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Chapter Text

“I think that’s all of them,” Haldur said as he sheathed his weapon and looked around the manor. Vampire corpses were tossed about the floor amongst shattered dishes and broken furniture. A nest of 15 had packed themselves in and V’ivan and her group had killed them all.

“What a waste,” said Ingjard as she picked up and inspected a plate that was miraculously intact. “Can you imagine how lovely this place was at one point? At least this time, we didn’t make it that much worse.”

V’iv smirked and shook her head. “All right, Ingjard you and Haldur are on corpse duty. Get at as much ash from the pyre as you can.”

“And the couple?”

“Wrap them up,” she replied. “I’ll let Ravencrone’s steward take care of the rest.”

“Got it.”

“V’IV! V’IIIIIIV, YOU NEED TO COME DOWN HERE!” Beleval was calling from the basement

V’iv hurried to the far end of the house, through the pantry and down the stairs. Beleval sounded almost panicked, a tone most unusual for the Bosmer.

“What is it?” she asked and then gasped as she turned toward the corner where Beleval was sitting with what appeared to be the corpse of a young woman. But the woman was only dead in the most technical sense.

V’iv grabbed a torch from the wall and lit it as she sank to her knees. “Oh my goodness,” she said. “This must be one of their daughters.”

“She’s stage four,” said Beleval. “But look.” She took the woman’s thin wrist and turned it over. Her papery skin was cold and the straggled and swollen veins were blue.

“She’s not fed,” replied V’iv. “They turned and then starved her—those monsters!”

The woman’s eyes twitched, but did not open. To an untrained eye, she would appear to be moments from death. But she wasn’t. Sanguinare vampiris, the illness that coursed through her body, would keep her in this state indefinitely.

Beleval pulled out her dagger. “This doesn’t feel right,” she said. “But perhaps this is mercy.”

“No,” V’iv shook her head and pushed Beleval’s arm away. “It’s not right. I’ll take her to…I’ll take care of it. You finish up with the others and get them out of here.”

Beleval leaned over and took the Redguard’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Oh my love, I know you want to help her, but Isran would not approve of this.”

“Then perhaps we should not submit this for his approval,” she replied.

Beleval looked at V’iv intently and thought for a moment if she should protest more. Ultimately, she knew this was futile and rather than argue, she leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “Be careful,” she said.

“I will,” V’iv replied. After Beleval left, she wrapped the frail woman in a wool blanket that had been tossed aside. She stroked her forehead and cheek gingerly, with the back of her fingers, feeling awful that she had no idea how to comfort her.

“I’m going to take you to someone who can help,” she whispered. And then to herself, “I hope."

Chapter Text

It had been almost a week since Idgrod the Younger had been to Falion’s house. She meant to go over every night to visit her friend, but Joric needed her. A spate of visions and nightmares had consumed her brother’s mind, and he needed constant supervision. Her mother, the Jarl, was in a similar state, keeping her father occupied. This left their housecarl Gorm, to handle a good deal of court business. To say that this was less than ideal was an understatement. Morthal had always been among the poorest of Skyrim’s towns but until recently, the citizens had been quiet and content. Now they were angry, coming by day after day, demanding answers on everything from dragons and vampires to the mysterious mage who had recently taken up residence and with whom the Jarl spent a good deal of time conferring.

Falion was not quite as mysterious as everyone believed—though Idgrod the Younger had considerably more tolerance then most of the townsfolk. But he was powerful, and his skills in restoration far exceeded those of the typical healer. He was the only mage she knew who could heal a vampire once they turned but were still in the earliest stages of the illness.

He had never cured a vampire in the later stages, but when the woman in checkered leather armor showed up with Prisca in such a state, he was so very eager to try. It bothered Idgrod that her friend seemed to be more of a project than a person, and that his attention to her was only clinical. But she could not complain, however, that she wasn’t getting the best possible care under the circumstances. The treatment was tedious, requiring painstaking attention to a process that involved skin pricks, muscle and organ compression, leeches, and the part Idrod found most unsettling, a black soul gem. But Falion was attentive to all of this. Recovery was slow, and even as her skin regained a pale pinkish glow and her eyes turned from red-orange back to blue-grey, she remained weak and feverish, never stirring from her deep slumber.

All Idgrod could do was provide some comfort. She burned calming herbs, brought freshly laundered linens, and read books aloud. Then she would pray.

“Hi Idgrod!” Agni, Falion’s young ward, greeted her from the table, where she sat surrounded by text books and soul gems.

“Good evening Agni,” she replied. “You’re up awfully late.”

“I just want to finish one more lesson,” she said, gesturing down to the book she was reading. “Are you here to see Falion’s patient? She woke up today! Falion said she was talking.”

Idgrod furrowed her brow, frustrated at all the secrecy surrounding Prisca’s convalescence, which meant that Falion couldn’t summon her as soon as this happened. She said good night to Agni and made her way down to the basement, where Falion maintained his infirmary. Prisca was staying in a small, one-cot room in the back, a closet that he cleared out for this, his most complicated, challenging, and private patient.

Falion was quite pleased to see her, however, and Idgrod smiled when she stepped in and saw her friend sitting upright in the bed. Her long, dark hair was mussed and her nightgown, damp and stuck to her thin frame. She was still rather pale, but she was awake. It took all the restraint she possessed not to smother her in a loving embrace.

“Prisca!” she said as she swept across the room and knelt by the bed. “Oh my goodness, look at you. You’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Parched.” Prisca reached up, her fingers lightly grazing her throat. She turned and smiled at Falion, who brought her a tumbler full of water.

“I have never had a patient drink as much water as this one,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Her fever broke this morning. She’s still rather weak, but I think she will be well enough to leave soon.”

Idgrod was pleased to hear this, and waited as Falion gathered his things, but before he left, he gestured for Idgrod to join him outside for a moment. She handed Prisca the fresh nightgown and excused herself.

“Per our agreement, I have not told her everything,” he said, after closing the door. “She knows she was infected with sanguinare vampiris, but not to what stage—she doesn’t seem to remember anything, about how she got here or what happened to her family.”

“All right,” she said. “Thank you Falion, for everything.”

He nodded. “Remember what we discussed. Yours is the hard job now.”

He wasn’t wrong, but Idgrod was thrilled that her friend was recovered and stayed focused on that. She entered the room and found Prisca awkwardly trying to pull the nightgown over her head.

“Here, let me do this.” Idgrod stepped over and smoothed Prisca’s her hair and rubbed her back as she draped the clean, dry fabric over her friend’s still-frail body.

“Thank you,” she said. “Idgrod, what happened? How did I get here? Where is my father? Why isn’t he here? The healer, he said, a vampire bit me. I don’t remember anything!”

Her friend’s helpless ignorance at the events that had transpired broke Idgrod’s heart. “Prisca, I am so sorry to have to tell you this. But your parents are dead. A group of vampires broke into your home and attacked. You were infected with the virus and brought here for treatment.”

She spoke very deliberately, watching Prisca’s reaction go from weary confusion to abject sorrow. Her lips trembled and tears filled her eyes. “What?”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, again.

“And my sister? Has she come to see me?”

Idgrod let out a sigh. “Prisca, no one knows you are here. You were very sick when you arrived and to protect you, Falion thought it best to keep you a secret. These vampire clans are very dangerous.”

“I don’t understand,” Prisca replied, wiping tears from her face.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m the only one who knows you are here. Agni knows that Falion has had a patient down here for several weeks, but no one knows it’s you.” As she spoke, Prisca just looked at her, stone faced. Idgrod was concerned that she was overwhelming her with all this information, though she supposed that was unavoidable.

“I want to go home,” Prisca croaked.

“Oh honey,” Idgrod replied. “Your home is…well, the vampires destroyed a lot of things. It’s closed up now.”

Prisca continued to cry quietly, slowly shrinking her body back under the covers. Idgrod sat on the edge of the bed and straightened the blanket. “I’ll sit here until you fall asleep” she said. “There’s just one more thing.” Prisca nodded and so she continued. “Falion is very concerned about retaliation from vampire clans. He wishes that, as remittance for treating you, that you not tell anyone you were here.”

“Okay, but…well, how will that be possible?”

We, well, we have a plan.”

*****

Two days later, Idgrod was in Highmoon hall with Joric, going over his reading lessons when her father, Alsfur, came rushing in. “Idgrod my dear! Come quickly! Your friend Prisca has arrived in town.”

“Prisca?” Idgrod’s mother, Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, called out from the throne. “Bring that girl to Highmoon at once. Poor, sweet child must be devastated.”

Alsfur and Idgrod the Younger left immediately and found Prisca being accompanied by Falion. She ran up to her friend and embraced her tightly. “Did you go to Winstead?” she whispered, as she pulled away and linked their elbows together.

Prisca nodded and went to speak, but with her quivering jaw, it was clear she would not be able to do so without crying.

“My mother insists you come to Highmoon at once,” Idgrod said, pulling her friend close. “We’ll have a nice lunch, yes?”

As soon as they entered the Hall, Jarl Idgrod rose from her seat and approached, her hands held out toward the younger women. “My dear, dear child, I am so very sorry for your loss,” she said. As she took Prisca’s hands into her own, she closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. “Oh my goodness,” she said, letting her hands go suddenly. “People were so worried, they thought perhaps you were taken away by those horrid creatures. Is that what happened? Everything about you is shrouded in darkness. And…” the older woman paused, looking at Prisca quizzically, “…rebirth.”

“Mother?” Idgrod the Younger was terrified. Though she could be trusted, she had not considered this possibility that her mother would have visions about what happened to Prisca.

But Prisca merely shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “I was...ah...traveling ‘round the Pale as I sometimes do, you know? Looking for ingredients. I was, um, meant to meet with a horker hunter…for some fat, you know? Blubber. Though he was found dead on the shore a week back.”

Typically, the shakiness of her voice would have betrayed Prisca’s story as clearly false. But under the circumstances, she sounded merely devastated—just as anyone who recently discovered her parents were killed and her family estate nearly destroyed would. And as she spoke, Idgrod the Younger had to admit that he friend could spin quite a yarn. In particular, the horker blubber detail was impressive.

“Well come now,” the Jarl said. “We’ll have some food and you can rest here as long as you need.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling weakly. She walked over to the table, where Joric was sitting while Idgrod continued to speak with her parents.

“Mother, with your permission, I would like to accompany Prisca to Solitude, to her sister’s home. I don’t think she should be traveling alone.”

“Oh no Idgrod, that’s not a good idea. I need you here for Joric. We’ll find someone to accompany her safely.”

“Mother, please I just—”

“It will be fine,” Alsfur interrupted. “They can take my horse and Joric can spend the day with us.”

Idgrod the Younger’s heart filled with gratitude toward her father, who normally did not involve himself in their disagreements, which, though few and far between, could become impassioned.

“Thank you Da.”

“Don’t mention it my dear,” he replied. “Just…keep each other safe.”

Chapter Text

Durak arrived at the Four Shields Inn, just this side of irritated. Getting Trygve Wartooth had been a boon, but recruitment was not going well. There were a couple potentials in Whiterun and that one kid from Karthwasten, but he had not actually secured any commitments.

He wanted to skip Haafingar hold entirely; he could not imagine anyone in the wealthier city of Solitude and it’s adjacent towns wanting to trade their silks and four-poster beds for leather armor and a cot in Fort Dawnguard. Even the prison cells in the Blue Palace had to be more comfortable. Poorer holds like Hjaalmarch and the Pale had more people willing—or even more desperate—for work, even that of hunting vampires.

But Isran insisted he cover all the cities and all the towns in all the holds and he was growing tired of talking to people. At least he had kin in Markarth, which made the time he had to spend there mildly more tolerable. With others, men and mer alike, he never knew what to expect, how to navigate their particular quirks. He liked the Nords though, for the most part. They were honorable, loyal, and hardy. The other races lacked neither talent nor strength, but he had no idea how to entice them toward the cause. They needed mages too, but he wasn’t to approach the college except as a last resort.

At the end of the day, all he really wanted to do was get back to the fight.

“What’s on the menu?” he asked the red-headed barmaid; hoping it was not rabbit, which was just about all they ate back at the fort. Rabbit stew, to be exact. And he was sick of it.

“Venison and salmon,” she replied, smiling brightly.

Divines bless these gorgeous barmaids who always had a smile for him, however insincere, he thought. Though he supposed it was an honest transaction, money for mead and revelry no doubt genuinely delighted these publicans. Either way, it was a welcome change from the looks he and his kin often received and which he was anticipating more of from the wealthy assholes in Solitude.

“I’ll take the salmon,” he replied. “And whatever kind of ale you got.”

He took the bottle she placed on the counter and turned to find a table, nearly knocking over the young woman behind him. He was about to apologize when he realized she was staring at him—well, at his torso, specifically.

“Where did you get this armor? Is it…a uniform” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. But before he could answer, she brought her hand up and placed her palm lightly on his chest.

He scowled. Although the gesture was clearly borne of gentle curiosity and not enticement, her boldness was unsettling. He would have been less offended to be punched in the face. Though it was unlikely that this tiny slip of a woman, who looked as if she could be knocked over by the subtle breeze of a swinging door, could manage that.

“Girl, what is your problem?”

As he was speaking, a Nord woman approached and tried to pull her friend’s arm away. “Prisca, please!” she said. “Come sit.”

“I just want to know about his armor!” The tiny woman drew her arm back and closed her eyes, bringing her hands to her head. The expression on her face betrayed some kind of extreme discomfort and she started to take long, deep breaths.

He turned to the Nord. “Your friend appears to be a bit touched in the head.”

“She’s fine,” she replied. “Come now Prisca, let’s have a seat.” The Nord was pleading now.

Prisca’s eyes flew open. “I need to know about that armor, Idgrod,” she said.

“Oh for fucks sake,” Durak replied, annoyed that they wouldn’t just go away and he would have to proceed with this conversation. “You’ve seen this armor before then?”

“No…no…I’ve felt it,” she said, pressing her palm to her face.

“Indeed, she’s not at all touched in the head,” he said, glowering toward Idgrod.

“Prisca, please I’m begging you, stop bothering this man.”

But Prisca would have none of it. She turned back to Durak. “You can take five minutes and tell me!”

As if you haven’t taken up enough of my time, he thought. “Fine, but you’ll buy me another drink.”

He followed the women to a table on the other side of the tavern, continuing to observe Prisca. Durak, though not a healer or a particularly empathetic person, could tell that this woman was not doing well at all. Pale, thin, dressed in shabby clothes ill-fitted to her thin frame.

“My name is Durak,” he said, after sitting down. “My armor is that of the Dawnguard, a group newly revived to deal with the vampire menace in Skyrim.” At this she reacted, and not particularly well. Her already pallid complexion grew even more so, and her dark grey eyes grew wide, giving her a bug-eyed expression that would have made him chortle if he wasn’t starting to feel sorry for this poor lass.

“Vampires?” she asked, though it was clear from her expression that she had heard him just fine the first time.

“Indeed,” he said. “What’s your name again?”

“Prisca Cantor,” she replied, straightening her posture and smoothing her clothes down, as if her name required the invocation of a new level of decorum. “And this is my friend, Idgrod the Younger. And I appreciate you taking the time to—”

“Cantor?” He grunted. “Of Winstead Manor?” Winstead manor was the location of a recent, devastating vampire attack. The Dawnguard had wiped out the nest of monsters who had been squatting there. But, to his knowledge, there were no survivors.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice shaking a bit.

Durak was confused. To recognize the armor, the woman must have seen the Dawnguard in her home. He recalled the report, which listed no survivors. There was an older daughter, a resident of Solitude who identified the bodies, and who was visited by Beleval.

“That was your family, yes?” he asked. “The one who was attacked? Well, I am very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“If I may ask…how did you survive that attack? Were you hiding?”

“I….” She paused and looked at Idgrod, who was shaking her head sadly. “I didn’t…I wasn’t there.”

“But you recognize this armor?”

“I don’t think so.” She dropped her head down in her arms. Idgrod moved closer and stroked her hair gently.

By now Durak, feeling both incredibly sad for and annoyed by Prisca wanted nothing more than to simply stand and walk away.

“Look girl, I don’t have a lot of time for, well for this.”

Her head shot up, and she spoke again. “There was a woman in the armor. She was tall and lovely, with dark skin and hair.”

Vi’van, he thought, well that’s something.

“Yes,” he said. “That sounds like one of our agents. Did she rescue you?”

“I wasn’t there.”

This was getting to be too much. “Look, I don’t think I can help you. Take a few days, get your head right or your story straight. And then, if you still want more information about the Dawnguard, come to Dayspring canyon and meet with our leaders.” He paused on this, thinking for a moment about how Isran would react to Prisca.

“Ask for Celann,” he said finally.

“Thank you,” she said, pushing a few septims across the table. “For your drink.”

He shook his head. “Keep your money. I had no business asking for it. The Dawnguard pays me to do exactly this.”

Prisca paused for a moment as if to insist he take it, but Idgrod urged her to pick it up again.

He watched them leave. Normally, he would shake this sort of interaction off. He met all kinds with this work and few were worth the energy it took to remember them or their conversations. Certainly he never paid much mind to entitled noblewomen, no matter how pale and helpless. But this was clearly different. Either this woman was seeing the Dawnguard in her dreams or there was someone else in that house—someone not accounted for in the Winstead Manor report.

The barmaid approached with his meal. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“I’ll take another ale,” he said. “And if you could direct me to a courier.”

Chapter Text

I'm lonesome since I crossed the hill,
And o'er the moorland sedgy
Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill,
Since parting with my Betsey
I seek for one as fair and gay,
But find none to remind me
How sweet the hours I passed away,
With the girl I left behind me.….

Jordis paused as she set the table to listen to Sabrina practice, her heart warming as her songbird’s voice filled the house and then falling slightly as she reflected on how this was to be her first performance since her parents were killed.

She finished laying out the dishes and silverware and listened some more, pondering the bittersweet tune that was beloved by Queen Elisif. There was a new restraint in her voice, borne of her need to infuse her song with the ache she still felt, but not so much that her audience felt pity.

Jordis smiled. Her betrothed was truly an artist and she was so proud. She finished laying out freshly baked bread and honey butter and served up the main course, salmon steaks and roasted tomatoes. Sabrina arrived just as she was pouring the wine.

“Oh, this looks lovely,” she said, clasping her hands to her chest. “Thank you!”

“So, are you very nervous?” Jordis asked as they took their seats.

“A little, yes,” Sabrina replied. “I mean, I cannot perform as though nothing has happened, I must be honest. But…” she paused for a moment as she took a sip of wine. “I don’t want to be bombarded with more condolences. I’ve had my fill of their sentiments, however sincere they may be.”

“I understand,” she replied. “At least it’s just an intimate gathering.” She took a bite of her fish and chewed slowly, wondering if that was really comforting. No doubt, someone there would ask about Sabrina’s sister, which might make things a little awkward. Indeed, she was meaning to ask herself, if there had been any word from Valdimir, the Cantor’s housecarl. But on the topic of her sister, Sabrina had always been aloof and that had not changed with her mysterious disappearance.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“That must be the silk scarves, I ordered from Taarie!”

Jordis delighted at the way Sabrina’s face lit up and she stood quickly. “I’ll get it,” she said. “You keep eating.” Though they had long ago dispensed with the formalities of the thane-housecarl relationship, Jordis enjoyed doting on Sabrina too much to give up on these rituals entirely.

All her life Jordis the Sword Maiden had heard romance stories about Thanes falling in love with their housecarls, an effect of the unbroken intimacy that occurs when traveling Skyrim’s harsh climate together. Indeed, the dichotomy of comfort and cold that characterized these adventures sounded like something straight out of Mara’s wedding vows. It was not something that Jordis ever expected for herself, in part because by the time she had been given the rank housecarl, the romantic idealism of youth had given way to cynicism, more generally, but also because the reality of these stories was that those cold nights led not so much to enduring love but of the mundane reality of pregnancy.

So when Elisif assigned her to Sabrina Dae Cantor, the popular and beloved bard, she expected a life of warm hearth fires, fancy butter pastries, and good cheese, rather than bitterly cold adventure—and she was not wrong. But what she did not expect was to meet a woman fiercely passionate in her art, struggling to find herself in a world in which she had wanted for nothing, but still desired a life made on the strength of her own talents and ambition. And while Sabrina was indeed the type of woman that Jordis had pined for her whole life, she did not expect to be pursued so persistently, yet tenderly, by a woman who otherwise felt so far beyond her grasp.

At the door, she was more than a little surprised to see Prisca. “Oh my goodness,” she said, as she stepped out and wrapped her arms around her, clasping her in a tight embrace. “We’ve been so worried about you!”

Prisca returned the hug, but grunted a little under the strength of Jordis’s grip. The housecarl pulled away and tugged gently on her arm, bringing her into the house. “Sabrina’s in the dining room. Shall I bring you a plate of food?”

“No, thank you. We ate lunch in Dragons Bridge and I’m just not hungry,” Prisca replied, her tone slower and quieter than Jordis recalled. Jordis hoped this meant that she knew about her parents and Sabrina would not have to be the one to tell her.

“Prisca!” Sabrina gasped, but she did not stand or make any gesture toward her sister. “Where…where have you been? Did Valdimir find you?”

“No.” Prisca shook her head and then paused, looking around uncomfortably before taking a seat against the wall, away from the table.

“Well? Where have you been? You know what happened, right?”

Prisca nodded, but didn’t speak. Jordis was a little uncomfortable. She thought she should leave them alone, perhaps, but that might also upset Sabrina. The sisters were not close; though the animosity that Sabrina had held toward her sister was always restrained out of respect for their parents. Now that they were gone, Jordis had hoped they might mend things between them, but that was likely rather naïve of her.

“So where were you? In Windhelm with that apothecary? Or did you make it all the way to the college this time, to call on that Nord from all those years ago?”

“What Nord? What?” Prisca appeared genuinely confused. “Look, I’m sorry I…I was away, but it wasn’t meant to be longer than my usual trips.”

“You should have been there!” Sabrina’s voice was growing considerably louder, cracking toward the end as she slumped down in her chair and covered her face with her hand.

“Why? So I could have been killed too?” Jordis expected far more sadness and anger from Prisca, but she just looked tired and pale.

“Of course not! I just don’t know what to say to you,” Sabrina replied. “What are you going to do now, with mother and father gone? You can stay here for a bit, but then….” Her voice trailed off as she noticed Jordis glaring—shocked at the direction this conversation seemed to be taking.

“I don’t intend to be a burden,” said Prisca. “I will just take my share of the inheritance and leave, if you prefer.”

“Money!” Prisca was furious now, her face red, as she stood abruptly. “That’s what you came here for!?”

“Sabrina dear, I think maybe you should—”

“Jordis, this is none of your concern.”

This hurt, but before Jordis could react, Prisca spoke up again, her voice shaking, as if struggling to maintain her composure. “I don’t even know why I came here. But seeing as you are so angry at me for wanting what is rightfully mine, then yes, I’ll take my money and leave.”

“Well good luck with that! There’s a lien on the property that still needs to be resolved, and most of the valuables and gold in the house were looted. But you can do what I did and petition the treasury in Imperial city for the rest of father’s assets. I’m sure they’ll bring it straight away. Make sure you say please!”

“Okay, fine. I’m going to leave now and—”

“Or, you might, well this may sound insane, but you could, for once in your life, take care of yourself!”

“Of course, just as you did? Because father didn’t help out with any of this?” Prisca looked around the room, her eyes pausing at various pieces of art and other valuables on the shelves.

“Get out of my house.”

“Sabrina, please….” Though still clearly shaken, it was clear Prisca didn’t believe her sister meant to be so unkind.

“I’m serious,” she replied. “Get. Out.”

Prisca let out a long breath and pushed herself out of her seat, waving off Jordis’s attempt to see her out. Sabrina sat down again and poured herself another glass of wine. After taking a long drink, she turned back to Jordis. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You shouldn’t be subjected to my sister’s nonsense. She’s so selfish.”

“I was far less bothered by her alleged selfishness than your utter cruelty,” she said, glaring at Sabrina.

“So, you are taking her side then?”

“This isn’t about sides! This is about a terrible thing that happened! And it happened to you and your sister and you can’t, for just an evening, offer her some comfort?”

“You don’t understand,” Sabrina began, “my sister—”

“No, I don’t understand and I don’t want to, so don’t bother.” Jordis could not bear to hear any excuses for this. She knew that of the two of them, Prisca had indeed been babied and spoiled by their father. But that did not, in any way, justify Sabrina’s behaviour. “I’m going to lie down.”

“Fine then. I will be at the Bard’s college, practicing there.”

After she left, Jordis quickly cleared the dining room and cleaned the dishes. She went to their bedroom, with every intention of lying down, as she said. But she was entirely too restless to lie still. She knew that Sabrina was still deeply traumatized about what happened to her parents, that she was coming at Prisca from the deepest sort of pain. She understood and she would forgive that. But she was worried about Prisca now and wanted to do something. After thinking on it for a few moments, she opened her personal safe and took out some of the coin she had there. She also took a few things from the locked chest where Sabrina had been storing the few things they had recovered from her parents’ estate.

Taking a deep breath, she exited Proudspire manor and headed toward the Winking Skeever, where she found Prisca drinking at a small table in the corner, looking absolutely despondent. It broke Jordis’ heart.

Jordis approached cautiously. “Prisca? Can I sit?”

“Oh…hi, yeah…sure.” Prisca sat up straight. “Do you want a drink?”

“I’m okay,” she replied.

Prisca nodded. “Did my sister send you?” Her tone indicated she was rather confused.

“No, I came on my own,” she said. “I wanted to give you these.” She laid out a coinpurse, an amulet, and a signet ring on the table. “I know you were close to you father and did recover some of his jewelry.”

“Thank you,” Prisca whispered, smiling weakly. “And the money is from my parents, yes? But Sabrina said there wasn’t any. Was she lying?”

“It’s mine,” she replied. “I still draw a small salary from Elisif’s court.”

“Oh Jordis, I couldn’t possibly take this,” she said.

Jordis nodded and held up her hand. “It’s fine. I don’t need it and I couldn’t stand the thought of you not being able to get a room or some food. I can talk to your sister, but in the meantime, take it, please.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the coin and jewels and putting them in her satchel. “You know. I wasn’t just going to take my parents’ money, thinking I could just live high off the boar. I had an idea—to open a stall near Evette’s and sell those soaps and balms, like the one I made you last year. I’m not that helpless.”

Jordis smiled, recalling that lavender soap. It was lovely. Prisca didn’t lack talent, but it had never been more than a hobby, indulged by her father. As she was about to stand, Prisca spoke again.

“I wasn’t just off gallivanting with those men, you know.” Prisca wasn’t looking at Jordis when she spoke. Her eyes were fixed firmly on her cup.

“Okay….”

“I…I,” she stammered, as if it was physically uncomfortable for her to speak and then she paused, as if uncertain that she should speak at all. “I was sick. And I had to rest. The healer told me not to leave. It was in…in Windhelm.”

She couldn’t help but wonder why Prisca didn’t send a courier—or perhaps she had and the letter was lost in the attack. “It’s of no concern now,” said Jordis, who was a little curious about why she hadn’t told Sabrina this. “But I’m glad you told me.”

Prisca looked up as if she wanted to say more, but instead took a drink and simply shook her head. “Thank you, again,” she said. “I think I will be okay.”

“I have to go now,” replied Jordis. “But take care of yourself. I will be in touch.” She stood and gripped Prisca’s hand, squeezing it affectionately before leaving.

Outside she breathed in deeply, unsure if she did the right thing. She knew well enough to let people mind their own relations, but wasn’t Prisca her family now?

“I’ll fix this,” she thought. “I won’t let what’s left of this family stay broken.”

Chapter Text

“The Orc said for Isaran’s hands only.” The courier was insistent and Celann knew that he was only doing his job, but the sigh he let out indicated his clear exasperation with the matter. Though if he was honest, if Durak only wanted Isran to receive the correspondence, he probably had a good reason.

“Fine,” he said, “follow me.” He led the young man through the fort’s massive foyer and up the tower staircase to Isran’s office, where their leader was unpacking and repacking barrels of varying contents. The administrative area that Isran was trying to organizing was a disaster but he insisted that he not have any help, and that the rest of the crew needed to work on training.

“I hope you have a good reason for interrupting my work,” he said as Celann stepped into the room. “You know you can clear recruits without me.”

“This isn’t a recruit, it’s a courier,” he explained. “He’s got something for you—and only you apparently. From Durak.”

Isran furrowed his brow but took the letter from the courier’s hand. His face was expressionless as he read.

“Thank you young man,” he said, “and take this.” From his pocked he obtained a couple of septims, which he handed over and then gestured for the courier to leave. Celann turned to follow him, but stopped in his tracks when Isran spoke again.

“Not you.”

Celann could tell by the subtle change in cadence that he was in trouble—for what, he had no idea.

“Yes?” he replied.

“Do you know anything about this?” Isaran handed him the letter.

Isran,

There may be a concern with the Winstead Manor report. In Dragons Bridge, I met a young girl, a member of the Cantor family, who seems to have some peculiar knowledge of the Dawnguard’s presence in her home. Her bearing was consistent with that of someone who may have witnessed some violence, but she was confused and unwilling to provide details. Given the size of that operation and Cantor family’s relative high social class, I thought it was something that might require a follow up.

~Durak

Celann did not know how to respond. He had compiled the Winstead manor report from Beleval and Ingjard’s notes. There had been no survivors, human or vampire. The eldest daughter of the deceased humans, a citizen of Solitude, identified her parents’ bodies. Despite the sheer number of vampires holed up in that estate, it was a basic and straightforward—albeit tragic—mission. The Dawnguard did not operate in secret, so he could think of no reason why someone, a family member or other survivor, would be left out of the official record. But Isran was a stickler and did not tolerate inconsistencies.

“I don’t know anything about this,” he said, shaking his head and returning the missive. “Beleval and Ingjard gave their reports and I pulled it all together.”

“Beleval? Didn’t Vi’van lead that raid?” Isran had stood and walked over to the shelf where he kept his records, pulling the appropriate ledger off the shelf.

“She did,” Celann replied. “She came back after a few days, signed off on the report, then I gave it to you.”

“A few days? She didn’t return with the group?” Isran asked.

“No, she did not.” Celann spoke slowly as Isran glared at him. While most groups traveled together and back on missions, it was not required.

“You don’t find that peculiar? That Vi’van arrived back at the Fort days after her group returned?”

Celann let out a light sigh. Of course, Isran was going to make that an issue. “No, I did not,” he replied “There are any number of reasons why someone might not return with the groups. In this case? Well, they were up by the Pale and Vi’van’s parents live in Dawnstar.”

Truthfully, he had only just thought of that now. At the time, he didn’t think anything at all. They didn’t have much in the way of hierarchy or supervision. Some of the bandits they’d sprung from Riften’s prison had to stay at the fort. But apart from that, as long as no one abandoned entirely, there wasn’t a lot of individual scrutiny.

They stared at each other intently for several moments. Anyone else in Tamriel would have become deeply uncomfortable. But Celann, having known the man for longer than anyone else in the fort, refused to be intimidated by Isran. They were firmly on the same side and while Celann knew that Isran’s militancy might keep some of the young recruits in line, they had known each other far too long to him to indulge his intimidation tactics.

“Very well,” he said. “Let’s bring Vi’van up to discuss this.” Isran walked out of his room to the hallway overlooking the foyer. “You there, Nord!” he called out.

“That’s Ollrod…”

“Of course! Ollrod, send Vi’van up here!” He turned around and walked back to his room with Celann behind him.

Celann stood quietly, watching as Isran went back to organizing. As the minutes wore on, he felt rather awkward just standing there and so grabbed a broom with the intention of helping—or at least, looking helpful. Needless to say, he was more than a little relieved when Vi’v arrived.

“Good day,” she said, nodding to Celann and Isran. Celann returned her smile, while Isran’s solemn countenance remained unwavering.

“Apologies if I’ve disrupted the day’s training, but we have a matter to resolve.” Isran liked Vi’v more than he liked most people and his acknowledgment that he may have interrupted her was as close as the man got to anything resembling a warm greeting.

“Of course,” she said. “How can I help?”

Isran handed her the letter and Celann observed as she read. Nothing in her expression would indicate that anything was amiss. Indeed, she almost seemed relieved but it was difficult to tell.

“Can you explain any of this?” Isran asked.

“I can try,” she said. “It appears that Durak met Prisca, the younger Cantor sister.” She took a deep breath, looking over the letter once again. “It appears that she survived her….” With this she paused. “It appears she survived her injuries. I am very glad to read this.”

“There was no indication of an injured family member in your report,” said Isran. “Why was this not mentioned by Ingjard and Beleval?” He looked over at Celann who nodded in agreement. This was a considerable omission by anyone’s standard and now he was confused.

“Ingjard was unaware of the young woman and I instructed Beleval not to mention it,” she explained. The calmness of her voice was certainly not unusual, yet in the face of such a glaring omission, Celann was astonished at her unwavering composure. Vi’van was not inclined toward ardent expressions of regret or justification, but her reticence here was interesting, to say the least.

“Okay, but WHY?” Celann spoke before Isran could. His tone was not angry, but it was sharp as he was dying to know what possible reason Vi’van, one of the Dawnguard’s most trusted leaders, could have for not including this seemingly innocuous information out of an official report.

“I was hoping to keep it a secret,” she said.

“Clearly….”

“Enough of this!” Isran interjected. “Vi’van, explain yourself. Now.”

She let out another deep breath and shook her head, avoiding the men’s angry and confused stares. “I kept it a secret because when I found the young woman, Prisa, she was in the basement, an obvious prisoner of the vampires, weak and sick. She had been turned and was in the late stages of sanguinare vampiris.”

“So, she was a vampire? And you—”

“And I chose not to kill her,” Vi’van said, interrupting Isran, her tone growing steadily assertive. “I chose to help her. And I knew that you would not approve. So I kept it a secret.”

“Well, shit.” Celann looked back and forth, observing Vi’van’s resoluteness and Isran’s growing anger. He braced himself for a torrent of angry admonishment and the inevitable suspension of one of his favorite comrades. Once she was gone, he would be tasked with finding a replacement. But more than that, he would miss Vi’van terribly; she had  quickly become someone he admired and cared about.

But such a harsh reprimand did not come. It was clear Isran was angry, but he just looked at her and shook his head. “Can either of you give me one good reason why I should tolerate this?

“Because she’s our most trusted field agent? And perhaps she did exactly the right thing?” Celann noticed that Vi’van’s composure was wavering and spoke up immediately.

“Isran,” she said. “You didn’t see her. She was so weak and sick. She’s innocent. So yes, I took her to Fallon.”

“We agreed that no vampire could request being cured in to escape our capture and punishment!”

“Yes! And for vampires raiding homes and feeding on people, that makes sense. It does not make sense to punish someone just for being a victim!” Celann had heard Vi’van argue about things passionately before—usually about the lack of flavor in Black Briar mead—but the level of fervor she was approaching here was unprecedented.

Isran let out a frustrated sigh. “Vi’van. Celann. There may come a day, when we might need to be known for our mercy, when compassion might direct our course of action. But it is not this day!”

Before he could continue, she looked him straight in the eye. “I did what I did. And I would do it again. I take full responsibility and if you’ve nothing further, I’ll accept the consequences.”

Isran closed his eyes and shook his head. When he finally spoke it was slow and deliberate. “I am going to let this one go,” he said. “But the two of you need to keep this quiet! We cannot have the promise of a cure compromise our mission. Vi’van, you are dismissed.”

She nodded solemnly but smiled warmly at Celann when her back was to Isran. Celann was pleased that she recognized that he was on her side, but dreaded how this might strain his relationship with Isran.

“Listen Isran, I—”

Isran put up his hand and shook his head. “Send someone in plain clothes to Morthal to suss out this Fallon. I do not condone what Vi’van did, but that doesn’t mean we won’t have use for him in the future. And that is all I will say on the matter.”

“Thank you,” Celann replied as he turned away, barely able to contain his smile. It wasn’t often Isran reconsidered his vision for the Dawnguard. But when he did, it was rather gratifying.