do, don’t you, little mortal? My tricks don’t work on you. You have managed to throw me off my imbalance. To be frank, that’s not a very nice thing to do!”
Yrith blinked. Was he blaming her? Did he expect her to apologize? If so, then for what exactly? Trying to stay sane while wandering through the whispering woods? Indeed, this was a land of madness. Was she supposed to give in? No, she couldn’t. Surely if she had done that, there would be no way out. She would stay here forever, trapped in her madness, while the world outside continued its existence without her. Or it would silently cease to exist. She had to go back.
She bowed slightly, resting her eyes on his ridiculously ornate boots with raised tips.
“I apologize,” she said quietly. “But it was necessary. I am searching for answers, not a place to spend my eternity.”
“So you are,” he said, drawing her attention with the sudden change of his tone. She looked up to find his face serene, free of its previous lunacy. “And now you think that you deserve them, don’t you?”
She shook her head. “I’m not the judge of that. But I am willing to fight for them.”
“Fight!” Sheogorath exclaimed again. “What fancy words you mortals like to use. Very well. Then tell me. What part of the Shivering Isles is this? Mania, the realm of bliss, or Dementia, the realm of despair?”
Yrith sized him up, pondering the reason for his question. He could be asking to simply guide her to her destination. Or he could be testing her. He could also be playing with her, driving her into giving a wrong answer. She pondered his innocent-looking smile, not too wide, but not too small. His eyes pierced her with sharpness she would never associate with a madman. Or a mad god, for that matter. Surely if he was asking her a question, there had to be a meaning for it.
Her eyes scanned their surroundings. The place looked peaceful enough to be Mania but dull enough to also be Dementia. There was sun, but there were also clouds. The grove she had entered was neither light nor dark. The wind that had whispered to her invited for gods knew what. She could imagine being lured into blissful forgetfulness or dumped into a pit of despair with no way out. Perhaps it could do both. And then, there was the walking in circles, through unexpected paths and openings. Thrilling in the process, frightful in its entirety. Where was she? At some kind of a boundary?
She closed her eyes and heard familiar words. Those spoken by Hermaeus Mora just before he had bid her farewell.
“Oblivion is not your world. There are no paths to walk or road signs to follow.”
Of course. She smiled.
“It is both. Or none, depending how you look at it. Mania and Dementia were never places to begin with. Just aspects of this realm. Choices to be made.” She threw up her arms in a gesture containing all of the Shivering Isles. Sheogorath laughed.
“Well! Well! Look at the little mortal, beating a Daedric Prince in his own game! Now, is your answer right? That’s the question, isn’t it? I’d say it’s as good as any!” He gave her a meaningful look. “Suppose you want some cheese now, but not yet! But very well, you’ve proven yourself. You see, you’ve had your path open before you all this time. All you need to do is to go to that oak with four faces and ask it for directions! Isn’t that brilliant? I’d say insanely so! Now go! Chop chop!”
Yrith raised a brow, taking a while to consider him. Brilliant indeed. She could not decide if he was mad or a genius. She settled for both.
He regarded her with a piercing gaze that could be both significant and impatient. She quickly bowed, backing away and making for the grove again. For the third time, she entered it, stopping by the old oak. It gaped at her with its mouths open and eyes wide, doing its mad home proper justice. She opened her mouth, suddenly feeling ridiculous. Was she really supposed to speak to a tree?
With a sigh, she shook her head. By the time she left this place, she would truly be mad.
“Er, hello?” she tried.
Nothing happened.
“I’m looking for Septimus Signus.”
Silence. She waited, watching the tree closely. At one moment, it seemed as if its mouth moved, but perhaps it was just a play of light. No sound came out of it, no answer reached her. She rubbed her temples.
“He’s a scholar. Specializes in the Elder Scrolls. And he was sent here by Hermaeus Mora.”
Still no reply. She frowned.
“Hello? Is there anyone who could lead me to him?”
A quiet rustle was all the reaction the tree gave to her. Yrith looked around, wondering if Sheogorath had meant another tree, but there was none other that would even remotely resemble a face. Was she supposed to do something else? Touch it? Ask in a different way?
Gingerly, she extended a hand, brushing against the bark. It was coarse under her touch, just like she would expect of oak tree bark. She spoke to it again. A loud crack tore the air just beside her. With a start, she jumped aside, staring at the grinning figure of Sheogorath.
“Well, who would have guessed! At last, you fell for something! I was almost afraid this moment wouldn’t come. All right then, I suppose you deserve some cheese for the entertainment. But really though, did you seriously believe that a tree would answer to you? A tree? A piece of wood?! Are you perhaps... mad?”
The last word was drawled with a generous amount of affection. He stretched his arms toward her as if to embrace her. Yrith’s mouth twitched.
“I’m still not planning to be,” she uttered curtly. She was quite certain that if Sheogorath simply decided to keep her, he would accomplish just that. She was entirely at his mercy. The thought gave her shivers. She scanned the pattern on his jester-like outfit, trying to figure out what it symbolized just to get the whole affair out of her head.
“That’s a shame. Madness is liberating. You would see... but oh well. Not even a mad god can have everything, can he? Then perhaps another time.” He gave a wink. “Now, what shall we do about you? Oh, I know! Haskill, dear, would you grace us with your presence?”
Yrith could feel a swirl of magic in the air before another figure appeared just by Sheogorath’s side. This time, it was a balding man, very much unlike his master. A human for sure, looking almost unusually ordinary. As he studied the scene, he gave a long, weary sigh.
“Yes, Lord Sheogorath?”
“Oh Haskill, why the long face again?” Sheogorath gave the man an affectionate pat. “Now what did I... hmm. I forget. Never mind that. Let’s have a cheese party! And a cake with topping made of people’s entrails! Not bad, eh?”
Yrith’s eyes widened in disbelief. Haskill simply rolled his eyes.
“That’s a wonderful idea, My Lord,” he said, and Yrith was quite sure he considered the idea to be everything but wonderful. “But before that, I dare assume there were some other things you wished to take care of?”
Sheogorath pursed his lips. Yrith pondered whether she found the childish disappointment on his aged face amusing or upsetting.
“My dear Haskill, must you always take the boring side? All right, all right. Please, escort our guest to the Link. And you, dear mortal,” he turned to Yrith, “I will see you again, I am sure. You will remember me when the world leaves no place for sanity. And then you’ll be plucking eyes in my name! Well, that’s that. Don’t forget to knock on your head before you enter it. We must not forget our manners, eh? Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I’m afraid I must leave. You be good now. Toodle-oo!”
With that, Sheogorath’s figure dissolved, leaving nothing but a faint quiver in the air. Yrith let out a breath, taking a glance at Haskill. The man released another sigh, dusting his robes.
“Please, forgive my Lord Sheogorath’s whims,” he spoke, adopting a funeral tone. “He so does enjoy when a guest arrives to entertain him.”
Yrith nodded slowly, unsure of how to respond. One part of her wished to address Haskill’s apparent normalcy, but she would prefer not to do anything that might upset the person tasked with guiding her to her destination. Even in this dream world, exhaustion was slowly beginning to take a toll on her. She missed the Dragonborn sorely. Perhaps she had already said things that would bring her demise. Perhaps she would say them shortly. For once, she would welcome the chance to say whatever was on her mind without the fear of being smitten off the surface of whatever land she was standing on. She missed Keneel-La’s guidance.
“Where are we going then?” she said, trying to make it sound conversational, rather than pressing. Haskill sighed again.
“Ah, that. I must say Lord Sheogorath must be feeling rather generous today, not putting you through any real trials.” Yrith contained a snort, wondering what Haskill would call the whispering wood. “So I suppose you would now like to see the Sage. Then I shall create passage. But on you will go on your own.”
Yrith’s brow quirked up. “The Sage?”
The man shook his head, looking at her like a father disappointed at his child’s ignorance. “Have you not connected the dots yet? Is your pursuit blind, like a fly chasing the light at night in hopes to find the sun? Your journey here is no coincidence. It has never been. Even the Dragonborn realized it. A moment too late, of course. Either way, he could never prevent you from venturing here. If only you told him about the message you found in your parents’ old library. He would realize then that he never had a say in where fate took you.”
Yrith took a moment to process his words. What was he saying? No, it couldn’t be...
Find the Mad Sage of Time.
Had she really been that ignorant? Had the answer been lying before her all that time? A book and a message from her parents. The last words of Selas Travi. They all had one thing in common. She shook her head, wishing for a bed and a moment of quiet to ponder everything, which she could not afford. A sigh escaped her lips. Her head hurt, heavy with turbulent thoughts. Dream or not, her head hurt.
“Take me to him, please,” she said wearily. He nodded.
As he raised his hands, a portal glowing in shades of dark blue and violet opened before him. He stepped aside, providing passage to Yrith.
“When you enter this portal, you will find yourself in a cave. There, you will meet the Link. He will guide you on. You should hurry. Your mind is strong, but still mortal. You seem to be crumbling.”
Yrith did not need to ask what he meant. She felt her strength leaving her slowly. She did not dare contemplate what would await her if she succumbed to the power of this realm. All she knew now was that she had spent too much time in Oblivion. Every moment now drained her. She had been foolish to think she could just walk it freely.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
“I am only fulfilling my duty. Don’t forget to call me when you’re done. I have my doubts that you would make it out on your own. Although my Lord would be more than pleased to welcome you among his precious subjects.”
She smiled faintly, nodding. Then, with a slight bow, she stepped forward, entering the portal.
Wild humming filled her ears. She covered them instinctively. Her head throbbed as though it should split any moment. She waited, feeling magic all around her. It enveloped her with its innumerous tendrils, pushing her forward, into a place unknown. She let it take her, following its lead. A few moments later, the humming ceased, leaving a thrumming echo in her ears. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness.
The room she had entered was a small square-shaped place, crowned by two very much unidentifiable armless statues, one looking up, one down. Between them was raised a platform, touching each of them with its opposite tips. On the remote tip from Yrith stood a throne-like chair. In it sat the oldest-looking man she had ever seen. Despite having barely any wrinkles, with his snow-white hair, ghostly pale complexion and deep dark circles under his eyes, he seemed ancient. Yrith stared at him, then winced as the portal behind her disappeared. He gave a low nod.
“Ah, so the doom is upon us,” he said, his voice nearly as resigned as Haskill’s. Yrith gave him a questioning look.
“Erm...”
“Yes, you want to know. Your face says it all. You want to know who I am, you want to know what I meant, you even want to know why you’re here in the first place. You seek answers. One would say I should be able to provide them. All of them...
“My name is Dyus. You might have heard of me, or you might not have. I was once a librarian. The Librarian. The Keeper of the Great Library of Jyggalag. I was also once the Last Remnant, the only thing that was left of the said library after Jyggalag so unceremoniously transformed into Sheogorath. I am now the Link, which connects this world with the world of the New Jyggalag, and with some others. Ah, yes, and more questions bloom in your mind as I speak these words, don’t they? No, I am not here to give you a history lesson. And no, I am not mad.
“As for your other questions... I cannot answer. Once, I believed that I knew every event that had ever happened and that was to unfold in the future. Every person, every fate, all was recorded. I knew the library by heart. And yet... two centuries ago, a person came who contradicted all the records and changed this land forever. Now you come. You, of whom there are no records whatsoever. We have entered a new era. A new timeline, perhaps. One where there is no such thing as certainty. One where the future is written as it unfolds and where even past can perhaps be altered as long as its memory remains intact. You are the Great Anomaly. I do not even know your name.”
Yrith felt the urge to rub her head. She could not understand the man’s words. Was he mad? No, true to his words, he did not seem to be possessed by the curse of this land. In fact, she felt as though few people were truly mad here. Maybe Sheogorath’s madness was something that could be understood. Maybe it did not exist to begin with. She studied him, but there was nothing she could read from his face.
“Yrith,” she uttered quietly. “My name is Yrith Ravencroft.”
“Yrith, The One Who Speaks True, as spoken in the tongue of the old elves in times when they were all still one people,” Dyus nodded in acknowledgement. “You carry a good name. Tell me, Yrith, what is it that you seek?”
“I’m looking for a man called Septimus Signus. But... I thought everyone knew. Lord Sheogorath knew. Haskill knew as well.”
“I am not part of this world, and neither am I part of any others. Unlike them, I am confined here, with no ability to observe the outer realms. What they know, I do not.
“Anyway, the scholar. Indeed, he may have answers that I don’t. But extracting them will not be easy. I am afraid the man is rather more... affected by his insight than I am. He was just a mortal, after all. And he has observed. He has calculated. He knows... too much for his own good.”
“I was told,” Yrith said. “But I still need to see him.”
“So you do. At this time of the day, he is usually deep inside the tunnels underneath this complex. You will have to follow the stars to get there. He has a curious weakness for stars.”
Dyus gestured to the statue on his right, the one looking down. Yrith stared at it, wondering what she was supposed to do. When he said nothing, she walked to the statue and circled it, studying its scarce detail. Only on her third round did she notice a tiny circle of stars embedded in the statue’s pedestal. She touched it... and the statue moved, revealing a staircase.
“Quite trite, I know,” sighed Dyus. “But he wouldn’t have it another way.”
Yrith smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be going then.”
“Indeed. I have a feeling you might not have the chance to say goodbye afterwards. I suggest you make haste. You look tired. I wish you safe journey.”
Yrith dropped a curtsy before descending the stairs, his words weighing on her with the gravity of all Oblivion. With a dull, lifeless sound, the stone fell back in place. She gave it a frown. She had no idea how she could ever go back. It seemed that the path led only forward.
The corridor she had entered was lit by a myriad of tiny gold and silver stones covering the low ceiling, truly reminiscent of stars. Yrith noticed they even formed constellations, some of which she knew, others she saw for the first time. They seemed to form a pattern of sorts, like a chain that was meant to lead her somewhere. She followed it curiously, taking her time to scan the artificial sky. She saw repetitions, always in the same pattern, but never quite identical, as if the constellations shifted slightly as they progressed.
Staring at the strange path above her head, she cried out as she hit the wall. The stars made her dizzy. In fact, everything made her dizzy. She took a breath, speeding up. Now the stars seemed to be dancing before her. Above her. At her sides. Everywhere. Her fists clenched instinctively as she hurried through the years of stellar history, or at least that was what she suspected the incessant constellations to be. She wondered how long she had been here. Hours? Days? Weeks? Time was hard to count in Oblivion. For sure her time was up. She did not have long, and in that short time, she would somehow have to find the strength to gain information from a man she had never seen and suspected to be as mad as they said. She closed her eyes for a while, walking blindly, trusting her instinct rather than the sight that seemed to fail her. And then she felt the air swirl around her. She opened her eyes to see... the universe. It expanded before her, forming a dome of sorts, or whatever vast area she had just entered. And in its middle, on the biggest planet there was to see, sat a greyed man, whispering inarticulately to himself. She could only hope that this was Septimus Signus.
She walked closer, now treading over myriads of tiny flickering dots, hardly able to tell up from down. Her pace was slow and wary, her legs trying to keep the fragile balance that kept her, to her knowledge, standing. The man paid her no heed. He sat bent over something, entirely absorbed in whatever he was doing. But when the distance between them had shrunk to merely three feet, he let out a low growl.
“Not a step closer, abomination,” he said, not bothering to look up.
Yrith froze. She did not have to see his face to know that he meant the last word. He knew exactly who she was. And she was not in his favor.
“I’m sorry?” she tried.
“Don’t pretend you did not hear. Even the stars hear. Everything hears. You hear even better. Your auditory apparatus serves you well enough, does it not? Stars have none. Look how they flicker with envy at your life. And yet you waste it on meaningless squabbles, trying to decide the fate of the world that is well out of your hands. Your magic serves nothing. You might as well dissolve in it… and less harm comes to us.”
“Excuse me, but...”
“Excuse you? Why should I? What have you done to deserve it? Your past is marked with blood. Your future is marked with your past. And your past is marked with your future. And therefore, your future... you should know the drill. What do you have to redeem yourself? You deny all the constants! The world has truly gone into a loop, and yet you stand here, unaware, your consciousness well out of the circle that you yourself have created. Do you realize what you’ve done? Of course not! Because you have not done it yet, have you? And yet you have. It is so simple, and still, you cannot grasp it. And to think you should have an exceptional mind. What do you truly have?”
Yrith’s head hurt with all the words flooding in her ears, making as little sense to her as this whole place. She was tired. She wanted to just sleep. And she had no idea how she could ask this man for information.
She let out a breath.
“I only have questions,” she said.
“Questions. Of course. We all have questions, don’t we? Time is our ultimate question. Fate. It all lies in the stars. Tell me, mortal scourge. What guarantee do you have that if you ask me, I will give you a true answer?”
Yrith shrugged wearily. She was not able to play with him anymore, like she had played with Hermaeus Mora and Sheogorath. Her mind was cloudy, her legs shaking. “None,” she breathed. “I’m willing to bet on it. You gave the Dragonborn a true answer when he asked, didn’t you?”
“The circumstances were different! All probabilities worked in my favor. All eventualities would lead to the same conclusion.”
“And now they don’t?”
For the first time, he lifted his head. His eyes, as far as Yrith could tell in the dim light of the stars, were clouded, set deep in his wrinkled face.
“What?”
Yrith raised her brows, suppressing a weary smile. “I asked if they don’t. The eventualities. Don’t they lead to the same conclusion?”
“You really don’t understand anything, do you? Time loop! There is no conclusion! Thanks to you!” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “None. There should be. But there isn’t. Now where did it go, eh? Did you take it away? Someone before you? You don’t even know, do you? But you are in the middle of it. You led the world here. Now lead it out.”
The throbbing in Yrith’s head grew stronger and louder. She wished to press her hands against it, make it stop at any cost. She could see no true madness in this man, yet she could not understand a word of what he was saying. Or was she becoming mad as well, feeling as though this place was rather filled with normalcy? What would happen if she did not make it back to her world? Would she stay and eventually be as mad as everyone here? She grimaced, half in exhaustion, half in concentration. What could she say to make him answer? What would she even ask? She had doubts he would answer more than one question from her. If he answered at all.
“Please,” she breathed. “Name. I’m looking for a name... the name. The name lost in time. Could you help me?”
“Indeed you are, aren’t you?” he muttered, turning back to his own shadow. Yrith, her eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the darkness, could make out the shape of a small circular platform. The man seemed to be drawing a diagram of sorts on it, even if she could not tell what exactly he was drawing. To her, it appeared as though all the lines and dots he made were invisible. Perhaps he was creating another constellation. She would never know. “The old secret. The one that you should have never uncovered.”
Yrith opened her mouth to ask more, but closed it again, the words of Septimus Signus sinking in slowly, like a torn wing of a butterfly falling on the ground.
“You mean to tell me,” she said thoughtfully, trying to place the new piece of the puzzle in her head, “that I... already did? Do I know the name?”
“Do you?” he laughed. “That is a wrong question. Did you? Yes. Will you? Yes. Or perhaps. Depends on how you look at it. Do you now? Take a guess.”
“I...”
“You do not understand. I know. You cannot understand. You are a paradox. But you so desperately want me to be a part of it, don’t you?”
He looked up at her, fixing his eyes on hers. She could see them almost clearly now. She wished she could turn away from his accusation, but she could not.
“That’s not the point,” she whispered weakly.
“What difference does it make?”
She tried to breathe deeply, not taking her eyes off him. Her chest felt tight, under pressure. Everything felt tight. Her thoughts mingled without order, escaping her grasp whenever she tried to get hold of them. She was in no position to reason with anyone. But still...
Unwillingly, she sank to her knees.
“What difference does it make?” she repeated, letting the words ring in her head. “What difference does it make if you tell me what I need to know, if the future is given?”
“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it? If I gave you the answer, I might as well be telling you everything. And the world would burst and implode, and time would be no more. You will have to figure that out for yourself.”
“But I have no means!”
The man laughed maniacally, leaning toward her. Her breath seized up in her throat as he drew closer, scanning every bit of her as if her sole existence amused him.
“Very well,” he whispered in her ear, “I will make an exception, even if it makes no difference. You talk about means, and by means, you mean power. Power to bend time, power to leap, power to transcend the borders of your own existence. But there are three things that you should know. First, you, and only you, are the master of your existence. If it has any borders at all, those were created by you, and you are the one who can take them down. The world that you see – Nirn, this realm of Oblivion, Mundus, even me... this is your world, and it is shaped by your own mind. Second, everything lies in the stars. In their patterns... Magnus, in his rush, created a guide for our time. Magic pours through the stars, and this magic can be sent back. You have seen the mechanism before. The Dwemer knew it. The conjurers of the old knew it. And you know it. Only, for some reason, no one ever thought to connect it with just time. And third...” he let out a snort. “Well, you already have all the means necessary. What do you think guided you to me? The very thing you were looking for. By the time you learned about it, your fate was already written there. And it is being written as we speak.”
“My... fate? What do you...”
The words died in her throat. Yrith gasped as the world turned with her, the stars from all around penetrating her closed lids to dance before her eyes in a mad waltz. She could not hear his next words. The darkness from her journey was forcing its way back in. This was her limit, she would not get any further. She clenched her fists, trying to remember how she would leave.
Oh, yes. Haskill...
“... go, before your life wanes... protect... time loop...” The words were muffled, nonsensical. With the last bit of strength, she gathered her magic. She had never tried to summon a person, especially not when in Oblivion itself. But it was the only thing she had, as her voice had left her. She concentrated on the flow, her mind clinging to it as though it was the only thing that existed anymore. She spread it and called. The darkness threatened to swallow her. She wanted to hear her own voice, to feel her breath, to feel anything. She called again. And again.
When nothing happened, she screamed, expecting the sound to die on her nonexistent lips. But it tore through the darkness, opening the view before her once more. It resonated through the air, flew into every crevice, penetrated the walls, until it was gone, leaving just a faint echo to resonate in her bones. Before her stood Haskill, giving his usual sigh.
“About time,” he said dispassionately. “Even Lord Sheogorath started growing restless. Something about explosions and the end of cheese... Now I expect your business is done here, correct? Judging by your state, you would not do much of it anyway.”
Yrith scowled, drawing a raspy breath. Her business was far from done. But she nodded meekly, feeling pain in her skin, as though it was dissolving.
“Yes, please...”
“Very well. Then sleep.”
“What?”
“Go back to sleep. The real one. Let your mind drift away. Yes, yes, I know what you’re going to ask. But see, it is that easy. You just leave. Awaken in your own world and let us exist a bit longer. Go.”
Yrith stared at him, but before she could move a muscle in her face, he touched her temples and pressed. Darkness spread before her once more, but it was different. She felt herself falling, deeper, deeper, just like when she travelled here. She trembled, wrapping her arms about herself. She had enough falls, enough depths. If only she could rise. If only she could grow wings, like a dragon, so that she would not have to go through this. She was tired, so tired...
Then even the feeling of falling disappeared. Everything stilled for a moment, the absolute silence taking over for the shortest of moments, spreading cold throughout Yrith’s body. Then, everything went alive at once. Her magic, her voice... she could feel them both bursting before leaving her lying on the floor, helpless.
She could hear the heartbeat of an engine. She could feel warmth, contrasting the rivers of sweat on her face. There was breath brushing against her skin. And whispers.
She opened her eyes and gasped.
--
He opened his eyes and gasped.
“Master Larkwing?”
The voice was curious, rather than concerned. Singird knew why.
“You heard it too,” he exhaled.
“The Khajiit did as well,” another voice joined, soft and velvety. Their silver-patched companion was looking eastward, into the distance. Somewhere beyond those clouds, a complex of golden-domed towers would stand proud, looming over a vast valley.
“Let’s set out,” Singird said firmly as he stood up, shaking his bedroll off his person.
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“And by daybreak, it may already be too late. Everyone knows where she is now. Heknows...”
“But will we even make a difference?”
Singird gritted his teeth, forgetting his magic as he forcefully rolled up his makeshift bed, nearly tearing the belt he used to tie it apart.
“Let’s just go and find out,” he hissed. He did not know whether to feel happy or anxious. He finally knew where Yrith was. He could pinpoint her location with a needle on a life-sized map. But he was not the only one.
--
I found this wonderful Sheogorath & Haskill fanart which I just have to share with you. :) No idea who the original artist is as there are more sources to be found and it’s pretty much untraceable for me, but whoever it is, I praise their ability to capture expressions. Bethesda could learn!
Yrith walked slowly, cautiously, over the rustling floor. In a way, it reminded her of the autumn grass, yellowed and crumbling on its ends. She took in the air, but it smelled nothing like Urag’s cozy Arcanaeum. Its scent was heavy, not foul, but not pleasant either, sweet and lingering. Inviting. The scent of hidden secrets, both wonderful and terrifying.
Stepping out of the first bridge, she eyed the nearest column of books for a moment, wondering if she was allowed to touch. The moment her hand reached out for the topmost tome, Yrith heard a rumble. She froze, turning after the sound. The path leading onward, away from the platform where she now stood, had shrunk. She pulled her hand back, letting out a deep sigh. So this realm was built upon choices. Following her temptations was not an option.
Hesitantly, she took a step forward. An eerie feeling overcame her as she approached the pond in the middle of the platform. Something was lurking inside. She felt a presence, something strong, an aura of imminence seeping from the dark water. She took a step away from its edge, treading lightly around the perimeter. Her body, or whatever vessel it was that she steered in this world, felt stiff, her breath hardly there. The pond slowly passed, as if she was not moving, but it was the world that moved instead. Then, it was behind her. And just as she was about to step on the next bridge, something shot from the pond and wrapped tightly around her chest.
Her knees hit the pages underneath her with a painful thud. Her hands sprang up and gripped the thing, trying to free her from its grip. It was smooth and oozy, filling her with cold upon the touch. The more she tried to tear it off, the more its hold on her tightened. The image before her eyes twisted and faded behind a palette of colors. She gasped for air. A voice sounded within her, reverberating through her every bone.
A wanderer strays into my realm. How quaint. You do enjoy consorting with beings of power, do you not, Yrith Ravencroft? Or Zulvahzen, is it now? The One Who Speaks True.
Yrith fought for her breath, wheezing as the pressure on her chest increased. Then, it let go, sending her to the ground. Panting, she vaguely registered a thick tentacle, dark as the water it had come from, reflecting the greenish haze around, as it receded back into its pond.
She lay on the ground, feeling too weak to stand up, simply letting the air in and out. Red marks covered her hands where they had made contact with the creature, as though it had burned her. She wanted to speak to it. To ask how it knew her name. But she was too afraid of its touch. Too afraid of its cold grip that took her breath away.
The pond went still. She watched it out of the corner of her eye. Then, she rose, slowly, keeping her magic ready just past her fingertips lest the oozy tip of the tentacle came at her again. The surface of the water was dark and smooth like a mirror. She put a foot forward. Silence followed, filled only with the ever-present rustle of the pages. The other foot followed. Nothing.
Yrith walked sideways, trying to keep her eyes on both sides. Only when she was halfway through the next bridge did she turn to face fully what was ahead. Still, she attempted to send her magic out to see what was around.
The impact made her stagger, until she nearly fell off the bridge, into the depths of the ocean below. She gasped, clutching the ornate banister. The power guarding this place mingled with the magic, filling her mind with a presence so intense she felt like bursting and imploding at once. She groaned, forcing the being out, her eyes nearly closed and teeth gritted too strong. The presence glided away, leaving a strange feeling behind itself, like the quiver of the air left after the flutter of a butterfly. Yrith had no doubt that it had left her willingly, playing with her, caressing her hair through the ghostly green haze. No, perhaps it never left. Perhaps it simply turned its attention elsewhere. She covered her mouth. Whatever it was, it pervaded the place, filled every corner of it, scented the air. Whatever it was, it was not only outside of her, but inside as well. She was walking on it. It tingled on her skin. She was breathing it.
She felt her body tremble as she stepped further. The bridge took her to a fork, each way leading upward, to a different platform. She scanned them thoroughly. The one in the center was empty, connected to other platforms by a set of bridges with columns of books arching over them, forming gates of sorts. The one on the left held another pond where Yrith suspected another tentacle creature. The one on the right held a stone altar, a simple tablet with the Oblivion symbol, illuminated by sparkling vapors wafting around it. And near the altar stood the strangest being Yrith had ever seen.
It floated, though erect, with its hands gripping a book. Tentacles like those of an octopus grew from all over its body, shielding what seemed to be tattered remains of a cloak. Its face was reminiscent of a giant hard-shelled insect with feelers as tiny as her fingers. Its belly was open as if the creature did not use its mouth to devour, but rather the carnivorous-plant-looking pit leading directly into its stomach. Yrith stared at it, half fearful, half amazed. The creature moved from one side of the platform to another, but it paid her no heed. Yrith took a tentative step back, then toward the middle bridge. The creature let out a deep sigh, turning a page in its book. Its strange, worm-like eyes did not move away from the text.
Yrith stepped onto the bridge. Nothing happened. She proceeded to the platform, gaining confidence as the creature simply floated in its place, too absorbed in its book to notice a possible intruder. As Yrith finally stepped on the next platform, she let out a breath. And the platform dissolved under her.
She cried out, grabbing the edge of the bridge in the last moment. Her hands glowed with magic, but the blue stream stayed clear of the bridge, repelled by its surface. Yrith sighed. Her fingers felt slippery and stiff, but she forced her muscles to work, moving hand over hand, slowly making her way to the banister. She would have sworn her weight had increased in this realm, feeling every ounce of it pulling her down into the depths of the liquid blackness below. Twisting her face, she forced herself to look up and seek the ornate fencing, focusing on it with all her might. It seemed to her as though the closest pole moved, as if testing her will to survive. She huffed. This was all in her mind, but she had to thank the Dragonborn for his training nonetheless. It gave her direction.
After what felt like eternity, she finally reached the construction, grabbing the pole. She could barely feel her hands. For a moment, she just hung there, taking deep breaths, begging her body to hold on. Then, she drew herself up and hauled her body over the edge with a powerful swing. The dents left after the collapse ploughed painful lines in her stomach. But she was up now, sitting on the bridge, leaning wearily against the banister. She wished she could fall asleep, but now she knew that every moment of inattention could prove fatal in this place.
When she caught her breath at last, she dared a look where the platform had once been. A view of a great complex opened before her, almost beautiful in its asymmetry. The ornate fences were rather walls of tangled metal tendrils, tall like castles, lining the edges of numerous platforms and bridges. Many creatures similar to the one she had seen near the altar roamed the place, adjusting books in piles and stacks, at times returning pages into the tomes. Every time the librarians passed one of the many ponds, the water rippled, sometimes revealing a smooth tip of a tentacle, sometimes surrounding a small altar dominated by a flower bud of pure light, golden or blue.
Yrith scrambled to her feet, pondering if she should be happy that her access had been blocked. Her eyes slid to the water below where the fallen platform had sunk, then to the bridge connecting it with the complex... but the bridge was not there. It had not crumbled, Yrith was sure. She had not seen it fall, and the edge of the next platform was smooth, lined with the same ornate wall as the rest, as though the bridge had never been there. A different part now led to a bridge, connecting it with the platform on Yrith’s left. The one where the pond was. The one she had avoided before.
She stared at the construction, her mind blank momentarily. The place toyed with her, twisting, changing unpredictably, letting her pass when she would not expect it, creating obstacles where there were to be free passages. Again, the choice she had been given was false. There had never been a choice in the first place. Following that logic, the only path that made sense to take was...
Her eyes found the silent librarian standing by the altar on the right-hand platform. The creature still floated back and forth, keeping its eyes fixed on the book, as though the world around it was nonexistent. Which, as Yrith thought about it, might have been quite true.
She walked back to the fork. Up on its platform, the creature looked menacing. Even if Yrith stood next to it, it would likely be three times taller than her. Hesitantly, she stepped on the bridge to the platform. The creature did not seem hostile, but she would not bet on it. She did not trust anything anymore. Her hands clenched into fists, tingling with magicka. It was the only thing she had now. She prayed it would save her if the creature decided to attack.
Slowly, she climbed the bridge, watching the creature with every step she took. It still read, seemingly undisturbed by her presence. Or, perhaps, unaware of it. Yrith stepped carefully over the pages, trying her hardest to stifle the rustle under her feet. But the more she tried, the more the pages whispered, as if they had a voice of their own, trying to warn the creature of an intruder. And when Yrith stepped on the platform, the creature froze suddenly, turning away from the book for the first time. For a moment, its eyes met with Yrith’s.
Then, it lunged.
Yrith staggered, warding herself with magic, but the creature did not seem to mind. It sent her falling until she felt her back hit the floor, hard despite the layers of crumpling paper. The ward crackled, battling the magic of the place. The creature pressed on it, forcing it to touch Yrith’s face. A thin line of lightning in the shield made her drop it before it could reach her skin. The creature touched her. The world turned upside down and lost all color before darkening entirely. Yrith rattled, catching her breath. The creature did not just hold her body. It held her mind. And Yrith saw... thoughts. Memories. Not of a creature of the dark, trapped in a land with nothing but aeons of knowledge and a labyrinth of secrets, but those of a person that had once been human.
She had never been to the place she had now entered, but she knew its smell. Dust filled the innumerable aisles, making the beams of sunlight coming through the windows seem like showers of golden glitter. She, or he, was sitting at a desk, staring at the pages of a thick tome, filled with gruesome images of human intestines in various stages of some unknown disease. He shook his head, turning and turning. Perhaps his search would never bear fruit. Perhaps he was wrong to dream. But he could not give up. He could not let the reality continue. Not if it would take his greatest treasure.
Wearily, he sighed, ready to put the book away. But then, something caught his eye. An inscription, a single line of writing at the bottom of the last page, nearly imperceptible under the many lines of original text. A reference. A cure.
Quickly, he jumped from his seat, rushing to the section to which the note pointed. And there, he found a book like none he had ever seen. Its cover was pitch-black, its texture almost as if it had been burnt. It bore a strange, tangled ornament with no inscription. He opened it. The world shifted and twisted, light turning into darkness, darkness into light again. And there he stood, in the world full of secrets where every piece of knowledge ever known had been gathered. He would find it. He was certain.
The scene changed. He was now watching a baby, sleeping quietly for now in her crib. The little girl’s skin was ashen grey, even if she was not a Dunmer, marred by dark stains stretching from the corners of her mouth to her neck and ears. He watched her quietly, touching the tiny hand that lay clenched loosely on the little one’s belly. She was so small. Too small for her age. His little treasure. She did not deserve her fate. But he knew now what he had to do. He had found it at last. He would save her, give her the life she was meant to have. He took her fingers in his own, caressing them gently. Soon.
He had finally done it. His little girl, healthy now, with cheeks rosy and limbs as restless as could be, was crying as she should. At last, she had the life... but at what price? How could he ever think that he could gain the life for her for free? A life could only be paid with another life...
He stared at the figure lying at the feet of the crib. Her hair, red as the setting sun, spread around her like a stretching web of blood vessels. Her face, once beautiful and vivid with a gentle smile, was now empty, lifeless, her skin the same ashen color his own baby had been born with. He fell to his knees, brushing a finger against her paper skin. His tears fell into her open eyes. She did not move. She would never move again... why? Did he want too much from life? Was a wife and a child too much to ask for? Why did life punish him so?
He gritted his teeth, groping for the cursed book. No, he would not let it end like this. He would not accept it. He would bring her back, she would live. The ancient library held every secret in the world. For sure, it would hold the answer to his question. It would give him all he needed... if only he searched long enough. With newly found determination, he opened the book again.
The great library opened before him once more, with its piles of books stacked into pillars and arches, the sweet scent of knowledge that only this place could offer, inviting him inside, further into its bowels. He took in the air and touched the first book, too thirsty for knowledge to care about anything else. The world around him faded. The only thing that mattered now were the lines of text. He would search and search, stay here forever, until he found the key to his dream. After all, time was of little importance here. Time was endless...
He searched and searched. He read and read more. Lost in the incessant tomes and lines, he cared little for the itching of his skin and all the feelings that had overcome him. The hunger. The pain. The exhaustion. They were only illusion.
His skin had adopted greenish tones, somewhat lustrous. Ah, but surely it was just his sweat reflecting the strange light of this place. Just like the thick tendrils growing from his head could only be his hair, glued together and hardened after too much time spent here. Nothing mattered. Only the books did. Only the knowledge did. And he would search on. Perhaps he could not remember what he searched for... but he would remember once he found it. For sure...
But he was tired. So tired. He had forgotten time and lost the way out. Now, the only option was to keep searching. To take book after book and immerse, to lose track so that he would forget his despair. He was so alone... words were his only companions. The only thing to sate him, even if they were just words and no more. They had lost all meaning. He did not need it anymore. His place was here, he knew it now. It had always been here. He should have known. For he was meant to watch over it, to protect it... he would protect it. The sacred knowledge and the place itself. No intruder would ever take it. He would crush them all. Just like the little stray who dared disturb his research. He would destroy her, grind her mind to dust, make her a slave of this place. Just like himself.
Yrith felt the brunt of his weight on her body. He would crush her, strangle her. She tried to leap back, but he held her too tight. His tentacles wrapped tightly around her head, filling her with thoughts that were not her own. Protect... she too had to stay and protect...
She gasped, her whole body glowing bright blue with magicka. No, she could not give in. She did not belong here. Her place was elsewhere. This was but another of the many challenges on her way, meant to test her, to slow her down. She had come with a goal. She would not lose it now.
With brute force, she grabbed a tentacle and pressed. The creature recoiled, only to attack with double the ferocity. Thousands of needles pricked her head and assaulted her mind. Her focus shattered, her vision broke into a vast field of colorful distortion. She fought for her breath, blinking to regain her sight. He was still looming above her, so close. And then, she became him, pressing her own body to the ground... but the person he held was a dark-eyed, red-haired woman, staring at him in accusation. The mother of his child, still beautiful in her death. He stared at her, faltering. Her face was twisted in rage. The look was too painful for him to bear, stabbing him like a knife of ice.
“You killed me,” she said quietly. Tears came down over her temples in streaks, falling with soundless splashes into the fan of her hair. “You never really cared.”
He hesitated, his grip loosening for the briefest of moments. She was so dear to him. She would be so dear to her... to their child... he needed her...
She needed her. Yrith needed her. She knew this woman. Her hair was not red, but raven, just like her own. A mirror image of herself, if only she were a few years older and a touch more beautiful. Still a mother, but her own. A beloved mother she had lost.
“You killed me,” she repeated. “Why did you do that, Yrith?”
Yrith opened her mouth, but no words came out. She stared at the person before her, pinned to the ground under her grip. Why had she killed her? How could she? It was a moment of weakness. Her own damned weakness, a punishment for the desire she should have never harbored. The knife stabbing her chest was not ice-cold, but white hot now, burning like the fire that had taken the dear mother. Like the fire of the atronach she had summoned, out of the plain, silly feeling that had clouded her senses. If only she could have stopped it in time. She had never meant to harm them. She had never wanted them to die. And now, the only thing left in her was...
Anger. Not regret, but anger at the one who had done this to her. To them. She should not be the one to pay. He should. She had done nothing. Her mother must know...
“I didn’t,” Yrith said slowly, loosening the grip. Her own words felt soothing, filling her with unexpected strength. “I never killed you! It wasn’t me!”
She withdrew her hands, propping herself against the ground. She was shaking but certain now that her words would reach their target. Singird had told her. Her mother had told her herself. She had done nothing. She had trust in herself.
Her mother closed her eyes, then opened them again, her face now peaceful. She raised a hand to touch Yrith’s cheek.
“You’ve grown so much,” she whispered, giving a gentle smile. “You’ve become so strong.”
Yrith felt stinging hotness in her eyes. She touched the hand with her own. It felt warm, a home she missed so sorely.
“Maman...”
The mother shook her head, stroking Yrith’s face. “Go now. You have things to do.”
Yrith clutched the hand firmly, wishing for the time to freeze. “But... there’s so much I have to say... so much I have to know!”
The hand slipped out of her grasp, her mother still smiling. Yrith felt warmth in her chest, the warmth she had so craved when this person was still around. She did not want to let go. She had waited so long for this moment.
“Do not forget yourself, Yrith,” her mother said with a tone of urgency. “Do not give in to the temptations of this place. I’m but a shadow in your heart. I am what you kept of me. I have no answers for you. You must go. I can’t hold him off forever.”
“Him...”
Yrith gasped, blinking her eyes. The image disappeared, replaced by the acutely suffocating reality. She was lying on the ground, one tendril around her neck, others holding her limbs. From within their roots, she could see the remnants of the face that had once dominated this body. The man from her visions, a father, a husband, too broken to let go. A seeker of knowledge that was beyond his grasp.
“S-stop...” she wheezed through the tiny slit left in her throat, fighting tears, fighting the image that forced itself before her eyes. “This is... not who you are...”
He growled, shaking her as though she was a mere rag doll. She rattled and coughed, but still, she looked at him firmly, glowing with magic, sending it onward, to him, searching for his mind.
“She went to rest,” she said, both aloud and in her mind. She could not be sure if she was talking to him, or herself. But she continued, repeating her mother’s last words to herself. “So let go... you can let go. Remember who you are. Your search... is over.”
The man-creature froze. Then, slowly, he loosened his grip, the tentacles hanging limply from his head.
“But...”
His voice was gurgly, high-pitched, unused for years. Perhaps not meant for speaking anymore. She could see his struggle, both mental and physical. He hesitated, then tried again, letting out a few rattling sounds. Every bit of effort brought new sound. And then, he spoke with newly found strength, his voice still inhuman, but true.
“But... where will I go?”
Yrith looked at his trembling figure, feeling a sting of affection. He had loved too much. Too deeply to be understood, too strongly to have the strength to live. He had been hurt and betrayed. And still full of longing. This soul needed rest. She gave a weak smile.
“On,” she said.
He kept looking at her, a lone tendril caressing her face. She closed her eyes momentarily, now feeling safe enough to do so. When she opened them again, he was smiling. A crooked, horrendous face was looking at her, but she could feel its peace, just like she had felt it from her mother.
“Thank you.” He lowered his head in deference, extending a slime-covered hand. Yrith took it, letting him pull her on her feet. They watched each other for a moment, until Yrith knew it was time. She looked at him encouragingly.
“Safe journey,” she said. He nodded.
“And to you. I have nothing to give, but perhaps this will help you find your way. The master of this place has a weakness.”
She looked at him in question. He waved to the platforms down below, and to the number of other creatures like him, roaming the library, arranging books, or quietly sifting through their pages.
“You have retrieved my memory. My feelings, everything that was mine. You have retrieved them... from myself. They had never left me. He cannot touch what is not his.”
She stared at the creatures, wondering what life lay locked deep in their minds. They were all people. People who had lost their way, just like him.
“Thank you,” she nodded.
He still smiled that crooked smile. And then, with his last sigh, he plunged himself down, into the dark waters. Yrith watched him fall, his tentacles flying loosely about him, until they were gone, leaving him human again. He looked into her eyes once more, his face at peace. As he touched the surface of the black sea, he closed his eyes. The body sank, leaving behind a circle of greenish ripples. Yrith knew at that moment that he was not there anymore.
She kept watching, until the last ripple had gone off to the horizon. Then she turned to the platforms below, expecting a bridge to form before her and open the way onward. But there was no bridge. Instead, a different creature was staring at her, with countless eyes watching her from amidst a tangled knot of darkness. Her eyes widened, but she did not back away. She knew who he was. Even if she ran faster than the wind, she could not escape him in this realm. She felt herself tremble, her tired mind wishing for a moment of leisure. But now was not the time. She had to stand her ground.
She straightened her back, taking a breath. She would not show him weakness.
As if responding to her reaction, he spoke.
“It seems I have invited myself a dangerous guest.” Yrith could not tell if the voice was in her head, or outside of it. Perhaps it made no difference here. When it came, she felt ages of both wisdom and foolishness weigh on her shoulders. This person... being, was old as time itself. And yet, she knew he felt young, or, rather, timeless. As though he had seen nothing, with those eyes wanting to see more. Perhaps he was not wrong in a sense. Perhaps she was not wrong either.
“You are Hermaeus Mora,” she stated the obvious. It was not a question. She felt him chuckle.
“Brilliant observation. And you are the one they call Zulvahzen, The One Who Speaks True. But you have many more names, Yrith Ravencroft. Many that you have forgotten. Many you do not yet realize.”
She gave him a long, questioning look. A few of his eyes blinked lazily. She was sure they did it just for effect. All his appearance was just for effect. He could take on whatever form he wanted. Yet this, shapeless and menacing, was what he chose.
“And you know them?”
He laughed. “Clever question. Most people would ask what those names are, but not you. Although, I do not think I need to answer. You know it already.”
She knew. She did not need to nod. He would feel her answer anyway.
“Why have you appeared?” she asked instead. “I thought you wouldn’t.”
“Indeed. But that makes two of us. You did something unforeseen. I do not like it. Not even the Dragonborn could deprive me of my seekers. And yet, you walk free in this land of mine.”
Yrith’s look hardened. The seeker had not been his, and he knew it. But perhaps this was his reason. She reminded him of it. Deep inside, the seekers were still their own masters. She could not help but smile, even as she asked the most ridiculous question she could think of.
“Are you going to kill me then?”
She felt no fear. After all, if the seeker’s words were right, he could not kill her unless she herself consented to it.
“Now, let’s not be too hasty. What good would killing you do me, Yrith Ravencroft? No. If I wished to kill you, you would have long been dead. But you are more valuable to me alive, and you know it. You possess, or will possess, in your way of speaking, something I want. Let us make a bargain. I will show you the way to whom you seek, for he is not in this realm, as you and the Dragonborn thought. For that, you will give me what you’re after. As you mortals like to say, it is nice and simple. A good deal.”
“He is not here? Then where is he?”
“Good try,” he purred, “but all at the right time. First, you will give me your answer.”
Yrith’s eyes narrowed. The Dragonborn had warned her. Hermaeus Mora was someone capable of trapping a person for eternity if it served his purpose. Surely this good deal he spoke of would not come without a twist. She took a moment to consider his words. He could trap her on her way to Septimus Signus, but that would not help him. He would not have to bother with talking to her at all. Then he had something else in store for her. Just how was she supposed to reason with him?
He cannot touch what is not his...
So unless she agreed, he could do nothing. She took a breath.
“What is it that you want?” she asked, looking straight into his many eyes. He quivered, chuckling.
“Why nothing spectacular. Surely you expect me to ask for your power, but I do not need it. There is enough power in knowing. What I desire is simple knowledge. Something that is out of my grasp. Something that you are painfully keen on retrieving.”
“The Elder Scroll?” Yrith asked, one brow quirked. He twirled, if she could call it that, his many eyes blinking.
“A trifle thing, the Elder Scroll. I am the Master of Fate and Time, Elder Scrolls mean little to me.”
He was lying, she was certain of it. But perhaps that was unimportant. She could care less about how he felt about Elder Scrolls. She must not be distracted.
“Then what?”
“I want nothing but a single word. The name. The name, spoken in its true form, in the Tongue of the Old. That is my price.”
Yrith stared into his many eyes, slowly drifting from one to another. He wanted the Demon’s name? The name lost in time? What would such knowledge bring him?
She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. She could not rush her decision. A good deal it seemed, but surely there had to be a catch. What would she give him? Would command over the Demon mean so much to the already powerful Daedric Prince? Or would she give something else? Would it mean she would lose possession of it? If only the Dragonborn was here to advise her. But she had no doubt that this was Mora’s plan. A plan she had to crush.
“I will only give it to you,” she said thoughtfully, “if I get to decide the exact time and way and no one else is involved without my consent.”
The bundle of darkness now shook as Hermaeus Mora laughed, all his eyes bouncing up and down. He sure put a lot of effort into making his appearance seem real.
“Are you sure, Zulvahzen,” Yrith felt the name resonate within her, “that you can afford to make such demands? You are standing in my realm.”
“That depends,” she shrugged with as much nonchalance as she could. “This is my mind. And you can, of course, leave me to my devices, but then there will be no one to fetch the name for you.”
He fell silent. Yrith fought her own doubt, still feeling the touch of the cold tendrils from the pond on her. Perhaps he could not touch what was not his, but he could still cause her damage. She waited for what felt like all the time in the world, pondering if he was truly thinking, or if making her wait gave him an upper hand. She stood still, watching him intently until, at last, he spoke.
“You are indeed The One Who Speaks True. So here is my proposal. I show you the path. You will give the name to me on your conditions, but if you die before that, it will fall in my possession.”
Yrith smiled. That was more like it. So he intended to kill her before she would be able to set her conditions. How smart he thought himself to be. A cheap trick with just as cheap a solution.
“Fair enough,” she nodded.
“Then I believe all is settled. Now, you would like to find your sage, would you? I believe you already have all that you need, but let me just give you a hint. It is true that Septimus pledged his soul to me. But he was unfit for this realm, as are many who seek my knowledge for too long. I do not thrive in lunacy. But if you are to enter the land of madness, you must learn to think like its master. Your only obstacle is yourself. Choose the path that is the least logical, yet most at hand.”
Yrith waited for him to continue, but he spoke no more. She frowned, scrutinizing his uneven, many-eyed form.
“That’s all? You told me you’d show me the way.”
He laughed again. “I just did. For all your cleverness, your ears are surprisingly clogged. Oblivion is not your world. There are no paths to walk or road signs to follow. By now, you should know. But very well. Let me give you one more hint. You are searching for the Shivering Isles. Remember that.”
Her frown deepened. Of course she knew what the Mad Prince’s realm was called. What good would that knowledge be? But there was no point in arguing. She had attempted to turn their deal in her favor. Of course he would do the same.
She nodded, hinting a curtsy.
“I will,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Your eyes do not speak of understanding. Let us hope for your timely enlightenment then. Farewell, mortal child. We will see each other again.”
With a soundless twirl, Hermaeus Mora disappeared from Yrith’s sight. She knew he was still present in every inch of this world. He would enjoy watching her struggle until she left it, or even after that. She took a breath. Still, she was on her own.
She looked around, scanning the place inch after inch. Now she had to find her path, but what was least logical and most at hand if she wanted to leave Apocrypha? Reading books seemed the least logical, but she was sure that was not it. She could not even touch them without the place reforming itself, imprisoning her where she was. Unless it would reform into the Shivering Isles. But no, when she thought about it, it seemed perhaps too logical.
Delving into the minds of the seekers was illogical, but not at hand. She watched them as they roamed the place, lost in eternal search for knowledge. Then what? Continuing her journey as she had until now? No, that was too logical as well. But perhaps...
She turned around, facing the way back. With little hesitation, she began to walk, soon finding her way across the bridge, to the platform with a pond. She circled it with caution, watching its surface. It remained still, no tentacle claiming her this time. The master of the place had retreated to silence.
She walked on, through the archways of books and bridges connecting the platforms, until she stood back where she had appeared. The platform was circular, with nothing to remind her of her journey. There was no portal, no sign that this place should be connected to some other realm. Not even a field of magic. Nothing she could hold onto and follow. Perhaps that would also be too logical.
So what was she supposed to do? Kill herself? No, as much as it sounded illogical, ridiculous even, she could not see it as the thing most at hand. If anything, she would end in the service of Hermaeus Mora forever, now owned by him for real. The thought made her shudder. But then what was the answer?
She paced across the platforms and bridges again, eyes defocused, mind searching for possibilities, forcing her weary mind to work. But surely any possibility she would have to search for could not be considered at hand. What was it that Mora had told her?
“Your only obstacle is yourself.”
But of course, she knew that. She knew it all, and he had made a fool out of her. How was she supposed to figure it out? She had always hated vagueness. Textbooks were so full of it, all those tomes written by people who had thought themselves smart and above ordinary folk’s standards. Of course he did too. He was an immortal Daedric Prince, after all, while she was just a measly human coming for a visit. Still, a human he was at least willing to commune with.
She sighed, running a hand through her hair. Become like Sheogorath, the Daedric Prince of Madness. What would she have to do to achieve that?
“You are searching for the Shivering Isles. Remember that.”
She propped herself against a banister, watching the horizon fading in the greenish haze. It was not like the isles would just pop out of that black liquid all of a sudden...
Or was it?
She blinked. They were isles after all. They would be in the middle of the sea. But taking that leap seemed too far-fetched for her own good. She had no guarantee the liquid would not dissolve her, or that it would be swimmable at all. What if she had been fooled?
She stared into the depths below. The liquid showed nothing of what was underneath, only the vast expanse of blackness glittering in ghostly green. Jumping in would just be pure...
“Madness...” she voiced aloud, rolling the word on her tongue. She shuddered, remembering the seeker she had freed. His soul left the moment he touched the surface. Several times she closed her eyes and opened them again, trying to picture all the possible scenarios. But the truth was, she knew nothing of what would happen. She could only guess.
Time passed as she stood there, pondering. She was truly her own obstacle. If she could make sure she would survive... but not even her magic worked as expected here. She had to rely on Herma-Mora’s advice. After all, there was no other way she could leave anymore. Unless she somehow willed herself out. She was not sure it would be so easy.
And so, after an undefinably long while of contemplations, she gripped the banister, swinging one leg over it, then another. Mora needed her. He would not let her die just yet... she had to be brave. Daring. Unlike the Yrith of the real world.
She took a breath, then another. Before she could take the third, she pushed herself off with all her might.
--
A/N: This chapter is probably the hardest one I’ve ever written, for various reasons. I do hope I did a good job and managed to edit out all the ambiguities so that it is readable. Feedback is much welcome!
It was also supposed to be longer, but I decided to split it and move the Shivering Isles part into the next chapter. As such, I also had to rename it – so there will not be two “Path” chapters, but three. The previous one was called “The Path of the Blind”, this one was supposed to be called “The Path of the Mad”, but since there are no Shivering Isles, I’ve decided that the name doesn’t quite fit. So next time, you may look forward to the real Path of the Mad. :)
Footsteps echoed in the quiet of the endless passages. Yrith did not know how long they had been walking. She would have never guessed how soon she would lose track of time without seeing the sky. It might have been hours. It might have been days. Her body, slowly gaining on exhaustion, was the only measure she had.
They walked slowly, unhurriedly. The stars of the cave had long flickered away, the only light to guide them being a small glowing stone the Dragonborn had taken from there to carry around. Yrith did not even know how deep they were. The path seemed to rise and fall in waves, occasionally serving them a thick root or large boulder to obstruct their passage. At times, she could swear she heard footsteps other than their own. They were strangely heavy, as if their owners walked blind and dizzy, always treading with the whole of their soles, letting the earth beneath their feet feel all of their weight. Yrith wondered if the darkness had dulled her senses. Perhaps she was hearing things. But one look at Cain and Leyna told her they too were wary, roving with their eyes from one wall of stone and dirt to another. The Dragonborn had told them to stay on their guard. Yrith wondered what lurked in these dark tunnels. He had never elaborated.
She wished to spread her magic, but he had forbidden her from doing so. Magic left traces. If there was a way to throw off any potential pursuers, he would use it. Yrith understood. But she felt bare. Vulnerable. Blind.
They walked on in silence. Yrith would have felt more secure if someone talked. Nobody dared. The Dragonborn led them through tunnel after tunnel, crossing forks and choosing their way seemingly by instinct. She tried to guess which way he would take to occupy her mind, but there were no signs that would tell her the direction. There were no landmarks, nothing that would catch her attention. Only the air changed, sometimes bringing the fresh smell from outside, sometimes weighing on them with a stale stench of mold and dirt. But when Yrith thought her legs would give way under her, the Dragonborn took a sharp turn to the right, into a tunnel that soon opened into a marble corridor with the familiar pumping and hissing coming from the distance.
“Careful now,” Keneel-La’s voice carried through the vast space, thundering after the long period of silence, “so you don’t trigger a trap. See that groove in the middle?” He pointed a finger toward a long furrow splitting the corridor in two narrow parts. “There’s a screw inside. Walk close enough and you’ll be shredded. The Dwemer were obsessed with security, so do be careful. Chances are there are still some mechanisms I haven’t quite discovered. Or understood. Perhaps now would be the time to make an exception and use your magic, Yrith. I take it you can see what lies hidden beneath the surface?”
Yrith gave a slow nod. “I can try,” she said.
She unleashed the power shut deep inside her. It sprang forward, delving deep into the Dwemer structure. Yrith could touch the screw in the ground and the sharp blades attached to it. It led to a mechanism much broader than the corridor they stood in. Broader than anything she could ever imagine.
She could not help but explore further, cog after cog, pipe after pipe, an infinite web of tubes and wires, some parts hot, some ice-cold, crisscrossing a wide area underneath them. Yrith could not reach the end, but after a while, she noticed a rhythm. The whole place pulsed with life, like a heartbeat. Following it, she found a great joint, warm where a giant round stone formed its core. It was plunged deep down into a water canal where it turned, trapped in a wired cage. Cold water poured in, taking heat from the mechanism as it passed on to spread through the plumbing.
“Yrith?”
She raised her head. The Dragonborn watched her with raised brows. He must have called her a few times already, waiting for an answer. She flushed.
“I…”
“Have you found something?”
“I’ve… found the core. It’s like a… giant soul gem. Only it’s…”
“Way more powerful,” the lizard affirmed. “I’d say that’s a sigil stone. Don’t even think of shutting this place down. I’ve no doubt you could with all that power you have, but the Dwemer structures are not designed to last without their source. Do it, and the whole complex might collapse. Let’s simply avoid the traps, shall we?”
Yrith nodded, limiting the reach of her magic to their proximity. Past the groove with a screw, she found several tripwires. She snorted.
“How cheap,” she said, sending a single spark of her magicka to cut the wires. A pair of giant pincers shot from the ceiling in the distance before they retreated back and hid behind the gilded plates covering the ceiling’s surface.
“Cheap, but effective,” Keneel-La shrugged. “Anything else in the way?”
Yrith shook her head. She found a lever to turn off the screw and pulled it. The Dragonborn nodded in appreciation.
“Let’s go then.”
They kept to the sides, avoiding the path of the screw just to be certain. Across the corridor, Cain frowned, shooting a glance at the lizard before him. He spoke quietly, but the walls carried his voice well. Yrith could still hear them clearly.
“Say, Keneel-La.”
“Hmm?”
“You spoke about a sigil stone. Did you mean…”
“The thing that can serve as a link between Nirn and Oblivion? Yes, that’s exactly what I meant. I’m afraid the Dwemer were rather indiscriminate in choosing their technology sources. Anything counts as long as it gives power. Then again, they are not around anymore. I can only assume that one day, this lust for progress simply didn’t end that well for them.”
Cain’s frown deepened as he mouthed something Yrith could not make out. They spoke no more, but the Dunmer’s face remained somber. Yrith could only guess his thoughts.
“He’s not very fond of the Daedra, is he?” Leyna muttered by her side.
Yrith raised her brows. “Who would be?”
“That’s a question, isn’t it?” the elf shrugged, half smiling. “As a Dunmer, I’d expect Cain to be fonder of them than you and the Dragonborn.”
Yrith froze in her tracks, staring into the innocent-looking face of Leyna. “You heard us talking?”
“Anyone could have heard you.”
“But… did Cain…?”
Yrith’s eyes wandered to the Dunmer, now watching his back as he followed the Dragonborn on to the top of the slanting corridor. Neither of them seemed to notice her or Leyna, keeping up their pace.
“No idea. But knowing him, he would have let you know right then and there. Let’s go, shall we?”
Tugging at Yrith’s sleeve, Leyna set to walking again. Yrith kept close, her mind running in wild circles.
“But you won’t tell him, will you?”
Leyna let out a quiet snort. “It’s not my place to interfere. But eventually, you will have to tell him yourself. He would give his life for you, you know. He’ll lose his mind if he ever learns you’ve decided to set off for a daedric realm on your own.”
There was longing in her voice, but also the tiniest sliver of warmth Yrith had never heard there before. She watched Leyna’s rucksack bouncing before her, its movement just as graceful as its owner. Leyna led the way, not looking back, putting one foot before another in an almost scripted movement.
“Leyna, are you…” Yrith hesitated. Before her, Leyna tossed her head an inch.
“Yes?”
“Are you in love with Cain?”
Leyna’s pace slackened for a split moment before she gained on speed again, her drawn breath audible over the constant pumping of the Dwemer mechanisms. It sounded almost as a laugh.
“Where did that come from?” she wondered.
“I was just… it’s nothing…”
“That idea never crossed my mind. Not even when the two of us were pretending to be courting. No, it was always strictly political.”
Yrith frowned. She did not like the sound of the word political. Not when it came to Cain and Leyna.
“But I envy him,” Leyna added in a quiet voice. Yrith stared at her.
“How do you…”
“I envy how sincere his words are when he speaks to you. How he walks forward, never looking back, never feeling sorry for himself. How strong he looks when he acknowledges you. How he was able to turn from that snobbish boy who tried to freeze you with a frostbite spell into your closest friend. I suppose,” she gave a soft laugh, “I considered it a personal achievement to win your partnership that day when he and Qassir Tahlrah fought over you. It may have meant more to me than it should have.”
Yrith snorted. “Was I a prize to be won?”
Leyna turned around, pinning her golden eyes into Yrith’s silver ones. She watched her for a brief moment with her head tilted to the side and smiled.
“You still are,” she said with a light shrug, hurrying to join Cain and Keneel-La waiting for them by the broken tripwire. Yrith opened her mouth to speak, but there was no chance Leyna would hear her words while the others wouldn’t. She closed it again, pondering the difference between a prize and a friend. Was she a prize for Cain too?
She watched the Dunmer as she approached them. He looked back, brows rising slightly with a hint of curiosity. There was no lust in his eyes, no competitiveness. They were ever so gentle. No, he was not like that. He had never won her. It was something else that had brought him close.
“Everything in order?” Keneel-La’s voice cut through her thoughts.
She nodded absently, following Leyna to his side.
“Can you examine the path ahead? There should be a pool a short way from the gallery. The stream that flows into it is clean enough to drink from. I’d say we stay there for a while.”
Yrith nodded again, letting her magic out. Before them was a path blocked by another of the Dwemer gilded lattice gates, but aside from the lock, there seemed to be no obstacles ahead. The corridor opened into a vast octagonal area encircled by a wall with a number of broken stone and metal benches on top. She imagined it might have once been an arena. In each corner of the gallery, there was a ballista, but none held any arrows and the launching mechanisms seemed to be glued with a strange, semi-liquid matter. The same matter covered most of the place, forming a trail that led to the remote corner of the gallery. Before the entrance to the next corridor, Yrith found another tripwire. But this time, it was not made of metal. It was a rope made of thread. Spider thread. Yrith frowned.
“What is it?” the Dragonborn asked, watching her intently.
“There’s…” Yrith trailed off as she examined the place. The trap the rope connected to was made of the same matter as the glue in the ballistae, hardened into a series of claw-like hooks like steel-hard resin. And just past the entrance stood… something. Someone. She could not sense its… her thoughts or feelings. All the creature’s emotions were driven away by caution, its muscles tensed, ready to send her leaping at whoever would dare invade her territory. She was nigh naked, holding what must have been a staff made from the same resin-like substance. There was magic in it, warped, twisted the same as its owner. Yrith paled. It was… an elf. But not at all.
“What is that thing?” she whispered, forgetting the presence of her three companions.
“What did you find?” the Dragonborn insisted.
“A… person… I don’t know… it’s… it’s blind. Senseless…”
The lizard let out a breath, straightening his back, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword.
“That doesn’t bode well. This spot should have been detached from the Falmer territories. But if they found it, we better make our leave before we’re noticed.”
“The Falmer?!”
Both Cain and Leyna were staring at him with their eyes wide, incredulous. Yrith froze. No, she couldn’t be…
She touched the creature again, gently, exploring her mind. There was nothing. No words. No images. No thoughts. Only darkness and fear. It had never known care and affection, it had never tasted a proper meal, never felt warmth. It only knew to survive.
“B-but… they’re… the Snow Elves…”
“Yrith.” The Dragonborn seized her chin, turning her to face him. “Forget your compassion. The Snow Elves are gone. This is what they have become.”
“But…”
“The Dragonborn is right,” Leyna said quietly. Yrith could see a slight shudder in her posture. “The Falmer are beyond saving, the Dwemer drove them to madness. Let’s just…”
“What was that?”
Now, Cain stood on his guard, watching the way they had come. Yrith could hear it too, the thudding of heels and tapping of toes on the stone. The strange, heavy gait they had heard back in the tunnels. Now she knew who it belonged to.
“Too late, it seems,” Keneel-La hissed. “Whatever happens, stay by my side. Don’t get separated, or else we’re never going to find each other. Use your magic or whatever means necessary to fight back. The Falmer are different from the people up on the surface. They don’t think. They don’t fear pain. They won’t show mercy, they won’t hold back. And they will attack in numbers. Go for kills, don’t risk anything.”
Yrith shuddered as she let the magic engulf her hands. No matter what the Dragonborn said, the Falmer were still people. Was she supposed to kill people now? People who, above all else, were lost in eternal darkness with nothing but their lives?
A figure waddled into the corridor. Its skin was ashen grey and mostly bare, its ribs drawing a set of lines over its chest, its belly falling inward. All the mass of the creature was concentrated in the thin muscles along its arms and legs. As it raised its skull-like face, Yrith could see reddish circles where its eyes were supposed to be. Inadvertently, she took a step back, fighting against the urge to cover her mouth.
“Oh gods…”
At her side, Leyna mirrored her own expression. She was staring at the creature with horror in her eyes, unmoving. Yrith forced herself to look back at the miserable thing before them. It broke into a run. Behind it, two other emerged, clad in some sort of giant bug shell armor.
Yrith did not waste any time. Her fingertips flared, her mind calling to Oblivion. The summoned atronachs, two of fire, two of crackling lightning and swirling rocks, created a wall separating Yrith’s group from the Falmer. She watched them clash with a sick fascination, unable to tear her eyes from the sight. Face to face with the Falmer, the mindless atronachs seemed almost intelligent, calculating their moves against the raw, thoughtless fierceness. Yrith held her breath and…
“Yrith!”
A cry resounded through the corridor before she was yanked to the floor. An arrow brushed her hair. She gaped at Cain who was holding her against his chest, then at Leyna looming above them as she managed to produce a ward just in time to stop another arrow.
“Blast! They’re closing in from both sides!” Keneel-La managed before charging forward. His blade plunged deep into the chest of the first Falmer with no hesitation. The creature let out a helpless rattling sound as it sunk to its knees. Its body jerked from side to side in its last struggle. The Dragonborn pulled the blade out, proceeding to another opponent. Yrith gritted her teeth. Despite their ghastly appearance, their blood was still the same red as hers.
She pulled herself to her feet, calling her magic again, casting spell after spell, shielding her friends and herself with a crust of stone, creating swirling barriers of fire and frost and coating them with translucent wards. As two jagged chitin blades struck against the Dragonborn’s ward, Yrith sent in more magicka, replenishing it instantly. Still, the enemies multiplied, as if they were breeding on the spot. Sooner or later, they were bound to break through.
Cain joined the Dragonborn’s side, drawing his dagger with one hand, the other one flaring with fire. Leyna too joined the fray, supporting the wards and casting glowing explosive runes among the Falmer. Yrith called more atronachs to their aid. Two of the older ones fell under the incessant volleys of arrows and spells.
She frowned. Eventually, this place would be crowded. Then, it would matter little how powerful they were. They were already heavily outnumbered. The walk had left them weary, in dire need of rest. Surely the Dragonborn must have expected as much. But despite that, he considered this path to be safer than the surface one.
She clenched a fist, the other hand swinging fast to release a ball of fire. He had been right. The Falmer did not back away when the fire hit. Instead, they attacked with more ferocity, mindless of pain, mindless of the stench of burnt flesh that sent uncomfortable tickles down Yrith’s stomach. Just how many were there? She did not dare to count.
She scanned the corridor. Its width now worked against them. More Falmer swarmed down by its entrance, held back only by her atronachs and the wall of wards and fire she kept just before them. Keneel-La and the rest faced the wrong side, still fighting against those coming from within the complex. They had to move out, not in.
Yrith spread her magic, examining the place. She had to do something. Anything to separate the Falmer on the inner side from her companions. If she only hadn’t sprung the tripwires…
The tripwires.
Up in the ceiling, hidden behind infinite plates of Dwemer metal, were the giant pincers. If they were to sink down upon the blind elves…
She took a breath, trying not to imagine the carnage. These creatures had no clue… but she had to live. They had to live.
She knelt down, touching the floor, sending all her hopes for keeping Cain and Keneel-La safe to Leyna. Her hands glowed with magic, now not blazing orange or protective green, but the blue of raw magicka. It penetrated the marble block underneath her and ran along the wiring embedded inside, up the walls and into the ceiling, finding the cogs and a set of pulleys on a spring holding the pincers up. It would be enough to cut the spring. But the cut would need to be clean and quick. Or maybe there was another way to severe it.
Furrowing her brows in concentration, she began examining the metal structure. It was different from the swirling storm she had faced in High Hrothgar, providing little room to let her magic in. She would need a minuscule explosion to disintegrate the substance, or immense heat to melt it.
A bolt of ice made her jump into the air. She turned around just in time to see the Falmer at the entrance take down the last atronach. A flaming figure stepped over the dead body of its comrade, preparing to lunge. Gritting her teeth, Yrith quickly summoned more, raising a ward before more missiles could reach her. On the other side, Keneel-La, Cain and Leyna did not even turn to see her efforts, too occupied to keep the assaulting mass of bodies at bay. She sank back to the floor, finding the spring again.
There was a part where the wire was slightly thinner. Yrith focused on it, forcing her magic in. The Dwemer metal resisted, hard enough not to let anything in, but pliable enough not to be too brittle. She ground her teeth until it almost hurt, sending in but a few thin strings. As she finally found the tiniest fissure in the metal, she drove the magic in like a wedge, turning, imbibing the metal with it, sending in heat from the pits of Oblivion until it burst.
She winced as the pincers came down upon the Falmer like lightning, followed by a number of metal plates and a shower of gravel that had been the ceiling. One green lamp on the wall exploded into a myriad of glistening shards, littering the lost elves with innumerable crimson wounds. Two ended up pierced entirely by the pincers. One was buried deep under the debris. For the first time, the Falmer faltered, both those imprisoned behind the pincers and those fighting the Dragonborn’s group. Keneel-La did not hesitate, using the chance to nearly behead one and plunge his sword into another’s chest. Cain too raised his blade and slashed across the nearest enemy’s throat, using a ward to prevent the blood from dying his face. Even Leyna sent a missile of lightning at the paralyzed Falmeri mage standing just behind the three. At last, there was no one to battle on this side, the rest of the Falmer behind the pincers either fatally wounded or on the run. Keneel-La turned to Yrith.
“Good thinking,” he nodded in acknowledgement. “Let’s get out of here then.”
Without another word, he stormed past her, toward where two of Yrith’s atronachs remained, still fighting the other group of Falmer. Yrith, Cain and Leyna followed, all holding their magic at the ready.
They clashed fiercely, with hardly any time to think. Yrith produced shield after shield, sending atronachs into the Falmers’ rear. A blade nearly cut through her ward. She strengthened it, piercing the opponent with an ice bolt, mentally trying to remove the picture of the blood from his body. Two others she deflected with a fire bolt, letting her atronachs deliver the finishing blows. She felt her body shake with exhaustion, her wards flicker. And then, when the next Falmer before her buckled in her knees, Yrith felt a sharp sting in her calf, followed by cold, numbing pain spreading through her body. She attempted a cry as she dropped to the floor, but her voice failed her.
“Yrith!” Cain’s cry seemed to be coming from a great distance, even if she knew he was kneeling right by her side.
Searching for the source of the pain, her eyes found a dark bolt sticking out of her leg, with black feathers and a tiny phial attached to its end. The translucent liquid that had used to fill it was almost gone. With all the strength she could muster, she looked up, to where the pincers still pinned the Falmer to the ground. A person was standing just by them… no… a machine. A humanoid machine with its legs attached to a set of circular plates serving it as wheels, made in that same Dwemer metal as everything else in these halls, holding what seemed to be an elaborate crossbow with cogs and a set of weights. As Yrith laid her eyes on it, the automaton raised its metallic hands, once again loading the weapon. This time, it aimed at Cain.
“NO!” Yrith cried, sending her magic out in a flurry, not caring where it would hit. It rushed through the corridor like a shockwave, sending everything to the ground. Yrith did not wait for it to finish. She fired lightning at the thing, now gathering itself from the floor. She missed. She fired another, her vision more and more blurry with each moment. She missed again. She yelled inarticulately, firing a sphere of all elements at once, making it large enough to engulf the unliving enemy. This time, she hit the machine square. It folded and crackled, letting out a shower of sparks. Behind it, another emerged, followed by something reminiscent of a large mechanical spider.
Yrith groaned. Her vision darkened. For a moment, she almost forgot where she was. She felt so weak…
“Get up!” a voice came from the distance. Something was pulling her arms, yanking her from side to side.
“No, let her…”
“There’s no time. She needs to get up. Yrith!”
She felt sharp pain in her calf, then another wave of cold. She forced her eyes open, catching her breath. Keneel-La was squatting beside her, gripping her in her armpits, his eyes steel-hard, but tinged with affection. Somewhere above him, a ward thrummed as it deflected more missiles. Leyna and Cain must have stood, protecting them with all their might.
“Get up, hatchling. I know you’re hurt and tired. But we’re going to die here if we don’t move out this instant. Get up.”
She saw his mouth moving and fought hard to process his words. Die… she did not want to die. She did not want them to die. She needed to stand up.
The ward flickered and vanished. Keneel-La jumped up, drawing his sword again, moving, moving fast from side to side to dodge the bolts until he was swinging the blade in the automaton’s face. Yrith faintly registered hissing and stomping behind her, calling atronachs and dremora to their help. Cain fired in all directions, his own movements shaky and distracted. Now, it was Leyna, kneeling down beside Yrith, placing her fingers on Yrith’s wound and sending threads of golden healing magic into her flesh. In her other hand, she was gripping the dark bolt, sniffing and furrowing her brows.
“Nirnroot and imp stool,” she spat, tossing the bolt away. “Of course it has to be something that repels magic. Come… stand.”
Yrith could feel the pain leaving her. She felt so drowsy now, so ready to give in to the darkness.
“Yrith!” Slender fingers slapped her lightly on the cheek. Yrith squinted into the kaleidoscope of flashing colors and lights. Just as a bolt of fire came her way, Leyna covered her, taking the blow instead. She screamed, her ward cast too late to shield all of the damage. Her coat was now torn and smoking, the smell of the charred fur joining the stench of death all around.
“Yrith,” she breathed, collapsing beside Yrith, “remember how you asked me what it was that you could do, that night Cain got hurt? I didn’t know… but I know now. You can save our lives... and I'll have your back. As promised… I’ll have your back. So please… stand up.”
Yrith felt Leyna’s fingers close around hers. She felt… water… falling down on her hand. Leyna was crying… the proud, beautiful Leyna was crying.
With a grunt, Yrith forced herself to sit. Then, slowly, to stand. Barely keeping her balance, she still extended her hand, waiting for the elf to take it.
“You already had my back… a million times today,” she whispered, staggering as Leyna took the hand and pulled herself up. Yrith felt terrible. Her head throbbed. She fought to feel her own body, as if there was nothing connecting the mind with the vessel. Even her magic was so far, so difficult to control. She searched hard for it, struggling to keep the connection. She had to ignore the exhaustion. They needed to survive.
“Leyna…”
“Yes?”
“Hold my hand… please.”
Leyna did not question. Raising another ward to shield them, she touched Yrith’s fingers again, gingerly closing her hand around them. Yrith gripped her tightly, the one stable point she could find. She concentrated all her power at Leyna’s hand, touching the stream of magicka coursing through her friend’s body, joining it with her own. Leyna stared at her with her eyes wide, jaw dropping low.
“Yrith, is this…?”
“Can you hold a ward with me?”
“I… think so…”
“Let’s do it then.”
Yrith touched the automatons, then the Falmer on the other side to measure the distance. With her next breath, shimmering walls formed on each side of the corridor, separating Cain and Keneel-La from the machines and Yrith’s atronachs from the Falmer. The Dragonborn and the Dunmer next to him turned to her, weary to even raise their brows at the sight.
“Yrith? What are you planning?” Keneel-La exhaled, wiping the skin on his forehead. It glistened in the light of the Dwemer lamps, even if Yrith could hardly imagine any sweat coming through those scales.
“Storming through,” Yrith managed, trying her hardest to keep up the ward and listen to the Dragonborn at the same time. Leyna was the only reason she could still hold. Her sight went blurry again. Just a bit longer. A bit… “Just… with protection… so that… we don’t have to… fight them all…”
The corridor before her went dark for a moment. She gritted her teeth for the umpteenth time that night.
“Very well,” Keneel-La nodded. “I will lead and try to clear the way. Cain, you will have our back.”
“Understood,” Cain said in a tired rasp.
They took their positions, Yrith and Leyna still holding up the ward, hands laced together to maintain the connection. Their free hands moved to adjust the protection, reducing its reach and forming a spike pointing toward the exit. Keneel-La took the tip. Cain remained in the rear. The atronachs guarding the edges of the barrier flickered and vanished. Yrith sighed. She could not find the strength to call more.
As the Dragonborn raised his hand, they moved as one. They did not break into a run. They chose a speedy gait, certain, steady, menacing. The Falmer in their way hesitated, taking a step back. But when no one attacked, they came down on the four of them with new ferocity, clashing into the ward with snarls and hisses. Yrith and Leyna kept it steady, faces twisted in blind focus.
Nobody fought. The Falmeri blades and arrows bounced off the ward, creating ripples that were quickly smoothed by Yrith’s magicka. Yrith could hardly see their figures, relying mostly on her magic. Still, she imagined how all of this must have felt to the others. To watch the hordes of enemies through the screen of the ward, as though they were in some distant reality, disconnected from their own. She had seen it before in her dreams when the Demon filled her with images of other people’s fates. She was living it now. It was all she could do. To pass them and watch.
They were almost outside, back in the tunnels. The ward was now their source of light. The Falmer blocked the way. Without stopping, Keneel-La Shouted.
“FUS RO DAH!”
The unrelenting force swept the blind elves from the path ahead. Keneel-La, with the rest of them close in tow, stumbled through the now clear tunnel, picking up his pace before their opponents could gather themselves. The darkness around them deepened, the glow of the ward too weak to penetrate it. With all the muscles and tendons in her body tense in the strain, Yrith forced an extra drop of magicka out of her fingertips, lighting the way. A sliver of warmth left her. The world before her turned and flickered. Piercing pain shot through her hand and into her chest, reaching her wounded leg. Her knees gave way. The ground underneath was uneven, full of rocks and roots, cutting into her skin and filling it with dirt.
“Yrith!”
She tried to stand, but her legs would not listen. Somewhere behind them, the earth shook with numerous steps. The Falmer still followed. She was too weak. She could not keep up.
“Leave me,” she breathed, not having the strength to look up into their faces. “Just go, you’ll die here…”
“Not in a thousand years,” voices sounded in unison. Not one. Not two. Three.
A warm sensation spread from her feet up to her chest. Leyna was using the last bits of their combined magic for healing. Yrith covered her face, not minding the dirt on her hands. This could not work forever. Magic alone could not fix wounds. It could only drive away pain and enhance the healing process.
Yrith bit her lip, feeling blood on her tongue. She forced herself to stand again, shaking, feeling the heat of her body rising.
“I’ll… I’ll go…” she chattered, finding support in the sponge-covered wall. They had to run. How far, she did not know. The Dragonborn likely did not know himself. Still, they ran. She could not see anything anymore, simply following the sound of the footsteps. They ran.
Just a little further, she convinced herself on every step.
Still, they ran.
She had lost all feeling, all sense of direction. She did not know whether she was still conscious, with the world shrouded in darkness. Even the footsteps seemed to recede after some time, leaving her in strange, motionless silence. She could only hope they were finally reaching a safe place. She ran. Further and further, she ran, until there was nothing anymore, and the last thought flickered away, leaving her mind empty.
--
She did not know how long she had been unconscious. It could have been hours. It could have been days. When she finally opened her eyes, the marble floor underneath her was warm, and the bulky pipes on her sides filled the air with moisture. Her head throbbed, her whole body ached, sticky with sweat, dirt and blood. Every movement sent tendrils of sharp pain into her limbs. Still, she forced herself up, noticing the blot of dried blood where her head had lain just moments before. The image turned and twisted before her eyes. She hissed, gripping her head with both hands, blinking to chase the blur away.
She was in another Dwemer corridor, a dead end by the looks of it. Water gurgled in the canal crossing it a small distance away, covered by gilded grating. There was no one nearby, not even a shadow in the distance. No bedrolls spread within the perimeter, no rucksacks propped against the pillars. Her own rucksack was missing as well.
She took a breath, her hand slowly sinking to cover her mouth. She was alone.
--
Yrith only found the strength to take a few steps. She dropped to the floor again once she had crossed the canal, panting, shivering despite the warm air. Even the water was warm. She had no idea where it had come from, but she drank it nonetheless. Despite everything, it had a soothing effect on her scorching throat. She let it flow down before allowing her whole body to sink on the floor. It was hard. But it held her firmly, unlike her feet. She fell into slumber with the sound of pumping and buzzing in her ears.
--
Her head was still pounding when she opened her eyes again. She did not know whether she had slept at all. It felt as though she had dreamt while awake, her mind processing two realities at once. One full of broken blind elves, hisses and flashes of light, the other marked by continuous thrumming, like a heartbeat of a huge organism of stone and gold. She had woken into the latter, tired, with limbs heavy as if made of the ever-present Dwemer metal. And she was still alone.
She forced her weary eyes to ingest her surroundings. The corridor she was in ended just a short distance ahead, forking into a road with gilded rails. Lifting herself on her shaky arms, she crawled closer to it, trying to put as little strain on her injured leg as possible. Fighting the tears of pain welling in her eyes, she turned her head, but no cart seemed to be riding on the rails. Across the railroad, a gate was embedded in what seemed to be a tower, rising up into the tall ceiling, unseen behind a screen of steam. There was no other way out, as the rails entered a shaft on each side. Perhaps there was a staircase inside the tower, or one of the Dwemer lifts. She hoped for the latter.
Yrith sighed. To get to it, she would have to cross the rails. She touched the leg, examining its state, but winced as she pulled back. It was in no shape to be lifted, let alone used.
She tried sending in a thread of the golden healing magic, but it only caused the pain to spread. She curled up, holding her knee just to have something to grab. She had never appreciated Leyna’s skill properly. Now she missed it, not knowing enough about her own body to fix it. And it would not heal without food to build on.
Her eyes pinned to the tower. She could die here or die trying. Yrith knew what choice she’d prefer. With all her remaining strength, she stood, using her magic to support herself. Just like back in Erinor’s captivity. Just how many times had she faced death already? She could not count. Perhaps she would wager on life one more time.
She stepped over the first rail. Her leg buckled under her, sending her down. She saved herself from a sharp blow in the head by a mere inch, panting as she rolled over the second rail. The screws holding the sleeper in place bored painfully into her back until she managed to gather herself, slithering to the door. Exhausted, she used her magic to open it. The doorway revealed a circular room with a lever in its middle, connected to four cogs on the sides of the room by belts of metal. Yrith let out a breath. It was a lift.
She trundled inside, collapsing just by the lever. Her fingers found the handle, but she did not pull. Her eyes slid up the shaft. She did not know what she would encounter there. Perhaps the Falmer were still around, lurking in the dark in search of her and the Dragonborn’s group. She tried to spread her magic to check, but she could not reach too far. Touching too many things at once hurt almost as much as moving her body and filled her mind with incomprehensible buzz. She pressed her fingers to her temples in attempt to ease the pain. It helped none.
Closing her eyes, she gripped the handle. Doubt would lead nowhere. She had to take the risk. So she pulled.
The hiss from below nearly deafened her. The lift quaked as the cogs slowly began to move, falling into the notches etched in the walls and pulling the whole platform up. Yrith slid to the floor, breathing heavily. She felt weak, her body unwilling to move another inch. She kept her eyes closed, pressing her head to the warm stone. The light thrumming from inside of it felt strangely soothing. She let it fill her ears, as though the lift was singing her a lullaby. And up she went as the world slowly filled with darkness and the air became warmer yet, leaving a thin screen of moisture on her skin and a heavy sweet taste on her tongue. She let her body rest. There was nowhere to rush.
--
When her eyes opened again, she was not in the lift. The place looked unfamiliar to her, built in dark, glossy stone, lit by blue and green light whose source Yrith could not tell. It smelled unfamiliar, like stale earth mixed with sweet berries and a pinch of the Nibenese sour pepper. The air stung in her nostrils and made her want to sneeze.
She rose to her feet, realizing the pain in her leg was gone. Rolling up her trousers, she inspected its state. A dark stain marred the calf where the bolt had pierced the skin, but it seemed to have been treated. The wound had closed, the tissue was regenerating. Even her hunger had receded, and her head felt strangely light. She looked around, searching for the one who had treated her, but the room… hall… place was empty.
It was formed by two octagonal platforms, one of which she was standing on, connected by a bridge of sorts. The entire area was enclosed with an ornamental fence, separating it from the dark walls. The platform opposite of Yrith held a desk in its middle. On its top lay a solitary book, wrapped in a dark cover that seemed strangely familiar.
Yrith looked around for a door but found none. Had she died? Was this afterlife?
She pinched herself, feeling a sting in her cheek.
No, surely a ghost’s skin would not sting.
She looked again, now searching for the person who had healed her. Still, there was no one.
“Hello?” she tried. The sound of her voice was muffled, as though it could not reach further than the tip of her nose. There was no reply.
She raised her hands, letting out red light. The detection spell found nothing at all. A feeling of unease surged in her, one that had nothing to do with solitude or the inability to escape. Was this a dream? An illusion?
She was afraid to close her eyes and search her mind. It would make her vulnerable from the outside. And so, gingerly, she took a step forward, making for the other platform.
It was quiet. Even her footsteps were stifled, as though the air here was too thin to carry the sound. Instinctively, she touched her chest as she walked. Her heart was still beating, the rhythm somewhat soothing to her mind. She still breathed, even if she could not feel the air coming in and out. Curiously, she tried to send out her magic. It separated from her fingers before she could control it, dissolving into nothingness. She shuddered. There was nothing to protect her.
The other platform was further than it seemed. The space must have been warped here, making it impossible to estimate the distance. It must have taken her nearly an hour to reach the steps leading to the elevated dais, if she could trust her feeling. Even time could tick differently here than in the world she had known before. Perhaps one day she would return, finding that her friends had long passed and Skyrim had become a Thalmor province. The thought made her stomach turn. She shook her head to chase it away, choosing to focus on the book before her.
Surely, this must have been a dream. It was the very book she had stolen from Urag. The very book that had raised her hopes and set her mind on Apocrypha. She extended her hand to it, but pulled back before touching it. There was something sinister about it. As if it emanated black light that would absorb her soul if she ever touched it. She stood there, unmoving for a while, just watching the book. It lay on top of the desk, silent and dormant, tantalizing. Yrith frowned.
“Nice trick,” she told the empty room with a sigh. “There’s nothing else here.”
She circled the desk to confirm her words. Save for the book, it was empty. There were no dark corners, no gaps in the fence, no hidden crevices in the walls. There were no cracks in the floor, nothing to attract a person’s attention. The place was entirely empty, with just that one desk and a book on top of it. She knew what was expected of her. And she also knew it was the only thing she could do. On many occasions, she would welcome the lack of choice for the sole comfort of not having to think too much. Now, she felt an unpleasant tingle in her fingertips. Slowly, she picked up the book and opened it.
It had not changed. The text was still there, the same as before, instructing on how to think about time and space. She had nearly memorized it back in Winterhold, and all the words were now so familiar. The sight of them and the touch of dry paper on her skin had a calming effect on her. She sifted through the book, page after page, looking them up and down in unhurried tempo. They glided through her fingers with a soft rustle that only she could hear. And then, she reached the last page and her eyes widened.
The text that had been there, the final note from Septimus Signus, was replaced by a diagram. If she had not known better, she would call it a conjuration circle. It had everything it needed. A center, a timeline circling its edges, a set of constellations with clearly defined focal points. Only the constellations were not ones she had ever seen, and the whole thing was… moving. Glowing. Growing.
Or perhaps she was shrinking.
She stared at the central point, unable to move her eyes away. Some invisible force was holding her in place, making her a part of the picture, until the center became too large to observe as a whole, pulling her in. She wanted to scream, but there was no air in her lungs. Her sight became blurry, then dark. A hum filled her ears, making her lose any sense of position. She gave in, letting the current take her. There was no point in fighting back.
The darkness dissolved as quickly as it had come. Yrith cautiously moved her fingers. They obeyed. She let out a breath, standing up from where she had been kneeling. The ground underneath her rustled as she moved. She looked at it curiously and froze. Her hand instinctively pressed against her mouth.
She stood on pages. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, perhaps even more. Pages with pictures. Pages with lines of neat text. Pages written in Altmeris, as well as Nordic, Saxhleel, Daedric and a vast number of languages she had likely never heard of. Pages in various scripts, with sundry depictions, some familiar, some surreal. She raised her eyes to scan the area. Again, she stood on a platform surrounded by ornate fencing made in dark metal. One side opened into a bridge descending to a vaster area with a dark pond in its middle and connected to another bridge leading to more platforms. The whole complex, as far as she could see, was floating on the surface of a sea of the same black water that filled the pond. And all around it, pages lay scattered among pillars and pillars of books, holding up by some unknown magic. Books were everywhere. They lay on altars standing on the edges of the platforms. They filled the baskets occasionally standing by the bridge entrances. They floated on the water all around her.
She turned around, but the platform followed, leaving her facing the bridge. Again, she was presented with no choice. She took a step back, and the platform moved under her. She took a step forward. Now, the platform stayed, and pages rustled under her feet. The whole place rustled. Sheets of paper fluttered through the air. At times, it seemed as though the books changed places by themselves, or a new one appeared out of the thin air.
Yrith knew where she was now. This was a library. The library. The greatest library in Mundus. And she was alone.
--
A/N: If any of you have been rereading the story recently, you might have noticed that the first chapter is different. Yep, I completely rewrote it to improve the quality. I also removed the word “detention” to make it less Harry-Pottery. Others are going to follow eventually.
P.S. To RealityGlitch: This is what you get for your constant cliffhangers. Vengeance is sweet. *evil grin* <3
The brazier came alight as they touched the solid ground. The lift in the Dwemer tower must have taken them hundreds of feet below. Yrith could hardly see the cavern ceiling, the reflections on it glittering like solitary stars. A sky of its own. A fitting image for a world marked by a tower with a golden astrolabe on its top.
They had spent the previous moments staring and gaping, admiring the craftsmanship of the old Dwemer. Centuries of constant refinement must have gone into those structures, with every detail as elaborate as a living organism. It was not the imposing grandiosity that struck Yrith with its magnificence. It was not the intricate patterns woven into the ancient stone either. It was not the gold springing out in veins through the marble walls and covering the carefully assembled tiles on the domes. None of them could measure up to the way the whole structure worked together. Like a mechanism where every piece had a designated role. Like a forest where every bee meant a healthy flower, where every tree gave shade from the heat and shelter to the birds who, in turn, rid them of pests. That was Bthalft.
The cavern was unlike any she had ever imagined. Light breeze blew through it from the waterfall on the opposite side from where Yrith and the rest of her group stood. Deep below, the lake glinted faintly, sending up a reflection of the scarce lighting. Over it stretched a series of narrow catwalks, arching from junction to junction, at times lit by a pale turquoise lamp, gentle to the eyes. Yrith could not fathom how they could still be working. The stone chipped. The engravings had been smoothed by the tooth of time. The lamps still glowed.
“Just how old is this place?” she breathed, almost afraid to step after the Dragonborn. He walked the nearest bridge, unconcerned, his steel boots barely making a sound.
“Word has it Ysgramor was still a babe when it was built.”
She would have expected his voice to carry through the cave, but it stayed, as if confined to the little space they occupied. If there was a person standing on the next bridge, Yrith doubted they could have heard them.
She counted in her head. Ysgramor. That meant…
“Ten generations then.”
She turned to see Leyna shrugging, seemingly unimpressed by Keneel-La’s words. She was unbuttoning her coat, letting the flood of white-gold hair loose about her. Now that Yrith thought about it, it was becoming warmer as they went, despite the water on all sides. The heat seemed to be coming from the direction toward which they were moving, as well as faint puffs of air being pressed and released again. She could not see that far ahead, but a vast, shapeless silhouette revealed the presence of another great structure.
“Don’t exaggerate,” Cain said. “Fifteen.”
“I’d say fifty,” the Dragonborn chuckled. Yrith caught his look and the merry spark in his eye. She snorted, puckering her lips.
“Speak for yourselves,” she muttered. They laughed.
So this structure had stood in the Merethic Era. It had stood thousands of years before she had been born, and yet for that age, it seemed almost untouched, as if time did not matter to it. Yrith felt small, and the vastness of the cave had nothing to do with it.
It must have taken them half an hour to cross the cave alone. By the time they stepped onto the dirt plaza spreading before them, all of them had unbuttoned their cloaks and removed their gloves. Even Keneel-La let go of his caution, loosening his cloak. Or so it seemed. Yrith wondered if they were safe now, but the lizard refrained from any comments.
Yrith’s fingers smeared the dried blood from her garments. She kept rubbing them against each other, casting wishful glances at the water that was too far to reach. It felt like ages since they had fought the battle with wolves, even if it had been less than a day’s turn. The memory brought back her exhaustion. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Cain and Leyna, trying to guess if their limbs ached as much as hers did, if they too fought for every breath. Secretly, she wished for them to complain. Neither of them did, but she could swear that out of the corner of her eye, she saw a trace of Cain’s old limp in his gait.
As they reached the middle of the plaza, Keneel-La stopped. Yrith raised her eyes from the ground, disturbed from her moment of misery, and, for the umpteenth time that morning, opened her mouth in awe. Before them stood… a wall. Perhaps. Or a line of towers squeezed so close together that they left no space in between. There were five of them, sculpted into the rock behind them, forming a castle of sorts. The two smallest ones on the edges bore domes of gold. The middle one held a two-wing gate made of gilded lattice. But Yrith’s attention was swayed by those on its sides, with niches hollowed out in their faces. Two piston-like mechanisms were embedded in them, each circled by a wheel with blades not unlike watermill paddles. They were still, unmoving, but Yrith doubted they were broken.
“Tonal resonators,” Keneel-La commented, pointing his finger at them. “Neat little things if you know how to work them.”
“And do you?” Leyna asked, not trying to conceal her interest anymore. Yrith was not surprised. They were work of art, even when she barely saw their shape. If she could ever see them up close, they would be a fine thing to study on long winter nights.
“They’re for controlling the gate, aren’t they?” Cain was straining his eyes to pierce the dark. “I saw something similar in one of the old temples in Morrowind.”
Keneel-La nodded. “Correct. If you make both wheels spin in the right direction at the right time, the gate opens. If you stop them, the gate closes. You can always tell when it is open by the sound they produce.”
“So how do you make them move?”
Upon her question, the Dragonborn turned to Yrith, his jaws stretching in a toothy smile. “Well, that’s simple. You shoot at them.”
“Just that?”
“Just that, if you know exactly where you want to hit. And if you can hit, of course. And since I have brought no bow, Cain, Yrith, I will need your assistance.”
“What do we do?”
“Hit the blades. The resonator on the right needs to be hit on its right side, the one on the left on its left, so that the front part of the wheels spins away from the gate. Hit hard, you will not crush them. They need to spin fast.”
Cain and Yrith exchanged a look, then stepped forward, each facing a resonator. Yrith tried to estimate the distance. The resonator was quite far, fading in the murk. But if she stepped closer, she would not have a clear shot of the blades, high as they were. This was not going to be an easy shot. But at least the target was unmoving.
“Ice would be best, wouldn’t it?” Cain said absently, squinting at his own resonator. His hands were already crackling with a spell.
“Ice,” Yrith nodded, following his example.
They took a moment for one final measurement and fired. Two bolts of ice shot from their hands, each aiming for its own resonator. Cain’s hit a split moment sooner than Yrith’s. The resonator began spinning, emitting a faint sound somewhere between a hum and a whistle. It was strangely soothing, the tone rising and falling ever so slightly, like an intense bird song. The other one joined it shortly, its own song joining in a billowing harmony. The sound made Yrith want to close her eyes. She rubbed them fiercely, refusing to let herself fall under the spell.
Light from the back of the niches revealed two lamps bursting into life as the blades rose, spinning so fast they were nearly invisible. The gate at the center of the wall split open with a loud screech. Cain grinned at Yrith. She answered with a feeble smile of her own.
“Good,” the Dragonborn said with appreciation. “Let’s go then.”
They followed him inside, finding themselves in a vast corridor with steeply descending stairs. More turquoise lamps illuminated the way, their light narrowed by thick pillars holding the ceiling. The air was much warmer here, heavy and damp. From below, Yrith could hear pumping, humming and hissing, nearly drowning the sound of their footsteps.
Two mechanisms were hidden just past the first two pillars, reminiscent of small metal models of Nirn and the Sun’s orbit around it. Nirn was pierced by a long axis with spheres on each side, as if there was more to it than a simple indicator of the Sun’s position. As Yrith stepped closer to one of them, she registered soft, almost inaudible ticking. This was not an astrolabe, as she had initially thought.
Yrith’s fingers itched with the desire to touch the construction. Tiny grooves on the Sun’s orbit and Nirn’s axis indicated a metering of sorts. There were more things she could tell from the positions of the Sun and Nirn and what she figured to be small models of Dominion Planets, Julianos and Arkay. Time, date, era. A clock and a calendar in one, and who knew what else. If she transferred the model on paper, it would be like one of the conjuration diagrams Singird had taught her about. One that could show very precisely the time and place she was at or identify another time and place in history or the future.
“Smitten?” Keneel-La commented with a smile. “Many people are. And most of those visiting the Dwemer ruins seem to think that these things actually do something. It seems the dwarves did a good job then.”
He bent down, his hand finding a small lever at the side of the mechanism. He pulled it.
Nothing happened.
“And see,” he walked over to the pillar next to it, toward the side facing the wall, “the real one is here.”
The color of the lever he pulled next matched the surrounding stone perfectly. Yrith wouldn’t have noticed it from where she stood. The bar sank. There was a clank, and the sound of resonators, still coming from the outside, weakened. The gate rang as it came into motion, until it snapped shut. Slowly, the tone from the outside faded, first into a quiver, then away, leaving nothing but the hum and sizzling from below. The Dragonborn clasped his hands.
“Well then,” he said, the flicker in his eyes reflecting the turquoise light around, “I suppose we’ve been on our feet long enough. Let’s go and find a place to rest.”
They all stared at him incredulously, as if the words had been spoken by a ghost, not truly there, untouchable. Cain and Leyna, brave and tireless until that moment, nearly staggered. Yrith could notice wrinkles and shadows on the skin under Leyna’s eyes, usually so fair and smooth. The limp in Cain’s gait was now quite obvious. So they too had stayed quiet. They too had endured. Yrith felt a sudden urge to close them in a tight embrace.
“So where are we going?” she rasped.
Keneel-La waved for them to follow. They did, their pace slackening into a slow, weary drag. As they descended the stairs, they reached a fork. The right way seemed to lead to a dead end, while the left one, flooding them with so much heat Yrith felt like stripping entirely, turned somewhere deep into the bowels of the complex. The Dragonborn stepped out with confidence, taking the right way.
“Here?” Leyna wondered.
He smiled at her. “I don’t much enjoy sleeping with steam pouring over my head, but feel free if you’d like it yourself.”
With a heave, Keneel-La pulled out one part of the gratings covering the pair of massive pipes beyond. It revealed a gap between the wall and the pipes, wide enough for two people walk side by side along them. He gestured for them to crawl in. They did. Yrith could feel moisture on her face, not from the sweat covering it in copious amounts, but water rising in thick clouds from the pipes. Relief washed over her as the Dragonborn put the lattice plate back in its place, motioning them forward.
Somewhere along their way, the pipes entered the wall and the stone gave way to plain dirt. There were no more lamps to light the path. Instead, the walls were littered with faintly glowing mushrooms, reminiscent of jellyfish, embedded in a tangle of roots. The heat had subsided to mild warmth. Yrith could now feel fresh air in her face, coming to them in tiny, nearly imperceptible wisps. She suppressed another urge to close her eyes and indulge in the sensation. They must be reaching their destination. Her feet reminded her that it was about high time.
Her assumption proved correct when the passage opened to a vast space. Keneel-La stopped a few paces from the entrance, spreading its arms.
“Welcome to the Starlight Inn,” he said, his jaws widening.
It was no inn, although Yrith found the name fitting. The place smelled of fresh moss, and muffled gurgling of water came from the distance, replacing the sound of engines and pistons from the Dwemer complex. The air now came in streams through a series of vents slithering their way somewhere up the wall on their right. No light came through them. Instead, the same glowing mushrooms they had met on their way were strewn across the walls, along with veins and chunks of stone glittering in blueish light. The same stone covered the ceiling.
“That’s…”
Yrith found herself gaping at the place, unable to find words to describe it. It was about everything she had wished for. Warm and fresh. Cozy, yet grand. Quiet, welcoming. Safe.
She looked at the Dragonborn, as if asking him if it was real. Sensing the question in her eyes, he gave a nod.
“When you say Bthalft, most people will only imagine old ruins. Few scholars, those who have studied the Dwemer long enough, will talk about the Aetherium Forge. That would be the lava lake we would have reached if we had turned right at the fork. But this complex is much older than the forge itself, and the passages can lead you far to the north if you know the way around. Perhaps in this day, I am the only one alive who knows of this place. Or, I have been, until now.” He smiled. Then, he cast a meaningful look at Yrith’s clothes. “The water makes the place rather livable. The channel over there takes it from the lake and connects to the Treva River. It is good for washing. Not so good for drinking, though. We will have to travel a bit to refill our waterskins. These, however,” he plucked one of the glowing mushrooms out of the wall, leaving a hollow of gently pulsing light, “are fully edible.”
Sinking his teeth into the glowing meat, he took a seat by a solitary rock in the middle of the cave. Yrith eyed the mushroom in his hand suspiciously, deciding against her better judgement that she’d had enough food for the day.
They set up camp, too tired to talk or eat. Yrith had dumped her cloak and all her outer garments to the side of the cave, leaving them fallow while she rinsed her body and dried it with the help of her magic. Everything could wait. The world could end for all she cared. She quickly slipped into her spare clothes, crawling her way in her bedroll. The furs smelled sweet and inviting. Warmth battled the cold in her feet, until it seized her, spreading through her body and pressing her eyes closed. After the endless hours of walking and fighting, of fear and exhaustion, the bedroll felt like a palace bed, the fabric of its canopy made of the night sky. She let it carry her away, mindless of the Dragonborn’s twinkling eyes, following her until she vanished from their sight, to Vaermina’s land.
--
“Pain… relieve me…”
The words were hushed. They came out as a ragged whisper, carried on the gentle currents of the wind. Yrith must have heard wrong. Surely it could not carry such words. It was warm and cozy here, and the touch of fur on her legs was so soothing. There was no pain. Surely she was just dreaming.
She turned, curling up, embracing the heat of her own body. But the words cut through it like a blade of ice.
“Take me… burn me…”
Why? This was a place of peace. She wanted to sleep. To let the warmth engulf her. To let the quiet gurgling of the water fill her ears. She covered them with her hands. Still, the voice fought its way through.
“To live is to suffer…”
She knew the voice. It had brought comfort to her so many times. It was not meant to be this painful. The cold did not belong there.
“… and suffering bring life…”
She sat up, as if burnt herself. Next to her, she could see the Dragonborn’s figure, bent over another. He touched its cheek, slapping it lightly.
“Wake up, ashling.”
“Cain!” Yrith gasped, struggling with her bedroll to scramble to her feet. After two failed attempts, she simply wriggled out, tripping over a clump of dirt as she hurried to Keneel-La’s side. Cain trembled in his sleep, his mouth moving hastily, muttering a litany of words that made Yrith’s hair stand. She took his hand, closing it in hers. Next to her, Leyna rubbed the sleep from her eyes, searching for the source of the commotion.
Keneel-La put his hands on Cain’s shoulders, giving him a shake. Cain let out a painful moan.
“No,” Yrith whispered frantically, shielding her friend with her body. What was it that she had done the last time?
She closed her eyes, letting her magic course through her fingertips, into his body. She filled him with warmth, with the same comfort he had once given her. With images of ruffled duvets and cozy hearth fires. With the taste of duck soup and eggs. With the smell of hay and goose. There was no place for pain. She gripped him tightly, burying one glowing hand in his fiery hair. She felt his breath, first shallow and quivery, then slowly gaining depth. His fingers moved ever so slightly, as if testing the air. Then, an arm closed around Yrith, returning her embrace. She let out a breath, making to draw distance. But he held her tight.
“Yrith,” he uttered weakly. “What… I…”
“Cain. Thank gods…”
His fingers found her spine, then her shoulder blade, as if trying to trace as many parts of her as they could. She felt so bare, as though there was no tunic between her and him.
“How do you always… what would I do without you?”
Fire burnt in her cheeks. They were watching, the Dragonborn and Leyna. Cain did not seem to care. He kept his arm in place, wrapped around her, pressing her to himself. She could not decide if she was more worried about crushing him or about her squeezed lungs.
“Cain,” she managed, “I can’t… we’re still…”
“Stay… just a moment… please…”
She closed her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder. He was still trembling, remnants of his nightmare still coursing through his body. She let him hold onto her, his fingers dance against her the small of her back. Somewhere from above, she heard voices.
“Leyna? Would you mind helping me with something?”
“Yes?”
“It’s just ‘round the corner, if you’d follow me.”
“Oh, certainly…”
There was quick shuffling, then footsteps. Then quiet, disturbed only by the gurgling of water and Cain’s breath brushing against Yrith’s ear. His hand went up her spine, then to her hair and face, yearning for a confirmation that she was still there. It touched her lips, then lingered, before sinking at last. Yrith moved away enough to gain space to draw breath, rubbing the nape of her neck.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was but a rasp. He lay there, staring at the starry ceiling with doleful eyes, his breath still too quick for Yrith’s liking. She waited for him to continue, but he said nothing, just looking, exhausted by living. She watched him with concern, half of her wishing to embrace him again, the other to create more distance.
“Nothing to be sorry for. I was… worried. Back in High Hrothgar, and now. Is the Demon…”
Cain shook his head. He sat up, shuddering. “He’s not controlling me, no. The thing in me is… much worse. It’s my own demon. Although I can’t deny I owe him for its existence. But the Lone Demon, him at least I could perhaps keep away. This thing, I can’t.”
Cain’s cloak lay just beside him. Yrith reached for it, slinging it around his trembling body. He nodded gratefully, pulling it close.
“I wish I could help,” she said to him quietly.
Cain laughed. The sound sent a chill under Yrith’s skin. “Help? You’re already helping so much. No one has ever been able to shut that voice down. No one but you.” He raised his head, piercing her with his crimson gaze. “You don’t even realize how amazing you are, Yrith.”
She shook her head. “It’s… just my magic…”
“It’s the way you use your magic,” he corrected. “If I had your power, I would create the biggest fireball in history and smear all those who’ve hurt me out of Nirn’s surface. Not you, no.”
“Maybe my life would be easier if I could just smear everything away with a fireball,” Yrith shrugged with a smile. He returned it.
“Maybe. But I’m not sure it would be happier.”
Her smile faded. “I suppose.”
“Say, Yrith.”
“Hmm?”
“Have you ever… felt like you were losing to yourself?”
The look Yrith gave him slowly turned from curious to appalled. Cain’s face was lost in a battle, and for a moment, his eyes seemed to glisten with moisture. Cold gripped her. This was not the face she was used to seeing. She lifted her hand to reach out to him, then pulled back again, lowering her head.
“All the time,” she whispered.
“But did you ever… there is…”
He buried his face in his hands. Slowly, she slid to his side, touching his back gently. He pulled her close, pressing himself against her, squeezing the air out of her. She waited, feeling the hotness of his breath, unsteady, shaking.
“I… I can’t do this, Yrith. Every time I feel pain, this… thing in me awakens. All I know at that moment is… the mantra. Our… my family’s… their cult’s… sacred mantra. It is like I forget that there is anything but pain. When I say I’m grateful for the pain, I… mean it. I mean it, dammit… because it’s the only thing that is real. I… wouldn’t exist without it…”
He shook his head, sprinkling tears over her tunic. Yrith let him in, wrapping her arms about him like the mother he’d never had, burying her hands in his fiery hair. He was so small now. Like that porcelain vase again, not the unyielding pillar she knew him to be. She had to become the pillar now. Her eyes burned, but she forced the tears back, fighting to keep her breath steady. She concealed it by tightening her grip.
“But you’ve made it this far,” she said, “almost entirely on your own. And now you’re not alone anymore.”
“But… that’s because of you.”
“Am I the only thing that makes you forget pain?”
A wave of cold washed over her chest as Cain drew back, letting air between them. His eyes met hers. He looked horrible, more so in the faint light of the cave. The skin around his eyes had turned ashen instead of ebony, the eyes like two wells of blood against the ghostly silver glint of his tears. But still, they had ceased falling. He studied her, as if staring into a whole new world.
“Duck soup obviously does,” he muttered.
Yrith smiled. “Anything else?”
“Twilight horizon, hearth fire’s warmth and the smell of fresh fungus.”
She looked at him in surprise, not expecting him to answer so readily. His eyes had brightened ever so slightly, kindling with a gentle spark. She considered his words in all their peculiarity.
“Fungus?” she asked.
He gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Have you ever been to a Telvanni dwelling?”
Ah, so that was the answer. She shook her head. Books spoke about the great cities of mushroom spires, breathing like one big, living organism, grown and nurtured by the highest members of the Great House Telvanni. She had never even seen a picture, let alone the real thing.
“This place reminds me of them. It feels alive, just like them. Their roots spread so far and deep that no amount of wind could take them down. Beneath the earth, they touch each other, share the soil and moisture, keep each other alive. You can feel their breath when you touch their walls. And their caps are so wide that when you open the door on a rainy day, you don’t ever need to fear water splashing in your face.” He sighed. “My family could never live in them. It is care that keeps those houses alive, and care they give in return.”
There was longing in his voice, in the way he stared into the starry field above them, in his fidgeting fingers. A story he was reliving.
“I believe you could,” Yrith said, finding her words to be as true as the unseen sun in the outer world.
“I wish I can one day. I wish…”
He fell quiet. Yrith waited by his side, watching his nigh invisible shadow as he searched for words. It shrunk as he stopped his shoulders, letting his head rest against his knees.
“My maid was a Telvanni. Apart from you, she was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
His words were not happy ones. They were not bright as they should be. Yrith felt a chill in her limbs. She rubbed her arms, wrapping herself in the furs of her bedroll.
“What happened to her?” she dared quietly.
He trembled slightly, but his voice was firm. “A few days after my initiation, I was whipped unconscious. I failed to memorize the mantra…” He paused, looking away. Then he took a breath, rubbing his temples. “When I came to, she was wiping the blood from my back. I still remember the stinging when her tears fell on my wounds… that was the last I ever saw of her. Was it her care for me that made my mother punish her? Or her reverence for Azura and not the Demon? I don’t know.”
Yrith found her fists clenched so tight it hurt. She found herself gritting her teeth at the thought of Cain’s own mother turning all of his life into an endless nightmare. Surely this was not about Azura. It was not about care. It was deeper, far beyond Yrith’s grasp. And his mother had failed. Cain was here, gentle, caring, warm. Would he be the same had he not met his maid? Or would he have turned into another abomination, one day forcing his own children to learn to seek suffering, whipping them unconscious for failing to do so?
Her stomach was turning. She forced her fingers to unclench, seeking his hand. He looked at her with uncertainty in his eyes.
“Yrith?”
She turned away, unable to give him an answer. He was here now. But his wounds were still open.
She clutched his hand tightly.
“Azura,” she whispered, just to have something to say.
Cain nodded. “The Prince of Twilight.”
Despite his pain, Yrith sensed a hint of warmth in his voice.
“So that’s why you like it.”
He gave a sad smile. “It’s amazing, how people tend to love those things they can never have, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you look at twilight, you can’t tell whether it’s day or night. You can’t tell its color because it’s always changing, and you can’t keep looking because it passes so quickly. You can call it the end, or the beginning, or the middle, and you’ll never be wrong. It is that moment in life when there is just about the right amount of everything. But just when you realize it, the sky grows dark and it is gone.”
Yrith closed her eyes. Eternal dusk. That was something not even her magic could do. But then, it already dwelled in Cain’s heart.
“Then you just have to wait for another one,” she said simply.
He raised his eyes to her, filled with disbelief. Slowly, a soft smile bloomed on his face.
“I guess… there are countless days in one’s life, aren’t there?”
She laughed. “There are. And the cloudy ones pass eventually.”
They fell silent, listening to the gentle gurgling of the water and the sound of pumping coming faintly from the distance. Cain watched her, his head tilted slightly to the side, his fiery hair falling into his face. He still wore his smile, not happy and not sad, simply filled with appreciation. His gaze was fixed on her, too intense, too long. Yrith looked away, knowing what he would say next.
“Your words are so beautiful,” he whispered into the quiet. “You’re beautiful.”
She flushed deep red, hoping for the faint light of the rocks and sponges to conceal it. Her hand drew back instinctively.
“C-Cain…”
Without a warning, he moved toward her. She backed away, scanning every inch of his body. The fingers that supported the brunt of his weight, the knees he was kneeling on, the trunk leaning slightly toward her. Despite that, he stopped a short distance from her, allowing her the space she craved. There was something in his eyes that made Yrith’s chest ache. Bliss with sorrow in equal amounts. A fading sun, a darkening horizon. The twilight.
“You always do this,” he said wistfully.
“This?”
“Draw distance.” He let out a sad laugh. “I suppose you’ve never seen me the same way I see you, have you?”
Yrith rested her head against the palms of her hands. She could not look him in the eye. She could not face his sincerity.
“I’m sorry, Cain…”
He touched her lightly.
“Why? Did you do anything wrong?”
Had she? She wondered what Cain would say if he’d ever learn she loved a teacher. That Singird Larkwing was the reason she could not return his feelings. Would he hate her? Would he hate him?
She sighed, still refusing to look at him.
“I don’t feel sorry for loving you,” he said softly. “I don’t know what goes on in your mind, and I will not force you into something you don’t want. But,” he reached for her, turning her to face him, “know that I’m not planning to give up this feeling just yet.”
He let go, caressing her cheek on his way. She stared at his smiling face, unable to move. Her chest was so tight she could not breathe. She could not name the feeling that overwhelmed her. Or perhaps it was a myriad of feelings, crushing her with their weight. If she could be half as brave in her confrontations, half as firm in her convictions as the man before her, she might perhaps feel like the strongest person on Nirn. And yet there was no pride in his eyes. Only the glint of unwavering affection.
Despite herself, she threw her arms around him. If there was nothing else she could give him, at least she would provide a place to belong.
Voices reached them from the distance. They drew apart.
--
Yrith woke up into the stone-lit darkness. Save for the humming stream and the beat of the Dwemer structure, the quiet was only broken with Cain and Leyna’s light breathing. Cain was finally sound asleep, after Leyna’s meticulous treatment of his aching limbs and Keneel-La’s equally meticulous scolding. Yrith smiled. The only times when the great Dragonborn became angry were the ones when another’s life was in danger.
Her eyes wandered to the lizard’s figure. He sat afar, his back propped against the wall just below the vent. He seemed to be asleep, but she knew those beady eyes would open at the first hint of movement. She wondered when he slept. He never asked them to keep watch, simply taking on that duty himself. As she stared at him, he opened an eye, looking directly at her.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked quietly. “I wouldn’t want another of you to nearly collapse on me.”
“Cain was hurt,” Yrith argued, gesturing to her very much healthy limbs. He shrugged.
“Exhaustion can be a treacherous mistress. More so than a wound.”
Yrith raised her brows. “What about you?”
“Let’s say I’ve had my share of fights after sleepless nights to know my limits.”
She frowned. Surely his limits could not be boundless, but there was hardly any point in debating with the Dragonborn. She sighed, falling back into the soft furs of her bedroll. The stones flickered above her head in an eternal night.
“I wonder what time it is up there,” she said.
“I’d say a little before noon.”
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “How do you know?”
He took a moment, scanning the place, his eyes stopping at the entrance, then the passage along the stream, and finally the vent. He smiled at her mysteriously. “I have my ways.”
She closed her eyes, trying to feel the air. She could still smell the moss in it, along with a faint scent of something else. Up where the vent drew breath, flowers must have surrounded it. Indeed, this smelled like a bright day, too young to be ripe, too old to be morn. But from down here, it was almost impossible to remember the sunlight.
“You mentioned that the tunnels go all the way up north. Are we going to keep down here?”
“Miss the light already? Yes, that is the plan. It is safer. Hopefully, for those hunting us, we have vanished from the surface of Nirn.”
“So they will not find us?”
“Ah, I wouldn’t count on that. But it will take them a while. By that time, you might long be in Winterhold.”
“How far do the tunnels lead anyway?”
“There is no end to your curiosity, is there?” he smiled. Yrith imagined the merry flicker in his eyes, her gaze still on the cavern ceiling. “Far and wide, hatchling. Most people in Skyrim are not aware of the world hidden under their feet.”
“So how did you find it?”
Silence spread through the cave. Yrith waited for an answer, but none came. She turned her head to see the Dragonborn’s silhouette. She could not see well the expression in his face, and even if she could, she doubted she would be able to read it. He sat still, looking away from her, into the remote, mushroom-covered wall. She shifted uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry if I…”
Her voice trailed off as he gave a light snort. “I should have seen the question coming, eh? I would ask too in your place…” He sighed. “The memory is not easy for me. The first time I was sent to Blackreach was when I searched, ironically, for an Elder Scroll. The Elder Scroll. The one that would take me back to the time of The Tongues and let me learn a Shout to take a dragon down from the sky.” He shuddered as he spoke. “The Elder Scrolls… they hold dangerous knowledge.”
“That’s why… you did not want to speak about the library?”
He took a moment. The breaths of Cain and Leyna still surged and faded, like an unseen clock, measuring time in its own subtle way.
“The library… no, that is something different. But equally as frightening…” He paused to draw breath, adjusting the sword, still attached to his hip. “The library is a path to finding the Elder Scroll, but I don’t believe it is kept there. It would be too much for the mind.
“When I say library, I don’t mean rows upon rows of neatly arranged books you can browse to your heart’s content. Imagine instead that the books are transformed into fragments of reality, each of which pushes you in a different direction. That your mind is constantly attacked, that you never know where you step until you do. And at the end of your path waits a giant mirror. It will ask who you are. If you answer wrong, it will swallow you. If you answer right, it will offer a price. If you are willing to pay it, it may or may not point you in the right direction.”
He shook his head. She waited, but he was silent.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“The library is like the dreams your Demon shows you. A reflection of a remote reality. Many realities that your mind has to hold together. But unlike the Demon, the library gives you a choice. You can pick a path to follow. Every choice you make is weighed and assessed. And if your senses cannot hold while you’re inside… I don’t even want to imagine the consequences.”
Yrith frowned. “Does that mean that the place itself… doesn’t exist?”
“Oh it exists. It simply borders our reality.”
“But why? Why would someone want to go to such length?”
Keneel-La gave a mirthless laugh. “Why wouldn’t they? What better way to guard knowledge than to make the minds of those who seek it act against them? You can hardly fight your own thoughts. The wiser you are, the more dangerous that place is for you. Intelligence is punished. Logic is punished. Experience is also punished. That place will attack everything you have taken for granted. And the less intelligent you are, the less danger you are to it. Quite ingenious.”
“Then, is there a way to enter it safely?”
“None. You won’t find any magic portals that will keep your mind safe here on Nirn, or any shortcuts through the place. The only way is for your mind to be hard as steel and for your will to be unwavering.”
“So where is it? How does one enter?”
Yrith felt foolish for asking such a question. Was it even a question of where when it was her mind that had to enter? How would she find her way? Like her mind entered the Deadlands to search for her atronachs, spreading far and wide across Oblivion? That would be…
She gasped. Oblivion. Of course. That was what made the Dragonborn tremble. What else? A great library, laid at the boundary of realities. And not just realities. It lay at the edge of Time itself. How many times had she read about it? Even among scholars, it was a myth. Ordinary people hardly ever learned of its existence. But the Dragonborn had visited it. It had to exist then.
“Apocrypha,” she whispered.
Even from the distance, in the darkness of the cave, it seemed to Yrith she saw the Dragonborn blink and wince. When he spoke, his voice was lower, deeper, hoarser.
“You catch on fast. I should really watch my words before you,” he laughed glumly. “Indeed. The realm of Hermaeus Mora. Perhaps the most ancient part of Oblivion.” He sighed. “Do not think too badly of me for this.”
“But…” The cogs in Yrith’s head seemed to move slowly, as if time had rusted them. Apocrypha, the hidden daedric library. It was different from the Deadlands whose connection with Nirn could still be felt at the places where Oblivion gates had spawned two centuries before. Different from Infernace and Levinace, frequent targets of Nirn’s conjurers. Different from the Quagmire whose master so eagerly invited all the lost dreamers into her home. Apocrypha was a legend. It was meant to be a legend. No one was meant to set foot there. The Dragonborn had. How?
Only if Hermaeus Mora himself had willed it, Yrith answered herself in her thoughts.
She stared at Keneel-La, unsure whether she should be amazed or afraid.
“How… what… what are you?”
“Now, that’s a question I could answer with one word or spend eternity trying to explain,” he smiled. “I suppose you are asking about my affinity to Herma-Mora which, keen as you are, you likely figured. Let me just say this. I am no supporter of the daedra. I just happen to find myself in the wrong place at the wrong time ever so often. The daedra are drawn to power like flies to a piece of dung, so to speak. No matter their motives, they cannot resist it.
“Meridia is kind in her own way, waging an eternal battle against the undead. Azura does not take sides and her reign is just. Sanguine likes a good laugh and a good feast. Boethiah and Mephala both enjoy intrigues and treachery. Nocturnal is fickle, blessing or cursing you on a whim. Mehrunes Dagon and Molag Bal are plain vicious, each taking delight in different kinds of torment. Hermaeus Mora is… simply overwhelming. But no matter their manifestations, they all share the lust for power. They would do anything to obtain it. I have power. It was given to me by the gods, and so the daedra are drawn to me. You also have power. One that is a great mystery as far as I could understand. I can imagine that once Hermaeus Mora learns of your existence, he will be very interested in you. It worries me. He is ruthless. He will appeal to you, but once you are of no use to him, he won’t go far for a kill. And if a daedra decides that you die, you die.”
“But you’re alive.”
He laughed cheerlessly. “My power is unobtainable by the daedra. They can only have it by exacting control over me. It frustrates them, of course, but they can’t learn it, and they can’t get rid of the dragon blood by killing a Dragonborn. Another may be born, to anyone, at any place on Nirn. Controlling me is their only option. Your case may be different.”
“But it’s the only option I have, isn’t it? The only way to find an Elder Scroll?”
“The only one I know of. I knew a scholar who specialized in them. He died by Mora’s hand. He had a… particularly keen sense for detecting them. I do believe he has retained this ability, even in his death.”
“So he… his… spirit is in Apocrypha?”
“I believe so. The daedra keep the ones whose lives they take. It is a good trade for them.”
“Why did Herma-Mora kill him?”
“Why indeed? Perhaps because he was of no use anymore. Perhaps it was a personal whim of Mora’s. Or perhaps because he set his eyes on a different target.” A trace of sadness crept into Keneel-La’s tone. He let out another quiet sigh, his finger tracing his forehead. His steel-clad feet ploughed the dirt. “I think gro-Shub is still secretly blaming me for his death.”
Yrith lifted herself on her elbows, trying to take in all of the Dragonborn’s figure. “Urag is? Did he know that man?”
“Know? Soul mates is the closest word I can think of when I remember them. Urag gro-Shub adored that man’s work, transcribed all of it, guarded it with his life. He made copies of course, but I hear people barely ever touch them. Even before Herma-Mora had tampered with his mind, Septimus Signus was all but insane.”
Yrith’s arms gave way under her. Her face buried into the furs of her bedroll before she raised it again, eyes wide. Had the Arch-Mage, Keneel-La’s sister, known all along where the path would lead Yrith? Had she just played with her that day when she returned the book to her, with the last pages unwritten? With the single line scribbled there instead?
“My master has come for me at last,” she breathed.
“Excuse me?”
“Septimus Signus… I read a book from him. His… his last one, I think. It was unfinished.”
“You did? Did you understand it?”
She stared at him. He did not understand. Of course he didn’t. There was no way he could understand how much that book meant to her. She would meet him. Perhaps she could obtain the last pages after all. Perhaps she could use them. Then she would have her answers. She could change things. The things she could do…
She rolled over to her back, staring at the sky of rocks above, hardly realizing she was grinning. She had to reach that place. Now, her destination was clear.
“I think I did,” she said.
--
So, I have tweaked Bthalft to contain a passage to Blackreach. I always imagined that the Dwemer actually had a great underground city underneath Skyrim, one that would connect all of those ruins, and not just the ones in the north. So there.
I guess my inspiration was the Osaka railway station. For those who have never been there, it is truly like a whole another city under the surface Osaka. If you ever visit Japan, go there. It is quite neat!
Lastly, I would like to dedicate this chapter to Christopher Plummer, the voice of Arngeir, Tolfdir and other Skyrim elders (and also the amazing actor of Captain von Trapp from The Sound of Music!), who passed away yesterday. May his soul find peace.
here have 10 pieces of writing advice that have stuck with me over the years
every character’s first line should be an introduction to who they are as a person
even if you only wrote one sentence on a really bad day, that’s still one sentence more than you had yesterday
exercise restraint when using swear words and extra punctuation in order for them to pack a punch when you do use them
if your characters have to kiss to show they’re in love, then they’re not in love
make every scene interesting (or make every scene your favorite scene), otherwise your readers will be just as bored as you
if you’re stuck on a scene, delete the last line you wrote and go in a different direction, or leave in brackets as placeholders
don’t compare your first draft to published books that could be anywhere from 3rd to 103rd drafts
i promise you the story you want to tell can fit into 100k words or less
sometimes the book isn’t working because it’s not ready to be written or you’re not ready to write it yet; let it marinate for a bit so the idea can develop as you become a better writer
a story written in chronological order takes a lot more discipline and is usually easier to understand than a story written with flashbacks
I agree with all except 8. And the first point - well, I feel like that shouldn't be just the first line. Pretty much anything a character says should speak for them. :)
The light of the fire flickered upon Arngeir’s kneeling figure. He was still, sitting on his heels in a position Yrith would have assumed painful had she not known the old Greybeard chose it frequently. The man seemed to be deep in meditation, undisturbed by her presence. She made to leave when she heard him call her.
“Something on your mind, Zulvahzen?”
She froze, turning back. “Does everyone around here know me by this name now?” she asked.
He gave a light smile as he stood. “Word travels quickly around here. But you need not worry. It will not leave this mountain unless you will it yourself.”
She nodded, stepping down, onto the familiar map of cracks formed on the floor. She could hear the whispers coming from there, inviting her to extend her magic and listen. She ignored them this time, walking straight to him.
“I wanted to speak to you. I am…”
“Do not say it. I know what the Dragonborn told you. It was unnecessary. I too have had time to think.” He paused, casting a longing glance at the brass gate leading into the great vastness of the outer world. “I am old, and the world surely isn’t what it used to be. Before the Dragonborn, I have trained Ulfric.”
“Ulfric… Ulfric Stormcloak?”
He lowered his head. “That’s what he calls himself now, hmm? A fine young man, and a talented one too. He was all you could wish for an apprentice. Until his lust came. Until… the war came. I used to think that he brought the war here. That he misused the Way of the Voice to bring about death and destruction.”
Yrith closed her eyes. Before her stood Toddvar, Ulfric’s general. Toddvar, the man with a giant axe. Toddvar, the man who had been ready to let her die. Toddvar who had slain hundreds, maybe thousands, in the name of a foolish rebellion. She had never thought of him this way. Until she saw him with a blade on her throat, with his cold, dispassionate eyes, almost waiting for her to fall. He had not feared for her, nor had he tried to comfort her. What was war to this man? What was war to Ulfric, whom he served?
She opened her eyes again, setting them on Arngeir’s parchment-like skin. “Didn’t he?”
“Ulfric did not bring war. It is war that had taken Ulfric. It had taken everything from him, while he was here, studying, meditating, learning of peace. He did not stray from his path. He was torn away from it, blinded. I should have known. I should have set him free. But I tried to chain him, and this is what my efforts made him. A man who wages war with the whole world. A man who wages war with himself.
“Do not follow his example, Zulvahzen. You still have a choice.”
He looked tired, ancient. But the grey eyes in his wrinkled face shone with expectation. Hope, perhaps. Yrith returned his smile.
“I don’t like war. It took too much from me too, but…” she glanced over her shoulder, to where Cain and Leyna were. To where Keneel-La was. Then she thought of Winterhold, and the solitary cat figure bringing her life amidst the despair she had known in the Imperial camp. “I’ve known kindness.”
“Then remember it in the dark times. We will be watching. I wonder…” he trailed off, looking more through her, rather than at her, then shook his head. “I suppose the Dragonborn will be my last.”
Yrith raised a brow. “Hmm?”
“Nothing you should worry your young mind with,” he told her kindly. “Go now. He is waiting.”
Yrith turned to leave, but then she stopped, giving Arngeir one last inquisitive look. “May I just ask one thing?”
“Ask away, child.”
She opened her mouth, hesitant. Perhaps it was too bold of her, but then again, she was Zulvahzen. Arngeir himself had called her so. In the end, unpleasant truths were also truths.
“Why do you never use the Dragonborn’s name?”
He took a moment to consider her question. His eyes were distant, as if there was more than just a few paces of granite tiles separating him from her. When he spoke, his words were soft, a whisper lost in the fire’s crackle. “Names are a powerful tool. I suppose I never thought I had the right.”
There was comfort in his voice. Yrith’s smile widened. She did not need words to make him understand as she walked away.
--
The monastery seemed small in the distance, veiled by the pervading mist. It was no more than a hundred paces away, but they were filled with a feeling of finality, increasing with every inch of distance they covered.
Yrith turned back to the road ahead, and the two figures walking before her, loaded with heavy luggage on their backs and daggers by their waists, surely just as hard and cold as her own. They walked bent against the wind, cautious on their every step not to sink deep into a drift or slip on an icy surface. Only the Dragonborn at the front, whose rucksack was larger than any of the others, and whose dagger was accompanied by a sword which must have been many times as heavy, seemed to walk with ease, leading them onward in a steady pace.
Every new brush in their way, every new rock or a clump of snow Yrith stepped over made her want to look back. She could not. The large rucksack on her back hindered her sight. She suspected the Dragonborn to have chosen them on purpose. To have made Yrith, Cain and Leyna top them off with vast bedrolls, so that all the glances cast over their shoulders would stop at the rough canvas fabric and the reeled-up furs strapped tightly with thick belts.
Back there, a part of herself remained hanging in the granite corridors, slithering under the prayer rugs and wallowing in the plump duvet smelling of hay and goose. She had not realized when that smell had become the scent of home. Only now she knew that it had, and that she was going to carry a piece of it with herself wherever the road took her. The thought warmed her a little. She looked at the people before her. Perhaps, in spite of leaving, she was still taking her home with her.
They took a turn along a stone tablet engraved with a part of the Greybeards’ history. Soon, the monastery was lost to the sight, becoming no more than a memory. A crooked pine loomed above their heads, as if forming a gateway, a final threshold of High Hrothgar.
The path slithered down, around the mountain side, meandering its way in treacherous curves. Somewhere beneath the layers of snow were the infamous seven thousand steps. Yrith was only vaguely aware of their existence, wondering when they had last felt the touch of feet on their surface. Perhaps when the daedra still walked the surface of Nirn. Perhaps even before their time.
“This brings back memories,” Cain’s voice tore Yrith from her ruminations, making her look ahead. Down the slope, on a patch of levelled ground littered with broken tiles stood the ancient well. Somewhere deep inside, the two stones Leyna and Yrith had dropped on their training must have stayed jammed against its walls, frozen in their fall.
“This is where we raced,” Yrith said. It felt so long ago, as if it had been years since that day. Even Cain’s scars had become thin lines of rippled skin, and his gait had lost the limp it once had.
Next to Yrith, Leyna studied the well, tracing with her eyes the path she had run side by side with Yrith, their steps matching as if they had been made for each other.
“This is where I dragged you off a battle,” she commented quietly.
“And I suppose that a little past that grove, we’ll be the furthest away from High Hrothgar we’ve ever been since we arrived, won’t we?” Cain added.
Before them, Keneel-La turned to peek from behind his rucksack, his eyes wearing their usual merry spark. “Aren’t you three too young to brood in nostalgia? You know what they say. Look forward to the bright future and all.”
They all stared at him in silent assessment, letting the trees pass them. Snow had long covered traces from the battle, washing away the blood and burying the tracks. The bodies of the Imperials had been removed, as if they had never lain there. Yet, Yrith could smell all of it in the air, the echo of the Dragonborn’s Thu’um still ringing in her ears. When she looked at the path they walked, she felt far from prepared. All the training she had received, all the muscle she had built, how much would it serve in the face of an enemy? She did not know.
“It just feels… strange, leaving after all this time,” Cain muttered, mirroring her thoughts.
Leyna looked at him curiously. Her eyes slid over the ground, stopping at the stump where Keneel-La had lain his head. “Does it?” she asked.
“Doesn’t it?” he returned.
Leyna did not reply, turning her eyes to her feet. Yrith wondered what it was that Leyna saw in this place. What images passed before her, that made her so distant from Cain and herself. Perhaps all she could see were empty granite walls and the people that had chased the three of them up this mountain, and all she could feel was the ever-present cold and the wind in her face. But the same could have been said of Winterhold. One day, Yrith would like to see the place Leyna called home.
--
Yrith’s body was numb after the first night. She would have never guessed how much difference a solid set of walls and a roof could make. The bedroll had felt cold. The wind had seemed to enjoy blowing all sorts of things in her face, be it stray pines, dry leaves from who knows where or sprinklings of ice and snow which bit into her skin like a myriad of tiny white-hot needles. Just how the Dragonborn could take these things with such unwavering poise, she could not understand.
As she walked, trying to level her pace with Leyna before her, she wished for fire. She wished for Singird’s warm tea. She wished for her bed. She had thought herself used to Skyrim’s cold. She had been wrong.
They had been walking for what felt like days, but Yrith knew it had just been a few hours since she had forced her stiff body to bind up her bedroll and don her heavy rucksack. The greyness of the day seemed to wash time away, dissolving it into dull, uneventful passing. She stopped looking at the sky. There was no point in looking down into the ravine on their right either, as everything was drowned deep in the mist. Walking hurt as she fought the gravity of her own body, sinking a little lower with every step she took. She could feel every inch they had conquered the previous day in her legs. She searched the area for something, anything to distract herself, but aside from an occasional stone tablet, she found naught but rock and snow and shrubbery. Somewhere up the slope on her left, a stray animal seemed to shake the snow off a branch. Yrith tried to guess what it was. A squirrel, or a fox, perhaps. It gave her the strange feeling of being watched. There had been quiet for too long. Her mind was already playing tricks on her.
She scanned the perimeter as far as her rucksack allowed her. The wind had ceased for the moment, but the dead grasses around the edge of the grove above moved as if breathed upon. A shadow seemed to flash across the road ahead where it spread into a levelled clearing. Yrith rubbed her eyes, blaming her exhaustion, but at the same moment, Keneel-La spoke, his tone quiet and cautious.
“Ready your magic. We are surrounded.”
Yrith stared at his rucksack-covered back. Her eyes had not been fooling her then.
“Is it the Imperials?” she asked.
“No. Just wolves, a full pack. Keep your pace, we want to seem undisturbed.”
“Will they attack though?” Cain’s hand slid to the hilt of his dagger.
“I’m afraid they will, there’s something off about them. Leave that blade alone. You’ll need fire.”
Yrith raised her hands the same moment Cain and Leyna did. Their fingertips flared with tiny flames, dying their cheeks blood red. She felt the movement around waver for the slightest of moments, before footsteps rustled in the snow and grass all around. She gave an inaudible gasp.
“Keep walking, don’t fret,” Keneel-La said. His voice was soft and calm, his gait steady and fearless. Yrith stopped looking around, keeping her eyes on him. His silhouette, tall and collected, felt like a pillar to lean on. She could only hope she’d react quick enough to protect herself if the wolves decided to attack. They walked on. The moment seemed to stretch into infinity.
The patter around them became faster. Yrith could now hear quick and shallow breathing as a number of beasts circled them. Her eyes wandered up the glade on her right. She spotted one of them, its fur brownish grey, matted and covered in a mixture of snow and grime. It would look magnificent, were it not gaunt with apparent starvation. She stared at it, for a moment feeling almost sorry for its wretched state. A chill ran down her spine. This beast was desperate. It would know no limits, it would forget pain, if only it could get a single bite of whatever flesh there was to glean.
She felt the fire in her hand, the magic coursing through her fingertips. She was too scared to close her eyes and let it soothe her. Sword fights with the Dragonborn had taught her not to sacrifice the power of her sight. Instead, she only spread her magic, touching the beasts. She counted seven… no, eight of them, spread evenly around, close to the road. That meant two for each of them. She almost wished for them to attack. To do something, so that she would not have to wait. They were patient. Slowly but surely, the circle tightened around them.
The Dragonborn stopped at last. The rest of them followed, staring into the yellow eyes of two canines blocking their way. For a moment, everything was still. The breaths of the beasts and people alike, their figures, the wind. Then, Keneel-La drew his sword. The wolves leapt forward.
“Yrith, rear! Leyna right, Cain left!” Keneel-La’s voice carried over the growls and howls, just in time before they struck. They stood with their back to each other. Yrith fired three flaming balls in quick succession, managing a ward before the jaws could reach her. The wolves halted, then backed away, one of them attempting to circle her. It was stopped by Cain’s fire bolt, howling as its fur singed and smoldered. Leyna was holding up a ward of her own, lighting the grasses before her to create a wall of fire.
“YOL TOOR SHUL!” words echoed behind Yrith, followed by a wave of heat. Cries of the wolves mingled with the hum of a firestorm and gasps from Cain and Leyna. Yrith tried to look over her shoulder, but her rucksack obstructed her view and movement. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a wolf charge. She shot another ball of fire. It hit the animal square in the face. It yowled in pain, retreating into a snow drift. And lunged at her again, this time faster, frenzied, deadly. Yrith was too slow to react. Her body broke under the brunt of its weight. She could feel every stone step under the snow, every branch that had ever been buried there. For a while, she saw nothing but a myriad of lights and colors. Something tore the furs on her coat, leaving her cold and vulnerable.
“Yrith!”
Someone in the distance was calling her name. She struggled and wriggled out of reach, only to be buried under a load of flesh and fur. When her sight cleared, the breath of the beast suffocated her. It was close. So close to her throat. Like the dark blade…
The blade.
With all the strength she could muster, Yrith tore her dagger from its sheath, forcing it up. It plunged into the wolf’s belly with a sound freezing the blood in her veins. The fur tore, releasing its contents, filling the air with an acrid smell that made Yrith’s stomach turn. She sent her rucksack rolling away, following suit and leaving a crimson trail in the snow. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Cain firing flames over her body, his face twisted in blind rage.
Two more wolves circled them. Yrith let her magic flow, shooting more fire to scare the beasts, but they simply jumped aside, letting the bolts pass them. Protection… she needed protection. Her hand shook visibly as she buried it into the snow, raising it and hardening it into a barrier. Then, she sent her mind away, knowing she was taking a risk. She called. She prayed. She had to be quick.
The answer came immediately. One, two, three… four creatures heard her call. They rushed to her, across all Oblivion, dashing through Aetherius. The link whirled deep violet, then crackled until blazing figures sprung about her, each bolting in a different direction, taking on a different beast. The wolves cried. Yrith dared a look, watching them scurry with atronachs on their heels, some still burning, some hurt and limping.
A deep trench in the snow told her that one wolf had fallen over the edge of the ravine. Three furry corpses lay scattered across the road, the one Yrith had slain a short distance from her, with the dagger still jabbed in its body. Yrith’s eyes found the pile next to it. The pungent smell flooded her nostrils. She felt something surge inside her. Quickly as she could, she staggered to her feet, trudging to the side to empty herself into a thicket. Heavy feet shuffled behind her. She closed her eyes and waited. Her body shook and retched. She gave it all the time it needed, heedless of the people gathering around her. She was alive. They were alive. It was enough to know.
With her breath strangled and legs trembling, she turned to face the Dragonborn. His brows were knit with worry.
“Are you hurt, hatchling?”
She shook her head, unable to find the right word for an answer. All words seemed to dissipate from her mind. She was all too aware she was covered in grime and goo. All too aware they were staring at her, thinking uncomfortable truths, commenting in their thoughts on the way she had fought, on her display of weakness, and how she had allowed herself to be distracted. She stepped away, sinking into the snow. Keneel-La extended his hand to her.
“Don’t,” he said. “You’ll catch a chill. Come on, up you go, that’s it.”
“I’m… sorry…”
He sighed. “Why are you sorry again? You might have just saved our lives.”
“I thought…”
“Save it. I wouldn’t say that after single-handedly ridding us of four beasts at once, there’s anything to apologize for. Your magic really is something. I’ve never seen anything like that. Tell me, elflings, is summoning four atronachs at once common in your circles?”
Cain shook his head, keeping his eyes on Yrith. His face was unreadable, but he reached for Yrith instinctively, squeezing her forearm. If they had been alone, Yrith was sure he would have pulled her close. “Not to my knowledge,” he muttered.
“Or to mine,” Leyna seconded. She was watching the gutted beast and the icy shell Yrith had formed beside it, as if the sight brought her pleasure. Neither she nor Cain seemed impressed. Yrith found herself wishing for solitude.
She looked up as Keneel-La adjusted her coat, tying the loose threads on its torn edges as tightly as his rough hands allowed. Then, he lifted Yrith’s rucksack to examine it.
“Seems like this didn’t suffer as much damage as you did. You’ll have to endure a bit, I’m afraid. We don’t have any means to clean that off,” he waved to the wolf as he circled Yrith’s ice shield. “But this,” he pulled the dagger out with a squelching sound, making Yrith’s stomach knot again, “might come in handy.”
He wiped the blade in the snow, handing it to Yrith. She frowned at its dulled shine, summoning first fire, then water to clean it to perfection. Singird would have surely praised her for her work. The Dragonborn simply stared with his brows quirked in a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
“You told us to keep our blades clean,” she shrugged as she sheathed it. He laughed.
“Points for unwavering focus and the ability to put it to practice. Now,” he turned to scan the scene, “I think we better go. We have left a very clear mark here, and a decent amount of magical residue as well. If someone was ever wondering when we were going to leave High Hrothgar, now they will know. They will also know we are exhausted. The sooner we leave the mountain the better.”
“How much further?” Cain asked, watching the abyss on their side. Yrith had stopped looking that way a long while ago. The infinite depth seemed to only grow darker as they went, offering no solace.
“Let’s see… I think that’s the third emblem down this bend. That means it’ll be dark when we reach Ivarstead if all goes well. If not, then maybe in the morning. From there, we can take multiple ways, so it will get harder to track us down.”
“Not if someone follows us from there,” Leyna muttered.
“True, but I’ve taken that into account.” His eyes glimmered merrily as he waved at them. “Now let’s be on our way.”
They nodded. Yrith bent down to put on her rucksack, finding it twice as heavy as it had used to be. With a grunt, she flung it over her back, nearly losing her balance. She caught Cain’s look and forced a grin on her face.
“Nothing like a real-life training,” she said, feeling the sting of pretense in her own words. Cain held out his hand, opening his mouth to speak, but she passed him, leveling her pace with Leyna. The Dragonborn seemed to move even faster than before, ploughing the way through the drifts with so much force he sent snow sprinkling in every direction. Or maybe it was simply an illusion, a figment of Yrith’s tired mind.
--
The town of Ivarstead flickered with scarce lights from its windows and torches carried by the guards. As Yrith’s foot left the last step, she turned back, watching the path upward with reverence. This was the highest mountain on Nirn. Now she had seen its top, as well as its foot. She had learned more about life up there, more about herself and her place in the world, than she had ever learned elsewhere. She owed it much.
Bowing her head, she turned back to the settlement ahead. They stepped on a bridge arching its way over a wide river. If there was any sound of life coming from the town, it was muffled by the hum of water rushing down the white-capped rapids until it fell over the edge of a small plateau, into unseen depths. Ivarstead stretched just past the river with a humble number of abodes to form its perimeter. Several houses on the outskirts seemed burnt down or torn apart, at least from what Yrith could tell by their faint silhouettes. The closest one, windowless and with only half its roof, still seemed inhabited by some unfortunate soul.
A guard stood on the other side of the bridge, his stance wide as he spotted the newcomers. Yrith tensed as they approached him, noticing the Imperial red on his uniform, but the man only raised his torch for a quick inspection. When his eyes rested on the Dragonborn, he relaxed, stepping aside to let them pass. As they reached him, he leaned forward, whispering in the lizard’s direction.
“Fellow has been asking for you. Some new commander or whatnot, all high and important, but he doesn’t seem to have made his way up like the rest of us did, and no one knows him ‘round these parts. Gotta be careful, ‘Neel, there’s something fishy going on.”
Keneel-La stopped, lowering his head and pretending to be shaking his rucksack to obedience. “I figured as much. Many thanks, Jorgen. You too. It may get rowdy tonight.”
The man nodded gravely, bowing low. He returned to his original position, gazing at the mountain across the river, but Yrith could notice the occasional glance he cast their way. She would have liked to ask what their little exchange meant, but perhaps the time was not right. By the looks of it, Cain and Leyna assumed the same, eyeing the Dragonborn with curiosity, yet keeping all the questions to themselves.
They proceeded past the deserted sawmill, into the heart of the town. Not a soul walked the streets, save for a handful of guards. Keneel-La led them in a swift pace, up to the largest building of them all. Despite that, Yrith would still call it humble at best. It gave her the impression of a ragged sage amid a crowd of beggars. Tall and old, but still just a plain shack with only its splintered wooden walls and bristled thatch roof for its protection. Before it stood a pole holding a sign as battered as the building itself, carrying marks of numerous repairs. Lit by a misshapen lantern, it swung in the wind ever so slightly, announcing to the visitors that they have just reached the Vilemyr Inn.
A short flight of stairs led to a wooden platform before the inn’s entrance. Keneel-La beckoned for them to follow, opening the door. A gust of warm air smelling of furs and firewood poured out, filling Yrith with a sliver of hope. She hurried up, trailing the Dragonborn inside.
The room they entered would best be described as cozy, and yet, that was not the word Yrith would have used. A fireplace sat in its middle, filling it with warmth that bordered hotness. A handful of tables were scattered at its sides in no orderly fashion, each holding a goat horn with a lit candle. At its far end, between two sets of doors leading elsewhere, stood a counter, strikingly in the middle of nowhere, the space behind it open from both sides. Propped against the counter was a balding man, wiping it with lazy gestures, apparently out of habit. Yrith could spot a thick blanched line where the cloth had repeatedly swept the wood. Aside from this man, only one other person occupied the inn. In the corner across from the counter sat a young wheat-haired bard, an old lute in her lap. She was plucking its strings, producing a series of deep, long-drawn growls which interrupted the otherwise eerie silence. When the door snapped shut behind their group, both the innkeeper and the bard raised their heads, staring at them as though they were a procession of apparitions.
“Well I’ll be damned,” the man said, wiping his forehead with the very cloth he had been using on his counter. “If it isn’t the great Dragonborn. And with company as well.”
Keneel-La dropped a curtsy, elegant despite the giant rucksack on his back and the steel boots on his feet. “Pleasure’s all mine, Wil.” He made to cross the room, and the rest followed.
“And here I thought I wouldn’t see a customer till the end of my days. So what will it be today? Firebrand whisky? Cyrodilic brandy? The finest Black-Briar Reserve, or perhaps a bit of Argonian ale from your homeland?”
The lizard shook his head. “Kind of you to ask, Wil, but we’re not here to indulge. I would ask for a bath and a bite of chow, and we’ll be on our way.”
“Nonsense,” the innkeeper waved his cloth, then stashed it inside the counter as he started coughing. “You look beat. Bad beat, my friend, and the young one here could use a good bit of rest.” His eyes found Yrith, studying every inch of her bloody coat, then landing on her face. If the wind had not whipped her face red already, she would have been flushing furiously, wishing again for a place to hide. She was again too aware of how she smelled and looked, averting her eyes.
“She needs a bath,” Keneel-La repeated, his voice hardening. Burying his hand in a pouch by his waist, he withdrew several coins, depositing them on the counter. “And a meal.” Out of the corner of her eye, Yrith could see the bard coming to attention at the sound of gold against wood, throwing a hungry look at its source.
The man sighed, scooping the coins into his pocket. “Right then. A bath and a meal. Lynly, if you could heat the water.”
The bard tore her eyes from his hand, nodding. “Right away, Wilhelm. Dragonborn, sir.” With a bow, she excused herself, scuttling into one of the doors behind the counter. The innkeeper scampered off to another one, leaving his guests to themselves.
They took a seat by the farthest table. Keneel-La sat with his back to the wall, having all the doors in clear view. Yrith took the closest chair, sinking into it as she tossed her rucksack aside. She could hear Cain asking questions, addressing the Dragonborn’s local nickname, but she could care less. Laying her head on the table, she let the exhaustion take her. How long had it been since they had last taken a break? She did not know. It felt like days instead of hours. Now, her mind was filled with colorless fog, comfortable in its shapeless state. She would not know the difference if Sithis himself had dragged her into the Void that instant.
She did not know how long she had spent just sitting there, mindless of everything around. A pat on her shoulder woke her from her semi-slumber. Vaguely, she could hear Keneel-La’s voice.
“And for some reason, humans and elves find my Saxhleel name too complicated. Curious, I never had a problem with the Khajiit. But at least I am the only Keneel-La around, not like every other Astrid here. Ah, good morning, hatchling.”
Yrith blinked, raising her head. All three of her companions were grinning, looking at the steaming bowls before them. Another one landed before Yrith. Wilhelm the innkeeper hurried off again. A new smell filled Yrith’s nostrils, one that she would at that moment describe as heavenly. Her bowl was filled with bronze-tinted soup, an egg resting in its middle, atop of cut carrots, onions and shreds of meat like a crown jewel. A feast she had not seen in months. Years by her feeling.
“Morning,” she nodded feebly, despite knowing it must have only been minutes since she had fallen into her daze. And then, before anyone responded, she grabbed the spoon laid by the plate, helping herself to the liquid bliss. She slurped, gobbled, devoured, feeling warmth fill her. If she died now, they would lay her to rest with the happiest of smiles she could ever conjure. But the soup poured life into her, restoring her energy like no magic on Nirn could. She closed her eyes, not listening, not wishing to sacrifice any of that feeling. It made her remember Daggerfall and her mother’s cooking. The smell of rosemary in their house. If Adine Ravencroft had still been alive, if Yrith could see her one more time, she would have jumped to embrace her right then and there. But now, she could only embrace her memory.
When Yrith finished her soup, there was not a single drop remaining in her bowl.
A door opened, revealing the bard. She was red in the face, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead.
“Your bath is ready,” she informed them, extending her hand. “This way. But you better hurry before the water gets cold. I can’t keep up the fire, wind is rising out there. It’ll be a cold night.”
Keneel-La put down his spoon, his jaws widening into a smile. “Thank you, Lynly. Ladies first.” He gestured to Yrith and Leyna. They nodded, lifting their rucksacks. Once more, Yrith staggered under the weight, wondering how she could have carried all of it so far. She hurried into the open room, struck by the hotness of the air the moment she crossed the threshold. Behind her, Leyna closed the door.
“Finally a decent temperature,” she commented as she let her rucksack slide off her back. “This reminds me of Alinor. I don’t suppose the water here is like the sea though.” She patted one of the two large wooden tubs filling most of the round room they had found themselves in. But as she made to unwind her shawl, she froze, her eyes turning up.
Yrith smiled. “No, I don’t suppo—”
She was silenced by Leyna’s hand, landing firmly on her mouth. Yrith made to remove it, but caught Leyna’s look. The elf shook her head, placing a finger on her lips. Then, she slowly pointed it up to where she was looking. Yrith followed the direction to find a small window high up on the wall, covered by a gently billowing curtain of colorless linen. And through the small gap between the glass an its frame, voices came in, faint, but still audible.
“… just till the captain arrives. Shouldn’t be long, I reckon.”
“That’s mad business I tell ya. Wilhelm can say all he wants, but the girl survived through Kynesgrove. It’ll take more than that to…”
“Shhh, not so loud! That’s why Wilhelm got them cooped up nice, he has. And…”
Yrith caught herself staring wide-eyed at the window when she felt a tug on her sleeve. Leyna had donned her rucksack again, pointing to the door. Yrith nodded silently, reaching for the handle. In a single breath, they gripped it and turned, nearly tripping on their way out. The sound of their feet echoed through the washroom. Yrith paled.
By his table, Keneel-La jumped up, catching their look. He did not need to ask. He did not need any signs. With a single gesture, he prompted Cain to follow, turning to the bard.
She was already on her feet, the lute she had been tuning just moments before forgotten on the table beside her.
“Brother…” she breathed. Keneel-La shook his head, raising his hand to silence her. Yrith looked from one to the other, trying to make sense of what was happening. The Dragonborn withdrew a purse from his pocket, tossing it over to the bard. She caught it with a more than practiced movement, weighing it in her hand.
“Give my regards to Wilhelm, will you?”
She stared at him for a split moment, then nodded with a grim look in her eyes.
“Eyes open,” she whispered.
“And walk with the shadows,” he finished, swinging his rucksack over his back. Then he turned to leave, beckoning the rest of them outside.
He found the door locked.
Cursing under his breath, he lifted one of his heavy boots, kicking with all his might. The door shook and chipped. A shower of dust landed on the floor.
“Let me,” Cain offered, not waiting for an answer. He fired several bolts of ice at the lock, covering it with a myriad of frosty fractals. The Dragonborn nodded his thanks, smashing it with the hilt of his sword. The mechanism gave way, breaking into three parts, two of which hung loosely by the third. Keneel-La kicked again. The door flew open.
They managed no more than a single step when the innkeeper appeared in their sight, a torch in his hand. His face widened at the sight of them, surprise battling fear.
“‘Neel,” he laughed, a touch of hysteria in his voice. “The bath…”
“Necessity calls,” Keneel-La said matter-of-factly, but his voice harbored an unspoken threat. “Take care, Wil.”
“Y-you… broke my door…”
“Wilhelm.” The Dragonborn’s voice took the innkeeper’s breath away. “You will let us pass.”
“You broke my door!” he yelled. His voice carried through the town and beyond. A flock of birds rose from a nearby tree, disturbed from their sleep.
Keneel-La’s face twisted, bearing nothing of the kindness Yrith knew from him. His eyes flared, his nostrils widened. His teeth shone white in the moonlight. He drew his sword, but did not swing it. Instead, he breathed a single word.
“FUS!”
The word thundered through the dark, its echo bouncing off the mountains like a bat that has lost its mind. The innkeeper flew away until he hit the pole of a fence on the other side of the road with a nasty crack. He cried out, but his voice came out as mere rasp. Before his body could hit the ground, an arrow flew from nowhere, piercing him to the wood. His eyes opened for the last time, bulging in disbelief.
“But I thought…”
The words took his life away. The arrow broke under his weight. He slid down, leaving a dark, glistening trail in its wake. The torch, its flame smothered by the Shout, fell from his hand, rolling away.
“And don’t call me ‘Neel,” the Dragonborn hissed, breaking into a run. On his way, he grabbed Yrith’s hand, gripping it so tight she lost all feeling in it. He pushed her forward, then let go, standing with his back to her. Cain and Leyna followed suit. They surrounded her, acting as her living shield. All around, people approached them, the Imperial dragon glinting on their chests. Weapons glistened in their hands, swords at the front, arrows nocked in bows just behind them.
“No!” Yrith yelled. “NO!”
She wanted out. She wanted to fight. They must have planned this, discussed this when she was not around, a way to protect her with their bodies. She saw both Leyna and Cain raise their wards, deflecting a wave of spells and arrows. A missile ricocheted from Cain’s barrier, landing on one of the roofs. The straw making its covering caught on fire. Somewhere amidst the flood of bodies, a voice rose above all the clamor.
“Don’t kill the girl! We want her alive!”
Yrith could not struggle. She could not distract Cain or Leyna. She could not get in the way of the Dragonborn, clashing blade against blade, stabbing, slicing, parrying. Even if she could, she saw no way through the mass of enemies. The only way would be to give herself away. To save her friends.
They knew. They had always known. She cussed aloud, knowing she was the only one to hear it.
Her hands flared green, then released a flash of light so bright everyone stopped their movements momentarily. The light enveloped her and the three figures around her, soaking into their skin, hardening it into a protective shell. Yrith gritted her teeth. If she could not fight, she would at least return the favor.
“OD AH VIING!” Keneel-La shouted. The men surrounding them backed away instinctively, waiting with their breaths held for whatever was to come. Yrith waited too. Archers froze with their arrows nocked, mages with their hands in the air. A moment of stillness passed.
Nothing happened.
Yrith felt the blood retreat from her face. Had the Dragonborn made a mistake? Had he confused the words? Had the Shout not worked?
The silence was broken by an outburst of clashes and yells. As if someone had set the time back into motion, everything moved again. Spells shot in every direction. Houses burned, their inhabitants making their escape into the woods, leaving their farms and animals behind.
Amidst the cacophony of screams, jangles, twangs and flares, Yrith could hear the thudding of hooves. Riders. Just like back then…
Come, little children…
Yrith tensed, a wave of cold surging in her. She turned it into resolve. No. Not this time. Not anymore.
They moved an inch forward. She could almost feel the Dragonborn’s will to break through. His blade hummed in the air, emitting crimson sparks of magic. He plunged it into the closest man in Imperial red, and the blade fed on his life like a hungry beast. The man screamed, dropping his own weapon and sinking to his knees. Cain still kept up his protection. So did Leyna.
Yrith searched with her mind again. She needed something stronger than a flame atronach. Something to stand up to a rider. Something to withstand a blow in the chest. Something solid.
She made her call. Oblivion answered.
Several figures burst into existence on their sides. They were dark like the Dunmer, with vermillion smeared all over their face, clad in jagged armor that seemed to be made of scorching magma. As they swung their blades, emitting the same fiery glow as the plates on their body, the men around them pulled back, dread reflected in their eyes. But they were not looking at the figures before them. Their eyes were turned upward, to the sky. A shadow seemed to block the stars. Then, an earsplitting roar shook the ground.
“Now!” the Dragonborn called. “FUS RO DAH!”
His breath blew the men before him away, clearing the road. A wooden bridge opened before them. In the rear lines, riders fell off their horses, some falling into the river with a wild splash, some stomped upon by their own steeds.
Keneel-La bolted out, his blade held up and ready to strike. Yrith, Cain and Leyna followed, maintaining their spells, hitting the startled soldiers like a hurricane. They cowered before them, groveling out of their reach or pressing themselves to the edges of the bridge. The four of them rushed through the aisle of bodies, onward, into the dark of the woods. As their feet touched the solid ground, it quaked under them with a resonating thud. The wood of the bridge cracked and gave way as something heavy landed upon it. The trees in their vicinity shed their remaining leaves. Yrith could not turn to look. She could only imagine the huge, winged beast taking their place, answering the Dragonborn’s call. His Shout had not failed after all.
“Keep running!” Keneel-La yelled after them. “Don’t stop now! And cease your spells!”
They ran, finally letting their magic rest. Yrith could hardly see the road before her in the dark of the night, putting full trust in the Dragonborn’s leadership. The canopy of branches above their heads obscured the sky. The wind rustled in the treetops, muffling all other sounds. Only scarcely a dragon roar drowned the wind, a steady reminder of the battle they had left behind.
The snow had given way to dirt and a layer of crunching leaves. At times, Yrith nearly tripped over protruding cobblestones, sparse as if the road under their feet had long been abandoned. Weariness was gaining on her again, making her breath strained and her eyelids heavy. She wondered how long they had been running. The warmth from her meal had long been exhausted. She fixed her eyes upon the silhouette ahead, clearing her mind of all thoughts but one. She had to keep going.
--
The eastern horizon was accentuated with a frill of red gold when the Dragonborn finally slowed. The world was cast in a greyish haze, revealing a number of shapes. The trees parted before them, revealing a set of structures. Pillars and angular arches were flocked around a massive watchtower crowned by what seemed to be a gilded astrolabe. It watched over the land, its stone slowly chipping away by the tooth of time. They stared at it, all but the Dragonborn awestruck with its imposing beauty. It must have been old as time itself.
“Is that…” Leyna breathed, her eyes wide as she traced the joints in the stone, forming lines so perfect that Singird’s neatly arranged books would pale in comparison.
Cain nodded before she finished the question. “Dwemer architecture,” he said.
“Correct,” the Dragonborn affirmed. “We have finally arrived.”
Yrith looked at him in question, not daring to hope again. Then, instinctively, she glanced back. There was no figure pursuing them. Nothing seemed to disturb the morning. The Dragonborn had slackened into a gentle walking pace, as if the battle they had left behind had never happened. She let out a breath.
“Arrived where?” she asked.
Keneel-La smiled. “You’ll see.”
--
A little late, but Happy New Year!
Well, what a fun chapter to write. It is funny when you have to look up the stone tablets on the way to High Hrothgar, only to discard most of the content that features them anyway, or when you’re trying to calculate how long it will take from High Hrothgar to Ivarstead when you only know that the actual number of steps in the game is a little over 700 instead of the said 7000 and the height is 613 meters above the sea level, but the developers purposely made all the distances in the game many times shorter. :D I did in the end manage to estimate how high above Ivarstead the monastery is, but then I had to take into consideration that the road goes along the contour line and that they were carrying heavy luggage and struggled against the snow drifts. And they got some distractions as well. So I ended up with a little less than two days of traveling from the highest mountain on Nirn to the town at its foot (which is actually still standing on a plateau, so you can imagine that they progressed very slowly). Oh the writing struggles. But I do enjoy these little details.
Skyrim fans! Yes, you’re right, I killed a canon character. The audacity!
And whoever figured that I made Lynly a member of a certain guild, you also guessed right. In the end, given her personal history, I find it a perfect background for her. I do hope you enjoyed the tiny twists I made!
Also, you can guess where the Dragonborn took them, and you can probably argue with me that it makes no sense to go there. Well, it doesn’t, as long as I only stick to what you can find in the game. I didn’t, so there’s going to be a surprise for all of you.
With that, I will excuse myself. I wish everyone all the best in the upcoming year, and may it be better and brighter than the last one. Stay strong!
Mirwen
P.S. Work is rather overwhelming right now, so I’m not sure when the next chapter is going to come out. But you’re probably used to it already. :D
The morning was grey. As grey as ever, with cold permeating her body despite the many layers she wore under the duvet. Yrith opened an eye, staring at the uniform stone floor. It was so quiet. She looked up, expecting a curtain and Singird’s face peeking through it, but this was no Winterhold and there were no curtains. No windows with crows on their sill either. There was only a dormer above her head, smeared by the melted snow. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, trying to remember why her mind felt so hazy. If she’d had any dreams, she had forgotten them. She was still in High Hrothgar… and there was the last night. Cain facing a group of deadly Imperials. The Dragonborn running to his rescue and telling Yrith off. Leyna… the friend she could not trust.
Yrith clasped her head, curling into a ball of muddled feelings. Her chest was so tight. She was afraid to stand and look at the world around. What had she done? What had she said? Everything felt so wrong. Everyone was so ready to put their faith in her. Risk their lives for her. What could she offer in return? Just why in Oblivion had she refused Leyna when she had finally won her affection? Was it truly distrust, or something else?
She kicked the duvet away, inviting the cold to take her. Her knees bent purely by the power of her will. Her body ached and trembled as she forced it to rise. Uncertainty had taken more from her than days and days of shaping her muscles to the Dragonborn’s liking. She moved quickly as her limbs allowed, refusing to think any further, burying deep the part of her mind that yearned for that sliver of warmth her bed offered. Draining the jug on the table of its last drop of water, she rushed away, stumbling over the prayer rugs.
She had never been in the parts where Cain spent his nights, but there could only be so many corners she had not seen yet. The alcoves and occasional flowers on the walls went by unnoticed, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. Corridor after corridor, she crossed them without as much as glancing to her sides. A Greybeard whose name she did not know, one of those silent monks who never spared a word to their guests, passed her, stopping with mute curiosity, but she pressed on. Warmth was coming from around the corner. That, and a faint scent of incense amidst a palette of heavy odors, mostly of various animals and herbs. Yrith could discern goat and goose, troll fat, but also dragon’s tongue, juniper and jazbay. She picked up her pace, but a voice made her stop dead in her tracks.
“Please… give me more…”
Yrith felt herself pale. The voice was hoarse, unnaturally high and tremulous, and yet, it still had to belong to Cain. She took a tentative step forward, breath seizing up in her throat.
“Pain… will relieve me… I pray… upon my Master… I pray… upon his affliction… I pray… so that he endows me with his gift…”
Instinctively, Yrith’s hand raised to her lips to suppress the surging feeling from her stomach. Half rushing, half staggering, she tumbled inside. A view of a vast nook opened before her, with a hearth in its far corner, the path leading to it cushioned by innumerous rags and pelts. Cain lay with his back against a draped wall on Yrith’s right, quivering, his limbs twisted in what must have been spasm. Next to him, collapsed among a number of flasks and twigs trussed in thin bundles, was Leyna. Yrith could sense traces of magic on her hands. Healing magic.
Her chest so tight it hurt, she dropped to her knees, seizing Cain’s hands. They were stiff, as if he was clutching an invisible target, entwined with veins forming a meandering texture on his skin.
“Cain,” she whispered pleadingly.
“I am grateful… for the wounds he inflicts upon this mortal shell…”
“Cain!” Gently as she could, Yrith shook him, imploring his eyes to open in silence. They remained tightly shut, but she could see something glisten in their corners, until two solitary tears rolled down his temples, leaving behind trails of moisture. “Cain!” Yrith cried.
“… for the Master is wise to know…”
“Cain! Wake up!”
“… that only when one suffers can he know true bliss…”
“Cain, please!” She wrapped her arms around him, feeling the immense heat of his body. His back was stiff like his hands, arched deeply inside. She did not want to imagine his pain as her own frame trembled along him. “I am here… you are safe… wake up!”
“Pain will lead us… from misery…”
Feeling her own tears fall into his now lank and matted hair, Yrith strengthened her grip. Only the tips of her fingers were not touching him, instead glowing with magic. She let it fill him, concentrating with all her power on the feeling of ease and comfort. Let it pass, she thought desperately, calling to him. Let the pain go. You are free now.
Cain’s words suffocated on their way, becoming a strained rasp. He moaned, the tremor in his body more violent with every moment. Yrith did not let go. Numbness spread through her arms and legs, hazy mist filling her head, but she refused to loosen her grip. You are safe. Magic poured through her and into Cain like glowing, warm water of life.
“Wake up,” she whispered, still pressed to him. His voice had faded. She could hear his heartbeat slow from chaotic drumming to a gentle pulse. As his breath steadied, his back sank back into the cushioned layer underneath, his extremities falling limply to his side. The weight of his body dragged Yrith down. She let go, creating distance to take a look.
He still quivered. Heat emanated from him in waves. But his eyes opened ever so slightly, peering at her through the clumps of his glued eyelashes. He lay motionless, his look bleary, as though he did not know where he was. And perhaps he didn’t. Yrith drew back, her gaze not leaving him for a moment.
“Cain,” she breathed, pulling close some of the pelts to cover him up. She wanted to say she was happy to see him safe, but she could not be sure if that was true. She wanted to give him a smile, but she was too scared and tired. A burning feeling stung her eyes. Her tears dropped softly onto the pelts.
“Yrith…” His voice was a mere rustle. “I… what…”
“Thank gods.” She buried her face in the pelt covering his chest, embracing him once more. “Thank gods you’re alive and…”
He gave a weak laugh. “That should be my line. There were… Imperials. After you. I tried to stop them… I think I owe my life to the Dragonborn…”
“And Leyna, probably,” Yrith muttered, rising to look at the girl sprawled beside Cain. Bending over, she shoved away flask after flask, bundle after bundle, until the space around her was clear, then took another pile of cloth and pelts and spread them over her, carefully moving Leyna’s arms and legs to align with her torso. Leyna’s chest heaved, she appeared to be sleeping soundly. Yrith closed her eyes, running a finger along the back of Leyna’s hand. She should have been there. She shouldn’t have fallen asleep and let Leyna almost surrender her life force to Cain. Just how close had she been to death? Was it Yrith’s words that had inspired her to overexert herself so?
She shuddered, turning her gaze back to Cain.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“I… don’t know,” he said quietly. With strain, he turned to her fully, his ebony skin shimmering gold in the light of the hearth fire. A fresh gaping wound stretched over his cheek, too close to his eye for Yrith’s liking. “Happy that you’re safe, and…” He shook his head. Yrith adjusted the pelts underneath it.
“Are you in pain?”
Cain closed his eyes, leaning back, his elbows unable to support him. “Not anymore.”
Cold washed over Yrith as she recalled the words that had come out of his mouth. “You had nightmares. You talked… about pain.”
He froze momentarily, then gave a slow, weary nod. “I… lost control.”
“Lost control?”
“It’s…” Struggle reflected in his eyes as they met hers. Yrith had never seen him so lost. So helpless. Her hand closed around the cloth she was holding. “It’s nothing.”
She bowed her head, letting the silence linger. His breath was heavy, audible even over the crackling of the fire, but steady, as if counting moment after moment, a clock of its own. Yrith did not know how long they spent just gazing at each other, neither wishing to be the one to look away. She grew thirsty, but still, she did not move. And then, he closed his eyes again.
“Yrith,” he whispered.
“Yes?”
“Can you… can you sit closer?”
She raised her brows, not expecting the question. Without a word, she moved toward him, leaning against the draped wall. He gave a faint smile. Mustering what seemed to be all his strength, he raised himself enough to put his head in her lap. Her heart skipped a beat and she felt her whole body catch on fire.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, reaching for her hand. “But I’d do it again.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Put my life on the line for you.” His smile widened slightly. “For moments like this… I’d do it again.”
“Cain…” Yrith’s mind was blank. Her lips moved soundlessly, but there was no need for words. Cain’s head felt heavy on her thighs, his breathing now coming with ease. His slumber was peaceful, and she knew that no cries of pain would follow. Despite herself, she smiled, letting her hand run through his grimy hair.
--
The wind whipped her face, but the skies were clear like a placid sea of periwinkle blue. Yrith could see all Skyrim from up here, as if she was atop of a flying dragon once more. Snowy mountain caps gaped at her like overgrown gnomes, circled by shadowy valleys and white-gold ribbons of water. The sight calmed her almost like the books that were in such a short supply in High Hrothgar. She did not mind the cold watchtower platform underneath her, having had her share of cold window sills to sit on in Winterhold. She swayed her legs as she sat on the edge. If she fell into the abyss below, there would be no retrieving her. But sitting here, with the world literally at her feet, felt strangely liberating. She leaned against a massive pillar, one of the four that formed the corners of the platform and supported the tower’s roof, letting the sunlight caress her face.
“Here you are,” a voice issued behind her. She followed it unwillingly, staring into the Dragonborn’s face.
“You found me,” she said, struggling to not let the accusation surface.
He looked her over, tilting his head to the side. “I’ve been worried.”
“I wouldn’t run.” She turned back to the glorious sight, studying the pines in the vales and the caravan striding along the road from Falkreath to Riverwood like a group of ants carrying home a thick spruce needle.
“No, you would not. But you look troubled. I’ve seen little of you the past few days. Mind if I join you?”
She shook her head out of sheer politeness. He sank beside her, following her example with his legs over the edge.
“I once lost a boot here. Taught me to never wear heavy armor up here. It was a foolish thing to do anyway, but I had quarreled with Arngeir and refused to go past him to change into something more reasonable.”
“You quarreled with the Greybeards?”
“Surprised?” There was the smile in his voice, the one he always had, as if nothing had happened. As if Cain had not been hurt and he had not Shouted Yrith away from the carnage. Yrith found the comfort it brought almost annoying. “Yes. I’d called them senile old codgers who sit in their warm little cavern and spout wisdoms instead of going out and doing something meaningful.”
She looked at him with her eyes wide. “You… did?”
He laughed, his hand shooting up to pat her, but as he glanced toward her dangling feet, he stopped it in midair, inches from her back. “I told you the two of us are too much alike. Oh well. Arngeir was laughing when he told me of your little performance. ‘Where have I heard this before?’ and ‘Maybe I truly ought to get serious before one of you beats me to it.’ Those were his words.”
Despite herself, Yrith smiled, feeling a heavy weight leave her shoulders. “I thought you’d be angry,” she muttered. “That maybe the Greybeards would tell you to take us away for good.”
“No, I would not. In essence, you were right, and Arngeir knows it too. But be careful with your words. He may seem strong and unassailable, but deep inside, he wishes to be as free as we are. He, just as the others, had chosen this path, knowing that he would spend the rest of his life locked away in solitude, waiting on an uncertain hope to perhaps train a Dragonborn one day. The Greybeards can’t just leave High Hrothgar and join our struggles. They have to carry on the dying tradition. They have to persevere, so that the Dragonborn don’t lose their way. So that they can bring hope to the world that has too little of it on its own. Especially now that the Septims are gone.”
Yrith stared into her lap. She had never known. She had spoken out of turn, as she had done so many times before, and perhaps hurt someone who was so much more than she would ever be. Her eyes wandered to the monastery, as if expecting a wrinkled face to be glaring at her out of it.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“There is no need,” he told her kindly. “But he will be happy if you speak to him before we leave.”
“So we will be leaving,” she said with no question to follow. She had expected as much. The Demon had found her. She could not trouble the Greybeards any longer.
“Yes, it had come to it, it seems. Yrith,” he turned her to face him, “I must ask you to stop blaming yourself and trying to carry this burden alone. I am in this willingly. I had the chance to refuse the task and I didn’t. Both of your friends, I believe, chose to march into this danger themselves, and both of them wish to protect you with their life. By refusing them, and by throwing yourself into peril when it makes little sense, you reject them. And me. Do you really want to do that?”
“I… I just wanted to help…”
He sighed, ruffling her hair. “I know. But it was reckless, and it put you in more danger. And your friends too.”
“I’m…”
“Don’t be sorry,” he shook his head, pulling himself up and offering her a hand. She took it reluctantly, feeling his muscular arm lift her with ease. He spoke softly, making her feel worse than if he was shouting. “Be brave enough to retreat when needed. You will have enough chance to prove yourself. Come. There is training to be done.” He led the way to the entrance and toward the dark stairway back to the courtyard. Yrith hesitated.
A chance to prove herself… perhaps. Reckless she had been, perhaps now was the time to take matters in her own hands. How many more chances would she get with the Dragonborn before they parted? Before it was too late?
“Keneel-La?” she tried, her voice but a quivering rasp.
“Yes?”
“Do you know where I can find an Elder Scroll?”
He froze, turning back to her slowly, as though time had nearly stopped for him. Quite positively, the Dragonborn was taken aback by the sudden question. “An Elder Scroll?” he repeated curiously.
Without daring a word, Yrith gave a nod.
He took a moment to size her up, eyes sliding slowly over her determined face, her stuck out chest and her clenched fists. He gave a smile that was neither warm nor cold, his eyes distant as she had never seen them before, surely gazing at an entirely different scene. She waited, listening to her heartbeat. Behind her, the descending sun burned the nape of her neck.
“Did Paarthurnax tell you to find one?” he asked pensively.
Again, she nodded.
“Why?”
“To… find a name.”
“The name lost in time? That thing the ashling mentioned when he expressed his concern for you?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know who the name truly belongs to?”
She shook her head.
He sighed. “That may be a problem.”
She gazed at his scales, glistening in the sun, her heart sinking. “So we have no lead at all?”
“Oh we have a lead,” he said quietly. “I just hoped I would not have to use it.”
“Where do I need to go?”
He wagged his finger at her in a dismissive gesture. “The correct question is, where do we need to go? I will not let you go alone. Not to that place.”
“That place?”
Gently, he put his hands on her shoulders, bending over to look into her eyes. His face was troubled, and Yrith shifted her weight instinctively. “I can take you to the one who showed me the way last time. But he is not among the living anymore, and the place where he resides now is not one you’d choose to spend your days. If you thought your journey has been dangerous, then you have seen very little. Certain power-hungry people have tried entering it. Most have lost their minds in the process.”
Yrith shuddered. What place could he be talking about? If the man in question was truly dead, then the place could not be on Nirn. What was it? Sovengarde? How in Oblivion could she possibly get there? Nobody even knew if the place existed.
“Where,” she said in an almost inaudible whisper, “will you be taking me?”
He gave her a heavy, pained look, and she knew he saw things he’d rather have forgotten. She tried to read in his face, but his lizard features were as impenetrable as ever.
“A library,” he breathed, closing his eyes. “The library. The biggest library in Mundus.”
Yrith stared at him, but he said no more. A library did not sound too bad. It would sound thrilling to her, if it wasn’t for the strange reverence in his voice. And if it was a library outside of Nirn, then there sure had to be a twist she did not know of. She opened her mouth to ask, but before she could utter a word, he turned his back on her, taking the stairs.
--
Silence reigned between Keneel-La and Yrith. She had caught him a few times, deep in thought, pacing through the corridors or gazing far over the mountain tops to the flocks of birds leaving for the southern lands. But every time she would open her mouth to speak, he would pass her with no words to offer, keeping to his own little world and to the cogs turning in his head.
She tried to recall all the libraries she had read or heard about, but all of them were still in Tamriel. Perhaps except the one in Artaeum, whose location shifted ever so often, and no one really knew where it disappeared to. Was there a library in Sovengarde? But Sovengarde was for the fallen Nords, and they did not seem the type to engulf themselves in the literary arts. But then, who did? Her own people? Arkay sure could have a great library, but she would have heard about it. All in all, any deity could own a library, and Aetherius was vast enough to harbor a number of them, all greater than the wholeness of Nirn. If only there were books in High Hrothgar.
She sighed, watching the multi-prism silhouette of the monastery. The day had gotten past way too quickly. There were few signs of the coming winter up here, but it fed on daylight like a vulture on carcass. Still, Yrith would stay long after dark, training her body while Leyna would exert her powers to heal Cain’s scars. Yrith avoided both.
What would Cain say when she told him she was going to chase the Lone Demon? Would he tie her and keep her away from danger? Would he break under the strain?
She could still remember his dream, and the words that had left his mouth when she’d found him.
“I pray upon my Master, upon his affliction, for the Master is wise to know that only when one suffers can he know true bliss.”
Was it the Demon’s curse that haunted Cain even in his slumber? She did not dare ask. The only thing she could do was to march forward, toward her fate, or whatever it was that bound her to him.
She shuddered. Perhaps it was the dark thoughts that made her hairs stand, or perhaps it was the cold of the night. The sun had fallen, but she had not even returned for dinner. It was easier to keep practicing. Her limbs ached of the running and stretching, but she preferred this soreness to the one that would claim her when she stared into his crimson eyes. The moons would long have traversed the sky when she would return, slipping into her hay-filled bed with no word to anyone. The tips of her fingers touched the hardened snow, feeling its burning before it dulled into senseless haze.
“You’ll catch a cold, Yrith.”
She jumped up promptly, pivoting to see the very eyes she did not want to look at.
“Cain!” Her voice too high and tense for her liking. “You’re outside. Are you… are you feeling well?”
He wended his way to her, reaching down to pick up the coat she had left in the snow. His gait was insecure, wobbly, as he approached her and slung the cold thing over her shoulders.
“I have been walking up and down the monastery for the good part of the last few days, to regain my strength. But you were nowhere to be found.” There was no reproach in his voice. She found his eyes again, and they were tired and wistful.
“I was here,” she said, wishing to hide the necessity from her tone. He gave a nod.
“I know. I know you’ve been training.” He scanned her arms and legs, eyes resting on the muscle she had built, slight, but firm. “Just like you were back in Winterhold. You’ve never thought of hiding, have you? Never thought of leaving all this behind.”
She weighed his words, concealing her musings by sliding her hands into her coat as slowly and ineptly as possible. He was patient, waiting, motionless, despite his apparent discomfort. She sighed, finally turning to him fully.
“I’ve thought about it. More times than I can count. But I can’t, Cain. This is about more than just me. I am…” In her search for words, she felt a rush of energy. Clenching her fists, she took to walking, pacing from one side of the small clearing formed in the snow for her training to another. “I am angry. And afraid. Afraid that if I let him go any further, I will be sorry. Sorrier than I already am.”
“You know, don’t you?” he said, the sadness now creeping into his voice.
“Know what?”
“Who he is.”
Yrith halted. This was fine, she told herself. At least, there would be no more pretense.
“I’m sorry, Cain. I know he’s hurt you too.”
He hobbled to her, his face suddenly defiant. “Hurt me? Oh, he’s hurt me, he has. The worst of it all being when I had to see you starve, freezing on the ground gods know where, being fed corrupt magic and made to watch and hear things that would hurt you more than any blade could.”
She returned his look, rising, slight as she was. “Then help me become strong enough to not fall into that pit again.” Her words were braver than she felt, as if some other, unknown part of her spoke them, but she went on, looming from the low of her height. “I won’t run away from some nameless ghost. If he has no guts to even show himself, then he’s as good as gone, isn’t he? Whatever happened in your past,” she was now grabbing his shoulders, barely noting her own movements, her mind filled with the image of his dreaming form, “I will smear it away. I don’t want to dwell in the past anymore. He wants us to be afraid, Cain. He wants us to cower. And I will not give him the pleasure.”
She realized she was panting ever so slightly. Cain stared at her, his eyes wide, their crimson shade emphasized in the light of the deep scarlet Masser traversing the sky in his lazy manner. He was shaking, not for the chill of the night, not for fear or unease. It was something else Yrith saw in his features. Something she had not seen there for a very long time.
“Yrith,” he breathed, shaking his head slowly, “I… oh damn it to Oblivion.” He pressed his temples, then looked up again, a strange glint in his eyes. “Do you remember how you once stood up for me when I was about to become the outcast and you had just gained fame?”
She nodded.
“You just…” he took a step back, inclining his head to take her in with all his senses, “you have not changed at all. And I was a fool to think so. I was a fool to think you so weak, to not remember that you don’t fear losing.” He smiled, and it was a face that made all Yrith’s worries melt away. She had not seen it on him since Winterhold, this relish at the sole fact that they could share a moment together. Without thinking, she mirrored it, imbibing every inch of that smile. He reached for her hand, pulling her close, and she wondered at his sudden strength. “I think it was that moment,” he said, his breath brushing her face, “that made me fall in love with you.”
And he aimed for her lips, touching them lightly with his and capering away before she could recoil. He reminded her of a broken marionette, his legs still weak to support him fully, but he did not seem to mind. His lips still quirked up, making the gash on his cheek look almost handsome, he paused briefly to steal a last glance of her.
“Come back,” he called to her. “Don’t freeze on me now, after all this.”
And he was gone, leaving her frozen and gaping after him.
But Yrith did not want to come back. He had not subdued her fears. He had replaced them with new ones, startlingly more overwhelming than any hired killer sent to end her life. All this time, she had been trying to shove these feelings aside. All this time, those memories had lain locked away in the deepest chasms of her mind, just so they would not distract her. All this time, she had forced herself to resist the longing, just so she could forget the temptation to throw it all away and run back to him. Now, Cain had brought it all back.
She fell to the ground, shielding her face with the palms of her hands. She could not accept Cain’s gift, precious as it was. She could not return the favor and be rightly grateful. She hated herself for it, and for the thought that now drenched her in cold.
If she were to fail, if she were to die by the Demon’s hand, she would never see Singird’s face again, and Cain’s lips would be the last ones to touch hers.
--
“Well well, so much for all the brave words you gave him.”
A hand landed on her shoulder. She did not raise her head to look at the Dragonborn. Instead, she backed away to throw it off, face throbbing and torn between the desire to shout and hide. He squeezed her, making her stop.
“I know this is hard…”
She glared at him. “You have no idea,” she growled.
“Perhaps I don’t,” he muttered softly, offering her both his hands. She took them gingerly, letting him pull her to her feet. “But let me guess.” He drew distance between them, as though offering her space to run. It unsettled her more than if he had her cornered and struggling. “There is something you want to protect, and for the first time in your life, you are truly afraid of loss. You realize that what he said is not entirely true. Don’t you?”
She tried to suppress the stinging in her eyes and the feeling of weakness in her legs that had little to do with her training. “Do you enjoy spying on people that much?”
He ruffled her hair. “It is a decent pastime. But at least I am honest about it.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “So? Was I right?”
“Maybe.” She looked away, to the blurry shapes in the dark that were rocks and trees and a lone barrow propped against them.
“Hmm. And does it make a difference?”
She kept staring into the murk, but her brows quirked up at his question. He smiled.
“The only thing you need to do now is live by those words you so gracefully delivered to the ashling, wouldn’t you say?”
The ice on the hard, leathery surface of her coat bit into her skin as Yrith rubbed her eyes. She took a breath, but produced no sound. A tacit nod was all she could give in reply.
“Well then.” He paused, looking up at the sky, still with the pensive look he had been wearing these days. When he spoke, his voice was an octave deeper and a fair bit quieter. “I think you’re ready. Take a good rest for tomorrow. You will need it.”
He left her there, alone, still trembling and unable to decide what it was that caused it.
--
“Arngeir would not like what I am about to teach you,” Keneel-La said as he led the three of them along the wall. The day was bright again, yet colder than those before, and even Yrith, used to the harsh winters and wrapped in her fur-padded coat, shivered. The sun was low and blinding, and the shadows long and menacing. She only hoped, despite her aching limbs, that they would move around enough to warm themselves.
“So what is it that you’re about to teach us?” Cain asked, and there was an air of interest about him. He was smiling, unconcerned with his limp. When he looked her way, Yrith quickly averted her eyes, retreating behind Leyna. She heard him chuckle, and her heart sank. The deluge of thoughts that overcame her whenever their eyes met clouded all reason. She would not be able to avoid him for long. But what words would she give him when he finally pressed her?
Next to her, Leyna raised her brows, eyes flitting between the two of them.
“Not you, ashling, but the two ladies by your side. I doubt you need to be taught that, given where you came from.” The lizard’s step was light, but Yrith could notice the imperceptible quiver in his voice. Cain’s smile froze on his lips, his marred face a poorly drawn caricature.
“What are you teaching them?”
The Dragonborn came to a halt, and so did the rest. Yrith nearly walked into Leyna, barely keeping her balance. He turned to them, his hand reaching for a handle in the wall that she had not noticed there before.
“Nothing spectacular,” he said as he pulled it. A door of the same texture and color as the monastery’s granite walls creaked and opened to reveal absolute darkness. “Wait for me, will you?” he added as he entered.
They fell silent. Yrith dared a look at Cain. His carelessness was gone. He was not looking at her, but at the entrance to the unknown place Keneel-La had disappeared to. She could see the thoughts behind his eyes, memories he feared to face. He moved a few steps toward her as if to shield her, still watching the doorway. They heard rustling from the inside, and then, dull, muffled clanking. Yrith paled. She knew that sound. She had almost forgotten it, that ominous ringing, resounding in her ears as she had lain starving on the ground, cuffed in the crimson gaol that was the Imperial tent. Leyna tensed by her side, and so, if nigh imperceptibly, did Cain.
The three of them watched as the Dragonborn emerged, holding an oblong bundle wrapped in tattered, colorless twill, his whole body covered in dust. Yrith stared at the heap in his arms, half frozen to the ground, half wishing to vanish on the spot. She did not want him to uncover it. But she knew he would a heartbeat before he let the cloth slide away. He was holding three daggers tucked in chipping leather-bound scabbards. Cain’s brows knit even tighter at the sight.
“What are you teaching them?” he repeated. Leyna put a trembling hand on his, but he shook her away.
Keneel-La smiled.
“What is your guess?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”
The Dragonborn’s smile grew wider. He lifted a dagger, offering it to Cain. “Will you face me?”
Yrith stared at him, incredulous, then shifted her gaze to the unsteady figure of Cain. It was she who now stood between them, spreading her arms to protect her friend, even if her own voice failed her, even if the ground felt uneven, even if her stomach churned. Not again, she would not allow it. “Cain’s still recovering!”
She could feel the Dunmer’s hand touch hers gently.
“It’s fine, Yrith. I can manage.”
“But you’re barely standing! Surely you can’t…”
“Yrith.” Keneel-La stepped closer, still smiling. She looked back at him, unable to recoil before his hand. His pat felt mocking, and she felt herself shrink against her will. “Do express some faith. What I am going to show you will not hurt the ashling. Quite the contrary. I want to you to see what a wounded person can do. May I?”
Cain did not wait for her answer. He circled her, taking the dagger from the Dragonborn’s hand, but his face remained taut. Still, for a split moment, he managed a soft smile, an attempt to soothe Yrith. She forced herself to look into his eyes.
“I won’t get hurt. Promise.”
He walked to an empty area between two rusty, frost-covered poles with bars that might have once been used for stretching ropes to hang washed clothes. The Dragonborn followed, gripping a dagger and casting the other one aside. There was silence. Yrith could feel Leyna’s held breath beside her, her golden eyes fixed firmly on the lizard. Yrith’s followed Cain, resting on his once wobbly legs, but they no longer shook. She had never seen him so tall, his face so determined. His hold on the dagger was all but steady, his feet spread slightly to provide balance, one tip an inch or two before the other. He waited, it seemed, for the Dragonborn to take action. Yrith’s nails dug into the palms of her hands.
She turned to the lizard to see him mirroring Cain’s stance, his fingers almost relaxed around the hilt of his dagger. Then he moved a single step to his right.
Cain did the same.
The Dragonborn smiled, moving again. And again, Cain followed. They were looking into each other’s eyes, unflinching, not sparing a glance to the daggers, and the surrounding world did not exist to them. And then, the Dragonborn moved, becoming a mere blur before Yrith’s eyes. Her mouth opened in a silent gasp.
The Dragonborn bolted toward Cain. Somewhere along the way, the dagger was drawn, its sheath hurled away. The blade, spectacularly burnished, gleamed in the sunlight. On the other side, Cain had drawn his own dagger, but his movements were slow, measured. Yrith did not know whether to feel frightened at his lack of speed, or relieved at his composure. The blade sang in the air, and she pressed both of her hands to her chest. She wanted to close her eyes and cover her ears. To forget that image. But she kept her eyes open against their will, glaring with what must have looked like madman’s face. Cain danced on the spot like a lady spurning a suitor.
A step to the side to dodge an assault, one backward to avoid another. The third, aiming for his shoulder, was too fast to sidestep. Yrith watched frozen to the ground, holding her own hand to prevent herself from sending magic to shield Cain. He merely turned in his waist to make the tiniest of movements, raising his dagger to parry. The steel rang, the sound of it echoing across the mountains.
Cain flicked his hand down, sending the menacing blade away from his body. He used the momentum to retreat again, making it plain that the speed in his legs could not match his opponent’s. Keneel-La followed, plunging himself forward, his dagger meeting Cain’s at his hip. Cain used the Dragonborn’s own strength to push himself backward, now managing a few steps before Keneel-La gained on him again. Panting, Cain swung himself back before the next attack, latching onto the rusty pillar and spinning around it like a yarn. He fended off another attack, his hand now trembling visibly. Yrith gasped as the Dragonborn’s blade flew at his face, but it stopped before making contact, frozen dead in the air. Cain’s face glistened with sweat, his chest heaving. He held tight to the pole, the hand with the dagger sinking to his side. Keneel-La nodded, withdrawing his blade.
“Impressive,” he said, falling back to retrieve his scabbard. “They have trained you well.”
“And do they truly outstrip you, or is it just your inability to use their own, rather questionable tactics?”
There was no reply to the Dragonborn’s question. Cain followed him silently, collecting his own scabbard and sheathing his dagger. His face was dark, solemn, as he offered the blade back to its owner. The Dragonborn took it, turning back to Yrith and Leyna.
“I take it you’re wondering why I challenged the ashling so,” he spoke, his smile still in place. “As I said, I wanted to show what a wounded person is capable of. I should also mention that I hardly went easy on him. Those few moments when he simply dodged and parried, those can be the time that separates you from a friend who will save your life. I can hardly expect you to leave this place fully trained. It takes years to master your own weapon, it takes tens of them to master your enemies. But I can teach you to stall and preserve yourselves.”
“Defense?” Cain wondered, his features noticeably calmer than moments before. “Is that all?”
Keneel-La put a hand on his shoulder, his jaws widening. “You need to have a little faith too, ashling,” he said kindly. “Yes, defense. Just what on Nirn did you expect me to teach them?”
Cain turned away abruptly. Yrith could swear she saw a tint of scarlet under the ebony of his skin.
“Nothing,” he muttered.
“If you say so. Yrith, would you please take this?”
Yrith flinched, not ready to be called. Her eyes fell on the blade, now safely tucked in its sheath. She looked up at him, then to the dagger again, as if expecting someone to tell her that this was a bad joke. She with a weapon? Even the sight of it disturbed her. The sound of its clanking even more so. She did not want to take it. But the Dragonborn waited, leaving all the words and action up to her until the silence became unbearable and the stares of Cain and Leyna crushed her from both sides. She took an uncertain step, letting the brunt of the blade sink into the palms of her hands. It was heavy. Much heavier than she had anticipated. And cold to the touch. While the Dragonborn could easily grip it by the scabbard, her hands seemed much too small for the hilt alone. She stared at him, frozen, still hearing the hoarse, drunk laughter from the Imperial camp, the rattling of whetstones, the brushing of steel boots against grass and their squelching in the mud, and the soft, measured gait that brought the smell of mint and flower bath…
What was wrong with her? It was just one dagger, a weapon to defend herself with. It lay in her hands, still, quiet. It would not hurt her. It would not hurt Cain or Leyna. She could control it now. She could decide what it would cut. Or what it wouldn’t.
She took a breath, forcing herself to focus on the lizard face before her. His wide, toothy jaws were moving. He was talking to her.
“… have you lift the dagger when I raise mine, like… are you listening, Yrith?”
She blinked, pushing the intrusive images out of her mind. “What? Oh… yes, lift the dagger?”
“Yes. With both hands. No, keep the scabbard on. Grip it on each side and lift it. See? Now, you have control. Holding it like this is not very convenient for actual fighting, but it can save your hide. This is just for demonstration,” Keneel-La drew his dagger again with a perfectly smooth gesture of his hand, “but when I come at you like this…”
He raised the blade. Its silhouette was sharp and distinct against the sun, dark, as if warping the light around it, ready to devour her soul. She stared at it, her mouth falling open on its own, and her dagger dropped in the snow with a crunchy thud. Her hand touched her neck, feeling where the ghost blade had ripped her skin. It burnt like white-hot iron, it stung like a shard of ice. Cold spread through her, the sun obscured by the image of cloudy skies. A dragon roared above her…
No.
“Yrith…”
Little Yrith…
No. She was in High Hrothgar now. It was safe. She was stronger now, she would hold up.
“Yrith…”
Abomination… you have no feelings… I have come to relieve you.
“Yrith, it’s…”
There are things far worse than death…
“No!” she yelled, panting, hardly noticing she was backing away in a reeling, chaotic motion. The image before her shifted with every heartbeat. The Dragonborn’s face in the sunlit courtyard, then a dark-golden-eyed leer amidst an idle battlefield. “No…”
“Yrith!”
There was movement, then stillness. In a flash of lucidity, she could see Keneel-La’s arm barring Cain’s way.
“Let me…”
“Don’t.”
“But she’s…”
“Give her space, Cain.” That was Leyna speaking now, her voice unnaturally soft, almost meek. “You can’t reach her there. You’ll only chain her.”
Chain her… no… breathe, Yrith, breathe…
She felt her legs stop, trembling, hardly supporting her weight. All that muscle she had built, and still, it could not hold her. It felt as if it was built of fresh snow, crumbling away at the touch of the wind, melting in the sun.
The sun…
She would concentrate on the sun. On its warmth. The light in her face, the tiny sparks in the snow, the icicles hanging from the monastery overhangs glimmering in all the colors of the rainbow as they caught its rays. The sun was her guide. There was no sun there… no warmth… but she could feel it here. In the words of her three companions, so distant, yet close. In their faces.
Her breath was heavy, her chest throbbing. She let her knees buckle under her, sliding to the ground.
“I… I…” She what? What was it she wanted to say? She wanted them to understand. But how? Understand what? Her fear? Weakness? She did not understand them herself. She could not put a name on them. No words came to her aid, no thoughts. She was afraid to speak, and she was afraid not to speak. She wanted them to come and touch her, and she wanted them gone. What should she do? She wrapped her arms around herself, the only solid presence in her vicinity. It was over. He would laugh at her, the Dragonborn would. She was hopeless, incapable, powerless. He had given her enough chances. Now he could see her for what she truly was.
She looked up at his slowly approaching figure. He was not laughing. No one was laughing.
He lowered himself into a squat by her side, searching her face, his eyes benign.
“So you still see it,” he said softly.
“I…” The words floundered before reaching her mouth, dissipating on their way. Her mind was empty, and if someone pointed at the snow and asked for its name, she could not give it. She shook her head helplessly. He put a hand on it, ruffling her hair. There was no dagger in it, or anywhere near him. She felt relief, like a gust of warm, spring breeze taking the chills away.
“These are words I want you to remember,” he continued, his hand sliding to her chin, turning her to face him entirely. “You’re not weak. You never were weak. You’re just hurt by someone who was very skilled at this craft. You can be rightfully mad at me. I’ve made you relive a terrible memory. But you should also keep in mind that you are not alone. And as such, you have the means to overcome this. Look.”
He stood and moved, and Cain and Leyna came into view, both sinking to her level. Yrith was astonished to see glistening lines trickle down Leyna’s slender face. The elf’s eyes roved, finding everything but Yrith, but she knew then this was the closest the two of them had ever been. The Dragonborn spoke true. She was not alone. He had tormented them all equally. The thought made her smile through her ache, and the next breath brought back a sliver of her strength. She nodded, extending her hands to both her friends, and they took them. She had debts to pay, words to speak. She would fall down again, quarrel with Leyna and run away from Cain. But still, they were here. They had always been here.
“I suppose so,” she said, her voice finally finding its way, even if it was bumpy and left her with a rasp. She stood up, gazing at the three daggers lying abandoned in the snow. The line on her neck burned, but she did not look away. Instead, she carved that image into her mind, along with the Dragonborn’s words. The path led forward, not back.
--
Wow… I can’t express how amazing it feels to finally publish a chapter again! Unfortunately, work and covid are merciless. Looking at my other fellow writers, I can see that I am also not alone. So here is wishing you guys are all okay in these hard times. I hope this chapter helps brighten up your day.
A/N: Yeah, this was supposed to be a short chapter, really. You have to believe me!
--
Chapter 24: Abecean Steamed Dates
The fallen leaves and pine needles crunched underneath Singird’s feet. The air smelled of fresh pine sap and moist earth. Raindrops from the passed deluge glittered on the branches in the midday sun. The brook on his right gurgled fiercely, flooded with water from the surrounding scarps. Up in the treetops, a pair of sparrows played a game of tag. The Falkreath hold, Singird’s home, seemed peaceful enough if one could disregard the dark plume rising from amidst the woods ahead. Singird could not disregard it. He was afraid to pick up his pace, but even more afraid to stop. He felt the familiar buzzing in his ears, a sound that had last dulled his senses upon hearing of the death of his parents. That, and the sensation of floating on the water that would not support him had his body decided to buckle. A fire in the middle of the flood season could only mean one thing.
Instinctively, he summoned a storm atronach and a dremora to fend off any potential assault from a spriggan. If the woods were burning, these usually shy creatures would charge at the softest crackle of a fallen twig.
There were no sudden surprises waiting for him on the road. The song of the thrushes and tapping of woodpeckers faded slowly as he walked further. Even the rustle of the leaves seemed to recede, giving way to strange, heavy quiet. The air ahead was hot and dry, the smell of pine and fresh soil replaced by one of burning and carcass. Singird slowed, treading cautiously over each rock or depression. He held his hands up, turning branch after branch to create passage. His own breath formed a lump in his throat and eyes fixed on the last couple of trees in his way. He hesitated. The fumes were now turning the scenery around him into a colorless haze. If only this could be just a dream. But the smell in his nostrils and the burning in his eyes felt too real for that. Singird forced his legs to step forward. The trees opened before him to reveal a view of what once had been his family farm. Despite all his expectations, his eyes widened at the sight.
Amidst the ravaged fields, grey with ashes and deprived of all harvest, smoldering cinders and debris lay littered around a crumbling structure of scorched timberwork. An occasional beam stood tall as a silent witness to the atrocities that must have taken place here. The cattle, or what was left of it, lay around, felled, some slit, some charred. The air above it all still quivered in the heat, making the whole image seem like a ghastly mirage. Singird felt his legs turn into stone. The buzzing in his head became one with the crackling of the embers. He prodded his feet to move, hand pressed to his face to keep the stench away. Avoiding the falling pieces of the structures, he crawled through the ruins.
It was nearly impossible to recognize the buildings’ plans and distinguish where one room ended and another began. By sheer instinct, he found the pile that might have once been one of the walls of his father’s study. The entrance was blocked by a scorched bookcase door wedged between the remnants of the masonry. Singird kicked it out of his way with little resistance. Ashes from what he assumed to have been books fought their way into his boots. He gave up all attempts to beat the ash off his robes, proceeding past the fallen rest of the bookcase. The image that appeared before him made him turn away in an instant.
He gasped. The stench had become unbearable, finding its way through his fingers, but that was the least of Singird’s worries. He let the hand slide down, gripping the edge of the bookcase for support. He had to turn back. This was the reason he had decided to take a detour. The reason he had hidden in the hollows to let the Forsworn pass him before he would continue his journey, and why a thunderstorm had almost taken his life. He had not expected to end in the clutches of the Deadlands. But here he was. He had to turn back.
He did.
He stared into the disfigured faces of his housemaid and groom whose bodies lay over a turned desk. Their clothes were nowhere to be seen. It was clear to Singird’s eyes that they had still been alive long after all else had fallen. Alive and made to watch. Alive and made to suffer, both on the surface and within. The maid’s stiff legs were covered in dried blood. Singird’s hand sank, leaving him to inhale the burn and decay. He took a step back and fell to his knees, feeling the cold tickle of tears on his face.
“Damn it,” he breathed, his voice raspy and alien to him as though he had not used it in days. “Gods damn it…”
He would cry out, but all strength had left him. He let his head sink into the palms of his hands, smudging the grime over his face. Suddenly, life did not seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. He let the feelings flow.
He did not know how much time had passed when he finally stood. His conjured guardians had long returned to their home plane. His knees were numb and wobbly, his mind covered in crimson daze. The sky was barely visible through the smoke screen still hovering over the farm. Only the distorted shapes around told him that the sun was descending to the western horizon. Wearily, he summoned his magic, steering both bodies away from the blazing carnage, into the quiet of the surrounding woods.
A great aspen tree stood where he stopped, its golden boughs plunging the area in their shade. He lay the deceased on the carpet of grass, sending his magic deep under the roots. The soil rose and poured onto a pile at the side of the newly dug hole. Gently, he sent the bodies down. He finished his work with his hands, aware that he needed to preserve whatever bit of magic was left in him. It was long past midnight when he managed to find a stone fit for a grave and light enough to carry. Still, it took him all his power to deliver it.
Sweat dripped from his face when stood again, scanning the perimeter. Moving his legs by force of habit, he stumbled around in search of a flint. But the more he looked, the less he saw, and the darkness of the night only laughed in his face. He gritted his teeth.
“To Oblivion with magic,” he hissed quietly to himself. “To Oblivion with everything.”
His fingers crackled with magicka as he sent it into the stone, engraving an inscription.
Here lie Gred and Inga of Falkreath whose hearts were true and dumplings the sweetest. May their death remind us of dark times and help us cherish the good ones.
Crudely, he jabbed the stone in the ground, helping himself with his feet. It had been long since he had to use brute force. He was out of practice, huffing when he finished. With the last bit of strength, he plucked a single deathbell flower and lay it on the mound. Then he slid down by the tree, letting tears mix with the sweat and trickle down to his chin. It had also been long since he had last truly cried. But there was no one to watch. No one to ridicule him for his display of weakness.
He was so tired. People died because of him. Manors were burnt, animals killed, trees taken down. Just what in Oblivion had his parents discovered? What in Oblivion had their grandfather known? It was no use going back to the study now. Whatever had been there had either been burnt or stolen. Someone had known this would be the first place Singird would visit. The two dead people on the desk were a message for him. A cruel warning to not go any further. He wondered how many other residents had perished. How many escaped. And how many of them had assisted in the bloodshed.
The ground was cold and rough under him. He buried his hands in the soil, grabbing a handful and kneading it between his fingers. He was a mess. Filthy, reeking of sweat and soot, with his boots stained beyond repair and robes torn on their rims. He could clean himself with magic. If only he had the strength. He closed his eyes. The forest smelled so fresh here, away from the burning estate. A few years before, it would have made him feel safe. Now, he only wondered how long the quiet would last.
He drew in the air with a long sip. He could not die here. There was too much to do. A dear person waiting for him, perhaps tormented herself. In every spare moment, her face filled the space before him. The rock-solid resolve with which she faced every challenge. The smile that would shine through her tears. Even now, she was his strength.
A sigh escaped his lips. He missed her. He truly did.
--
Singird did not remember Falkreath to be so dreary. The sun reflected in the receding flood blinded him. The city had always been quiet, but now, not even the usual handful of people walked the streets. A pair of Imperial soldiers standing by the gate stole sidelong glances of him as he passed them. He could have sworn he saw them exchange silent signs. Almost as if he had been expected.
He was sure the guard flexing his muscles before the Jarl’s longhouse recognized him. But the man kept his thoughts to himself, as well as any signs of a greeting. Not once did his eyes meet Singird’s. Not once did he utter a word. Singird was almost afraid to breathe. The Jarl must have known about the arson. He must have seen the smoke, and the riders that had surely passed the city on their way. His men must have known too. And yet, no patrol had been dispatched. No soldiers to make order. No inquisitor to investigate. No healer to help.
He treaded lightly over the cobbled road, hands clenching unwittingly in the depths of his robes. He almost felt envious of the guards carrying a sword. Now would be the time for a loving squeeze of its hilt, just to give him a semblance of security.
The inn, his destination, was closed. He sighed. No guests graced this land with a visit in these times, apparently. He would have to wait till late afternoon when the locals decided to strengthen their spirits with a tankard or two. Chances that he would find a courier slimmed. But still, he would wait, gazing at the inn’s sign as he sat on the wooden steps before the entrance.
Dead Man’s Drink, the sign said. Strange how quickly perception changed. Never before had the name unsettled him. Now, it had gained a new meaning.
He turned away, fixing his eyes on a large snail lazily crossing the street. His chin fell to his knees. He waited.
--
A single look at the approaching men told him he was not welcome. The inn was still closed. It would be for a couple more hours, but he would not be allowed to enter. The men grinned, but their eyes did not smile. Singird knew that look well. These two were either bought or afraid. He could not choose which was worse. He rose in absolute silence, walking away as if he had been merely taking a rest. They followed. He walked on, his pace calm, unchanging. Past the first corner, he made a quick gesture and disappeared. He could almost hear their breaths when he broke into a run, swiping the path behind with magic to cover his tracks.
--
At last, he had lost them. It had taken him a day. He felt hunger and thirst like never before, kneeling at the first spring as soon as he crossed the border of the Whiterun hold to ease the heartburn. He sat there for what felt like hours, pouring more and more ice-cold water onto his face, slurping and drenching his robes. As the sun rose to light the new day, his own mind sank into darkness.
--
The road was peaceful and quiet. Hares hopped merrily through the grasses, nibbling on twigs and leaves on their way. Larks and swallows gathered in the skies, watching over the still land. There was no threat nearby. No missiles in the air, no predators on the hunt. And yet, Singird had no faith. He forced his tired legs to press on. Every step hurt, making the blisters on his feet burst. These boots had never been made for rough terrain. None of his footwear ever was. None of his garbs either. What a fool he had been to care more for appearances than practicality. Now he knew. Now that his skin was scraped, his muscles sore and his body shivered with hot and cold, he knew.
His step was unsteady, but he walked on. He forced himself to look at the path ahead.
As the road took a sharp turn toward a slope descending along the cascading White River, a gate emerged before him. Two men in yellow stood guard by its side, their shields adorned with the Whiterun horse. They were caught in a quiet debate but raised their heads as soon as Singird appeared in their sight. He did not miss the silent looks they exchanged or the change in their posture as he approached. But when he passed with his eyes looking elsewhere, they did not move or utter a word. He felt no hostility from them, only the much expected wariness.
His eyes rested on the sign hanging on a pole a few buildings away. The Sleeping Giant. Perhaps he could at least afford himself some breadcrumbs before the last of his coin went to the courier. Pushing his weariness away, he made for the entrance.
The inn was rather placid, with only a handful of locals gathered around one table, listening to the gentle tones of a bard’s lute. When Singird made his way to the counter, the innkeeper raised his head to meet the guest. He froze as his eyes fell on Singird, pointing a finger at him.
“Well, by the Nine above. No. Don’t say anything. Follow me.”
Singird blinked, hurrying along as the man scurried out, around the building and to the backyard. There, he suddenly stopped, pointing to the ground.
“Stand there.”
Despite himself, Singird did as he asked, too tired to protest.
Pulling up the sleeves of his stained shirt, the man grabbed the tub standing on a wide bench by his side. The liquid inside splashed as he lifted it. Singird raised his brows. The tub must have been at least half of this man’s weight, yet he held it like feather-filled cushion. Exposing his dazzlingly white smile, he poured all of its contents onto Singird, making him nearly crash into the ground.
“What in Oblivion…!”
Sputtering, he gathered himself, shivering with cold. The scent of soap and herbs filled his nostrils. He fought not to gasp or cough, closing his eyes despite the urge to stare at the man. In one swing of his hand, his magic blew the moisture away, leaving him ridiculously unkempt. Then, he pointed a shaky finger at the man.
“Is this how you treat all your guests?”
“There, that’s more like it. Feeling any better?” the man hinted a grin. “Never expected a Larkwing to show up again on my doorstep. And what’s more, he’s filthy and cussing. Next will be a lovable troll maiden asking for my hand. It is I who should be asking what in Oblivion is happening here.”
Singird knit his brows. From people in his own hometown treating him like a stranger to strangers treating him like an old friend. Perhaps he had entered some strange dimension where things ceased to make sense. “Sir, have we met?”
“Hah, at least the insufferable formality is still there,” the man beamed. “You may call me Orgnar and no, we haven’t met. But I know a Larkwing when I see one. Singird, is it? Heard about you from your old man when he came for a visit. Military uniform and all, but a mage in his heart with no love for war. You are his spitting image. Except for the filth and…” he gestured to Singird’s torn robes, “this. You, my boy, you look terrible. What, for the love of Talos, has the road served you, pray tell?”
Singird averted his eyes, pinning them into the nearest thicket. “A lot,” he muttered. The man waited, but no words were said to sate his curiosity. He sighed.
“All right. Not my place to pry, I know. Your story is your own. Do make yourself comfortable. We have a whole boar for dinner, courtesy of our very own Faendal, and the beer is fine and cold. I don’t like seeing my guests languish.”
Singird shook his head. “I don’t have coin. I need a courier. Do you have one?”
He felt the man’s eyes bore into him. Orgnar threw the tub aside, putting both of his soaked hands on Singird’s freshly dried shoulders. Singird did not even have the strength to glare.
“Things have really gone that bad, eh? Then be my guest tonight, and leech off any friend you meet until your life is all set. Hard times, these are. Come, I’ll see what we can do about that courier.”
He walked away, waving for Singird to follow. His back was bent and his gait heavy, a feature Singird had not noticed before over the haze of his own misery. This man had known hardship. Singird could feel Orgnar’s distaste for war, much like his own. He too must have lost someone. He too must have felt this pain. But if this was what made him a friend, then fate had a very cruel way of binding people together.
--
The sun was long past its peak when the proud roofs of Whiterun finally appeared in Singird’s sight. Their yellowish tiles turned a crimson tint in the light of the coming dusk, making it seem as if the whole city was on fire. Strange. Everything seemed to remind him of fire lately, and in it, he always saw the same two faces. Until all turned to ashes.
He stared absentmindedly at the surrounding farms. The serene sight of the locals tending to their cattle and fields felt so surreal. There was war raging in Skyrim. Battles took place and houses burned. But the Whiterun hold lived its own life, as though the struggles of the outer world could not touch it. The wind caressed the golden crops and steered the flocks of birds on their journey to the south, carrying the scent of the coming winter. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, save for the unusual number of guards marching about. But under surface, things were slowly changing.
The swinging sign of the local meadery wailed a quiet welcome. Its Honningbrew beehive had been replaced recently by the Black-Briar wild rose, causing the proud mead-loving Nords to suddenly leave their tankards half full. The Black-Briar swill reeked of Riften and its filthy thief-filled burrows. Wartime was an era of swindlers and brigands. If Jarl Balgruuf did not allow the Imperial and Stormcloak troops into his hold, thieves took it from within. The careless days of his childhood that he had spent in this land seemed like a fading memory of a past dream. Now, not only had he lost his home. He was losing his homeland, all thanks to a single person who found it amusing to trifle with the political and military forces of all Tamriel.
He felt his fists clench again. Ever since he had left Solitude, there wasn’t a night he would not feel the urge to go and shove a blade through his neck. Where was Yrith now? Could she escape his grasp? There had been no word of her, save for a rumor that Toddvar had clashed with the Imperials halfway from Windhelm to Darkwater Crossing, and that there had been dragons involved. He could only hope that it meant she was safe now. He had dreamt of those silver eyes far too many times to only find her corpse. If he was to find any information on her, the neutral Whiterun would be the place.
The road led him up a gentle slope, around the motte where the city was built. From down here, he could see the small houses scattered outside the crumbling outer fortification. To the left of the now reconstructed gate, a caravan of Khajiit had settled for the night. Sacks and crates with wares lay piled up in stacks, sheltered by makeshift roofs made of leather and wax. His favorite caravan with his favorite tea. He gazed toward it wistfully. Yrith loved the sweet, flowery flavor as much as he did. He could not buy it for her anymore. Nor could he toss a coin to the pauper children in his way, dressed in rags as they ran back and forth in a game of tag, as he always had. They turned their pleading eyes to him for a moment, then set off again when he would not oblige. With a sigh, he pressed on.
The shadows grew long and blurry as he approached the caravan. A cat man sat in front of a tent on a seat of furs, puffing away at his old pipe whose polish had long flaked off. He was ancient, with a coat of greyed fur and eyes like two slits in shape of crescent moons. When Singird neared the camp, he looked up to him, whiskers quivering in a feline grin.
“Singird,” he said with no apparent surprise, as if they had seen each other just the night before. And perhaps for the old Khajiit, it might have truly felt that way. “Ri’saad is happy to see you visit again.”
Singird nodded, forcing his lips to quirk up. “Likewise, my friend. How fares the business in these times?”
“Well for the able, poorly for others.” The smile in those words told Singird exactly on which side Ri’saad stood. “How fares yours? Something tells this one that you have not come for tea today.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Ri’saad can always hear the waifs’ cheers when you drop a coin or two, and your grouching when they take and not give back. But not this time. He can smell change in the air.”
“Your sense of smell is as good as ever,” Singird hinted a bow.
“So what would it be this time? If it is moonsugar you seek, that is all reserved for a special shipment this time.”
Singird frowned. Moonsugar, the legendary narcotic substance from the Tenmar Forest far in the south of Elsweyr. Not only the catfolk found pleasure in its consumption. It was the only thing he did not approve of in Ri’saad’s trade. Likely the one thing that still kept the Khajiit alive in this land. Was it really the fate of all who wanted to survive to resort to acts of crime?
“You know I do not deal in these things,” he muttered.
Ri’saad twitched his ears, letting out a perfect circle of smoke. “These things? You do Ri’saad great injustice. It is good to slow down the effects of potions. It lets you see and forget at once. But the Khajiit seem to be the only ones to appreciate the true qualities of the je’m’ath.” He shrugged, adjusting his pipe. Singird wondered if this was the usual Khajiit excuse. He vaguely remembered J’zargo saying something of the sort back in the College.
“I am no alchemist either. But perhaps if you had some Abecean Steamed Dates, that could sate my desires.” He waited. Ri’saad puffed a milk-white cloudlet into the cold, narrowing his eyes in slow, thoughtful motion until the crescent moons became but thin lines.
“What an unusual request. The Khajiit do not get many of those.” He closed an eye and opened it again. “Ri’saad is afraid his supplier struck a deal with the city traders. Apparently, our methods are too… unsafe.”
Singird’s eyes wandered to the towering yellow roofs. So the Khajiit knew the passphrase. But they also knew someone was listening. He suppressed the urge to scan the surrounding corners. If he would find an informant in the city, that was enough for him. Someone knew of Yrith. Now, it was only a matter of time before Singird would locate them. He nodded his thanks.
“Then I suppose I need to head there.”
The cat man tilted his head. “Ri’saad will send for you if the deal changes.”
“For how much?”
He chuckled, smoke rising from both his pipe and mouth in fluffed-up shreds. “Ri’saad does not rob paupers.”
“That is a quite a bold thing to say,” Singird remarked dryly. Ri’saad rose, the furs covering his body rippling in the wind. He gave Singird a playful look, but beneath it was the depth of bitter understanding.
“Ri’saad knows many things. He has eyes in the sky and ears hidden in the swaying branches of the willows. Times are not kind. But you have shown me kindness before. Ri’saad trades fairly.” He turned away, opening two crates. From them, he withdrew two pouches. A familiar smell reached Singird’s nostrils, of far southern lands with rays of sun shining through the moist, thick greenery of jungles and forests, and blooming flowers weighing on the vines of the bushropes. Ri’saad pressed the sacks in the palm of Singird’s hand. One of them soft, with the dry, rustling leaves of tea, and the other hard, the rock-solid biscuits from Yrith’s homeland.
“For old time’s sake,” he purred. Singird shook his head.
“I cannot…”
“Do take them. They may be the last thing you can savor for a while.”
Singird would have smiled at the recollection of his childhood days, begging the Khajiit for a treat. But what he could forgive a child, he could not condone the grown man that he had become. He stared at the contents of his hand. They had traveled across the whole of Tamriel to reach him at the cost of sweat and blood of many. And now he was given them for free. If he could, he would have embraced the Khajiit right then and there. But pride, both his and his friend’s, did not allow him. He turned his gaze to the ground.
“I could have paid,” he whispered.
“The Khajiit travel many roads and see many liars,” Ri’saad said as he sank back to his furs. “You are by far the worst.”
“And you are by far the worst smuggler of them all.”
“A fair assessment,” he nodded his acknowledgement. Then he looked up to the skies, clear and greyed blue with a tint of red and gold at their western hem. “The night will be cold. You better find some warm fire to stay by.”
“I will do.” Singird pocketed the two pouches at last. “Thank you, Ri’saad. I am in your debt.”
“Ri’saad does not believe in debts.” The Khajiit took a pensive smoke from his pipe. “Word has it that you deal in the College business now. This one will call upon you when the road takes him to the north. Unlike the rest, the Winterhold mages seem to be particularly open to our trade.” Somewhere in the slits of his eyes, a pair of sparks danced in a merry twirl. “May the sands stay warm under your feet.”
“And yours too,” Singird returned.
He watched Ri’saad blow off another circle before walking away. The guard said nothing as he passed through the gate, but his glowering stare spoke clearly of what he thought of the unannounced visitor. He could feel the sentries’ eyes on himself as he walked up to the city entrance, observing him from the archery towers with hands ready on their bows. Not even Whiterun welcomed its guests with open arms, it seemed.
--
“We sing to our youth, to the days come and gone, for the Age of Obsession is just about done! Heeey!”
The tankards clashed with a metallic clank. Mead and ale spilled into the fire, producing curly ribbons of smoke rising with a feral hiss. The Bannered Mare was packed this time of the day, and surely the local Nord veterans would sing to their youth till early morning when they would fall where they stood and wreathe around the central hearth in jumbled piles. Singird looked at their vigor with amazement. There was something to be promised when a Nord decided to march with the troops. Every young man in Skyrim wanted to become a warrior. Of those who did, few made it to this age. Some of the figures dancing around the fire missed an eye or several fingers. Some of them were marred with scars across half of their face. Some missed a whole arm. And still, no tears were shed.
He smiled. The Age of Obsession. That was a new one.
A ginger woman at her prime stood by the counter, a sharp look in her eyes as a sturdy wheat-haired man with more muscle than tact wooed her with feigned fervor. She pressed a tankard into his hands without a word, sending him in one practiced gesture back to the group of revelers. He reeled away with a powerful belch, earning himself more than a few laughs.
“Ah, that’s a… fine woman,” he beamed, caught in his fall by a pair of hand like two furry shovels. “If only my… Berti was still alive to meet her.”
Singird frowned. There were stories to be told in the taverns if one listened closely. But it was not their stories he wanted to hear. He used the moment to wade silently to the counter. He pressed half of his remaining coins to the burnished wood, avoiding the booze stains that littered it.
“Excuse me…”
“Well yes, excuse you,” the woman bellowed, “if you would kindly not sneak up on people here before someone draws a dagger. And speak to the point sir, this is not the High Council. What would you like? You don’t look the mead type to me, hardly an ale one and definitely not a rum one. So, wine? Or some Cyrodilic brandy?”
And this was the more cultivated of the two taverns in Whiterun’s Plain District. Perhaps he would have preferred the somber quiet of the Drunken Huntsman, but sleeping in that place would make him fear a sudden death from poison sneakily dripped into his own drink. This place, at least, had proper guards, even if they were now tapping their feet to the uneven rhythm of Ragnar the Red, simpering at the wobbly figures of the local drunks. But their hands were steady on the hilts of their weapons and their armor firm enough to protect them from the first blow.
“A room for the night and a bowl of Abecean steamed dates,” he said to the innkeeper. She took a while for a cautions scrutiny, scanning the whole of his person long enough to deprive him of all comfort. He returned her look, resisting the urge to shift his weight. She caught his meaning, he was certain of it. Hulda of Whiterun had a reputation for her ability to catch whatever whispers carried on the wind.
“Abecean steamed dates, eh? Not in our supply, I’m afraid.” She propped her arms against the counter, closing the distance. “But stay for a while. Things can be arranged.” She gave him a mysterious wink.
Singird nodded wordlessly. Ri’saad knew his trade well and so did she. He glanced over his shoulder. He would have never guessed that singing drunks could be a blessing.
“And the room?”
Hulda smiled. A few heads turned their way. Of course, for Nord standards, she was a beauty that would leave men staring at her tracks long after she was gone. A ripe woman with a strong jaw and a spark of grit in her eye. She was also not one to give her smile for free. Singird found himself under more than just a few resentful looks.
“Saadia will show you the way.” Hulda waved toward a slight Redguard maid who promptly jumped to her feet, beckoning for Singird to follow. He bowed his thanks as he left, scrambling through the buoyant tangle of bodies while his petite guide managed to slip through entirely untouched. She led him up the stairs, to a gallery and further into a rather fancy looking room. A roof window offered the view of a great snowy mountain, its summit covered in a halo of clouds. Somewhere up there stood the ancient monastery of High Hrothgar, the pride of all Nords. Singird could not have hoped for a better room.
“The privy is down the stairs and to the right. The bath is closed for the night but there is a well in the courtyard. If you need anything delivered, you need just call.” The maid bowed her head, backing out of the room and closing the door in almost ghostly silence. Singird took a guess about what her life had been like before she’d settled here.
He stared out of the window, lost in thought. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw the mountain shake, almost as if it had spoken. He could hear words, and in them, Yrith’s name. Was he delirious? Had solitude deprived him of the last bits of his sanity?
He rubbed his temples. It may have as well been the case. He laughed at his own folly, thinking about the amounts of books and diagrams he had read and understood. But the world did not work in numbers. It worked in feelings. It littered him with wounds, the biggest of them being his own affection. He looked up again. Now, more than ever, he felt truly alone.
“Waiting for that mountain to shed its snow, Master Larkwing?”
He turned around abruptly. There in his room, sprawling comfortably over Singird’s bed, with a smile playing on his lips, sat Qassir Tahlrah. Tiny flames danced in his sapphire eyes, reflections of the candle before him. He held his chin clipped between his fingers, like a king watching his servant with a critical eye. Singird fought hard not to gasp and not to extend his fists to wipe that grin away.
“You better have a very good explanation of why I am seeing you in my room, unexpected, unnoticed and uninvited,” he growled quietly.
The Redguard let out a groan of satisfaction, leaning back and cushioning his head with his arms. “Angry at me already? For all the hard work I did for you, you sure do not waste any time.”
“Perhaps. I will decide whether you did something for me when I hear your reasons.”
“Ah, so I am not clear of suspicion just yet.” He scratched his chin, a mere gesture with no meaning to stall for time. Singird did not know whether to be relieved or worried that his least favorite student was as irritable as ever. “Let’s see. Any resemblance to an actual act of good will is purely coincidental. But it just so happens that you and I share the same objective. Perhaps it is even a reason for me to give you my respect.”
Singird snorted. “That makes me all the more worried.”
Qassir pulled a long face in feigned sadness. “You hurt my feelings, Master Larkwing.”
“My pleasure.” Singird made sure to pour all his feelings toward the Redguard into that one sentence. “So? Why are you here?”
“Just observing the situation.” The boy wriggled on the bed, creasing the blankets underneath. Rage stirred within Singird, more so for the sole fact that his unwelcome guest seemed to enjoy watching him struggle to keep his face straight. He let out a long-held breath.
“Very well. If you have nothing to tell me, then I suggest you be on your way. I am tired and not in the mood for conversation.”
The boy’s smile widened. “If you must know, had I wanted to kill you, I could have done so already while you were so unsuspectingly watching that pile of rocks over there. I did not. Now with just a little less hostility, perhaps we could ruminate on the taste of the Abecean steamed dates. You have quite the strange desires, Master Larkwing.”
“Just how long have you been following me?”
Qassir shrugged. “Long enough to know you don’t carry the same scent anymore.”
Singird shuddered. Whatever that meant in the speech of a Redguard, the thought that came to his mind was far from comfortable. “And just how do you expect me to show less hostility when all you do is speaking in riddles? I want a solid proof. A proof I can trust you for all that secrecy and sneaking around. I am warning you, Mister Tahlrah. You have given me enough reason for doubt. My patience is not endless and now is not a good time to try it.”
The boy raised his hands, palms in as mages often do to show they mean no harm. His face grew darker, gaining a shade Singird had never seen there before, and all his mirth wilted like the autumn leaves. “I have no proof,” he said, his voice nearly drowned by the cheers from the outside. “But let’s put it like this. There is a burden on my shoulders. To rid myself of it, nothing would have been easier than to kill Yrith Ravencroft. That too I could have done many times before, but I didn’t.”
Singird pierced him with a look. “Except her magic residue would have torn you to pieces.”
“Not when she was poisoned with the Spirit Blight. It would have been enough to simply let her die. None of you knew how to brew the antidote.”
“None of us knew how to spellbrew it, you mean.”
Qassir let out a heavy sigh. “So the little urchin knew.”
“She knows more than you could ever fathom. At least thanks to her, I am not completely in the dark. You could help shed some more light, though.”
The boy’s eyes drifted to the door, then to the window. Then he returned to Singird. “Sit down, Master Larkwing.”
Singird let out a laugh of disbelief. “My student is ordering me around?”
“You hardly see me as your student. And no, I am not ordering around.” For a split moment, the smile returned to the Redguard’s lips. “But I will take a while.”
“I’ll sit when I want to,” Singird hissed through gritted teeth. He felt his whole body ache with the distance he had walked that day, but pride still won over his weariness.
“Very well.” Qassir waggled on his bed, adjusting his legs and sighing with comfort. Singird put his hands behind his back, covering the fists that clenched and loosened with every passing moment.
There was a momentary lull. The people from the outside now sang three different songs together, making their little performance literally painful to listen to. And then, their voices died with Qassir’s magic, cast almost nonchalantly from the warmth of his seat. Singird could only recognize a few spells, the standard detection ones and a few barriers. When those were done, the air sizzled with unfamiliar forces and Singird felt an acrid gust of wind bite into his skin. For a while, it looked as if the Redguard boy was reforming the air into something more tangible, a matter that would reveal secrets which would have stayed hidden forever under normal circumstances. The darkness turned into liquid light, glistening before it dispersed into a myriad of dust particles and faded away once more. All the while, the boy’s face remained a stiff mask of feigned indifference. He was not doing it to swagger. Qassir Tahlrah meant business. And sure enough, the sudden silence felt heavy on Singird.
“So,” Qassir said, still sending out strands of magicka to examine his work, “my reason, you say. Let me start with the urchin and her parents. By now, you must have heard of the AWA.”
Singird gave a short nod.
“They are…” the boy gave a long glance to the timbered ceiling, his eyes suddenly full of unforeseen pain, “more than just an institution. I am not officially a part of the AWA. I’ve learned to use their seal and I spent days listening to my parents’ conversations just to grasp the basics of spellbrewing. And their politics.” He snorted. “I don’t think the AWA knows up to this day. If they had an idea, we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“So you are an impostor.”
Qassir laughed. “That sounds magnificent. I like it. Impostor? Hardly. Just one of the many children of the AWA. The trouble with the AWA is that once you are involved, your whole family is involved. They are put on record and never let go. If your parents are in the AWA, then you will be a member too, want it or not. For this reason, the families often arrange marriages for their children to make sure the magic, as well as the knowledge, stays where it should. We are the nobles of the arcane, so to speak. You are betrothed as soon as you are born into this world, and the institution decides what path your life is going to take.”
Singird paled. “And Yrith is…”
“… betrothed to me.”
The Redguard was right. Singird should have sat down, only so he could jump up at this very moment. There was nowhere to jump. He took a breath, bolting forward only to stop himself after the first step. He could not even see Qassir’s face over his own frantic thoughts. No, she couldn’t be… he would not give her up. Not for a reason like this.
“She never told me…” The rasp of his voice sounded pathetic to him.
“I doubt she knows. Her parents were opposed to it. In the end, they did it to protect her, or so I’ve heard. Yrith Ravencroft is a special case. Her magic is one of a kind, even within the AWA circles. All the families fought over her. The members of the AWA spent centuries experimenting on their own children to create a magical prodigy. Altering their bodies to hold more magic, only to see them…” the boy shivered visibly, “decompose shortly after. But Yrith is genuine. The Ravencrofts were among those who strongly opposed the movement. Everyone knew they would never experiment with their own child. And so, she was desired. She… still is desired.
“Usually, a child’s magical talents are directly inherited from the parents. To have Yrith’s blood in the family would mean becoming indispensable. It would give you a secure place in the AWA, no one would dare oppose you then.” Qassir gave a bitter smile, shaking his head. “The AWA told her parents they would take her away if she wasn’t betrothed. So they did. They chose the least influential family of them all, a son of two Redguard scholars with close to no magical talent at all, in hopes she would be able to unbind that relationship one day.”
“So you came to Winterhold to take her away?”
There was something bestial in the Redguard’s eyes. It was more than rage that shaped that handsome face into a dark, twisted glare. Even through his own fear and anger, Singird could notice the boy’s clenched fists and the sudden stiffness taking over his body.
“Take her away?” he laughed and there was not a hint of joy in the sound. “I could, couldn’t I? Having spent every day of my life casting spell after spell, with my fingers bleeding of magical overcharge, just so I could appease the parents that had never been meant to become wizards. Just so I could eschew the assassins that came ever so often to revoke the contract. Ever thought I was talented? Wrong… Redguards don’t have magic in them. We are no elves, nor Bretons with elven blood in their veins.” He raised his head, pinning a sharp look at Singird. “In a way, I was relieved to see her struggling when I first saw her. I expected a prodigy who would use magic to even breathe. I was ready to despise her, the person who had made my life a nightmare. But I couldn’t. In the end, she was the only one in Winterhold I couldn’t truly hate.”
Singird paced from one wall to another and back. He took three breaths before he found the courage to voice the question that scorched him from within. Qassir watched him out of the corner of his eye, his eyes clouded with his own worries.
“Do you love her then?”
The boy snorted. “Love her? I don’t know what that word means.”
Singird frowned. “I don’t think this is a good time for your jests.”
“I don’t hate her.” Qassir’s gaze fixed somewhere past Singird’s back, on the now dark, starry sky. His face was distant, as if all he wished for was to hide it somewhere deep in the shadows where he could take off the mask that had grown to be a part of him. He let out a breath, and to Singird’s surprise, his next words were shaky, uncertain. “Have you ever felt elated at the sight of someone struggling, defying all that has been imposed on them, antagonizing everyone in their way? This is what I feel when I see her. I want her to keep on fighting. Forever. I want her,” his voice turned into a dark growl, “to destroy the one who has turned her life into misery. I want him to suffer for all that he has done. I want him to squirm, and I want her to walk free. Do you understand, Master Larkwing?” He rose, teeth gritted in a savage sneer. “We are no one’s puppets, she and I. We shall not be controlled.”
Singird would have taken a step back if there was anywhere to back away to. The wall was coarse behind his back and the chipped splinters chafed his worn-out robes with a sound that made his hairs stand. So did the boy’s words.
“Say, Mister Tahlrah. Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because you are who she chose.”
Singird took good notice that the word trust had not been used. These were not words of a young lad who had barely crawled out of his nest. He had seen things. Too many, too much. They stood on the same side, he and the boy. Singird understood his wrath. And yet, it frightened him. This was not who he wished to become. It was not who he wished for Yrith to become. But for these children to bear the curse of their families, he too wished for someone to pay.
“How old are you?”
Qassir’s eyes pinned into Singird. “That is a very personal question. What would you gain if I answered it?”
Singird gave a bitter laugh. “You do not speak like the boy I see before my eyes. Yet, you are still my student, want it or not. How old are you?”
“Patronizing me?” The Redguard let out a snort. “Old enough to take care of myself according to the Redguard tradition. Likely not old enough for a Nord. It does not matter. I did not come to gain your sympathy.”
“Then why did you come?”
He turned away, pivoting in place. There was a lull before he finally spoke in a strangled voice. “Because we share the same goal.”
Singird gave a slow nod, but his eyes remained cold and doubtful. “Tell me. What are you going to do once this is all over?”
The boy shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”
“And by the time it is seen, it may already be too late.”
“What if I tell you to mind your own business?”
A smile spread over Singird’s face, now genuine and bright in the night. “Then I will reply that now you certainly remind me of Miss Ravencroft back when we met.”
“So she is Miss Ravencroft to you yet? Not Yrith?”
“I stand corrected. You are still way more impudent than her.”
Qassir laughed. “That is reassuring. You are also still the same man of principle as back then.”
“Reassuring indeed,” Singird seconded. There was truth in those words. Perhaps it did not matter that the world was changing. There was something to hold onto in himself. Even this boy knew it. Had he now become dependent on the encouragement of his own students? Despite the irony, he felt sudden lightness. “I owe you my thanks.”
“Oh?” The boy raised his brows, face forming into a triumphant smirk. “So you’ve finally realized?”
Singird fought not to knit his brows. Just why did this person always have to spoil every moment of peace? “I take it back,” he muttered.
“I see. And here I thought you’d appreciate that I have coin to offer. And that I may happen to be acquainted to certain silver-furred Khajiit who knows where to find some Abecean steamed dates.”
Singird’s lips pressed into a thin line in a desperate attempt to contain a curse. Sure as Oblivion, when it came to making fools out of people, there was no person on Nirn who could compare to Qassir Tahlrah. He straightened his back, pinning his eyes into the boy’s angelic face. This night would be long.
--
This chapter was not really planned. I did plan these events, but they were supposed to be told later in the story in retrospect. But I realized it would be a lot to squeeze into a few dialogues, so I made it a new chapter. Originally, I planned to have 35 chapters. As some of the things in this story shift and change places, I will not change this number yet, but it may happen that the story will be a chapter or two longer than planned originally. So don’t stone me, please. :)
She screamed in agony. A face contorted in twisted satisfaction watched her from afar. She could not move, only writhe in the dirt before him, gasping for air. Soil and blood filled her mouth. She had bitten through her tongue and broken her own bones. She, herself, had done this upon his command. He took a piece of her and she cried out with what was left of her voice. It was not her flesh. It was something more, her very soul that he removed ever so slowly, like a gourmet taking the smallest bite to taste a new dish. He would savor her, unhurried, methodical.
You are mine…
The woman rattled as he knelt at her side. In his hand, a dark blade absorbed the surrounding light. He put it lightly on her neck, caressing it like a dear friend. It warped her skin. She felt a sudden urge to lift herself up. Welcome the blade, absorb it, he told her. His voice was alluring, irresistible. You want to end this. You want it to stop.
Mine to kill…
Her tears formed a map of filth on her face, dripping down along her ears, burning, freezing. No one would come to her aid. They lay elsewhere, dead and forgotten. She could not remember their names. He had taken them away. They used to have faces, but he had taken them too. Who was she? Why did she exist?
Come to me. You are only making it worse.
He pulled. A gurgle left her throat, she could not scream anymore. She had forgotten her voice. Nothing beyond pain existed in her world. He pulled again.
I will find you.
The woman’s body yanked in a spasm. Again, and again, it was freezing and red hot. She was losing her mind. He laughed, and the sound tore through her ears like a razor.
Feel her pain. Embrace it. She is not the last.
Words faded from her memory. Good words. Words of comfort. Someone had once said them to her, but he had taken it all away. Straining her mind, she could not recall them. There was nothing left. Nothing to live for.
You can end this…
The voice fell silent, stifled by an invisible force. Another one replaced it, brighter, hopeful.
Banish him.
She tried. She had to get him out. She wanted to survive. To live. But she had to remember the reason. There were people waiting for her. Warmth, and smiling faces. But he would take them away too…
You have the means.
Her magic, yes. She had plenty of it. Somewhere deep inside, flowing along the blood in her veins, forming her entire being. She called to it, but it would not come, scattering into a swirling chaos. The blade. It was so close.
Remember the teachings.
Teachings… what teachings? There was a memory locked in her mind. She had done it before. She would do it again. Block him. Block him!
Gently, Miss Ravencroft. Give him what he wants…
The woman squirmed and ripped her own skin. She felt her torment. She felt the blade. She could not breathe, the air would not come through. No, no!
It starts with an illusion.
Illusion. Create. Copy. She had to do it. She had to hurt for him. She had to make him believe her. Her words and feelings had to be stronger than his. Grasp the magic. Pull. Create. Now.
She felt the tips of her fingers tingling with deep violet energy. They were stiff, defiant. She growled as she forced them to move, sculpting her magicka into a living image. She embraced the pain, and the sensation of her lungs tearing apart. She had to bear the unbearable. Support it, fuel it. More, more magic. More agony. She would fill him to the brim with it. He was hungry. She had to feed.
She cried, eyes burning with the tears of blood. Soon. Soon it would be over. She waited, her cries becoming one with the woman’s. He laughed maniacally, intoxicated by their combined fear. She could feel his thrill and the insatiable desire for more. It was suffocating. She resisted the urge to pull back, forcing herself to look into his faceless gaze through the eyes of the woman. He smiled and turned his hand. The blade slit in.
Yrith screamed. Now was the time, but the blade paralyzed her. An image was all she needed, a barrier of illusion, but her magic crackled and churned, refusing to listen. She needed to make him believe. She needed it to stop. But he was in control now, leaving her gasping for life. Darkness clouded her mind and pierced her head, taking pieces of her away.
“Yrith!”
A voice tore through, striking her with a familiar touch of affection. She had once known it, but he had taken it away. The blade… a thin line on her skin, enough to set her on fire. Memories seeped through the wound. No, she could not give in.
“Yrith!”
The name… it was her name. It had to be. Spoken by someone she wished to remember.
“Yrith!”
That was her… The One Who Speaks True. She still had a name, while he did not. Amidst the shrieks and agony, she could still hear the sound of it. He could not take it away. The blade would not scrape it off.
She cried out, forcing the being inside her out with sheer will. Her torso twisted and arched. Her magic was like an ocean, rising and falling in waves greater than mountains. Her chest heaved with every surge. She would drown them, the woman and him, in his own twisted ecstasy. She would send it all back, the pain, the fear… the blade. It flowed away in the storm that was her magic, leaving her mind crippled and empty. She drew a breath, painful and strained, like gravel on her wounded throat.
“Yrith!”
A hand gripped her, cold against her trembling body. A caring hand. She closed her fingers around it weakly, waiting for her heartbeat to steady itself. A wave billowed inside her.
She opened her eyes, jolting up in a swing and feeling her insides tumble.
“Careful!” someone called, and she felt something hard press against her chest. For a moment, she lost all her senses, lapsed in a ravel of shapeless colors and sounds, assaulted from within. Her stomach emptied, leaving her weak frame to slide back from what turned out to be a studded bucket.
She breathed heavily, drops of sweat making her skin sticky. Her eyelids rose and fell in an uneven tempo, fighting to keep her awake. Fleetingly, she caught a glimpse of three figures leaning over her against the flicker of a candle. Cain. The Dragonborn. Leyna too. For a moment, she expected Master Neloren to materialize by their side, as he had in her dream. But he was not here. Perhaps he had left her a protection of his own. She could not be more grateful.
It was impossible to discern the expressions on the three faces above her, but her mind painted them for her, Cain’s endless worry, the Dragonborn’s care masked with false composure, and Leyna’s tacit uncertainty. She knew who the hand still holding hers belonged to. But soon, there were two others, each belonging to a different person. She let out a muffled moan, too exhausted to reach back to them.
“Is she awake?” someone rasped.
“I think she is,” came a soft reply.
The Dragonborn said nothing. She heard a splash, drops of liquid falling on a surface, and then, ice-cold touch on her forehead, soothing her rattled mind. A part of the weight she had not realized before fell off her shoulders, leaving unexpected lightness. She opened her eyes in full, blinking in the dim light.
She was back in her makeshift bedroom. A lizard hand wiped the sweat from her face with gentle movements. At her side, Leyna let out a sigh and slowly drew her hand away, pretending to look elsewhere. Cain’s grip loosened, letting in the feeling she had lost. Yrith bent her fingers as the tingling spread through them, concealing her discomfort by wrapping them around Cain’s.
“I’m…” she stuttered, her voice but a hoarse whisper, “how did I…”
“We found you in the courtyard,” the Dragonborn said grimly, landing heavily on the edge of Yrith’s bed. “Welcome back. You sure gave us a scare.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Don’t be. I put you up to this. It is my responsibility.” His gaze fell on Cain and Leyna. “That said, we have things to talk about. Would you excuse us for a moment, elflings?”
“But…”
“She will be fine. She has just bested a demon. I don’t think she has any intention of dying just yet. And if so,” his jaw widened, the green, scaly skin glistening in the dim light as he glanced at Yrith from the corner of his eye, “then I will be here to stop her. Go get some well-deserved rest, you two.”
They nodded in silence, reluctant even to stand. Yrith followed their silhouettes as they shambled away, out to the dark corridor with nothing to light their way. Just before vanishing in the shadows, Leyna turned back, mouthing soundless words to Yrith. But she was gone before Yrith could make out their meaning, leaving behind a faint image. One of a smile that was for no one else but her to see. Yrith let her head sink deeper into the pillow, pulling her duvet closer despite the heat suffusing her body.
“You are fortunate,” the Dragonborn said. He wiped her face once more, ignoring her huffs and wrinkled nose. “Friends like these are hard to come by. Stick close to them. They will be your strength.”
He added her neck before putting the cloth aside, somewhere beneath her bed where it fell with a splash.
“I know,” she muttered into her duvet, Leyna’s image still before her eyes. She had come when Yrith needed her the most. Despite everything. Perhaps one day, the two of them would return to those tranquil moments spent in each other’s company, laughing at the hurdles life threw in their way. Perhaps. But that day was still aeons away.
The Dragonborn took the goblet standing on the table beside them, forcing her to drink. The water inside was so cold it scorched her throat. She took a few sips out of necessity, quickly placing it back.
“Now then,” the Dragonborn said, his words gaining a heavy undertone in the sound of snowflakes tapping on the dormer above, and the wailing wind in the gaps in its frame. She raised her eyes to him, inhaling the smell of hay and goose and burning wax. “I suppose you’re expecting me to ask you how you feel.” He let out a mirthless laugh. “I won’t, because I know. I’ve been there one too many times.”
Yrith felt sudden relief. She had not even realized how much she feared the question. She gave a wordless nod of acknowledgement. The Dragonborn returned it.
“I should have known better. I put you in danger.”
She shook her head. “I knew what was ahead.”
He tilted his head to the side, eyes sliding over her as if assessing her worth. “Did you?” he asked, and his voice stung. “Did you expect this to happen? To sink into this nightmare?”
“N-no, but you couldn’t have…”
“Wrong.” He sighed, patting her lightly on the back of her hand. “You weakened yourself too much. If you want to survive in this world, you need to save your strength. And to broaden it. We will get to that. But for now, I need you to tell me what you dreamt of. I won’t keep you long. I just need to make sure that we are still safe here.”
Yrith felt the blood retreat from her face. The dream that even now felt so distant already. The dream that had almost cost her her life. The dream that had put the skin on her neck on fire. She could still feel the cold touch of the steel on it. She reached for it, fingers sliding along the imperceptible scar. The Dragonborn took her hand in his, moving it away.
“Don’t,” he said. “I know what you’re remembering. The blade is not here. But you are, and you’re alive. Did you dream of it too?”
“I… I’m not sure what I dreamt of.” She closed her eyes, shuddering with the feeling she had tried so hard to shush. “I’ve had nightmares like this before. Only they were… different. Back then, it felt like I was in the minds of many people, living their struggles and torments. And sometimes, there was this voice, speaking to me. But now it felt as if it was controlling the dream. This… this demon. Do you know him? Has Cain spoken to you about him?”
“He did not. Admittedly, I listened in without invitation.” He gave a not so apologetic smile.
“Am I really standing against a god?”
“If he manifests himself here on Nirn, he is no more a god than I am. Although, given that dragons are sometimes perceived as gods, you could technically call me a demigod.” He gave her a wink, the mischievous spark returning to his eyes for the briefest of moments. “So, this demon, or whatever he is. He tried to control you?”
Yrith pressed her knees against her chest, wrapping the duvet close. “Yes.”
“Is he still trying?”
She shook her head. “I broke the connection. Master Neloren from the College taught me how.”
The Dragonborn let out a breath, rubbing his cheekbones pensively. “Then we have Drevis to thank for your life. Keep your guard up. I can’t help you there. I have no magic of my own, at least not like you do. I cannot just Shout whoever invades your mind away. Your magic is powerful, but that makes it a double-edged sword. When you are exhausted, you lose some of the control over it and it leaks. You can’t afford to do that, so don’t drain yourself too much. Keep your shield up at all times.”
“But when I sleep…” She watched him from the warmth of her bed, feeling slumber pressing on her eyelids. Even now she was not certain she could hold the barrier in place. And how was she supposed to not exhaust herself too much when she had to constantly be on her guard?
He ruffled her hair. “It is possible. Especially for you, it’s just a matter of practice. Concentration is not needed once you put up the barrier. However,” he stood up, stretching his arms to chase away the stiffness in his joints, “there’s something you’re lacking, that, for some inexplicable reason, the College always neglects.”
Yrith looked up at him in question, brows fighting her exhaustion. “Which one?” she hummed weakly.
He laughed. “Well well, you don’t put much faith in them, do you?” Then he patted his own arm. “Physical training. You may be the best mage under the sun, but you will never survive in poor physical condition. We will work on that. I can’t protect you at all times, but I can give you the means.”
“Is that also a part of General Tullius’s contract?”
“Shrewd little lass. No, but your safe escort is. This is how I make my job easier.”
“Won’t you run out of business like that?”
“Direnni ancestry speaking from you? I will not. Not everyone is as keen to learn as you are. I can thank you for providing me with a lifetime’s worth of entertainment.” He laughed, but then a shadow crossed his face. “I should let you sleep. I’ll make sure someone keeps watch over you for now.”
Yrith felt a warm flush of gratitude paint her cheeks. Who was he, this person giving her so much for no cost at all? She still felt like the same hopeless child, with only some power she had so many times almost offered for the taking. But he always returned, patient and with unwavering faith in her. The hero of Skyrim. That title failed to do him justice. Spiced with a pinch of grumpiness, he would have reminded her of a certain orc librarian.
She watched him smooth her duvet and refill the goblet. He would protect her, she truly believed it. She would not have to fear the dreams anymore. She would not have to feel people’s torment. She smiled faintly before the image of the cowering woman clouded her sight and realization sank in.
“Sir Dragonborn?”
“Keneel-La, remember?”
“Keneel-La… sir.”
“Yes?”
“That person… demon… whoever is after me. He tortured someone. I… I think there might be others. I think he will continue until he finds me. What if… I don’t want people to die in agony for me.”
He knelt down, turning her head to face him. His teeth-like eyebrows were knit, his eyes glazed with sympathy. “All the more reason for you to keep your guard up. Remember these words, Yrith. Even if he does find you, he will not stop putting people to torture. This is his daily bread. Maintain that shield. Don’t let yourself feel another person ever again. He knows who you are, and he knows your weakness. He knows he can’t harm you himself over long distances. But he also knows that you can harm yourself at any time. He will use any means to achieve just that. Don’t let him.”
“But…”
“Believe in yourself. You are doing what you can. If you ever get a foolish idea like giving yourself up for the sake of others, consult with me first. Promise me that.”
“I… if I could…”
The Dragonborn closed her hand in the warmth of his own. “This is something none of us want to accept. We are not omnipotent, and we can’t shape the world to our bidding. There are people who know no limits and will stop at nothing to achieve their personal goals. They will kill and torture on a whim and they will not think twice about it. You can’t stop them by sacrificing yourself. They will never be satisfied. Whatever happens, they won’t stop being who they are. The only way to stop their atrocities is to stop them for good. You have trouble acknowledging yourself, hatchling. You are powerful and thoughtful, a combination that is hard to come by. You have the means to put an end to this one person. But for that, you need to put yourself first. Nothing will ever get solved by putting yourself to the blade, literally and figuratively. Get plenty of rest and rise to prove him right for fearing you. Because that’s what he does. He doesn’t want to destroy you for satisfaction, that he can do with any person. He fears you may stop him.” He squeezed her hand, exposing his pointy teeth. “And you truly may.”
“Does it mean that I will have to kill him?”
“That I can’t say. But killing in order to survive, and killing to protect, I don’t think there is anything wrong with that.” With that, he rose again, stepping out to leave. “Rest. There is more water in that jug,” he waved his hand to the table. “Someone will be here shortly. Something tells me it will be both of your friends this time.” His grin widened, joined by a would-be inconspicuous wink.
She watched his figure fade in the distance as he left her alone to reason with her own thoughts. She wriggled under her duvet, letting her mind sink in a mixture of images both pleasant and painful. She was so tired, and there was an entire world out there full of fear and hurt. But in spite of all that had happened, she felt sudden comfort. Every conversation, every moment of this life filled her with hope that there was something she could do. That she would not be powerless anymore. That she would stop him, the man who had killed her parents. Everyone trusted her to do that. Even they had.
Find the Mad Sage of Time.
Time, the eternal constant that crossed her every step. Would this Sage her parents had spoken about guide her to the demon’s name? Perhaps the Dragonborn would know. There was so much she still needed to ask.
She closed her eyes, letting the warmth lull her. It felt good to have things to ask.
--
Yrith ran. The painted stone she carried clutched to her chest weighed her down. She was running out of breath and the mountain before her was steep and unforgiving. Still, less unforgiving than Keneel-La. He never scolded. Never frowned. But the one sentence he gave her at the end of each exercise was etched deeply into her soul.
“You have just died.”
He would wear a smile while uttering these words, give her all his care, a roof to sleep under and a few meals every day to preserve her strength, letting her bathe in her failure on her own. Whatever she did, no matter how much she tried, it was never enough. He would never set any limits, no restrictions except one. Each task was clear. Achieve a single goal. Use any means possible. But never use magic. Figuratively speaking, not even once did she survive the challenge.
She forced her tired legs to speed up. She had lost Cain and Leyna somewhere further behind, but there were more paths leading to the well. They could be ahead, or already there. She had chosen a path with the least snow, a slightly longer one, but with minimum resistance. And yet, the mountain loomed proudly above her, laughing at her efforts. She gritted her teeth, clearing her mind. Thoughts distracted her. Squirrels in the treetops, snow falling from the branches, clouds, taking shapes she knew or revealing views of the Jerall mountains and the Riften birch woods, they all served to weaken her resolve. Everything was her enemy now. She cast all the images away. There was only one thing that existed in her world now, and that was the way up.
She gasped as she suddenly saw the ground approaching, cushioning her fall with her hands. The impact deprived them of all feeling, sending a wild tremble deep into her flesh. She looked back to find the source. Her foot lay across a slithering tangle of pine roots. She cussed aloud.
Chasing the kaleidoscope of distorted shapes and colors out of her eyes, she stood again. She could not tell if it was the ground or her legs that shook under her. The wind whipping her sweaty skin battled the heat of her body. She put her hands on her knees, compelling them to move. Just a little further.
Behind a palisade of young pine trees and past a monumental wall bending into a cliff above her head spread a vast terrace surrounded by rugged rocks. At its far end stood an ancient well, carved into the land in time memorial. The tiles of its roof lay scattered around in pieces, their once red color now faded into nebulous shades of black and green. Yrith’s heart skipped a beat. She darted toward the structure, holding out her stone in triumph. And at the same time, a figure bolted out from the other side of the cliff, a fluttering mane waving behind like a frayed standard. Yrith urged her legs to pick up their pace.
“No, you won’t!” she yelled, exerting all her strength in that final push. Leyna followed suit, twisting her face in a concentrated grin.
“Oh I will!”
They ran side by side, neither falling behind, neither faster than the other. Leyna’s white-gold mixed with Yrith’s raven, their hair tangled, almost as if they belonged to one person. Their movements were on par, matching each other with perfect precision. Yrith’s left was Leyna’s left. Leyna’s right was Yrith’s right. Their breaths sang the same song. And then, in a single instant, their hands touched the crumbling wall of the well, dropping the stones down at once. They jammed in the middle of their fall, screeching the fount’s sides before stopping for good. The two of them slid into the snow, panting, mindless of the tile remnants stabbing their bottoms. Yrith let her head slump backwards and touch the well.
“Did we get it this time?” she mouthed, her voice barely audible over her own reckless heartbeat.
“Looks like it,” Leyna huffed, her own chest rising and falling in the same tempo. “You took my triumph.”
Yrith laughed. “You took mine!”
Leyna let out a snort. Before she could utter a word, a clap came from above. The two of them turned to see the Dragonborn jump from a ledge, sneakily hidden between two protruding rocks. He stood before them, back straight, with a light smile on his bestial face. He raised his own stone nestled securely in his hand as if it weighed nothing at all, all its coloring smudged under the layer of dark green liquid. Yrith’s smile froze on her lips.
“Your advantage was a shorter route. Mine was the knowledge of the terrain. Nevertheless, the path you took should have led you straight. It was more than twice as short and did not pose any troublesome obstacles.” He twirled the stone in the hand, letting it stain his skin. “I still arrived way before you, enough to douse the stone, settle over there,” he pointed to the ledge, “and even take a while to enjoy this wonderful sight.” His teeth almost shone, reflecting the surrounding snow. Yrith knew that face well. “You have just died.”
She sighed, giving a slow nod. In the end, she was still as powerless as ever. She wondered if the legs of the Dragonborn hurt as much as hers. If he had also arrived with his chest tight, gasping for air as he dropped his stone into the well just to feel that weight lift off. His stance was so firm, not like hers which was shaking with exhaustion. How much had he trained to become like this?
“Shall we do it again?” she peeped.
“No.” It was always no. He never allowed her to practice more than scheduled. “We shall rest. Return to the monastery. I will wait for the ashling.”
He gave them a light pat on their shoulders, directing her and Leyna up. They followed the steep road round the mountain, an uneven stairway leading them toward High Hrothgar. This was the upper part of the famous Seven Thousand Steps, a pilgrim path that every true Nord ought to walk at least once in their life. Yrith gave a dry laugh. Every true Nord would likely consider it a blasphemy to be delivered to this place as she had been. She looked up, to the cloud-veiled horizon. Luckily, she was not a Nord.
“Will we ever best him?”
She turned after the sound of Leyna’s voice. The elf spoke without emotion, pensively, as if she refused to believe in their defeat.
“Who knows,” Yrith said. “He is a few years ahead of us.”
“What’s the point of this anyway? Suddenly tossing away our magic to exchange it for brute force.”
Yrith stared at her in surprise. “Did the Dragonborn not tell you?”
Leyna laughed, shaking her head. “No, he didn’t. But as you can see, barely anyone ever tells me anything.”
“Oh. Like that time you talked with Cain about the Lone Demon and I wasn’t invited?”
Leyna froze, eyes wide. “What did you just say?”
“I was there that night, listening. I didn’t mean to,” Yrith waved her hands in defense, “but I happened to be there. I heard the whole discussion.”
She had never seen Leyna’s face so red. Until now. A mixture of anger, bewilderment, and perhaps even regret shaped her features as she pinned her golden eyes to the ground.
“So you know,” she whispered. “You know everything. You must be mad at me. And Cain. But he at least wanted to protect you. Do you know? He would give his life for you. More than that, if it was in his power. There’s probably nothing but you in his head.”
“I know. Unlike you, I know.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That there are many people who care about you too, Leyna. And maybe your father did too, and that was the exact reason why he told you nothing. Have you ever thought about that?”
“You…!” Leyna turned around abruptly, facing the rock on the other side. Yrith could have sworn she saw tears glistening in her eyes. She raised her hand to comfort her but put it down again. Her help was not wanted. Leyna always preferred solitude to brood over her troubles. Alone, with no one at her side. Yrith felt a sting in her chest.
“Leyna…”
“Don’t. Stop. I don’t need your pity.”
“Then what do you need?”
“I…”
They froze at once. The mountain shook at its roots, thundering echo bouncing from one rock wall to another, brushing the snow from the treetops. A flock of crows rose to the skies in a dark cloud, tearing through the heavy mist. A nearby squirrel vanished underneath the roots of an old, bent pine. Leyna looked up, to the mountain peak.
“That wasn’t…”
Yrith shook her head. “No, it wasn’t from above. It was down there,” she pointed a shaky finger to the path they had been walking. “That was Keneel-La. Cain… something must have happened!”
She broke into a run, skipping over the steps and rocks in her way. The wind was against her, but she braved it without a second thought. Her legs ached, but she paid them no heed.
“Y-Yrith!” Leyna’s voice came from the distance, quickly fading in the rush.
Yrith clenched her fists. No more, she could not stand it. If something was happening to Cain, she would not leave him alone. She felt weak, underprepared, hopeless, but she could not imagine a time she would feel ready for an open battle. Still, he needed her. Things were serious enough for the Dragonborn to have to use his Thu’um. She was no pious worshipper, but now she prayed for Cain’s safety. Air seized up in her throat. He could not die there. Not another person. Not again.
She heard a huff behind her. Leyna caught up to her, leveling her pace with Yrith’s. She stayed quiet, tears still drying on her face, but her eyes full of fire. Something Yrith had not seen there in a long time.
They rushed through a hollow, between the pines and around the wall leading to the well. There was no one to be found in its vicinity. With little hesitation, Yrith spread her magic, searching for life. She felt it quiver with her own fear, uncertain. Where were they? Not on the ledge, not the way she had come. So Leyna’s path, to the left of the cliff from where she stood. She took a step toward it, into the shadow of the rocks and trees, still searching, reaching further with every heartbeat. She found them on a mound past a huge round boulder, the Dragonborn, Cain and three others whose life was slowly ebbing away.
She sped up, letting the branches whip her face on the way. Twice she nearly tripped over a rock or a root, but she always transformed the fall into a long jump, turning all setbacks to merit. But it was not enough. Why were her feet so heavy? Why did she take so long? Why was the wind blowing against her?
Behind her, Leyna kept in tow, never more than a few steps behind. She almost crashed into Yrith when the latter finally stopped, holding her breath at the sight of Cain resting his head on a moss-covered stump, his tunic dyed crimson on the side. Over him leaned Keneel-La, drowning the boy in his own shadow as he inspected his wounds. Three bodies lay around them, deformed and all clad in the red Imperial uniform. Yrith felt her stomach knot but swallowed deeply to stifle the feeling as she approached the two people still alive. The Argonian raised his head, eyes flaring with dark, cold fire.
“What are you doing here?”
Yrith froze. Who was this deadly, austere man staring at her like a stranger at a beast? This man would tear her apart, split the skulls of his enemies in two without a moment’s hesitation. This man had seen the fires of Oblivion and walked amongst the corpses of his own beloved. Cold washed over her like a desert downpour. She pressed her clenched fists on her thighs.
“Cain… is he…”
“I told you to go to the monastery.” There was no warmth in the sentence. Not even reproach. She could not trace any feeling at all beside the sheer will to survive.
“I know, but… I heard you Shouting and…”
“Leave immediately.” Not a request. An order, not permitting any objections. Yrith gritted her teeth.
“I can’t just let my friends die!”
“He will not die, it is you they’re after. And I can’t protect all of you at once. So go. Now, Zulvahzen!”
The sound of her draconic name thundered through the air with deafening force. Yrith staggered, eyes wide with fear. The name gripped her, clasping around her mind. Tears burst out of her eyes against her will, his voice paralyzing her. She gasped, trying with all her might to regain control. A hand grabbed her, pulling her back. She turned to face Leyna whose face was a stone mask of determination.
“What are you…”
“Returning the favor,” she hissed, dragging her away with unexpected strength. Yrith stumbled after her, eyes roving between her and the lying Cain.
“We can’t leave him there!”
“And what will you do if there are more? Sacrifice yourself for him? That would be just like you, wouldn’t it?”
“I…”
“Let’s leave it to the Dragonborn. He’ll bring him back. He will… bring him back.”
Leyna’s lip trembled, the last words barely discernible. Her clutch on Yrith’s hand tightened to a nearly unbearable level. Yrith could only see a small part of her face, but it was telling as a human’s, sculpted by fear and panic.
“Leyna…”
“Hold your tongue. I don’t want to hear it.”
They ran. Their speed was uneven, their steps landing heavy. Yrith felt as though an invisible hand held her chest, preventing her from advancing, and the only force keeping her in motion was Leyna herself. Every now and then, their feet sank deep into a snow drift, nearly sending them to the ground. Yrith found herself siding with the obstacles in their way, wishing there was an invisible wall that would stop them from their ascent completely. Something that would give her no choice but to turn back and face whoever came for her. Powerless, that was what she was. Vulnerable, always dependent on those stronger than her. Giving way to her sobs, she let the tears flow. They would soon turn into strands of frost crisscrossing her face. Why was Leyna so tenacious? Where did she suddenly gain the strength to climb so fast while dragging her along? The image of Leyna’s boots before her was obscured by one of Cain, lying on the ground in pain. This was her fault. It was all her fault.
She didn’t know how much time had passed when they finally stepped on the wide staircase to High Hrothgar forked around the monastery’s front watchtower. The light of the day was quickly giving way to the night, making the stairs a blurred bumpy slide on sight. Yrith chose her path by memory, not looking at anything. Leyna still held her tight, pulling her up relentlessly. Yrith followed without thinking, forcing her weighty legs to lift. When they finally crossed the monastery threshold, she could not even appreciate the warmth. She felt cold, and no fire could melt the ice within. She let herself fall to her knees.
A sound of footsteps drew near and she felt a coarse, wrinkled hand grab her by the chin. She raised her head to see Arngeir, his cowl fallen to his shoulders.
“You are here,” he said. “What happened?”
What happened? What in Oblivion had happened? She stared at his face, unable to make sense of it. As if he was a mere ghost she could look through, she found herself at a loss for words.
“C-Cain…” she managed. By her side, Leyna squeezed her shoulder.
“Our friend was hurt,” she whispered. Even if the tears in her eyes had dried away, Yrith could still hear them in her voice.
“And the Dragonborn?” Arngeir’s tone was even, emotionless, as though he cared little for people and more for facts. Yrith found herself irritated by its coldness.
“He is alive,” Leyna continued, taking a breath to chase away the tremble. “He was tending to Cain when we left.”
“So there was a battle.”
The dead. Dead again, Yrith remembered. With bodies mutilated into strange shapes, empty eyes and…
She pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head. Arngeir let out a sigh.
“The world never changes,” he growled as he stood. The altar candles sketched deep quivering lines on his face. “Conflict is all it knows, and people will never be satisfied until there’s no one to tell the tale anymore. Even he…”
The words were like cold water on a flame, a slap in Yrith’s face. The haze was gone in an instant. She saw his features clearly, his eyes of the same color as his hair and beard, and the wrinkles around them, and suddenly, he did not look half as wise to her as when she had first met him. She glared at him, slowly rising to meet his gaze
“Do you have nothing else to say?”
“Yrith…” The clutch on her shoulder stiffened.
The monk turned to her, taking a moment for a careful scrutiny. “I beg your pardon?”
“People are dying out there and this is all you have to say?” She seethed as her nails buried into the skin of her palms. “You have the power to stop them. You have the wisdom to teach them! And you sit here, feeding on whatever the pilgrims living in that world,” her hand shot up, pointing to the gates, “bring you! Doing nothing at all! Scorning…” she fought the tears falling into her mouth and muffling her voice, “scorning the one person who does the job right!”
Leyna pulled on her arm with so much strength Yrith jolted in pain. “Yrith!”
Arngeir glared back. “Foolish child. What do you understand?”
Yrith snorted. “True, there’s so much I don’t understand. Like, for example, why you sit on all that power and…”
“Yrith!” Ruthlessly, Leyna dragged her up the stairs. Yrith grunted, attempting to yank the arm out of her grip, but the slight elf would not even flinch. Her eyes were focused on Arngeir. He stood there in silence, staring back, unyielding. There was no trace of doubt in his face, no hint he would even consider Yrith’s words. She felt her teeth grate in her mouth as the light of the altar and the brazier illuminating the entrance hall faded past the turn they took. She tugged against Leyna, to no avail.
“What are you doing?!” she hissed.
Leyna did not respond. She marched onward, one corridor after another, past the gates to the courtyard and the humbly decorated alcoves. No sooner did she let go than they’d stopped in Yrith’s makeshift bedroom. Only then she stepped back, standing tall as Yrith glared at her.
“Why did you drag me away?” she pressed, hot in her cheeks. Her fingers twitched in the urge to pin the damn Altmer to the wall.
“Why, why… damnation, Yrith, you don’t argue with a Greybeard on his home ground.”
“Well, think again, I just did.”
“So you did. And what good will it do you?”
“What good will it do you to silence me?”
Leyna sighed, raising her hand to rub her temple. Her face was dark with the coming night, but her eyes shone ghostly blue in the light of Secunda. And yet, her tone was warm when she spoke. “You are not fair. I have so many words on my tongue, but I cannot tell you anything. To speak this freely is a privilege reserved for those who were not born to aristocracy.” She sank to the floor, with her spine to the bed and head slumped back, buried in the duvet. “I envy you. I always have.”
Yrith took a seat by her side. “What are you talking about? What privilege?”
Leyna smiled, suddenly reaching out to touch Yrith’s shoulder. “The privilege of not imagining the worst possible thing that could happen. Like the Greybeards getting back at the Dragonborn for what you just said, for instance.”
“I…” Yrith hugged her knees, cheeks burning red hot. Was that what would happen? Would her words become the legendary last straw? Surely the Greybeards’ bond with the Dragonborn must have been stronger than that? She lay her forehead on top of her knees, staring into the shadow of her own lap. “What do I do?” she whispered. “I hate this, Leyna. I can’t help. I can’t fight. I can’t even speak. What is it that I can do?”
Slender hand pulled her in, and she suddenly found herself in Leyna’s embrace. She stared at her friend, confused, unsure what to say. Her face was so close she could barely distinguish the shape.
“Leyna…?”
“I’ve felt the same for all my life,” she uttered quietly. “Helpless, always afraid of things that have not even happened yet.”
She fell quiet, taking one too many deep breaths. Yrith waited, too scared to ask what it was she wanted to say out of the fear she might not voice it in the end. Leyna’s hair tickled her nose, but she resisted the urge to draw back. The night grew darker as they sat there. Gingerly, Yrith gave Leyna a light pat of support. As the moons outside wrapped themselves in a mantle of clouds, obscuring the last discernible bits of material world, Leyna’s breath finally steadied.
“I know you must hate me for all I said and did. I hate myself too.” She let out a snort. “But if I promise to have your back,” she said as she looked into Yrith’s eyes, “will you stay who you are for me?”
Yrith felt her jaw drop. “I… what?”
“I am not so brave. I can’t be as honest, and in the end, I’m the same kind of scheming person as my father.” She smiled in apology. “But I am well-read and a decent healer. You asked me what you can do, and I can’t give you an answer. But you have changed me. You’ve changed Cain and half of the College. You have the Dragonborn’s support. All that just for being yourself. If anyone can make a difference, it would be you.”
Yrith gave a laugh, pulling back at last. She stood up, watching Leyna’s blurry huddled figure from above. Was that it? She could not be brave and honest while Yrith could? Had she changed while Yrith was not allowed? “Look at you, being honest right now. That is a very strange request, and I’m not sure I can fulfill it.”
“What do you mean?” She could only guess Leyna’s long face by the tone of her voice.
Yrith shrugged, knowing Leyna would not see the gesture in the dark. “I am changing as we speak. And,” she paused to give her words weight, “as much as I want to, I do not trust you. That you will have to work for, Leyna. I could care less about the things you’ve said to me here. At least those were honest words. But you were right. You are a schemer, and in the end, you contradict yourself. You say you are not as brave, but you still decided to meet your father. You say you fear the consequences, but you did not even stop to consider them. Do you know what is worse than a mortal enemy?”
There was a rustle and a hint of movement. Leyna shaking her head.
“A friend you can’t trust.”
Yrith threw herself on the bed, hugging the pillow. She could not believe her own words. But they were true, she realized, and as she had spoken them, she felt a weight fall off her shoulders. She inhaled the now homely smell of hay and goose, pulling the duvet over her still dressed body. They spoke no more. Now she could only wait for the one friend she could trust to come back. Alive.
--
This chapter was originally supposed to be longer, but I split it, deciding the last part would be better off as a standalone chapter. So, the next chapter might be pretty short.
The mountain roared. The ground shook. She felt the tremble deep in her own flesh. Her knees betrayed her. She knelt, the circle of soldiers around her sneering at her misery. Dark clouds gathered above, as if deciding her fate.
“You will die…”
Silken voice spoke to her, quietly, gently. It quivered with thrill, stifling her breath. She heard the roar again, so distant, but calling to her with urgency. She would extend her hand toward the sound, but it was too heavy to lift. Her whole body had become too heavy. She could only watch as the elf’s figure approached, stretching his arms to touch her. A blade appeared between his fingers, dark, as if it was absorbing all the light around it. It emitted cold, seeping deep under her skin. She wanted to step back, but she felt an invisible wall behind her. She could feel him grab her by the cuff enlacing her neck. It suffocated her. Her breath seized up in her throat. The blade touched her skin… and ripped it.
The mountain roared…
--
Yrith opened her eyes, her chest heaving as she sat up. The room was light with the ripe morning and speckles of dust flew around like tiny silvery torchbugs. Her fingers traced the line on her neck in the deluge of sweat, sliding slowly from one side to another. There was hardly any scar left. But the terrible sensation, burning and freezing at once, remained. He was dead, she was sure. But the blade still existed, and so did the one who had forged it. A cursed blade, like the fang of a voidspawn demon. The thought alone made her shudder.
She let out a shaky breath, and another, waiting for her heart to steady its beat. Her gaze fell upon a humble pile covering the table beside her. On top of it lay a note written in a strangely jagged script, as if imitating claw marks.
It’s not the latest fashion, but I still hope you’ll find them useful.
K
K? Yrith frowned, wondering whom this initial could belong to. The Dragonborn? Despite her solitude, she felt warmth in her cheeks. She had never asked his name.
She pulled the pile onto her lap, finding a set of weathered, once rather colorful garments, emitting a gentle smell of soapwort. She pulled them on, finding they fit almost perfectly. She would have felt almost fancy, like those flashy performers dancing their way through the streets of Daggerfall and gathering coin the local nobles would throw them from their windows back in the day. If it wasn’t for the threadbare furs around her collar. Those made her feel like a molted starving sabre cat, living truly up to Qassir’s expectations of being an urchin. Tugging at the tips of the remaining hair to plump them up a bit, she rose to finally leave her safe haven.
The corridors of High Hrothgar welcomed her with astounding stillness, only the echo of her footsteps bouncing between the tall unadorned granite walls. The monastery must have been ancient. She stared at the massive stones that formed it, their corners rubbed smooth and rounded by the tooth of time. There was not much to admire except the structure itself, a strange labyrinth of passages reminiscent of a hefty angular arcade. The sound of her footsteps carried far and wide through them, even when she tried her best to conceal it. She frowned, touching the stone as if she expected it to tell her its secret. And here she thought she was rather good at sneaking. Winterhold had never betrayed her like this.
Following one of the many corridors, she reached the end which presented itself as a kitchen of sorts, with no more than a fireplace and a modest set of dishes, mostly hung on a bar attached to the wall next to it. There were no plates or glasses, only bowls and pots made in wood and cast iron.
She made to leave, only to run into another dead end, this time presenting a bedroll and a shelf holding a small stone tablet. She studied the place closely, assuming by the helmet laying at the bedroll’s head that this was the Dragonborn’s bedroom. If she could call it that. Curiously, she reached for the tablet on the shelf and picked it up.
Engraved in it was an inscription written in the same style of jagged script she had seen on the note about her new clothes. Only this time, she could not discern the characters. A map of Skyrim covered the other side, littered by four-pointed stars.
“I keep that to preserve the memory of my battle against Alduin,” a voice issued behind her. She turned abruptly, staring at the rather undisturbed face of the Dragonborn. He was propped against a pillar, as if he had always been there, watching her with the typical mirth in his bead-like eyes. “They fade, you know. The memories of the places and people you left behind. They fade whether you want it or not. And with them goes a part of yourself.”
Yrith nodded. She could hardly recall what life had been like in Daggerfall. Even those days in Winterhold seemed clouded and distant, as if the person who had lived them had not been her.
“Is this the Dragon Language?” she asked, pointing at the inscription on the tablet. The Dragonborn took it from her with a toothy smile.
“‘Here lie our fallen lords, until the power of the Devourer of Worlds awakens them once more,’” he read. “This is a map of the dragons’ burial mounds. Back then, I didn’t understand. I understood nothing of this great plot I’d become part of. I only had this great fear of the unknown. You understand, don’t you?”
Her gaze sank to the floor. “But I am no savior of the world.”
The Dragonborn laughed. “How can you tell at this point?”
“You defeated him. Alduin, the World Eater.” She gained herself another laugh.
“Certainly, if I announced just that to the world, no one would dare question it. But in truth, no, I did not. Not alone, at least. That was my advantage over him. I had friends. Allies. Supporters. Whatever you want to call them. People who had my back before I even knew what was happening.” He placed the tablet back on the shelf, laying it down gently, like a babe in a cradle. “Come,” he beckoned to her, making for the sunlit corridor. Yrith followed him out of the maze of the monastery, into the vast space of the central corridor and through a huge brass gate leading to the courtyard. She squinted in the sudden brightness cast by the surrounding snow. The cold hit her face and crept under her garments. The Dragonborn turned to her, wrapping her in the woolen mantle that had been nonchalantly draped over his shoulder.
“But you…”
He shook his head. “I’m used to this cold. It is like my home. It’s different from Winterhold, isn’t it?” Looking up to the skies, he drew in the frosty air, returning a puff of steam. “They say that if you take the snow from up there,” he gestured to the top of the mountain, covered in a thick veil of mist and clouds, “it will never melt. Even if you bring it to the scorching deserts of Hammerfell.”
Yrith raised her brows. “And is it true?”
“I’ve never tried,” the Dragonborn laughed. “And I doubt any of those who spread the rumor did. To an ordinary mortal, that place is inaccessible.”
“Have you been there?”
He gave her a cryptic smile, waving for her to follow him. They crossed the bit of leveled ground before them, past the road leading to a great cliff and an old, massive watchtower looming over the vastness of Skyrim. The wind grew stronger as they progressed toward a wide stairway before them and then up to a tall stone arch. Beyond it spread a wall of swirling frost, dark and menacing in the shade of the mountain. Yrith shivered at the mere sight.
“Touch it,” the Dragonborn said, stepping aside to clear the way for her. She approached the wall gingerly, raising a hand to it with caution. As the tip of her finger reached it, tiny crystals, invisible to her eyes, pricked the skin on it, littering it with tiny wounds. Yrith pulled back, watching droplets of blood surface on it. She looked at the Dragonborn.
“What is that?”
“The eternal storm protecting the mountain.” He took a step forward, straightening his back and taking a deep breath.
“LOK VAH KOOR!” he shouted. And the mountain shook, sending back a familiar echo.
Yrith flinched, covering her ears instinctively as the words left his mouth. Sky, spring and summer, she could make out their meanings from the magic that radiated from them. Clear the skies, from winter to spring, from spring to summer. The torrent of mist and snow thinned, until it was no more than limpid residue, cold on touch, but breathable. The Dragonborn stepped on the path, making his way just a few feet into the freshly cleared space.
“Magic that can change things from within,” Yrith whispered, remembering the spells her own parents had commanded. The draconic magic must have been similar in nature.
“Not as powerful as the magic of this place,” the Dragonborn said, raising his gaze to the mountain peak above. “If you stand here for too long, the storm will return. Only those who command the Dragon Tongue can set foot on the summit. Or so I used to think. You seem like you could handle yourself out there, though.”
“I could?”
The Dragonborn’s jaw widened in a bestial grin. “Up to you. I believe you too want to reach that place.”
She stared into the cloudy unknown. “What is up there?”
He shrugged. “A friend.” Then he patted her on the shoulder. “Best of luck to you.”
With a wink of one eye, he made for the stairs. Yrith stared at his back, but snapped to attention at the sudden gust of wind in her face.
“Erm… Mister Dragonborn?”
He looked over his shoulder, still smiling.
“Thank you for these.” She slid a hand over her clothes and tugged at the mantle. He nodded.
“You can call me Keneel-La. Or Bends-The-Night, but, for some mysterious reason, people find that name rather hard to use.” The sparks in his eyes danced merrily as he turned to leave, his figure smaller and smaller over the distance. Yrith smiled to herself. The Dragonborn had a name too.
--
Yrith lifted her hand and felt the thundering cold on its palm. It had been three days, yet she could not take a single step past the point she had reached with the Dragonborn. The storm sang its dark aria, oblivious to her attempts. She let a strand of magic into it, and it was swayed at once, pricked and scattered into invisible shreds. She could not penetrate the storm, nor disperse it. Once back in Winterhold, she had thought herself capable, almost invincible as she had slowly learned to best her teachers. All that confidence was now torn to pieces. There were powers on Nirn which she could not compare to. She could not even turn and run when she had found herself in the middle of a raging battle. And now, she could not set foot on the path sending her a sweet invitation with every roar from above.
Gritting her teeth, she let out a blast of pure energy. The blinding blue beam shattered and faded upon contact. Singird had told her before not to fight her way with force. But this was different from leading a ball through a maze. This maze had no free passages to take.
She sighed, wiping the weariness from her face. The silhouette of High Hrothgar blended with the darkening sky. The sun had kissed the western horizon farewell and vanished beneath it. Another day had passed.
She left the stone arch, recounting in her head everything she had tried. The Dragonborn had made it look so easy. It had taken him thee words to make the storm simply disappear. What should she do? Spellbrew it away? But she had never tried it. She hardly had any idea how it’s done, and, as she had found out after a few brief moments of exploration, the monastery suffered a great shortage of any kind of literature. And so she spent her days out here, trying, exerting her powers. It was better than lying around and doing nothing. It was better than facing Cain and his eyes full of worry.
She passed through the gate, into the wide corridor and the smaller ones beyond. They led her to the council room where dinner would be served. But she froze before entering as Cain’s agitated voice reached her ears.
“And what do you expect of her? To come crying, licking your boots and begging for mercy? Do you find this entertaining?”
Yrith held her breath. They could not be talking about her, could they?
There was a snort which undoubtedly came from Leyna. “You think I am entertained? Oh certainly, I get entertained by the thought of having lost my father!” The last word was followed by a gasp and a thud. Yrith bit through her lip, feeling blood on her tongue. She pressed herself to the door frame, curiosity and apprehension fighting the urge to jump out and stop the quarrel.
“Sure, like you’re the only one who has lost someone. Your sweet father who just happened to know Yrith’s parents, hmm? Do you take me for a complete fool? Why did you bring her there, Leyna?”
“Because he…” the words were muffled by what Yrith assumed to be tears, “because I thought he’d asked me to! You were there, you heard us talking!”
“Yes… I heard you talking.” Cain sighed, his voice suddenly low, broken. “I heard everything. Including the part about the enemy. About the name. The name lost in time,” he fell into whisper. Leyna let out a quiet sob. “Do you realize what burden he put on Yrith’s shoulders? And knowing her, she’ll go search for him. She’ll…” he took a shaky breath, “she’ll seek him. If only for your sake!”
The knuckles on Yrith’s hands turned snow-white as she gripped the frame. Leyna voiced the question that overtook the whole of her mind.
“What… what are you talking about?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Who will she seek?”
“Don’t lie to me!” Yrith’s fingers scraped the lacquered metal. She felt Cain’s rage. His every word stabbed her heart, but she could not find the strength to run to him. His words were a growl and a yell, a threat and a desperate cry in one. “You know very well who I’m talking about!”
There was a threatening growl, a sound Yrith would have never associated with the graceful Leyna.
“Fine! I led your precious Yrith out of Winterhold! I lured her out with a plea, I lied to her about the cause! It is all on me, but I sure as Oblivion don’t know what my father was involved in, and I have no bloody idea what you are saying! Do you really think I would march right into death’s jaws had I known this? No, and trust me,” there was a sudden wave of determination in Leyna’s voice. Even without looking, Yrith could imagine her standing proud, straightening her back as she looked into Cain’s face, “I would not have sent her there either. I may be ignorant, I may be selfish, but I’m not a monster! Day after day, I am asking myself the same questions. Why did this happen? Who is it that killed my father? And… who is it that’s after Yrith? If my father knew her family, then why had I never heard of them before? I thought I was so smart. I thought I knew so much, knowing every name in Winterhold. All of them, except for hers. I thought she wasn’t involved in those political schemes. But she is. More than any of us. What is happening? What in Oblivion is happening to us?! Tell me, Cain. Tell me.”
Quiet, uneven steps echoed through the room, the staggering of a person. “I thought… you really don’t know anything…”
“Nice of you to realize,” Leyna rasped. Yrith almost couldn’t recognize her voice. “But you do. You know who is behind this, don’t you?”
“I have my suspicion.”
“Who?”
There was a moment of crackling-filled silence before Cain gave a low grunt. “The Lone Demon…”
Yrith put a hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp, the other one still clenching. Was he joking? No, he could not be. So why? Why had Cain never told her if he knew? Why would he keep secrets? She felt a flush of searing hot energy take over her. She wanted to pin him to the wall herself, force him to spill it all out. This was her life. Why was she never in control?
She felt herself shake, as if watching her body from the outside. The door frame was a dear friend which she clung to with all her might, stopping herself from stomping into the scene. She concentrated on their voices. On the words they said. On their meaning.
“Your would-be deity?”
“Deity, idol, demon, whatever he… it might be. Do you know his other name?”
Here they stood, talking about Yrith and the murderer in her tracks. The one who had tormented Cain, killed her parents and Leyna’s father. She ought to be invited to the party. And yet…
“I hear he has many.”
“He does. Because no one knows the real one. He is The Nameless God, but it is forbidden for us to use that title.”
“And you are assuming my father sent Yrith after him just because of that?”
Cain let out a long, weary breath. “No. I connected the dots when she started asking about him. She knows something. But I can’t let her do this. Anything but this… anything.”
Was this a justification? Yrith gritted her teeth.
She could not be sure if the sound coming from Leyna’s mouth was a sob or a snort. “She’s not your property. I doubt she would ask for your approval.”
Sure as Oblivion she would not.
“I know, but…”
“This is so ridiculous.” Leyna’s voice sounded tired, but also somewhat lighter. Brighter. “Whenever I think of Yrith, I remember those days in Winterhold when she encouraged me to… just be myself. She showed me freedom. She taught me to stop pretending and walk my own path.”
Cain laughed cheerlessly. “I guess we have something in common.”
“But why? Why do I feel so angry every time I see her face? When I remember how they talked… why couldn’t he look my way? Why does everything always revolve around her? Why do I have to hate myself for just being me?”
“Leyna…”
“He was my father…”
“I doubt it was her choice, Leyna.”
Yes, it had not been her choice. Nothing was ever her choice. Yrith turned away, still holding her breath, tiptoeing along the wall, holding the rage inside. She was angry. Angry at the godsdamned demon for destroying her life. Angry at her parents for not telling her anything. Angry at Cain for the same reason. Angry at Leyna for despising her so. Angry at the whole world for being so infuriatingly unfair. Angry at herself… for being powerless. In the end, she could only be hurt or angry.
She rushed through the halls, the fire within her smothering the cold around. Cain knew. Her footsteps now thundered and carried over the vast space. Cain knew and had not told her anything. She stomped over a rug, crumpling it unwittingly. Light flickered in the corridor ahead. How much did Cain know that he would not reveal, even if she asked?
She finally stopped, panting and staring into a vast entrance hall lit by a blazing brazier just a few paces before her and a myriad of candles casting their glimmer on the small altar on the other side. Two wide belts of stairs led down from where she stood, facing two sets of brass gates around the altar. The floor below was made in the same granite as the walls around it, save for a lone slabbed square in its middle formed by sixteen tiles. Right on the central cross knelt a solitary figure of a man in robes grey as the walls around, face turned to a pillar separating him from the altar. He was still, and for a moment, Yrith wondered if she was not simply looking at a statue. But as far as she knew, statues did not wear garbs.
She hesitated before turning to leave, but a voice from behind stopped her.
“Wise is the one who does not act upon anger, but unwise the one who lets it consume them.”
Slowly, she let her eyes find the figure again. He stood there, tall and proud, and despite his old age, told by the long grey beard and countless wrinkles in his face, his eyes pierced her with a look ever so bright. Yrith felt as though she was the one standing down below while he was eyeing her from the top of the stairs. He stepped toward her, across the room and up the stairs, until he closed the distance between them to an arm’s length. She flinched a little under his heavy look.
“So you are the last guest,” he said, calm and with no grudge for being purposely ignored. “I believe we have not met yet. My name is Arngeir and I speak for the Greybeards. It is quite rare to have visitors in our humble monastery. Pardon our rather seclusive nature.”
Yrith shook her head wildly. “Not at all. My name is Yrith Ravencroft.” Her voice still trembled with poorly concealed rage. She thought of what she could add to give weight to her name, but nothing came to her mind. She let out a silent breath, lips curling in sheepish apology.
“So I’ve heard. The Dragonborn speaks quite highly of you.”
“He exaggerates.”
Arngeir gave a light smile. “That is not for me to say. But I trust his judgement. He too was full of fear and anger when he came here. It must pain him to look into the mirror that you pose for him. And it must also give him hope.”
Yrith stared at him, face freezing in a frown. “What do you even know?”
He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Nothing that goes on within these walls escapes my ears. You should not mistake concern that your friends express for malice.” He let out a light sigh. “I was opposed to having you here. We are mere observers and do not accept guests from the outer world of conflict. But I can see now that deep inside, you do not seek conflict. Be true to yourself, child. You are not wrong to doubt, as long as you do not let it cloud your mind. Understanding is the key to clearing your path.”
He patted her, making his leave. Yrith felt burning in her eyes. She was so exhausted. So lost. What should she do? What should she think? She did not know.
--
The square of tiles in the heart of the entrance hall quaked lightly with every sound produced within the walls of High Hrothgar. Every now and then, it shook with the roar from the mountain summit. Yrith knelt inside, listening to the sounds reminiscent of a quiet symphony. She could not discern them, but she was sure the Greybeards could. No wonder they liked to spend their time here. This structure was made to hold magic. But unlike the College of Winterhold, it had no magic of its own. She slid a hand over one of the tiles, sending tiny streams of magicka into its web-like crevices. It seemed almost as if the tile held a minuscule pipework, spanning into the monastery stone like countless invisible veins.
“Understanding is the key to clearing your path.”
Easy for him to say. How could she understand when no one gave her answers? Cain kept his secrets under lock and key and Leyna would not look her way. Even the damned storm would rage on as it pleased. And the Dragonborn was nowhere to be found, leaving her to figure things out on her own.
She caressed the tile, letting the blue of her magic flicker with a fresh wave of sounds. She found it oddly satisfying.
“Curious little mechanism, isn’t it?”
Her eyes found Arngeir, kneeling next to her. She hinted a wordless smile.
“If you learn to interpret the sounds, you can hear anything that goes on within these walls. Every whisper, a skeever pattering in the kitchen on the other side. It requires some exploration from within and a bit of trial and error. But it helps us connect. Not only to the monastery, but also to the outer world. It is especially attuned to dragon magic. Ever since the dragons returned to Skyrim, this place has never been quiet.”
Yrith watched as the web of magicka crackled under her fingers. “How do you…” she let the words fade, eyes growing wide. Exploration from within?
“Understanding is the key to clearing your path.”
She jumped on her feet, bowing deeply to the kneeling man beside her. “Thank you, Master Arngeir. This is exactly what I needed to hear.”
He nodded sagely as she ran toward the stairs and through the central corridor, soon flinging the gate to the courtyard open. She darted toward the stone arch, leaving behind a trail of churned snow. The sky was dark with heavy clouds promising a blizzard, but she paid it no heed, following the path upward almost instinctively. And then, when she finally reached the wall of frost, she let out a strand of magicka so tiny it would be invisible to a trained mage’s eye, but still enough she could feel it.
“Magic that changes things from within,” she breathed to herself, letting it delve in. She closed her eyes, feeling the storm sway it, furrowing her brows in her struggle to maintain the connection. Singird was wrong. She could use force. As long as that force was not her own. The storm had plenty of its own power, fueling the vortex inside infinitely. In essence, it was no different from magicka transforming into ice and sending it flying from her fingertips. She embraced it, claiming it for her own. She closed her eyes, letting her magic blend in the storm.
She was now part of it, moving with the torrents of the wind and snow, crashing and dissolving, only to take shape again. It was needlework, as if she was undoing stitches and weaving the thread into a different pattern. Particle after particle, strand after strand, she took over, finding their essence, transforming their energy into pure heat. The storm gave a low grumble of protest, but it could not resist. It could only fuel the process. Slowly, methodically, she walked into it, removing it from the path ahead. Her feet moved cautiously forward, searching for solid ground. She could feel her resolve strengthening as she worked her way along the side of the mountain, every step bringing her closer to her destination. Every inch was easier to transform than the previous one. As if the tailor had finally tamed the needle and thread. She let out a laugh, dissolving a cloud before her in a few heartbeats. Understanding truly was the key.
Now that the path was clear, she could take a look at what awaited her. The road followed steeply up along the mountain side, circling its folds and following the cliff edges. There were places where it faded under piles of rubble or blended into the mountain walls. She paled at the sight. Whoever had carved this path into the mountain must have been either mad or suicidal. She could not even imagine walking it. Two tiny flickering dots in the distance revealed the presence of ice wraiths. Was she supposed to fight them in these conditions? The Dragonborn sure put a lot of trust in her.
She tried the ground before her with a foot. It was solid and stable, but the drift of snow atop of it, slippery as its surface had melted and frozen back upon Yrith’s intervention, made for a dangerous adventure. She took a sharp breath, trying to convince herself that the Dragonborn had a reason for sending her here. Conjuring sharp teeth protruding from her boots and fingers to keep her stable, she began walking, always sending her magic ahead to scan the terrain. As the ice wraiths got closer, she summoned a pair of blazing atronachs, keeping them as her shield. She would avoid fighting here herself at all costs.
The wraiths charged forward, as they always did, mindless of any chances they could be defeated. This was their territory and they were bound to protect it. Yrith stepped back, letting the atronachs do their work. The wraiths glided elegantly over the air currents, dodging the bolts of fire from the atronachs’ hands. And just like that, quick and nimble, they bit into their fiery flesh, removing piece by piece until the creatures vanished in a thundering explosion. Yrith gasped and staggered, protecting herself with a ward in the last moment. A heavy pile of snow buried the place where she had stood just moments before. She released a ball of fire, searing one of them and slowing its movement into a shaky flutter. It only gave her a moment to regain her composure.
A quick gesture gave life to two new atronachs. They were stronger than before, but Yrith knew they would not be enough. These wraiths were different from those in Winterhold. Sturdier. Quicker. More ferocious. She felt her heart beat its way out of her chest. What was she supposed to do? She could not run in this terrain. She could not even dodge their attacks. Her gaze sank to the cloudy grey depths below her, but she quickly raised her head, trying to chase the dreadful image away. This would not do. She had to try something different.
She closed her eyes, feeling the atronachs and wraiths before her. In this world of distorted shapes and colors, time slowed to a reasonable level, allowing her to trace their presence better. She could almost touch them and close her magic fingers around them. She grinned as the realization sank in.
She heated her magic, tightening its grasp on them. The wraiths squirmed and hissed, but they could do nothing against the invisible force. She gritted her teeth. They were still living beings. She would make it as quick as possible. She squeezed them in and pressed. Something cracked. Life seeped from the creatures as they fell on the ground and tumbled to her feet. She pulled back, and with her magic, she could feel new force entering her, making her gasp as shapeless memories flooded her mind. A life of freedom, beautiful, welcoming haven of ice, and then… searing pain. She fell to her knees, eyes wide in horror. What had she done?
Her atronachs danced around her, elegant as ever. She paid them no heed, breathing in and out in an uneven tempo. She needed to calm down. What had she done?
It was their very souls she had absorbed. She did not know if there was such a thing as afterlife for ice wraiths and other lesser creatures, but she now knew for certain they felt the same way humans did. And she had crashed those souls, turned them into nothing, lifeless energy that was now part of her. She put a hand over her mouth, suddenly feeling nauseous. She remembered this feeling from the other side. The Spirit Blight. And then the cursed blade on her neck. She had done the exact thing she dreaded.
Her head sank into the palms of her hands. She sat there for a long while, sending her magic out whenever the storm was about to return. It was long after a loud crack announced the departure of her two atronachs when she finally rose to her feet, trembling with unease. If only the Dragonborn knew she had the same kind of power as her enemy. If only he knew what sort of adventure he had sent her on. She looked back, toward the monastery structure which from the place she stood looked like a number of granite cubes organized into neat blocks. But she could not back now. She could not admit defeat. The way was up, not down.
She went on. The slippery snow fought her on every step. At times, she almost fell from the narrow path as it was almost as steep as the mountain wall on her side. Her magic saved her way too many times for her liking when there was nothing to hold onto. She wondered if the Dragonborn commanded Shouts that would aid him against Nirn’s gravity, or if he was simply that skilled a climber. She grew tired with every inch she conquered, wondering how she was going to make it back. But she had to go on. Surely he had not sent her on a death mission.
The mountain shook again. It almost swept her into the abyss below. The roar was closer now, she could feel it in her bones. Left and right, left and right. A foot slid forward, the other one followed. Yrith stopped thinking. There was nothing to think of anyway. Nothing to observe either. As she climbed higher and higher, all life had receded. There was no vegetation here. No moss or lichen covering the rocks, no crooked pines curling their boughs over the road. Only snow and rocks. The cold now battled her magic. This place was old and powerful, letting her know how small she was.
Yrith could not tell if it had been hours or days she had spent climbing when the road before her finally widened. The slope became a gentle hummock. All the clouds were now at her feet, leaving the sky clear and blue. The snow blinded her in the afternoon sun, and she had to keep her eyes narrowed to see. Despite her previous efforts, she felt the exhaustion wash away, replaced by immense curiosity. She was almost there, at the very top of the tallest mountain on Nirn. The air here was so cold it burnt her lungs, but it did not stop the triumphant smile from spreading over her face. Just a few steps round that cliff.
She took a breath. Maybe nothing was waiting for her. Maybe this was just a lesson to show her that the feeling of triumph is not something worth pursuing. Fists clenched in determination, she stepped forward, stopping just at the cliff’s feet. Her eyes widened at the sight.
A hollow spread before her, surrounded by sharp snow-capped rocks from one side and a strange semi-circular wall on the other. The wall was littered with inscriptions, emanating a strange aura, as if it spoke to her. And on top of it sat a dragon bigger and mightier than any she had ever seen. She would have easily mistaken it for a statue, with its torn wings and greyed scales, had it not moved its head toward her, pinning its pearl-like eyes on her person. Losing her breath, she took a step back, feeling the returning blizzard on her spine. She stared at it, assessing her chances. Its giant face alone was bigger than she was. Perhaps now it was time to start running, to finally admit that there was something against which she stood no chance. But a solitary thought stopped her. The Dragonborn must have known. He would have stopped her if she was walking into certain death. He would have…
The dragon slid elegantly from its throne, settling on the snow below. It seemed as if the creature had always belonged here, old as the mountain itself, or perhaps even older. It did not stop looking at her for a single moment, waiting in silence. She had never heard of a dragon that would wait in silence. Dragons were fierce creatures, proud of their power and dominance. But this one was different. There was no rage or hunger in its eyes. It felt like simple curiosity, like a dog cautiously sniffing a person it met for the first time. Yrith dared a step closer. The dragon stayed in its place, still waiting. She wondered if it was amused by her hesitation.
She took a few more steps, feeling the air around her grow yet colder. It quivered unpredictably, distorting her view. She stared into the warped space, watching a myriad of snowflakes lost in an endless slow-motion whirl. Instinctively, she reached out for them with her hand, but pulled away at once as the cold ripped through her protective magic with unexpected force.
“Pruzah sul,” the dragon spoke calmly, its deep, melodic voice reverberating through the hollow. Yrith raised her eyes to it as it approached. She felt her feet freeze to the ground. Whatever its intentions, she was now at its mercy. “You are standing at a time wound, if that is what you are wondering. Drem yol lok, rovaan. I am Paarthurnax, master of the Greybeards. I welcome you.”
Yrith stared at it, him, an imposing person speaking words to her, forgetting her breath. Peace, fire, sky… was that how dragons greeted each other? The words in the Dragon Language mingled with those in the human tongue. Even his name bore meaning. A terrible meaning.
“The Wishful Lord of Tyrants… y-you are the master of the…”
She could swear the dragon smiled at her attempt. He tilted his head to the side and took a single step back as if allowing her some space. Yrith tried to convince herself there was no reason for a dragon to pretend to be nice when all it would take to kill her was a single clasp of his jaws.
“You understand Dovahzul, yet you are not dovakhiin, nor are you one of our kind. You do not command the thu’um, but I feel great power from you. Our grind, encounter, is not a coincidence. You have come with a purpose. Who are you?”
Who was she? What was this civil giant expecting her to say? She was no one. Surely a dragon would not be interested in a simple girl like her. But he had given her his name, even revealed its meaning. She shuddered at the echo in her head, but straightened her back nonetheless. She was not one to fall into debts.
“I am Yrith, The One Who Speaks True.”
The dragon lowered his head in acknowledgement.
“Rarely do I meet any joorre who would share the meaning of their name with me. You are brave and true as your name. So what brings you to Monahven? What brings you to the Tiid-Ahraan, time wound?”
Yrith watched him through the quivering air. “The Dragonborn said I would find a friend here.”
Paarthurnax let out a low growl, perhaps a dragon laugh. “And you have found me. So all you desire is a simple tinvaak with a dragon?”
A flush dyed her cheeks. Here she stood, with a mighty dragon before her offering her a conversation. She could not help but smile at his words. “I, well… it is not what I was expecting.” The flush deepened and the cold air around was not enough to chase away the hotness from her cheeks.
“Ah, I know these words well. Only lost souls wander here, and none expect an old dovah. Tell me, child of the joorre. Have you ever heard my name?”
Yrith shook her head.
“I saw the fear in your eyes when I said it. You are right to fear it. My past is full of dread, and still, the name calls to me. I stay on this mountain to escape the calling, for I am Paarthurnax, brother of Alduin, the Devourer of Worlds.”
Yrith did not avert her eyes. She knew he was telling the truth, but there was no threat in his words. The Dragonborn must have had a reason to send her here. And if both he and Paarthurnax had survived their encounter, wasn’t that proof enough to trust him?
She took a breath. “Does your name mean that much to you?”
He lowered his head in a nod. “Dragons are different from joorre. We were not given our names. We were born with them. They define us. I was meant to wage a war alongside my brother. But something changed when I saw the mortal children perish under my yol su’um, my fire breath. They are the ones who changed me. Their pleading eyes, and the trust that I betrayed. Until the very last moment, they wanted to believe in my mercy. I could not bear my brother’s cruelty. I fled and sought humans to help me overthrow Alduin’s dovahhe. And so I strayed from my destined path.”
Yrith frowned. What a cruel joke. Was a name all a dragon needed to decide his nature? Was it the will of Akatosh to enslave his own children? That could not be it. She refused to believe it. “Did you though?” she whispered.
“Have I not proven it?” The dragon’s eyes narrowed in bitter indignation, but Yrith did not yield. What did the studied Leyna always say? A word’s meaning depends on the interpretation.
“Does your name mean you aspire to be the head tyrant, or does it mean that you want to rule over tyrants to stop their atrocities?”
Paarthurnax froze, head tilted forward as if he was about to lunge at her. Yrith held her breath, standing tall before him. She stared into his pearl eyes, the one vivid part in a sea of chipping greyed scales. He took a moment to examine her.
“I have spent millenia pondering this question,” he said, letting his head sink. “And yet, a joor child provides an answer more soothing than that of the greatest minds this dovah has met. I believe your name also defines you, Zulvahzen, The One Who Speaks True. You have given me a great power by revealing your true name. But I will not use it against you. You come here seeking guidance, and yet you offer one instead. Kogaan.”
“I have given you power? What does that mean?”
“Come.” The dragon turned around, gesturing to her with his tail. He leaped into the air, only to land by the wall lining the far edge of the hollow. Yrith followed his shadow until she stood before the wall, watching its jagged engravings. She could feel heat pouring from them, evoking images of fire in her mind. Fire as life, fire as destruction, fire as one’s driving force, the warmth of the family hearth and the scorching power leaving behind naught but ashes. She stared at the wall and around, wondering why the snow lasted in its proximity.
“You feel it,” Paarthurnax said, “the power of yol. These walls bear our wisdom. Each carries a Word of Power. A piece of our magic, passed amongst us. If we had children, these would be their books. Alas, we do not. They were constructed by people such as yourself, perhaps in hopes of understanding our kind.”
He stepped aside, turning his reptilian face to the sky.
“YOL!” he shouted, and a plume of fire escaped his jaws. Then he looked back at Yrith. “Such is our power. We do not speak like you do. Our words are magic. And so are our names. If you are powerful enough, you can control a dovah with his name.”
“So you can control me with mine?”
“Perhaps. Every creature in Mundus has a true name. Dovahzul derives from the Tongue of the Old, the divine language. It is said the world was created by giving everything a name. Know my name and you can reshape me, or completely erase me from existence.”
“Just like that?”
“Of course you still need the power to do so. The name is a method. It gives you understanding, but not the means.”
Yrith nodded, eyes drifting to the horizon, slowly turning from pale blue to gold and violet. The thought of someone controlling her by just her name made her uneasy. How could the dragons survive for millennia when there were such possibilities? Divines and Tongue of the Old? Maybe she was just dreaming. Maybe none of this was happening and the dragon before her was a construct of her own imagination. Maybe she would soon wake up down in High Hrothgar into a reality where the word god would only have a formal meaning and her biggest worry would be to eat the tasteless porridge that Cain had made for her.
Cain…
“He is The Nameless God, but it is forbidden for us to use that title.”
No…
“Find the name lost in time.”
Yrith felt her heart stop. She looked up, into the eyes of Paarthurnax who kept watching her in silence. She could not tell his expression, but he could certainly tell hers. He tilted his head to the side and slid a claw toward her.
“What is it, Zulvahzen?”
She shuddered at the name. She had truly given him the power to grasp her at his will.
“What does it mean when someone speaks of an enemy and then tells me to find the name lost in time?”
He let out a cloud of steam, making her wonder if that was how dragons sighed. “I think you already know the answer to that question.”
She did. How could she blame Cain for not wanting to tell her? The more she knew, the more scared she was. And yet, something kept her from giving up. She could not just walk away and leave things be. She could hide forever and let things happen. She could change her name, perhaps she could even change the way she looked. Rumors talked about face sculptors that would reshape one’s face with magic. She could leave all this insanity forever. But she would not. She heeded the Dragonborn’s words. She would walk this path and do what Selas Travi had asked of her. She would listen to the message from her parents and become the hero that was in fact just a person refusing to give up. In the end, she was not so different from the dragons. She too desired that power. She too wanted to protect her place.
With resolve in her face, she looked into Paarthurax’s eyes. “How do I find one’s true name?”
“Krosis. I have never spoken the Tongue of the Old. I do not know.” Despite himself, the dragon’s jaws widened. A smile. “But you are strong. You will find it. The name lost in time, you said. Rok sizaan ko tiid. When the Dovakhiin searched for a way to defeat Alduin, he brought a kel. An Elder Scroll. The time wound, this rift in time that you see here, brought him back to witness Alduin’s last moments before he was cast out of time. Perhaps this is what you need. A kel, and a rift that will take you to the place where you will find it.”
“An Elder Scroll?” She stared at him, trying to guess whether this was the draconic sense of humor. “But they say the Elder Scrolls have vanished, if they ever existed at all. Where am I supposed to get one? Where am I supposed to find the right one?”
“The Elder Scrolls exist. Relatively speaking. The Dovakhiin already found one. He will know how to find another.”
Yrith sighed. “I already owe him.”
“He will not refuse an old fahdon.” Friend. Yrith knew the merry glimmer in the dragon’s eyes. It was what the Dragonborn liked to regale her with. She flushed.
“But then I will owe you.”
“Drem. You have done enough for me, Zulvahzen. You have given my name a new meaning. This deed will not be forgotten. You may go and follow your own path. I shall support you.”
Yrith fought sudden tears forcing their way into her eyes. The Dragonborn had promised her a friend. She had found so much more here. A purpose. A road to follow. Instinctively, she extended an arm. The dragon touched it with his muzzle.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“I thank you. Ofan. A gift from me. These wings are old, but they can still carry you down this strummah. My mountain.”
“Y-you would?” Yrith could not suppress the joy in her voice. She barely remembered anything from the day the Dragonborn had saved her from Erinor’s clutches. But the wind in her face, the feeling of absolute freedom as she watched the land pass deep down below, looking like a sea of infinite shapes and colors, she wished to feel them once more.
Paarthurnax rose, his jagged silhouette looming above her. “Do not get used to such favors. I do not give them on a whim.”
She nodded, letting her magic take her to the nape of his neck. It took her a moment to find a protruding scale she could hold onto. Once again, she had to admire the beauty of his mighty form. Even aged as they were, his scales were impressive, some bigger than her face, some smaller than her nails, neatly arranged into lines and curves covering the whole of his spine and sides. His leathery wings were torn at the edges, but not enough to prevent him from flying. She had barely settled down in a stable position when he took off with a powerful kick, carrying her up to have a good view of the spots of land under the tattered clouds. The western horizon was a red-gold line with the sun in its middle, slowly descending beyond it. In its light, she could see it all. Winterhold in the north-east, the northern coastline with scattered Nordic ruins and cities like Dawnstar or Morthal, the Blue Palace dominating the cliff of Solitude. The mountain ridge leading from there to the Dwemer-built city of Markarth. The green forests and glistening lakes of Falkreath where Singird had grown up. The colorful Whiterun tundra guarded by the fortress of the Dragon’s Reach. The proud port of Windhelm and the old volcanic ponds like giant malachite eyes just south of it. The colorful birch woods of Riften just at the foot of the mountain they had just left. She could see the greenlands of Cyrodiil, the Morrowind jungles and the valleys of the Reach leading to High Rock that had once been her home. The world had suddenly turned into a playground. She gripped the scale before her and laughed.
Paarthurnax let out a wordless shout. It spread through the land, echoing from one mountain to another, chasing the birds out of their nests and sweeping the snow from the treetops. He circled the mountain, ascending high above its peak and then swooping down in a rapid leap. Yrith hugged the scale with all her might, holding her breath and sending tendrils of her magic around his body to hold her in place. Before she knew it, they stood in the monastery courtyard, stirring up the snow around. Yrith let out a breath and slid down from his back. The ground swayed under her. She bent over, panting and gripping her knees.
“This is where we part,” Paarthurnax said, lowering his head to Yrith’s level. “It has been a pleasure, Zulvahzen. May the winds take you high and your voice stay strong. Lok thu’um.”
Yrith raised her head, catching her breath. She touched him once more, feeling the coarse skin under her fingers. “Thank you. For everything.”
“Nid. Do come visit again. I will not refuse a chance for a good tinvaak.”
With a swing of his wings that almost sent her to the ground, he lifted off and disappeared in the clouds. Yrith followed his fading shadow, lost in her thoughts. She too would not mind a good tinvaak from time to time.
Smiling, she turned to the monastery. The windows flickered with light from the inside, a warm welcome as if she was returning home. At last. Exhaustion finally claimed her, making her body relive every moment of the passed day. She took a step toward the gate, but her limbs refused to listen. She felt the cold touch of the snow as she fell on her knees.
“Just a bit further,” she told herself, her voice weak and windy. She tried to lift herself up, but her legs would not move. She had no strength left. “Damnation.”
Her vision blurred. She wanted to resist, but an invisible force pulled her down. Deep in her mind, a voice mingled with her own. Dark, familiar voice.
“I will find you.”
Her face hit the ground. She stared at her own hand, fingers moving aimlessly, before everything fell into nothingness.
--
Finally! Sorry for the huge delay, guys. The current situation is not easy to deal with, and this chapter did not make it easy for me. As always, I feel like it’s not the best chapter I could have written, but someone always ends up telling me otherwise so I should probably admit that I’m simply never going to be satisfied right after I finish a chapter. :)) That said, feel free to point out any errors or inconsistencies. I can’t guarantee I’ll fix them right up, but it may help me with my future works.
The flight of Paarthurnax is something I have not planned originally. I am dedicating this part to my dear RealityGlitch who has been a great support to both me and Yrith on this journey. She expressed the wish to let Yrith fly once more so she could enjoy it. And I thought it would not stand in the way of anything so why not. And while we’re at it, why not think big and let Paarthurnax do it.
If you have the time, do leave a word or two in the comments. I love talking to my readers more than anything!
Anyway, that’s it, guys. See you next time. Hopefully the next chapter will not take me so long (can’t guarantee anything, unfortunately). Stay safe in these troubled times.
Mirwen
P.S. If you struggle with the Dragon Language, there’s a translator at thuum.org. :)
A/N: For those who might be wondering – yes, spital is an actual word. :)
Chapter 21: Crossroads
“What have you brought to us, Dovakhiin?”
“She’s wounded and needs help.”
“This is not a spital.”
“It is the only place where she will be safe.”
“Once again, you bring conflict to this sacred place.”
“No, I bring a person in need.”
“A person from the world we renounced.”
“Then you are in conflict yourselves.”
--
She was tired. So tired…
--
“Why isn’t she waking up?”
“I don’t know.”
“But… she’s all healed up. She can’t be dying, can she?”
“Sometimes, all it takes is a broken spirit.”
--
Shush the voices, so that she could keep sleeping forever. So that the pain would go away, and the burning would fade in the eternal cold and darkness. But they kept coming back, unrelenting, piercing. Why would they not leave her alone?
--
“Can’t you do something?”
“No.”
“Please…”
“Why should I?”
“Because you’re a good healer.”
“I can’t heal a person who doesn’t want to be healed.”
“You don’t care, do you?”
“Perhaps I don’t.”
--
Fingers laced into hers. They were cold. So cold… like the cursed blade that had been touching her neck. She still felt it on her skin. A whisper in the wind called her name and disturbed her slumber. Away, away with it. But it would not leave.
--
“You say you hate her, and still, you keep coming here.”
“Perhaps I’m just waiting for her to die.”
“Regret is not a good thing to part on.”
--
The last touch of breath on her face faded into the void. It had become quiet at last. And yet, she could not find her peace. She could still hear the voices from within. Echoes, reverberating with every passing moment. They would never cease.
--
“Why?”
The voice was cold and bitter. It stabbed and burned. There was a world in it. And still, it was so empty.
“Why, when things get just within reach, do they dissolve into bare memories? You… you are not fair. You take everything away. Our past seems so distant. Those moments we ran outside and dared defy the Collegium. The only time in my life that I tasted freedom. But you took it all away. Just as you gave it.”
The words cut deep. Too deep to listen on. And yet, she could not let them pass.
“Curse you. Curse you to Oblivion.”
A single drop of water splashed on the floor, leaving a faint echo. The sound mingled with a hazy memory. Dark red liquid searing her chapped lips. It was so far behind. She could rest now. She could forget. But the voice would not let her. The voice wanted her to live. It assaulted her senses. It could not be chased away, piercing her burning flesh, chafing her parched throat. She was so thirsty…
--
Yrith opened her eyes, squinting into the moonlit darkness. She felt her every breath, as if she was ill with rattles. It scraped her lungs and hurt on her dry tongue. Water… she needed water.
She tried to raise herself on her elbows, but her arms gave way under her. Her head was spinning, even when she lay prone on a bed.
Bed… there was a real bed under her. Something she had not known for ages. Or had everything been just a dream? Leyna’s father, raging battle, a children’s song and a blast to the chest? Dripping wine, sweet minty smell, elegant gait, the voice that knew to stab with every word, dragons and their reptilian rider… reality mingled with illusions. She could not tell what part of her life was a dream and what was not. Was she alive?
But she was breathing, and it hurt. She must be. Where was she? Where was everyone?
Inch by inch, her fingers explored the proximity of her body. Furs and linens underneath. A warm quilted duvet on top. A richly stuffed pillow supporting her head. The bed smelled of hay and goose and reminded her of home. Or what used to be her home back in Daggerfall. The smell made her feel safe and serene.
She turned her head, exploring the place. The room she was in was not a true room, but rather the dead end of a corridor. The structure was tall and the stone that formed it coarse. Above her arched a massive vault, slanting toward a humble dormer embedded between two pilasters from which the moonlight poured inside. To her left, more light came into the corridor through a line of alcoves, falling on rugs before each of them. To her right stood a table carrying a flaking clay jug and a goblet of the same quality. She stared at them yearningly. Surely there must be some water inside.
She scrabbled for the goblet, but it was impossible to grab in her position. Inhaling deeply, she gritted her teeth and slung herself up with all her might. The goblet was empty. She gripped the jug with both hands, trying to persuade her mind to forget the strain and aching in her muscles. It almost worked. Almost. All too soon, the jug became too heavy and she felt too tired, dropping it back on the table. Water spilled everywhere. She sank back to the bed, exhausted, shaking. A tremble flashed through her body as the jug hit the floor and shattered. A loud echo resonated through the corridor. She let out a stifled cry.
Chest heaving with exhaustion, she reached for her magic. But when her palms glowed in the familiar pale blue, she heard footsteps in the distance, followed by two voices.
“Please, tell me she’s all right.” Yrith let the magic fade, relief making her body feel warm and heavy. Cain. He was alive.
“She’s all right,” another voice muttered with an apparent undertone of amusement. This one she only remembered vaguely. She had heard it firm and hard, back on the battlefield. A crisp, throaty voice that commanded respect.
“I’d like to share your humor.”
“Never too late to start.”
She saw them coming side by side, the reptilian figure of the Dragonborn with a torch in one hand and a new jug in another, and a slight one next to him, limping on his right leg. A feeling of guilt settled in her. All those times that she could not contain herself were now engraved in Cain’s body. She gripped the rim of her duvet, pulling it closer. It had not been a dream after all.
The light of the torch fell on her face and she squinted. Cain’s eyes widened that instant. He picked up his pace, ignoring his condition, turning the fall as he tripped over the last rug into a smooth landing by her side.
“Yrith,” he breathed. She tried to hint a smile, aware of how long it had been since she had last worn one. He gripped her hand, touching it with his forehead. “You’re awake… by the gods, you’re awake.”
She tried to affirm, but the sound she produced was like a saw on a dry log.
“Well well,” the Dragonborn said as he passed them, lighting a patulous candelabrum in the corner. He put the torch in a holder next to it, taking the goblet from the puddle of water it stood in. “I thought I heard something break. Seems my instinct is as infallible as ever. Would you help our guest of honor, ashling?”
Cain scowled at the name, but rose to help Yrith nonetheless. Sliding his hands under her with utmost care, he lifted her into the sitting position.
“You’ve lost so much weight,” he uttered with a frown. She looked at him with apology. The Dragonborn flashed him a meaningful look as he filled the goblet with water.
“Then perhaps we could work on that, hmm? There’s soup in the kitchen. Would you be so kind as to bring it? Oh, and while you’re at it… a towel would also come in handy.” Playful sparks flickered in his eyes, making his reptile face seem almost gentle. Cain rose with a mixture of unspoken protest and eagerness, leaving with a single nod. The Dragonborn took a seat by Yrith’s side, holding the goblet to her mouth.
She drank, coughing as the soothing coldness spread inside her. She downed it with her breath held. Then another, and again. The Dragonborn opened his jaws, a sign which Yrith assumed to mean a smile.
“You never know how much you’d miss it, until you do, hmm?”
His voice was so calm, as if he was having a conversation over a cup of tea instead of helping an impaired victim he had recently rescued from the clutches of death. Perhaps he was used to this, after all that time serving as the world’s most lauded hero.
“Thank you,” she whispered when she released the goblet at last. Her own voice sounded odd to her, like the hum of the sea in the low tide. The Dragonborn nodded solemnly.
“Usually, I get paid for my services,” he said. He laid down the cup with a soft splash of the spilled water, tilting his head to the side. Yrith stared at him, opening her mouth but closing it again for lack of words. She tried to guess his thoughts, but his green-gold eyes were unreadable for her. He waited for a heartbeat. Then he laughed, patting her shoulder. “But I suppose I’ll let it slide this time.”
She let out a breath and contained the urge to purse her lips.
“Worried?” he asked amusedly. “It’s not like I’m in the habit of saving random strangers for the sake of extorting the riches they don’t have from them. If anything, I may extort it from their families later.”
Yrith knit her brows. He responded with a smile.
“Don’t worry. For you and your friends, I was paid in advance. And quite handsomely too.”
She sized him up, unsure what to make of his answer. Someone had paid for their rescue? Who? Lady Faralda who barely had enough to provide for her? Urag who invested all his resources into his beloved Arcanaeum? Singird? She wondered how well off Singird could be. But surely he would not have enough to pay for the services of the Dragonborn himself. And handsomely at that.
“But who…”
“You have friends in high places and you don’t know?”
She shook her head.
“Well then,” he said, crossing his legs and leaning over comfortably, “I received a letter from General Tullius. You must be quite some prize. It was dated 8th Hearthfire and arrived on the 10th. The courier must have changed horses at least six times to reach me this fast, and to find me is usually no small feat.”
Yrith’s eyes widened. The Imperial General himself? What use could he possibly have for her? What in Oblivion had she gotten herself into? Was she that important? Or was it a gesture that had nothing to do with her? Perhaps it was… Toddvar was a Stormcloak general, after all. She shuddered as possible scenarios of her future life flashed before her eyes. None seemed too appealing to hope for.
“General Tullius? But why?”
“Why indeed?” The Dragonborn’s face grew softer, almost compassionate. “War is painful, regardless of where you stand. In the end, it doesn’t matter if you are a king or a slave. War is still war, and it touches us all. The only thing we can do is to keep walking, whatever path may lie ahead.”
A shadow crossed his face. His eyes grew distant, and Yrith wondered if it was her whom he was speaking to. But then, the moment had passed as if it had never happened.
“But for now,” he added, lightness returning to his voice, “you may rest. You are in the safest place on Nirn, after all.”
Yrith studied the place closer in the light of the candles. The walls were sturdy, made of granite. The room, or, rather, the platform that simulated it was scarcely decorated with flowers, but other than those and the candelabrum in the corner, it gave off an image of sober plainness. The rugs before the alcoves in the corridor were old and worn, each bearing two circles of thinned fabric in the middle. Yrith knew this sight from the old temples of Daggerfall. It was a place of prayer.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“High Hrothgar. The monastery of the Greybeards. The threshold to the Throat of the World. You name it.” He spoke with a hint of pride in his voice. Yrith could not blame him.
The fabled High Hrothgar. She had never hoped to see the place. It stood atop the Seven Thousand Steps, alone and detached from the world, and even those who made it to the monastery were never let inside. Just how high were they? Likely if she walked outside, she could see all of Skyrim at the palm of her hand. A dragon had carried her to the tallest mountain on Nirn. The thought made her head spin.
“My friends… were they also carried here on the back of a dragon?”
“Enjoyed the sight, did you? Even though you saw way too little of it.” He chuckled. “Yes, they were. Kharjo saw to it, to a great displeasure of my dovah fahdonne.”
“What is…” the question died on Yrith’s lips. To her surprise, she understood the words. The meaning formed in her mind, as if it had always been there, in deep slumber and now awakened by the sound of the Dragonborn’s voice. She stared at him, half startled, half curious. He gave a low chuckle.
“Pardon my passion,” he said. “It means…”
“… dragon friends,” Yrith finished for him, gaining herself an astonished look.
“You understand the Dragon Language?”
“I…” Yrith hesitated. Did she? No. Upon closing her eyes, she could not recall a single word she would know. What had happened just now? “It was like… magic. As if the meaning of those words just hung in the air, waiting for me to seize it.” She shook her head. Her own reasoning sounded ridiculous to her. The Dragonborn’s fin-like ears twitched.
“You’re a strange one. It seems my sister is not intrigued by you for nothing after all.”
“The Arch-Mage is?”
“Perhaps it is time I pass the hero mantle on to someone else, isn’t it?” His green-gold eyes glimmered with mirth.
Yrith knit her brows. Hero mantle. In her thoughts, that would be a form covered in blood and grime, and that was not an enticing prospect at all.
“What does it mean to be a hero?” she whispered thoughtfully. He laughed, launching himself onto his feet.
“Aren’t you a bit young to be asking these questions?” he returned with a good-natured smirk. She flushed and looked away, but felt warmth spread through her nonetheless. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps echoed through the corridor, carrying with them the smell of fresh vegetable soup. “It seems your friend has returned. Time for me to go then. Try not to overdo it, please. Heroes need their rest too. And the ashling would be sad to see you fall back into that slumber, after those ten days he spent holding your hand.”
He gave her a wink as he passed her, landing a pat on her shoulder. Yrith gaped at him. Ten days?
--
Lilac hue flooded the room as the dawn gave birth to a new morning. The ground shook with a low grumble. Startled, Yrith raised her head, searching for the source as the sound slowly subsided. Cain put the steaming bowl down on the freshly wiped table, seemingly unbothered. Yrith looked up at him in question.
“What was that?”
He flinched, as though her words brought him back from the dreamworld. “What? Oh, you mean the Shouts?”
“Shouts?”
“The Greybeards,” he said with a nod. “This is how they meditate. They don’t talk at all, but when they do, it is always with these Words of Power. The Dragon Language. They can move with the wind, throw you off the cliff with just the Shout alone, or tear your soul apart. Supposedly.”
“With just words?”
“There’s some ancient magic involved. I don’t understand it.” He shrugged, scooping the soup and offering her a spoonful. She gave him a withering look, averting her gaze as her cheeks flushed crimson.
“I can do that myself,” she uttered quietly, extending her hand.
“I’m sure you can,” he nodded, “but there’s no need to strain yourself. Here.”
Yrith sighed, looking at the spoon he was holding to her mouth so eagerly. Amidst the flickering shadows in his ebony face, she traced a scar lining his jaw, a remnant of Erinor’s torment. He had suffered his own share, yet all he could care for was her. Despite her weakness, she was not feeling up to playing a helpless child. She could take care of herself too. Lifting her hand, she sent her magic to wrap around the spoon, taking the soup from it and delivering it to her mouth. The sweetness of boiled carrot and celery filled her with warmth. Cain shook his head.
“I can never beat your magic, can I?” He dropped the spoon back in the bowl with resignation, seating himself at her side. “It is always there, protecting you… as if you were a part of it, instead of its master. Even these ten days…” he paused to take a breath and remove a stray lock of hair from his face. It was not formed into spikes anymore, and Yrith could hardly deny that it made him look rather handsome. He let his head sink, wearily rubbing his temples. “I’m just glad you’re all right. At times you were burning so hot I thought the fever was going to kill you. You stopped sweating, you hardly breathed… but every time I thought this was the end, you… glowed. Your magic refused to let you go.”
He fell silent, his breath one with the quiet hum of the candles. Yrith helped herself to another spoonful, retreating to a wordless contemplation. Her magic. The magic that she constantly relied on. Perhaps without it, she would have been long dead. Or perhaps she would have been an entirely different person. She felt as though her magic defined her. As if there was no more to her than that power that dwelled deep inside, waiting to manifest itself. She gazed at her glowing hand, pulling the strand of magicka back in.
“Do you…” she whispered, words feeling heavy on her tongue. He raised his head, tilting it to the side in question. He would care, would he not? Even if there was no magic… he would care. “Do you think I’m an abomination?”
Cain’s face twisted in rage and anguish. He straightened his back, taking the hand that had glowed just moments before in his and pressing it to his cheek.
“No. No, you are not, and you have never been. That man was lying to you, Yrith. Hurting you was his only goal. People like him…” he clutched her hand and she suppressed a hiss of pain, “they are scum. They will say anything as long as it serves them. Don’t listen, Yrith… you deserve better.”
She stared at his trembling frame. He was panting, as though he had run across the entirety of Winterhold. She closed her fingers around his.
“But… suppose he was speaking the truth…”
“Yrith!”
“Hypothetically.” She felt her own chest heave. Why was she even saying this? It hurt. An iron hand clasped her chest. “If my parents really… altered me. Would you still think of me as your friend?”
He pierced her with a look so hard it made her freeze inside. She averted her eyes, seeking a way out as if a tunnel were to open for her. He pulled her to his chest, arms wrapping around her, holding her tight to prevent her from falling back.
“You fool of a midget,” he breathed. “You damn fool. Why are you doing this to yourself?” He pulled back, forcing her to look into his face. “Of course you are my friend. I don’t bloody care what happened in your past. To me, you will never be an abomination. An abomination would never have stood up for me against the whole class. And it would never try to…” He froze, shaking his head as he gently propped her back against the bed headboard. She stared at him, waiting for him to continue, but no words followed.
“Never try to do what?” she asked quietly. He let out a weary sigh.
“Never try to save Leyna in the middle of a raging battle,” he growled through gritted teeth.
Yrith watched the unreadable mixture of feelings in his face, trying to make sense of them. It wasn’t just the red of his eyes that set it ablaze. The cold spite in his look made her shudder.
“Cain… what happened? Do you… hate me for it?” Perhaps he did. After all, had it not been for her, they wouldn’t have had to face Erinor. They could have escaped.
His hands clenched into fists, crumpling the fabric of her duvet. “No… not you. I would never hate you.”
He looked so far. Sitting so close, on the same bed, just by her side, yet his eyes were so distant. She raised her hand to touch him, but let it sink again.
“I’m sorry, Cain,” she whispered. “Sorry you had to…”
“Why are you sorry?” he spat. Yrith winced, blinking at him in surprised. “Why are you sorry?! You… you would really forgive her anything, wouldn’t you? As long as it is you who suffers and no one else… you would just forgive.”
Yrith felt her back press against the wood behind her. There was nowhere to back away from his anger. “I don’t understand…”
“Of course you don’t. You let yourself be dragged away into the night. You risk your life for the one who does this to you. You let that s’wit,” his voice dropped to a low tone that sent shivers down her spine, “torture you just so she would not have to suffer. And despite all that… where is she now? Does she spare a single moment of her time? Does she care?”
Yrith stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Leyna?”
“Who else?”
“C-Cain… did… did something happen?”
He let out a breath, burying a hand in his hair. “A lot of things happened, Yrith. She is no friend of yours.”
Yrith closed her eyes, recalling all those moments in Leyna’s company. Her smiles and her tears, the words of plea. Were all of them lies? She could not believe so. No, the smile on her friend’s face upon leaving the house of her parents had not been fake, and neither were the tears she had so desperately tried to hide. But then, all of them paled in comparison with the rancor that had filled her eyes in the Imperial camp. How had it come to this?
“What was it like when your mother smiled at you?”
The words from her memory rang in her ears. The stabbing pain in her chest was so familiar. She put both hands over it, taking a breath.
“Perhaps,” she told him softly, “she simply does not know how to care.”
Cain let out a snort. “Does it make a difference?”
Yrith let the question linger. Weariness weighed heavy upon her. She had been awake for too long. The thought of Leyna hurt. The thought of all that she had left behind hurt. She wished to fall back to sleep and retreat back to her dreams.
It does, she thought in silence. A world of difference. But she kept the words to herself.
“Say, Cain… does Leyna know I’m awake?”
“I didn’t tell her, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She gave a slow nod. “Then, do you think you could keep it a secret?”
He frowned in apparent disapproval. There was a lull. He stared thoughtfully into the empty space before him. And then his gaze met hers. “What are you planning?”
“I wonder,” she said with a guilty smile.
He shook his head and sighed in resignation. “Fine. But know that I don’t want to see you hurt yourself again.”
“I know,” she uttered quietly, sinking back to the lying position. Cain adjusted the pillow under her, sliding it carefully under her head. “Thank you, Cain. Thank you… for everything.”
--
Light padding of leather boots woke her. It was a female gait, refined and prudent, barely leaving any echo. At times, it was drowned in the howling of the wind carrying through the fissures in the thick stone walls. The visitor was in no hurry to reach Yrith’s little corner. Yrith could see from the low of her bed that she stopped now and then, glancing over her shoulder, then picking up her pace again. Always where the alcoves were, Yrith realized. She let her eyes open ajar, enough to see but not be noticed, and waited. Her guest arrived with a soft sigh of relief, scanning the room. As she crossed it, she changed the flowers in the vases, providing them with a humble supply of water from her own magic pool. Then, she took a seat by Yrith’s side, carefully sliding up her duvet without touching her body. The winter’s song was the only sound filling the air. For a while, the two of them were still. Until Leyna’s sigh broke the silence.
“I thought you many things,” she said, more to herself than the girl she thought unconscious, “but never a coward. How unfair can you get?”
Yrith’s breath died in her throat. There was so much more in Leyna’s words than her friend had voiced. Bitter longing for things she could not reach. Hope that had been shattered forever. A wish that she kept just to remind her to look ahead.
Yrith had spent hours planning their encounter. She had prepared so many words. So many answers to so many questions and accusations. And yet, none came to her mind now. She could not pretend. That was… unfair.
She opened her eyes in full. “L-Leyna…” Even the name sounded ridiculous on her tongue. Her mind was blank. She would rather be back in the College surrounded by a circle of people laughing at her. Facing all those sneers suddenly felt easier than facing her own friend. Heat filled her cheeks.
It took Leyna just a few heartbeats to realize the voice was real. She turned to Yrith abruptly, masking her face with a glare.
“Y-you…” she hissed, fingers clenching into fists to prevent herself from pointing. “So all this time… all this time you were playing games with me? Enjoying my talks to myself?”
“No…” Yrith shook her head, sliding the pillow under it. “This is the first time. I… I knew you would come eventually.” Her hand shot to her mouth. Too late.
“And Cain and the divine Dragonborn know, I presume?”
“Leyna…”
“So I’ve been left out, it seems.”
“No…”
“Why?” Leyna spat, raising her finger in a silencing gesture. Her golden mane fluttered around her as she shook her head. “Why is it always you who gets what she wants?!”
Yrith stared at her, at a loss for words. Her clouded mind offered none. Whatever she would say would wash over Leyna like the blizzard outside over the monastery towers. “Do I… get what I want?” she managed weakly.
Leyna let out a snort that spoke of white-hot daggers and bloodstained gallows. “Don’t you? Cain and Qassir both lying at your feet? Teachers giving you special lessons? Don’t look at me like that, I am no fool to not notice. And your… incredible magic that is not even your own? Why is it always you?”
“But I… I never asked for…”
She let out a scoff that cut like a blade. “You know… I only wished for one thing. Only one… in my entire accursed life. Can you imagine? All that you had… it was fine. There was just one thing… something… someone I thought that no one would ever take from me. But now, he’s gone. He’s gone because of you! Because you were there! And his last words to me? ‘There is no place for tears in the eyes of a Travi.’ He did not even look at me when he was lying there in the dirt! All he saw was you! It was always you!”
Yrith stared at her friend, unable to utter a word. She knew the pain in her eyes. She knew it all too well. It had haunted her for so long, and despite that, there was no solace she could offer. She had no strength to stand up, but tried nevertheless, failing and falling back to the soft of her furs and linens. Windy with unfulfilled effort, Yrith could feel the hot streaks trickle down her cheeks. Leyna glared at her with utter distaste.
“Yes… cry. Cry yourself to death if you will. I’ve said what I wanted…” Her own eyes glistened with tears, obscuring the gold with moonlight’s pale blue. “I guess I can go rot away in peace now.”
She gave Yrith one last look of bitter hate before making for the corridor. Yrith raised her hand helplessly, numb fingers reaching out for her silhouette. She cried her name, but her strangled voice faded on her lips. She buried her face in the pillow, wrapping her arms around it like a loved animal. Too much time passed before sleep finally came to claim her.
--
“Here.”
Yrith stared into the bowl Cain was handing out to her. It was oatmeal porridge. Yrith hated porridge.
She accepted it without a word, taking a sliver of it with the tip of the spoon. Luckily, it had no taste. Nothing had taste these days, as if the food wanted to answer to the greyness around. She ate slowly, cloaking her face with indifference. After all, there was no hurry. There was nothing waiting for her. Nothing but an army of people eager to kill her and break all those that she cared for. Nothing but emptiness and more people giving their life for her. Or resenting her.
Still, she would have preferred the meal to disappear faster. Eating had become a chore. Living had become a chore.
“Do you not like it?” Cain inquired, eyes full of eagerness Yrith could not place.
“It’s fine,” she mumbled. He stooped his head.
“Sorry if it’s bad… the Dragonborn has been teaching me to cook. I’d never cooked something before… aside from the salmon we made before you…” He trailed off, burying his head in his hands. “Sorry… sorry, Yrith.”
The salmon. The Spirit Blight. It had been so long. Yrith had almost forgotten about it, even if the history was repeating itself. The fear was the same. The helplessness also. She was tied to her bed, unable to even visit a privy on her own. Only back then, she had ended up in Singird’s room. Now she missed his firm voice, and the slender, mildly tanned arms that would lock her in a tight embrace whenever she was lonely or in pain, and his dark eyes, full of silent reproach every time she had done something dangerous and soothing warmth whenever she doubted herself. Cain was gentle and caring, and the Dragonborn was always there to humor her, but the empty space inside her remained, craving to be filled.
Despite herself, she gave a soft smile. “Thank you, Cain.”
He raised his gaze to her. “You always say this. But there is nothing to thank me for.”
She shook her head. “Thank you for always being here. Don’t apologize. You are doing so much for me.”
Even under his ebony skin, she could feel the heat rushing into his cheeks. He returned her smile with a hint of sadness mingling with his flush. “What are you thinking of?”
The question took her by surprise. She stared at him, trying to take her mind away from Singird. “Winterhold,” she said, choosing the first thing to come to her mind.
He gave a slight nod. “Do you miss it?”
She took a while to assess his question. He waited patiently, watching her chew on the tasteless porridge. At last, she put it away, feeling much too full to take in more.
“Back then,” she mused, tilting her head back to have a view of the dormer, “I thought the whole world was against me. Like a little child…” She gave a sad smile. Images kept coming to her. Images of her parents scolding her for stealing A Man of Two Faces for the umpteenth time. Images of her classmates flocking around her and laughing. Of Singird when she first met him, irked at her for flapping her arms instead of showing him proper magic. And Cain, jeering at her with a frostbite spell in his hand. She snorted at her own sentiment. “Now I know there are but a few people against me. Maybe no more than one… and for some reason, it feels so much worse.”
“Yrith…”
“And I am only midget for you when you scold me,” she laughed cheerlessly. “Things really have changed, haven’t they?”
“I-I… do you… like it? When I call you midget?”
Yrith turned back to him. He was not looking at her. His eyes pierced the floor, his arms fallen in his lap.
“I…” She remembered the face of that Dunmer who had turned up his nose at the prospect of seeing her change her garments. And the one making a sour face at Qassir for stealing his Destruction partner. “I like it when it is you…” she whispered at last. He froze, turning to her with a timid question in his eyes.
“What… do you mean?”
“I mean… the Cain who is so sure of himself. The Cain who goes and does as he pleases, not looking at what the others think.”
There was a moment of silence before Cain’s head sank into his hands. He rubbed his forehead against his palms, as if trying to rid it of dirt.
“Dammit…” he spoke softly. “Dammit, Yrith…”
“I’m sorry…” Yrith said, raising her hands. “I’m sorry if I said something wrong.”
“No… you didn’t.” He only gave her a quick glance, as if afraid to show his face. “I’m happy… you have no idea. It’s just… I can’t fulfill that wish. Back then, I was… indifferent. I can’t do that anymore. This is the first time in my life that I have something to lose. And I almost lost it just half a moon ago.”
He met her gaze, sending a wave of heat in her cheeks. She could not look away. Instead, she traced the scar on his jaw, sliding a finger along it.
“But you were hurt too,” she breathed.
“Hurt?” he let out a bitter laugh. “No. You were the one getting hurt. I’ve… lived through worse. Pain is like the cold. You get used to it the longer you face it. Then it only becomes an inconvenience that bites into your skin.”
Yrith stared at him. His voice trailed off, eyes distant as if he was looking at a memory long forgotten, drifting off to a place where she could not reach him. Contrary to his words, the wistful tone of his voice made her heart ache. Real pain was never just a slash inflicted on one’s body. It was fear and loneliness. It was disappointment, regret. Was she allowed to ask? Or would the question open old wounds?
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
He quirked up his brows. “For what?”
“You… you seem like you still hurt.”
Another of those bitter laughs. He stood up, turning his back on her. Inhaling deeply, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up in one swift movement. The view that he offered her froze the blood in Yrith’s veins.
“It’s not you who should feel sorry,” he uttered grimly.
Yrith stared at what looked like a rugged landscape with broad mountain ridges and sharp bands of rivers. There was not an inch of smooth skin on Cain’s back, its surface misshaped by infinite slashes and dents. Her breath betrayed her. She did not want to imagine the treatment he had received. How much pain had Cain had to endure before his life in Winterhold? Was it a miracle that he was still alive?
“C-Cain…”
“This is the result of my family’s worship. My mother’s doing.”
“Your mother…” Yrith gaped at him, eyes wide with disbelief, but her hands were clenched tight. All this time he had lived with these scars, inflicted by the very person that should have cherished and nurtured him. Why? She felt a wave of pure hatred surge in her. Why? He deserved better… so much better. So why?
She wanted to jump up and embrace him. To press him close, let him know that he had a place to go.
“I’m sorry…” She tried to suppress the burning in her eyes. “I’m so sorry…”
He was by her side in an instant, wrapping his arms around her, encasing her in the hotness of his body. “No… don’t be.” He buried a hand in her hair, resting his chin on her head. “Don’t cry for me, Yrith. I have learned to live my life without sympathy.”
She raised her hand, touching gently the coarseness of his spine. “But…” she muttered into his chest.
“It is what it is.” He let go, wiping away her tears with his own shirt. “This is the Lone Demon’s creed. Hatred. Strife. Torment. Because ‘only when you have truly suffered can you find true happiness.’ He’s in fact a very nice and thoughtful lad,” Cain snorted sardonically. He sat down at the edge of the bed, putting the shirt back on.
“Strife…” Yrith repeated thoughtfully. A memory surfaced within her. It couldn’t be…
“Hm?”
“Nothing, just…” she paused for a moment, rubbing her thumbs against each other. Would he hate her for the question? Would she hurt him? He was already hurt. But what if she had the chance to stop it all? She drew in a breath. “Could you… tell me about this Lone Demon?”
A shadow crossed Cain’s face. What was it that she suddenly saw in his eyes? Concern? Shame? He looked away, finding interest in one of the crooked table legs.
“Why are you asking about him?”
“Well, because I… I’d like to know more about your past. About what ailed you.” A lie so blatant she felt like sinking into the floor that instant. She hated herself the moment those words left her mouth.
In the split moment that he glanced at her, Yrith felt frozen to her bed. He was not the proud Dunmer she had known before. He sat there with his back bent and shoulders slumped, and the agony in his eyes felt more real than any wound Erinor had inflicted upon her. Even before his reply reached her, she knew she had asked the wrong question.
“No,” he said, trying to hide the quiver in his voice. “I can’t. Not now… maybe later.”
He rose to his feet, but even from the bed where Yrith sat, he seemed so small. So fragile, like a vase that has been cracked and glued back, holding together by sheer willpower.
“Cain, I’m…”
He put a finger on her lips. She could feel him trembling, but he stayed long enough for her words to fade into nothingness. She stared up at him in question.
“Rest, Yrith,” he told her softly. “You still need your rest.”
They spent a while just looking at each other in silence. Cain took a breath, opening his mouth, but he closed it anon. His hand traced her cheekbone. And then, with just a hint of hesitation, he leaned to her, placing a soft kiss on her forehead.
Before she could shake off her surprise and ask a question, he walked away, leaving behind the echo of his footsteps. Yrith stared after him, face flushed with hot, deep red. She put her hands over her cheeks as if trying to chase the heat away. Her breath was stuck somewhere deep in her throat, and her chest aching with stabbing pain. She did not need her magic to deduce. More than ever she wished for a certain dark-haired Nord to sit by her side. She was in trouble. She was in deep, deep trouble. And the empty space inside her grew wider yet.
--
The mountain shook again, its cry carrying over the land. Very little life remained here at the top of the world where endless blizzards whipped the weathered cliffs. High Hrothgar stood alone amidst layers and layers of snow. Only the mountain summit up the road had a voice of its own. Even when the Greybeards remained quiet, the mountain still spoke. But whatever was up there lay hidden behind a curtain of incessant snowstorm. Yrith was almost certain that magic was involved, as the storm never quietened, unchanging in form or intensity. At night, the voice stayed quiet. During the day, it called to her, shaking the old monastery and sending a soft echo through its walls. She put her hands over her ears, but the sound lingered, pervading her body and mind.
“It speaks to you too,” a voice issued above her. Yrith opened her eyes to the jagged silhouette of the Dragonborn looming above her. She had not heard him coming. Her brows quirked up in question. He smiled as he sat beside her. “The mountain,” he clarified.
She pulled herself into a sitting position and nodded. “What is up there?”
“Does it matter?” he said. From under his shirt, he pulled an amulet in the shape of daedric O. The symbol of Oblivion. He lifted it against the light from the dormer, studying its silhouette as if his visit to Yrith was an excuse to do just that. Yrith could not help but feel irked by his sudden captivation.
“I suppose not,” she muttered. “I was just curious.”
His hand froze in the air and he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Were you really?”
His intent gaze sent shivers down her spine. She looked away. “Is that wrong?”
He gave a low chuckle. “Not at all. I am simply wondering. If you are curious enough to ask, are you also curious enough to go?”
“I… I don’t understand.”
“So you don’t. Then let me ask you something else.” He let the amulet loose and turned to her entirely to gain a good view of her. Yrith shifted uncomfortably. “Why do you cover your ears when the mountain speaks?”
She blinked and her heart sank. Why indeed? Yrith did not know. That voice bothered her, calling to her with unsettling urgency. It bothered her the same way Cain’s constant inquiries about her health did. Why?
“I don’t know,” she shook her head, looking down at the weathered flowery pattern on her duvet. “I don’t know,” she repeated quietly, hoping to give her words the gravity she intended. But they felt so weak on her lips. Unconvincing.
“Ah,” he purred, and the smile returned to his jaws. He reminded Yrith of the Arch-Mage, with her dreamy face, pretending to be wandering in some distant place while she was well aware of what transpired within her reality. “But you are answering the wrong question, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
His smile widened, teeth baring threateningly. “Would you stand up for me?”
She froze. “I’m sorry?”
“Stand up. On your feet.” With a content sigh, he leaned back, making himself comfortable on her bed. She stared at him.
“But I…”
“Can’t you? After six days… sixteen, if I count the previous ten. Are you still so weak you can’t stand up? Should I fly to Whiterun and get you a trained healer?”
She paled, feeling a lump in her throat. “N-no,” she breathed.
“Then will you stand up for me?”
She nodded in silence, sliding her feet onto the cold floor. Looking down made her head spin, but she forced herself up nonetheless, propping her hands against the bed. She could feel her legs tremble, but not enough to seize up under her. Taking a shaky breath, she let go of the bed… and stood. The Dragonborn crossed his legs, triumph coloring his face.
“That wasn’t so hard,” he hummed. “The world looks different from up there, doesn’t it?”
Yrith turned around, gazing at the things she had never noticed. A crack in the floor just under her bed. A vase that had stayed hidden behind a pilaster while she had lain there. Tiny caskets lining the alcoves in the corridor. She let out a breath.
“It does,” she admitted shyly.
He took her pillow, pulling it out of its cover. Standing up, he made his way behind her.
“Hold still,” he told her gently, “and let your magic rest. Trust me.”
With a nervous sigh, she shifted from one leg to another but did has he told her. She closed her eyes as the cloth wrapped around her head, obscuring her view. Her magic swirled instinctively, but she shushed it inside. The Dragonborn tied the makeshift blindfold into a tight knot, carefully pulling out her hair. Darkness engulfed her, real darkness, shapeless and threatening. She felt his grip on her shoulders as he turned her around, once, twice, more and again until she lost count, and in reverse, walking in circles as she pivoted in place. After what felt like a small eternity, he finally halted.
“Now,” he said, “I will step back. I want you to take a step forward.”
She felt his breath recede, and suddenly, she was alone. Uncertainty took over her. What was it that her foot would find? The bed? A wall? A rock over which she could slip?
She took a breath, daring a single step. Her foot landed safe on the empty floor.
“Good,” the Dragonborn’s voice echoed by her side. “Go on. Take another.”
Yrith slid her foot forward, trying the terrain.
“Keep walking,” he encouraged. She did. One step after another. Her foot found the edge of a floor tile, then a fallen leaf. And on she went, step after step…
“Stop.”
She froze.
“Take off the blindfold.”
Untangling the knot, she blinked at the coarse texture before her. She stood inches from the wall. One more step and she would have crashed into it. She turned a questioning look at the Dragonborn. He was sitting on her bed, still smiling, but something had changed. Calmness spread through her and she let out a breath.
“How does it feel,” he whispered, tilting his head to the side, “when you are in the dark? When you don’t know what awaits you just one step ahead?”
“I…” She shook her head, gaze sinking to the floor. Of course that was the answer. How could it not? What other image than pain and death came to her mind when she thought of stepping outside? “I am afraid.”
“That you are,” he nodded. Then he patted the empty space beside him. “Come join me again. We don’t want you catching a chill when you’ve just stood on your feet, do we?”
She pattered back in silence, wrapping herself in the warmth of her duvet. The Dragonborn gave a smile of approval.
“Fear is not wrong,” he said. “You need fear to survive. But let it take over, and it will be your demise.” He moved closer, tapping her hand. “Let me tell you a story. One that I have not shared with anyone before. For you, I will make an exception.”
He paused, taking a sip of the fresh air. Then he took the goblet on her table and offered it to her. It was filled with snowberry juice. She nodded her thanks.
“Have you ever been to Morrowind?”
She shook her head.
“Consider yourself fortunate,” he said, lifting his gaze in recollection of old memories. “It is a harsh place. Much harsher than Skyrim, or Cyrodiil, or High Rock, for that matter. The ash that covers everything and gets in your eyes and mouth, under your clothes, even under your skin if you let it, that is just the tip of the iceberg. The society lives a different life there. The worship is dark, the rules are strict, and for those exacting them, there is no such thing as mercy. At the beginning of the Fourth Era, slavery has been abolished. Officially, at least. But with the Septim dynasty gone and the Empire in pieces, there is hardly anyone who would make sure the order is kept. There has been little change in the Morrowind lifestyle. And the most favorite among the slaves in Morrowind are…”
“The Khajiit and the Argonians,” Yrith concluded slowly, hands rising to her mouth as she realized the meaning of his words.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Meena and I were slaves.”
“Meena?”
“Meena-La, my sister. And your Arch-Mage.” He stared up at the dormer, as if the memories would simply fall from there like the flakes of snow. “The life of a slave does not always have to be bad. Our master was…” he frowned, pausing for a moment. Yrith could spot a slight shiver in his hands, but he quickly chased it away. “He was kind. We had our own beds, a warm place to stay at, we ate regular food and not just rotten leftovers. Of course you had to get used to not having any freedom. The outside world was off limits, and the brand you wore could not be washed away. Only we, the Argonians whose skin tends to heal quite efficiently, had to undergo a painful renewal every now and then.”
Yrith gritted her teeth. She did not want to imagine the pain of white-hot iron, imprinting itself on his skin over and over again. She felt cold taking over her body, but his only response was an absent smile and a shake of his head.
“Still, the branding was just the necessary evil.”
“But… you said your master was kind. Why didn’t he just free you then?”
The Dragonborn gave a mirthless laugh, one that sent shivers down Yrith’s spine. “Free us? One can’t just free slaves in Morrowind on their own accord. There are… politics in play. Mechanics I don’t quite understand myself, but our master did what he could. But then, war came from the outside. Soldiers decimated the land and took all our crops. Our master had connections in the Balmora port and negotiated us a good batch of fish and sea fruits. Little did he know about their true origins. In the toughest of times, he contracted the greenspore.”
Yrith’s fists clenched by themselves. She knew where he was heading. She had read about the greenspore. A malady that would twist its victim’s mind, turning the most generous into lustful monsters and the most gentle into violent beasts.
“You can imagine,” he continued, a distant look in his eyes. “Suddenly, all of us knew pain. He forgot… forgot that D’narr brought flowers to the grave of his father every day, and that Janeera made the best ointment for his weary joints out of sheer affection. He forgot… that we too were people. Slowly but surely. First was his raised voice. A surprise to everyone, but at that time, we thought he’d just had a bad day. And so we worked like before, barely taking notice of those bad days and their rising frequency. Then came the outbursts. We would stock up the ash yams and the trama, pile up his wood and hay, only so that he could come and burn it all down, as if war had not done enough of that already. After that was the shoving, then the cane… a whip, and a scourge with hooks.” His voice faded into a mere whisper. Yrith felt her body tense as he took time to draw a breath.
“When the change is gradual, you don’t even notice it. Only at some point, you suddenly realize that you are… suffering. In pain. Unhappy. And then, there comes the time when you just want everything to stop. You dread every slash of the whip that is waiting for you, you even dread the voice that tells you what a useless creature you are. You dread every morning, and yet, you still wake up, only to relive that nightmare. And you find just what kind of person you are.
“The bravest of us tried to revolt. They fought back. They stood proud when the whip struck them, they looked the master in the eye when he yelled at them. They even smiled when he went on a rampage. And the weaker of us… well, we survived. We cowered under the thongs. We watched as the brave battled. Our eyes got used to the sight of the ground under our feet and blood on our hands. We did nothing.
“I watched my comrades fall. Several died of pain and exhaustion. Some were simply killed. And I bled inside, but still… I did nothing. Meena did what she could with her healing powers. I had no magic in me. I only watched. And then, one day when the master was out, I… I dragged her out. Just like that. We ran, left the place with all those people behind. I never looked back. We did not know anything about the world outside, having been born in slavery. We stumbled through the wilderness, poisoned ourselves with plants we had never seen before, almost starved to death. We still went on, up the ridge of the Velothi Mountains where we learned what cold could do to a person. Especially when all we had was a set of ragged linens. Meena’s magic kept us alive, but just barely. And then, without realizing it, we found ourselves in Cyrodiil. Meena was exhausted… and I could hardly do anything without her. She collapsed one day. And I… I despised myself. I could not help her. And I could not help anyone back on our farm. I felt powerless. At that time, I gave up all hope.”
He closed his eyes and Yrith wondered if the Argonians could shed tears. His voice trembled as he spoke, even if he tried to disguise it as plain hoarseness.
“It is ironic, isn’t it? That when you finally reach freedom, you feel so desperate. I felt more than pain and loss. I did not even try to look for someone to help. At that time, I was so sure no one would even try. And I was wrong.
“I passed out a few hours later, just by her body. When I came to, I was in the house of a local alchemist. He gave us food and a warm bed. He did not ask questions, nor did he tell us to leave. The nights became pleasant and quiet. We were finally allowed to rest. And yet… I was unhappy. And angry, and bitter. The poor man did not deserve the treatment I gave him. Still, he never scolded me. He never had an ill word for me. Peace and remedies, those were his only gifts. Occasionally, he pointed to a flower outside, or to the cloudy halos crowning the mountains in the distance. Or the thick pines on their slopes. He showed me life and beauty. And I did not understand.
“There was much anguish in me, pain from the past, but also something far more overwhelming. Something had ended, a great suffering. Meena and I had healed, or our bodies had at least. But we stood at a crossroad. Now the question was – what next?
“You may think it silly. There was this whole world to explore, so many opportunities we had. The old man gave us books and taught us how to read them. We learned how to do arithmetic. He told us about herbs and various plants, about the world’s history and politics. He spoke about how the Septims had reigned for centuries, how Saint Alessia had lit the Dragonfires and how the Tongues had cast Alduin the World Eater out of their time. I feel like even then, long before the return of the dragons, he knew who I was. Long before I knew it myself. But he was wise enough not to tell. Wise enough to let me wander endlessly, with no aim and no purpose. I hated every moment of that free life. I could not stand the peace, the empty space that had formed inside me. And so, one day, I took Meena and left. Again, I escaped. We sold ourselves as cheap healers on the road, still with no purpose, going from one place to another, never stopping for more than a few nights. But I felt more at ease. Finally, we were at least moving.”
He let out bitter laugh.
“How foolish I was. Even with all that knowledge we had gained, we still knew nothing about the world’s inner machinery. We could not understand that there was war and what it entailed. So one day, we ended up on Skyrim’s border, and before we knew it, we were mistaken for the rebels and captured by the Imperials. The folly of the whole situation. Ulfric hates the beastfolk. He hates everything that does not carry Nordic blood. But that didn’t stop them. We didn’t realize back then that it was about much more than just the rebellion. We did not matter. But our death did. We would die as mere symbols.
“It was a strange experience. One moment, my head lay on the block and the only view I had was that of the bucket’s moldered wood, stained in fresh blood. The smell was repugnant, I thought I would throw up, and I felt the wind in my back when the headsman lifted his axe. It moved so slowly. I thought it was never going to fall. And you know those stories of how you see all of your life laid out in front of you just before you die? Well…”
He chuckled, but the sound made Yrith’s heart freeze. She sat there, motionless. He let the silence linger for a bit longer before speaking again.
“My mind was void. All the thoughts had disappeared, replaced by one that took the entire space. ‘I am going to die now.’ I did not want to accept it. After all those months of wandering with no purpose, I finally realized how dear my life was to me.
“Still, there was nothing I could do. What can you do, surrounded by tens of Imperial archers? Not much, I tell you. One of us tried. He did not make it past the open gate. So I was at least determined to die as painlessly as possible. But the next moment, I was looking into the eyes of a black-winged dragon. The one you know as Alduin. The devourer of worlds.
“How ironic that in the end, the one who saved me later turned out to be my mortal enemy. Everyone’s enemy. The creature I was destined to face and defeat.” He let out a heavy sigh. “What a hero I am. If only they knew. But on that day, I learned an important lesson.”
He fell silent, straightening from his comfortable, yet straining position. Yrith could see in his eyes that he was back in the present, somewhat calmer, relieved even, and smiling lightly at her. He stood up, stretching his limbs with a soft groan of satisfaction. She raised her brows, but he paid them no heed.
“But… what was the lesson?” she voiced her thoughts.
He cracked his knuckles, following with a scratch on his head. At last, he leaned closer to her, letting her feel his breath. “I learned,” he whispered in her ear, “that the story does not end until it is truly over.”
Yrith stared at him, opening her mouth to ask what it meant, but the answer formed in her mind by itself. A burden fell off her shoulders. Light flush warmed her cheeks. She smiled, giving a slight nod. He would not need words to understand.
He replied in kind, regaling her with a pat on the back on his leave.
