Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Property of: Esme Victoria Winters

Useful Things:

*This notebook, cell phone (72% battery, no signal), pocket knife, keys (weaponize, Mace on keychain), stapler and staple remover (weaponize?), Zippo lighter, 16 rubber bands assorted sizes, 8 paperclips assorted sizes, 4 thumb tacks, 2 hair ties, 1 bottle ibuprofen (almost full), tiger balm (half full), toiletry bag: travel toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, hair brush, tweezers, nail clippers, 3 pads, deodorant, and 2 cleansing cloths. 1 inch of post-it notes, 1 mechanical pencil with extra lead in the barrel, 1 blue ballpoint pen, 2 black Precise pens, 1 black Sharpie, 1 pink highlighter, 2 take-out pairs of chopsticks, and 3 paperback books (Dune, Wuthering Heights & Vampire Beat.)

Food:
2 granola bars, 1 pack kimchee Ramen, 3 packets of orange spice tea, 2 packets of earl grey, 1 packet ketchup, 4 packets hot sauce, 2 packets soy sauce, 7 pieces spearmint gum, & 6 lemon cough drops (totally a food)

Worries:
Dehydration takes about 7 days max? Hypothermia. Foreign diseases. GETTING HOME.

Pelagius Wing: Blue Palace.

There’s nowhere else this could possibly be. I’ve wracked my brain over it and it’s the only place that fits. It shouldn’t, but it does. Either that or I’m having a psychotic break.

Shitty day started off with getting fired from my shitty job. That should have been the worst part, I had to clear out my desk and turn my badge over to Judith, the smug bitch. “Cut backs” my ass, she’s been after me since day one. I visited the anthropology museum on campus because that’s what I always do when I want to cheer myself up and fell through a mirror. Or a gateway disguised as a mirror, I’m not sure how any of this works. Landed in a forest? Or something like a forest, met a crazy man at a dinner table for about five minutes, who then shoved me into a portal or wormhole maybe? Fell out of another mirror hidden behind a painting (my exit split the canvas, kind of still feel bad about that, I might have ruined a priceless piece of art). I tried to reactivate the mirror, but nothing worked. Apparently magic mirrors do not respond to strings of cuss words.

I’m going to try to keep a log of all of this. Even if I’m stuck here and no one but me can read this it will make me feel better to know there is some sort of record. Because none of this should be happening. I should not have fallen through a mirror (that thing has been there for decades! It’s a fixture of the college museum and never, not once, did I hear a spooky campus story about it glowing or sucking people into it! WTF??) into a fictional game world. For that matter what possible connection could there be between Tamriel and a big ass mirror that was supposed to date from the 18th century?? And this place should not feel as real as it does. And Sheogorath pulling me into this for his amusement or whatever should not make sense because he should not be real!! I never played Oblivion, but I thought I read somewhere that this Sheogorath is actually the player’s character from that game, remade or tricked into becoming the new god of madness. But I’ll be damned if I know what that means for me, just putting it down so I remember later. Other Daedra could be involved. That means that there are demon gods here who all want something from me. Probably my tasty soul.

Took some time getting out of the room, the door hinges were almost rusted closed. Dark, dirty, no one has cleaned in here for a long time. Made it down to the lowest level, only to find the hallway boarded up. Dry-rot made the wood easier to break, but the candlestick I used as a fire-axe is toast. I’m squatting in the main room now, near the only exit. The door is locked. I can see through the keyhole. Guards are posted in the hall. There is a little alcove to the right, but they will definitely see me if I try to get any further than that. Waiting for shift change. They must have a rotation, right? Found old candles, they stink but the wicks are dry enough to burn. This area is slightly cleaner than the rest of the wing. Used for storage? There are barrels, mostly full of potatoes, salt, and bottles of booze. One smells like fish and vomit. Avoiding that barrel. Lit a fire in the hearth with some of the broken wood from the hallway, cooking potatoes in the coals. It will be a while, so I’ve taken stock of what I have to work with. I should thank Judith for firing me or I wouldn’t have all this crap I’d been hoarding at my desk for so long!!! But also fuck that ho, if she hadn’t fired me I wouldn’t have been in the museum in the first place.

Lists are so great, I feel calmer. Pro-conned pounding on the door and calling for help.

Pro: fastest way to get the hell out of here.

Con: guards might A) Stab first, ask questions later. B) throw me in a dungeon, where stabbing might also happen. C) toss me out on my ass and ban me from ever setting foot in the building again. Since I need to get back to the mirror at some point that’s the best and worst-case scenario. FML.

I could claim that I was magicked here by a Daedric prince, but that might just get me labeled as a crazy person, or a Daedra-worshipper, which I think is generally frowned on? It couldn’t have been anyone other than Sheogorath who shoved me through the portal. Just like the game, an old man with cataract eyes and a motley outfit. Always liked his character (ha fucking ha) now I kind of want to deck him. I tried asking questions, but his answers were cryptic, of course.

Something like: “You’re here because that’s what happened, unless it doesn’t, but that’s not important yet! Time to stop talking now!!” and he cheerfully pushed me backwards into a swirling purple vortex.

If I see him again after all the panics have worn off, I’ll tell him to go to hell. Or Oblivion. But more likely I’ll keep my damn mouth shut because doesn’t he turn someone into a cheese wheel in one of the games? I might be misremembering but it sounds like something he would do.

I need that mirror, since it's the only way I know into and presumably out of this world. It’s not going anywhere, and I think that I can get back to it as long as I don’t do anything to piss off the locals. The hard part will be figuring out how to activate the damn thing. There’s got to be a trick to it, a magic trigger or something, I just have to figure it out. Or get Sheogorath to take pity on me, lol.

Day 2

I managed to pick the lock on the door to the Pelagius wing with a couple of my heftiest paperclips when I was sure the guard was rotating and the coast was clear, only to be immediately spotted by a maid. She didn't yell or scream at me or call the guard. She looked kind of sympathetic, like I'm not the only person this has happened to, which is a frightening piece of info I'm not ready to process. I think I might be in shock to a degree but writing helps.

She took my arm and led me through the kitchens to what looked like a storeroom. She didn't say a word to me, just rummaged through a bin of stuff like a lost and found box, pulled out an armful of over-sized clothes, threw a cloak over me and shoved me out of a side door into the gardens in the front of the Palace. Click goes the lock behind me. And I was on my own in the cold, dark, now very real world. That was two days ago. I've been wandering the streets since, trying to get my bearings, and failing. The language spoken here sounds Scandinavian or Swedish to me, but what do I know? Nothing. I know nothing. I'm going to die here.

Fuck this so hard.

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Day 3

Solitude is pretty, I’ll give it that. The breeze at night is cold as fuck, but in the peak hours when the sun is shining it’s not that bad. My senses are being assaulted by good and bad smells coming from all directions and I’m scared to drink the water. I remember all sorts of diseases mentioned in the game. I think you can only get some from animal bites, but water-borne bacteria are no joke and I have no reason to assume that I have natural immunities to any of the pathogens here. Last thing I need right now is the Skyrim version of Montezuma's Revenge.

Chewing gum to stay hydrated. Living on granola bars and whatever veg I can find. There really are storage barrels full of apples and cabbages all over the place, but I have no idea if they belong to anyone, so I’m being careful not to get caught pilfering. The apples are hard and sour. I can’t yet bring myself to eat raw potato even though they also seem to be abundant. Maybe this is poor people food?

Vampire Beat has been designated as toilet paper (as it should be) because they don’t use any here and I just can’t handle that. *Note to self: do not shake anyone’s hands!! Latrines for public use are near the catacomb entrance, which must have been a practical decision because it seems disrespectful. At least whoever designed this city thought about that sort of thing, or I’d be even more uncomfortable than I already am. Why didn’t I keep hand sanitizer in my desk?

I wandered up to the gates the first night, then wandered back down when the guards kept looking at me funny. At least I think they were. It’s hard to tell with the helmets. With the cloak over my bag and the over-sized borrowed clothes over my own I probably look like a lumpy, hunchbacked weirdo.

During the day you can walk the walls, and no one seems to care. No one wants to stay up there though, and I figured out why real quick. The wind kicks up as soon as you clear the wall and I swear my eyebrows froze before I could get back down to the Market where it’s warmer. I won’t pretend like I didn’t think about jumping off those walls. Would that reset everything? If I just jumped down and hit the rocks? IDK. I’m not ready to find out.

I tried the Temple, thinking there might be some sort of religious charity support for homeless foreigners. Ha. No. They’ll let me sit on the benches, but sleeping there, or getting any kind of food assistance, isn’t going to happen.

Leaving the city would be a death sentence. I have zero survival skills suited for this environment, nowhere to go, and no real supplies or currency. I also can’t speak the language, which is a serious problem. The way I figure it the College is my best bet for survival. Oh, the irony. Six credits away from my Master’s degree and my fate will be decided by a bunch of Liberal Arts majors.

Day 6

I have never been this tired. Everything hurts. I’ve been doing chores around the college, trying to show them that I want to help out. I have to convince the bards to take me in, without any demonstrable set of skills it’s either that or joining the priesthood and…yeah no.

Sleeping in the gardens and little niches around town, can’t relax for long. My back is killing me. I would literally kill for a fresh pair of underpants and a cheeseburger right now.

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Day 14

If I never have to choke down another plain baked potato til the end of my days, I'll die happy. Two weeks here and I've basically survived on sympathy and potatoes. It took longer than I expected to get into the Bard's College, mostly because no one can understand a word I'm saying and vice versa. There was no real initiation or anything in the game, just the Olaf quest I think, but apparently it's slightly more involved IRL than just showing up and grabbing a lute. I never cared much for the bards in the game to be honest. The quests were kind of meh. But in reality (if that is what this is), these guys are my best chance for survival. I need to learn how to speak this language, I need to learn to read and write; I have to figure out how to make coin so I'm not living on charity like an inter-dimensional hobo. So, I just started hanging around, helping the maid carry water and scrub the steps. Eventually the cook, Bendt, showed me to a bedroll in the basement and I intend to sleep there til someone kicks me out.

It took about a week to figure out what's expected of me and how things work here. Since I have no language skills, or musical skills, I earn my keep by helping in the kitchens, chopping wood, and cleaning the common rooms. It's more physical activity than I've done in years, so as I write every muscle in my body is twitching in pain. But I'll get through this, because I have to. I've got a dry place to sleep and food, so I have no room to complain. Well, okay I could complain. My bedroll is made of leather treated with what smells like lye to keep bugs away, the only padding is the little bit of matted down fur inside. I think it’s cow? Skeevers are a MILLION times nastier than rats, with fleas that probably carry plague, there’s constant noise coming from upstairs, and bathing without running water is a rustic nightmare. But complaining doesn't do any good. I mean no one understands me anyway, so I've decided to soldier the fuck on.

I've picked up a few words, so my communication skills have gone from “none at all” to “nouns and pointing.” It's a start. The students are nice to me for the most part, probably because I have no talent and they don't see me as a threat. Even with the language barrier the competitiveness between apprentices is obvious. But I am not a bard. I'm here to be grateful and scrub the floors. At least this gives me a chance to think things over, while I'm mindlessly cleaning. I go over what I remember from the game and then write down everything I can later before Alda takes the communal candle away at bedtime. You never know what might come in handy to know later. Especially if I want to avoid trouble. The butterfly effect not withstanding I should at least get the bullet points down before my memory starts to falter. As it is I know I have gaps and have probably already exhausted what I can remember without memory-jogging triggers. Hopefully that won’t cost me anything I can’t grow back.

Day 18

I would give my left kidney for some moisturizer right now. My skin is so dry I could probably sand down a table with just my elbows. I've been wearing the same ratty dress and cloak the palace maid gave me this whole time, so somehow I'm going to need to get a new set of clothes if only so I can wash what I've got. I am ripe! Wearing my normal stuff is out of the question, it would be way too conspicuous. All of my things from home are shoved in my backpack, which is wrapped in a sack and hidden in a cubby in the back of the pantry. I'm too paranoid about being found with anything unusual, so all I carry with me day to day is a small iron knife Bendt gave me and a leather belt with some pouches, which I rummaged from a bin of discarded odds and ends. Just like the game this world is full of stuff...but most of it isn't good stuff.

Day 24

Viarmo is kind of a dick. Head of the college, yeah, but he is not really interested in being in charge. He wants to be left alone with his verses. Our first interaction that didn't involve me carrying the chamber pot out of his room (gross) was three days ago, when I tried to ask for help getting clothes. His irritation transcended the language barrier. I’m pretty sure he thought I was asking for money. Really, I just wanted to know if there was some sort of barter system I could take advantage of, but clearly he was not the person to ask. He just got more and more frustrated with my extremely limited vocabulary. He shouted me back to the kitchen in fact. Bendt handed me a cup of mead and went back to breaking down a side of beef without a word. I guess I’m on Viarmo's shit list now. He glares and huffs when he sees me, but he hasn't kicked me out yet so...I'm just going to stay the course.

On a brighter note yesterday one of the other apprentices, Lissette, grabbed my hand while I was taking a moment to pop my back (blargh! I don't know how many more buckets of water I can haul up those damned stairs!) and pulled me out into the city. I spent most of my time in and around the college these last few weeks, so the change was nice. She practically dragged me all the way to the Winking Skeever (btw the city is WAY bigger than the game. The Inn is near the main gates and it took us a good 20 minutes of sprinting to get there). By the time we arrived I was gasping like a half dead fish. Lissette immediately pushed me down into a chair and put a small drum on my lap. She pounded out a simple beat and then had me pick it up. When she was satisfied that I could act as backup she started singing. I expected the songs to just be the ones from the game, but no. She kept up a quick, steady pace and sang with raunchy swagger that made the lunch crowd laugh and clap. I have a feeling that she was singing some bawdy stuff. Sex sells no matter what universe you’re in I guess. At the end of the set she gathered her tips and pressed two gold coins into my palm with a smile. My cut, under the table. I couldn't hold back my grin. I think I just made a friend.

Day 31?

I'm having a hard time keeping track of the days. Things have picked up since I first arrived. I'm improving on my language skills every day, though I'm sure I still sound like a toddler. Fjori and Helgi have decided to adopt me, sort of. They're both junior apprentices and they both seem to think that I'm hilarious. It's my confused face, it cracks them up. Along with my other housekeeping duties I'm periodically whisked away (when Viarmo isn't looking) to play drum backup for them or to accompany them to the market (so I can carry heavy things.) I was finally able to buy a second dress and a pair of shoes (used of course.) I need boots, but that is going to have to wait til I earn more money. There are shops in Solitude you don't see in the game, which shouldn’t come as a surprise. Like the boot guy. There's a boot guy! And a haberdashery, a carpenter's guild, a lady who just makes baskets out of reeds and horsehair; there’s a lot going on. It's almost like home, if I squint, tilt my head sideways, and cover my ears anyway.

Day 38

I've taken to marking the days in chalk on the wall by my bed so I can keep track better. I've settled into a routine and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. Comforting, but not necessarily good.

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Day 45

I’ve avoided Viarmo since what I’ve dubbed the Charity Incident, which has been working like gangbusters until this morning, when Alda the housekeeper grabbed my hand and pushed me toward the door to his room. Normally that means they want me to clean something, so I didn’t think much of it. When I knocked, he opened the door for me, (weird he usually just barks from his desk) then immediately closed the door behind me when I stepped in (also weird.)

I waited for him to point at whatever he wanted me to take care of, but he just stood there, looking at me with those creepy bright green eyes. I always liked playing as an elf in fantasy games, but this variety up close and personal have an intimidating, alien thing going that really freaked me out at first. I do not want to be racist to anyone here, but when someone with unnaturally sharp bone structure and a neon stare locks eyes with you and doesn’t say shit, well, how are you supposed to react?

I swear he didn’t move, didn’t even blink, for a full minute. Finally, I tried to get the ball rolling, I pointed to the empty fireplace and asked “wood?” because that’s a word I know now. I have never seen someone so yellow turn so red! He started stammering so fast I couldn’t make out any of it, then suddenly pushed a pile of ratty books into my hands with blank paper and some charcoal balanced on top and shoved me out into the hall. Helgi was leaning against the wall, observing my dumbfoundedness with an expression of sheer joy.

I asked her what I did, well more precisely I said, “what I do?” because I haven’t gotten the hang of verbs yet. She walked over and examined the titles of the books he gave me. Then she gave me a big shit-eating grin and said something about learning and practice. I think he was trying to say sorry for being a dick to me by giving me a bunch of primers to work on. Most awkward apology ever.

Day 48

Helgi and some of the other students have been helping me get through the stack of books Viarmo gave me. We started with an Imperial primer, probably something they give to little children because Fjori kept giggling as I stumbled through it. Not everyone in Skyrim is literate, but of course all Bards must be, or they would never get through the endless lectures on verse and literary history. That seems to equate that most Bards come from either affluent families, or families that already have a history with one of the colleges, so they have a leg up.

I’m going to get fluent and I’m going to learn to read dammit! Not knowing what people are saying is frustrating as hell; it’s way too much for my ego to take. I was an honors student back home! A Bonafede nerd who read everything in advance and had a 3.95 GPA (math thou art my eternal enemy). Now I wash stew pots while conjugating verbs in a language I didn’t even know existed six weeks ago.

I’ve gotten to know the people here better and just talking has been helpful. Their language is infuriatingly difficult to pronounce. Lots of rolling R’s and back to back consonants. Making friends was my worst skill back home, but here there are no distractions. No phones, no internet, just books and gossip. And me now. I’ve become a form of entertainment to some of the other students, to others I’m a verbal practice dummy. More than once I’ve caught some of the apprentices refer to me as a “Breton mut” presumably because they can’t figure out where I’m from and I play dumb when they ask.

Of course, my whole stint here I’ve really had to watch my resting-bitch-face, especially at the Inn. Last thing I need is to accidentally insult a room full of giant, hulking psychos full of booze and testosterone. I never appreciated before how built Nords really are, I only played as one once. Even Lissette could probably snap my neck like a stale Cheeto. At least while I’m working in the kitchen I can relax. Bendt doesn’t care if I scowl.

Speaking of, Bendt is by far my favorite person here. He comes off as a grumpy cuss, kinda reminds me of Grandpa Jay without the camo and chaw. I don’t think anyone else would have taken me in. I don’t even know if he got permission from Viarmo to do that, come to think of it. He must have? He goes out of his way to teach me things when I’m in the kitchen instead of shooing me away like the apprentices looking for snacks. I can gut a salmon like a pro now.

Second favorite person in Solitude is Evette San. She drops by now and then to see Bendt and it’s clear that they know each other well. Really well. If I had to hazard a guess, and I’m gonna, they’re seeing each other and have been for a while. It’s sweet in a down-played Remains of the Day kind of way. They’re both widowed, so it’s not like they’re doing anything wrong, but they don’t broadcast their relationship either, which probably just means they don’t want any drama. Can’t blame them. The three of us had a nice evening drinking Evette’s spiced wine in the kitchen and playing a card game I still don’t understand.

“Spiced” btw is nothing like back home. When I think of something “spiced” we’re talking cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, anise; that ubiquitous pumpkin latte kind of flavor. I have no idea what she puts in that wine, but it is none of those things. I think there are chili peppers in it. Not bad, but not what I was expecting. While I’m on the subject of food, elves ear turns out to be a kind of sage (knew it!) and frost miriam is a cross between parsley and cilantro. Bread is bread, but much grittier because of the stone mills they use here (I’m going to have to be careful of my teeth) and the cheese is almost as gamey as the meat. I find myself gravitating towards vegetable dishes, which is a sentence I never thought I’d put to paper…

Inge Six Fingers, the head lute instructor, is a crusty old bitch, but like Bendt she’s got a squishy side. She’s been doing this for decades now and I get the impression that she’s worried about what will happen to her when she gets too old to play. I’ve noticed how she tries to hide how painful her hands are, but the swollen joints are a dead giveaway. She’s probably got some serious arthritis and I’ll bet it hurts like hell. I don’t want to offer her any of my precious ibuprofen because A) I’ve only got so many and I’m just waiting for one of my migraines to hit and B) too many questions will come up about where I got them and so on. I know aspirin originally developed from plants like willow bark and clover, but I have no idea if those plants exist in the same form here or how to process them. There’s probably a local remedy people use, or ingredients that could be imported? But then I’d have to pay for that and figure out how to make remedies out of the ingredients. Ugh. I’ve got sixty thousand dollars’ worth of 21st century education racked up and so far, none of it has been useful. I’ll find a way to help her. Maybe topical capsaicin? Do they have jalapenos in Cyrodiil?

Aia is the only one I don’t like. She’s vindictive, arrogant, and snide. Her nose is stuck so far up in the air I’m surprised she doesn’t bump into things when she walks.

Jorn has a plan, I’ll give him that. He wants to learn enough to join the Imperial Army as a drummer. That’s literally all he talks about. He doesn’t care about any other subjects, and it makes him incredibly boring. A dude who looks like an extra straight out of Mad Max, complete with war paint…is boring.

Ildi isn’t liked, but I have no idea why. I like her. She’s a sweet girl, not amazingly talented or anything, but not awful either. I still don’t get it and I don’t trust my barely budding language skills to ask anyone.

Giraud the history teacher set my gaydar off the moment we met. He’s been in a relationship with, of all people, the town executioner, for years apparently. It’s not a secret either, which is refreshing. With all the awful things that go on here like racism, inbreeding (yeah ew), and questionable hygiene practices at least Skyrim isn’t mired in puritanical nonsense when it comes to sexuality.

Day 57

I’m getting better at the language. I can follow along with conversations a bit, anyway. What comes with that is picking up news and gossip. While at the Skeever doing my normal back up thing for Lisette yesterday I overheard a table of mercenaries talking about the civil war. I’d honestly forgotten about it what with all my focus being on not ending up dead in a gutter all this time. The Stormcloaks are fortifying their positions to the east. Since Torygg is still alive I know that Ulfric will eventually ride into Solitude to challenge him, but when? I have no idea where in the timeline I am in relation to Helgen and the beginning of the game. Months? Days? I’m learning the names of the months and eras, but since I don’t remember when Skyrim starts it doesn’t do me any good. Why wasn’t I born with a photographic memory? This also makes me wonder about the Dragonborn. Is it going to be someone from this world operating under their own agency, or just an avatar fulfilling the will of an unknown player? Either way, whatever decisions that person makes will determine the future of Nirn, if it has one. I’m staying as far from all of that as I can. If I can just continue to not draw attention to myself and change as little as possible, the main events of the game can unfold, and the big DB can save the world from Alduin. Or fail and we all die horribly.

Day 58

I’ve gotten fond of mead, since it’s the beverage served here that tastes the least like fermented donkey piss, but my insistence on only drinking enough to not be thirsty continues to confuse the Nords. I was never a big drinker before, and when I did it was mostly sangria and the occasional tequila shot. The liquor here is thick, strong, and generally kind of gross.

Despite getting regular meals I think I am still losing weight. Back home I’d be ecstatic. Here I worry that it’s too fast to be healthy. At least Bendt is not opposed to vegetables, in fact the man is obsessed with getting “exotic” ingredients and whenever a trading ship comes in he’s actually paid a dock hand to tell him about it so he can get first dibs on the good stuff. Bendt, the palace cook, and the cook at the Winking Skeever have an ongoing rivalry over who gets the best imports first. The palace cook has more resources, the cook at the Skeever has more friends. Bendt has Evette.

I played along when he sent me to the Market this morning to fetch as many anchovies and capers as possible before they sold out. Yep. Little salty fish and little salty…berries? I think that’s what a caper is anyway. (I have no clue why there’s such a high demand for preserved and fermented food stuffs when we literally live next to the sea and can get fresh stuff any time.)

I ended up having to elbow my way to the stall, only to get back-handed by one of the palace runners. I managed to get the goods, but I returned with a bloody nose and a black eye. Bendt mumbled something about it being good for me, toughen it out, and all that, but I also got a boiled cream treat after supper. Everyone always talks about sweet rolls, but those boiled things are amazing. It’s like a honey-glazed bagel with custard in the middle. I only wish I had a cup of coffee to go with it (OMG I miss coffee!). Aaand I’ve turned this journal entry into a testament on how obsessed with food I am. Way to go, Ez, future generations will marvel at your ability to fight over fish.

Day 59

I passed Viarmo in the hall and he grabbed my elbow. He’s never touched me before, except that push out of his room that one time. I guess my shiner must be pretty noticeable, because he looked at it with what I can only describe as confused horror. He dragged me to the kitchen and demanded to know what happened and who had injured me. Bendt took it in stride. I swear nothing ruffles that old buzzard. He explained that I was smacked around while running errands and it was no one’s fault but my own for not ducking in time. I still struggle understanding some words, especially when people are talking too fast, so I’m not 100% sure what Viarmo was going on about after that. It was clear he was upset. After he stormed back upstairs, I asked Bendt, but he only huffed and said “elf nonsense” as if that clears it up. I’m not sure if Viarmo was pissed off about Bendt’s blasé attitude, or the injury itself. Maybe both?

Chapter Text

Day 60

I’m going to have to be careful about who sees me writing in this journal. It was stupid to hide it in my bedroll. I caught Aia riffling through it when I returned to the dormitory to sneak some ibuprofen (periods suck. And holy shit if the lack of pain killers wasn’t bad enough, they use tundra cotton and WOOL!)

While I know she couldn’t read the entries, the fact that she was looking through my things set me off royally. I cursed her out in English until she retreated, no doubt to tell whoever will listen that Esme the lowly chamber pot cleaner is a violent lunatic. My chief concern is that she saw a notebook full of bleached, machine-milled paper in the possession of a foreigner with limited language skills and no known past. I’d be suspicious as hell. And whatever reason she was snooping she could very well report me as some sort of spy. I certainly don’t have the clout or the verbal skills to defend myself if she does. Fuck. New plan, hiding all my stuff deep in the cellar til further notice.

Day 79

I’ve pulled this journal out after so long because Aia is gone. She’s off to Riften with some of the other senior students and most of the teachers on some sort of tour. That leaves me, Bendt, Alda, Inge, and a handful of junior apprentices, who all skipped out into the courtyard to rehearse in the sunshine this morning. I didn’t realize how I had gotten used to the constant sound of practicing from upstairs until it was gone. Now there are no lutes, no scales, or morning warm-ups; it’s eerie.

Man, drudgery sure does build muscle. I keep telling myself that I’m leveling up doing all these damn chores and back-breaking labor. I mean let’s be real, if I set foot outside of Solitude without at least some preparation I’m going to die in two seconds. Probably will anyway. If I had to put a number on it I’d say I’m a level…3 at best. I do feel stronger. I don’t get as winded going up and down the stairs now. It still sucks and I’m not going to stop being “fluffy” for a long while yet and I’m fine with that! I like my curves; I don’t care if I look like a horker to the general populace of Skyrim. I want to recognize myself when I go home.

Bendt made a radish salad for lunch with goat cheese dressing and little toasted seeds on top that was so normal I almost cried into my bowl. He even let me put together dinner today, since there are so few people to feed. I sharpened and soaked some skewers and made venison kabob. It was a huge hit. I put together pretty much the same sort of marinade mom used to make when dad brought home a buck: salt, sugar, garlic, and onion suspended in a little oil. The cleanup was horrific though. I miss tin foil so much! I was tempted to use the soy sauce packets hidden in my bag but decided against it. I can’t hoard them forever, but Bendt would ask where they came from. Too risky. Not that anyone so far has been particularly interested in where I come from. Most questions I’ve been able to play off as either not understanding, or I’ll just give a very vague answer like “west” then let them make up their own minds from there. Eventually I’ll have to come up with a more comprehensive backstory. I can tell that my physiognomy confuses some people, but no one has been rude enough to come out and demand that I categorize myself. Maybe I can pass for a half Breton half Nord with a glandular disorder.

Day 80

It’s quiet and I have the basement dormitory to myself while the students are taking advantage of the empty practice rooms upstairs (it's raining today). I’ve graduated from a bedroll to an actual bed. It’s just a straw mattress covered in a musty bear pelt, but it beats sleeping on the floor. The downtime feels like an amazing luxury. I might even take a nap in the middle of the day!

***Napping was awesome but messed up my sleep schedule. Woke up late (time is hard to tell; I think it was a little bit after midnight?) and decided to make myself a snack. That package of spicy Raman noodles in my bag has been calling me for weeks. There was a kettle of boiled water set aside for tea anyway (Bendt has a cold) so I mixed them up with an egg and some chopped leaks (YUM). I managed to bury the packaging down into the kitchen coals just before I was caught. I expected Bendt to wander in and growl at me, but it was Inge. I put on my best friendly face and annunciated as carefully as I could “Bendt is sick, do you want me to make you something?” I’m pretty sure I got the words right, too.

She looked suspiciously at my bowl before waving me off and reaching for the kettle herself. They either don’t have black tea here, or it’s too expensive to import. Tea is medicinal mostly, the sort of thing your granny makes when you have a tummy ache. I watched the girl at the apothecary mix up this batch. To my delight, which I tried to underplay in front of the shop keeper who was already eyeing me like I might sprout a second head, I recognized most of the ingredients. Mint, rosehips, pine needles, all normal, plus little blue flowers that I think I remember having healing properties in the game. Rosehips and pine needles contain vitamin C, so I made a cup as well. No sense risking scurvy.

We stood by the kitchen fire in comfortable silence blowing the steam off our mugs. Inge is not a talker, but she watches. I notice in the practice rooms while the apprentices are struggling, she doesn’t tell them what they’re doing wrong, she lets them work it out, maybe corrects their finger positions now and then. She watches me too. I can respect that is who she is, even recognize that I’m the same in a lot of ways, but it’s unnerving too. What does she see? It’s not like I can ask without making it even more obvious that I don’t fit here.

We finished our tea by the fire (I’m sure she could smell the burnt plastic from the noodle packet) and retired for the evening. As I write this the dormitory is half empty (half full?) I need to stow my notebook and pen back in the cellar and go to bed before someone else sees the candle.

Day 103

Finally! It’s been a while.

When the seniors came back from their three week tour Bendt made everyone sit down together for a celebratory meal, which doesn’t normally happen. Most of the time students and faculty just grab food out of the kitchen at mealtimes and eat in small groups in the common areas. Which is probably why I’m constantly finding crumbs on the podiums (do you want ants? Because this how you get ants! Memes are lost on this crowd, it’s tragic.)

But that night we filled every table and ate family style, even Alda and me took seats in the corner with Bendt. It was nice, but I noticed that all through the meal Viarmo, who sat at the center table with the teachers, kept staring at me. Not a “you’ve done something I’m going to yell at you for later” stare and not a “you are doing something really weird” stare either. It was almost like he wanted to say something to me and wished everyone would go away so he could get it over with? He didn’t though. As soon as the students were all done the junior apprentices begged for a rendition of the new pieces they had learned on tour, so everyone but we kitchen staffers were obliged to go up to the reading room for show and tell. With lots of wine bottles in tow. By the time we were done cleaning up the party was in full swing. I was too tired to listen at the stairs like I normally would and went to bed.

After the group got back there was a lot more to do. Apparently, the Burning of King Olaf festival is a bigger deal than I thought and requires months of preparation. The grounds must be cleared, the effigy sewn and stuffed, food and drink available for the whole city plus visitors, and there’s a song and dance routine too so the apprentice’s costumes from last year have to be washed and mended. Part of me wants to slack off because I know as soon as Torygg is murdered, which could be any day now, the festival will be called off and all this work will be for nothing. Even if the Dragonborn decides to waste their time with the Bard’s quest how long will that take? It feels like a futile exercise, but I can’t let on that I think that, or someone will inevitably ask why. And the more I let myself think about the upcoming murder the more uncomfortable I feel about it. I’m not a monster, I don’t want Torygg to die, but I also don’t know what to do that won’t make things worse or mark me as suspicious. I can’t just walk up to the Blue Palace and tell the guards that Ulfric Stormcloak is going to show up sometime in the future and shout their king to death. If my writing skills were better I’d send an anonymous tip to Tulius. But how do I even do that without being seen? I’ll have to give it some more thought.

Day 106

What. A. Weird. Day. For the first time since I arrived here I left the security of Solitude and ventured outside the city gates. We were in a group, thankfully. Jorn needed to pick up some lumber to put up the effigy, while Alda and I were charged with a list of things to pick up from the farm just outside the city and the docks. It started out okay. We wandered down to the dock, Alda spoke with Victoria Vicci while I stared at the wall and tried very hard not to think about how many times I’ve viciously assassinated the poor woman on her wedding day. Then the three of us walked back up the hill and parted ways, Jorn going to the mill where a mule strapped with lumber was waiting, and Alda and I going to the farmstead. We picked up a cartful of flour, butter, potatoes, and honey that Bendt had already ordered and paid for in advance. That was supposed to be it, but Alda, the opportunist that she is, insisted that we shouldn’t waste the sunshine (it was a gorgeous day! Warm, for Skyrim anyway, and calm).

After hauling the cart uphill (thank God I’ve built up some muscle or I would have rolled all the way down to the eddy) we managed to get back to the city gates, where Alda bribed several children with honey candy to take the cart to the back door of the college and promised them that Bendt would give them more sweets when the delivery was made. And he probably did too, after growling at them.

After we were liberated from our load we went down to the mill, waded across the water (which was a lot warmer than I thought it would be) and went foraging. Alda must have had that in mind all along because she had empty burlap sacks in her pockets for each of us. She pointed out the fungi that were edible and the ones to leave alone and we spent several hours scouring the islets. It reminded me of morel hunting back home. I had to walk further out to be sure Alda didn’t see me getting weepy. Since all this started I've done my best not to think about home. Is anyone watering my plants? Is my mom okay? If I let myself dwell on it too much I just get depressed and that doesn't help me get through the days, it just brings me back to that first thought I had when I set foot on the Solitude walls: if I die here do I DIE or do I go home?

The sun was just starting to disappear behind the Blue Palace when I heard a bark. A large, scruffy wolf hound bounded out of nowhere and went right for me. All the rising homesickness I’d started to feel came crashing in on me and I found myself laughing and crying at the same time while the dog enthusiastically knocked me on my butt and licked my face.

Miko’s shack. I had completely forgotten about it. Alda was the one who found the body, which I’m eternally grateful for. I think I might have broken down for real. By the time we made it back to the city, informed the priest of Arkay and the city guard that the hermit had passed, and made it to the college it was full dark. The moment we stepped over the threshold the sound of raised voices caught our ears. All we could do was give each other weary looks before walking into it. Bendt, Jorn, and Viarmo were arguing in the kitchen. As soon as they saw us their anger was redirected. Jorn looked relieved, but put out, Bendt just grumbled about having to handle dinner by himself but took the mushrooms as a peace offering. Viarmo…he needed a minute.

Alda explained why we were out so late. As she spoke Viarmo kept looking me up and down. I was covered in mud, with leaves in my hair and a huge dog practically plastered to my skirts. He still didn’t seem convinced by her story for some reason, though. Fortunately, we had a slip of parchment signed by the priest of Arkay, which seemed to be a sort of death certificate. After reading it, no more like stared at it intensely as if the script would reveal the secrets of the universe, Viarmo told Alda to be less careless with her duties. Those children could have stolen the cart, and so on.

“As for you,” he said, pointing at me angrily only to deflate after a pause, “the dog stays in the garden.” He looked like he wanted to say more but thought better of it mid-sentence.

Jorn and the Headmaster stalked back upstairs to leave Bendt to scold us in his own way. My hands are still raw from peeling potatoes. Miko got a thorough wash and a big dinner of scraps and offal. He seems happy to prowl the grounds getting pats from everyone.

Day 107

I managed to finish my work early enough to have a few moments to myself after lunch, so I decided to take advantage of the empty dormitory to have a wash. A full bath is a once a year sort of luxury here, so I made do with a big bucket of hot water, some flannels, and a bar of soap Alda made me that smells like lavender and mint. Because of the way Solitude was built, I guess, every lower level of every building has at least one drain. I stood over the one in the kitchen to drench and rinse my hair. It felt amazing to be clean. I did the rest of my washing in the dorm behind one of the privacy screens.

I was just finishing up, toweling my hair dry and standing there in my smalls and breast band (I miss my elasticized undies, but they’re too conspicuous what with the unicorn print and all) when I heard footsteps behind me. I was fully behind the screen, so I didn’t think anything of it, the junior apprentices sleep in the dorm too, so I thought it was one of them. Until I felt hands on my shoulders and just about jumped out of my skin.

They shushed me, which pissed me off, and when I tried to turn and yell at whoever it was they gripped my shoulders harder and forced me to face the wall. Then it all just came out in a rush, so fast I had a hard time keeping up with what he was saying, but I’m going to try to get it down as faithfully as I can. It went:

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, please don’t turn around or I won’t be able to say this. I think you are magnificent, no matter where you are from, or who your people are, I don’t care. Being away from you on the tour was hard enough, you have no idea how many times I wanted to make up some excuse to cut the trip short, just so I could come home and see you. And then yesterday when you were gone so long and no one knew where you were, I feared the worst. I thought my heart might implode. I don’t expect anything from you. I only needed to tell you how I feel.”

I knew it was Viarmo the moment he started talking, low and harsh in my ear with his hands bruising my skin and his knotted beard brushing the back of my neck. And I had no idea how to respond. I went from being startled, to annoyed at being touched without permission, to all out bewildered. Where the hell had all that come from?! I haven’t done anything to earn that kind of ardor, probably ever in my life, and this was coming from someone I thought actively hated me.

He didn’t wait for a response, just slid his hands down my arms and walked briskly away. So, okay, on the one hand I haven’t been so much as hugged in months, so the contact wasn’t exactly unwelcome, once my brain realized what was happening, but the shock stayed with me all day. I don’t know Viarmo, not really. It’s not like we’ve ever sat down and had a conversation. Now he’s shooting declarations at me. Maybe it’s a bard thing? I remember in the game love and marriage were blunt, practical arrangements, but I always thought that was more of a convenient way for the developers to handle it while still keeping the main character a blank slate.

I spent the rest of the day mulling over what he’d said, and all our previous interactions. Frankly I don’t get it. He’s an elf with a several hundred-year lifespan, devoted to his job and his craft. Why waste time on a human servant? It’s like trying to figure out what the hell the vampire sees in the whiny teenage girl in Twilight. The only thing that makes sense is that he just wants a dalliance, nothing serious. Part of me is tempted. I’m not exactly a super model, in fact compared to these Nord giantesses with their glorious muscles and blonde hair I’m probably the closest thing to a Tolkien dwarf they’ll ever see. So, considering my prospects and the fact that I may never get the hell out of here…I could do worse. I’ve also been reading everything I can get my hands on, and according to some of the biographies I’ve read mature elves have a hard time conceiving, so my chances of getting knocked up would be relatively low. Are STD’s a thing here? They must be, only people don’t talk about it? OMG I can’t believe I’m considering this. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Day 108

Awkward wouldn’t begin to describe the atmosphere right now. I’ve been trying to avoid that damn elf, but every time I turn around, he seems to be on the other side of the room, or just passing through the kitchen, watching. Maybe I’m being paranoid.

Alda and I have been busting our asses, so it’s not like I have time to do anything about it anyway. Bendt has us making a ton of preserves. We’re also making extra wine for Evette, so now I know what goes into that. Snowberries (which taste like very sour currents) make up most of the mash, mixed with honey, and a blend of dried peppers imported from Cyrodiil. I have to wonder how many apiaries exist in Skyrim alone, because man do they love honey. Maybe that’s something I could do if I never get home, become a beekeeper. That sounds defeatist, but the more I read the more I realize that it’s not going to be a simple matter of picking up the right book with the right mirror activation spell, if such a thing even exists. I really need to talk to a mage.

Day 109

There are rumors that the Stormcloaks are sending scouts further and further west. The last sighting was outside of Morthal, so they’re not far. I know the day is coming, and the more I think about it the more it feels like I should at least try to stop Torygg from being murdered. Even if no one believes me, I should try, right? That’s the moral thing to do. On the other hand I worry that it will change events too much. What if Torygg living somehow keeps the Dragonborn from defeating Alduin? It might change nothing; it might ruin everything. It would make it less likely that Ulfric can grab power, I know that, but I can’t predict all the other ripples it would set off. Shit. What if I just start a rumor that he’s coming? If Torygg bans Ulfric from entering the city and he’s stopped at the gates what will he do? Damn. I have to do something, or I’ll drive myself crazy. Evette mentioned needing to run a few cases of wine to the palace soon. I’ll volunteer to help her and drop a “I heard a rumor” line in front of the servants. It’s a universal rule, staff love gossip, word will spread through the whole palace in no time. Then it will be up to them to do something about it and I can sleep without a guilty conscience. Tomorrow then.

Chapter Text

Fuck. I’ve lost track of the days. My notebook, and the rest of my stuff, is still stowed away at the college and hopefully will stay there til I can retrieve it. For now I have to make do with whatever scraps of paper I can find. I haven’t used a quill and ink since that high school pointillism project for art class. Messy.

Me and my stupid conscience. I just had to go to the Blue Palace on the day Ulfric Stormcloak rode into the city!! And I just had to be right in the way as he was making his escape. And he just had to grab me and hold me hostage! You’d think someone so obsessed with honor would never consider using an unarmed woman as a hostage, but when faced with a dozen pissed off guards that’s exactly what happened. The prick dragged me out of the palace using me as a human shield, threw me on the back of his horse like baggage and hauled ass out of the city at a full gallop. It was enough to leave me with whiplash and bruised ribs. That’s what my meddling got me, the palace was already on alert because of the rumors I started, but nothing had been organized, so Ulfric managed to get in without any trouble, but would have been captured immediately if I hadn’t still been there. Torygg still died, and Ulfric still got away. The only difference was I was there to absorb any arrows that got too close to his horse’s flank. You would think that Tulius’ men would have immediately been alerted when the Jarl of Windhelm rode into the city. On a huge war horse. Fully armed and armored. And maybe they were, but I’ll be good goddamned if I saw a single soldier from the Keep in pursuit. Though to be fair most of my attention was on not falling and getting trampled or kicked.

Ulfric dumped me in the marsh when we were clear of the city.

And when I say he “dumped me” I literally mean he paused the horse only long enough to push me into the mud in the middle of nowhere with no supplies and galloped off without a word. All I had was the clothes on my back and the small dagger Bendt gave me. It was about midday I think, rainy and overcast, so I couldn’t see the position of the sun. I couldn’t very well stay where I was either, out in the open I would have been picked off by something horrible in no time, so I chose a direction and prayed that it was northwest.

It wasn’t. I managed to choose the exact opposite direction and got to find out just how awesome walking through a half-frozen marsh full of giant crabs and spiders is. At one point I was spotted by a chaurus. It must have been guarding a nest because it spat venom at me but didn’t give chase when I ran. The venom, it turns out, is corrosive! It hit my skirt, burned a hole through the fabric and left a chemical burn the size of a grapefruit just below my knee. Fun. After limping along all night, I was eventually picked up by an Imperial patrol outside of Morthal. Word of what happened had already traveled, so once I explained who I was the guards were very interested in taking me to the jarl to get my statement. The guards didn’t think it was necessary to get me medical attention or even a cup of water before barreling into the interrogation, which took hours. The only thing keeping me awake was the constant pain in my leg.

Jarl Idgrod immediately took a liking to me, though I couldn’t tell you why. As soon as I had recounted every detail I could remember about the attack at the palace, my capture, and unceremonious release she took possession of me (her words). It was nice, being looked after. She had Lami the apothecary see to my injuries. My ribs were wrapped just in case there were any fractures along with the bruising and the chemical burn on my leg was treated with a sticky poultice I suspect was mostly honey. It was infected at that point already. I developed a fever.

Lami insisted that I take the room above her shop while I healed. The infection had to run its course, so while being plied with potions I got to know her pretty well. If she and Idgrod hadn’t been looking after me I might have lost the leg or died. It scared me. It felt almost like the flu, but way worse than any I’d ever had. Chills, fever, vomiting, the whole nine yards. And all the while I just kept going back and forth with the blame. Is it my fault for being too much of a coward to try to do something sooner? Or not doing enough? Is it Ulfric’s fault for murdering a man and not having an escape plan? And that is exactly what it was, make no mistake, he knew Torygg couldn’t refuse the challenge and he knew he wouldn’t survive the Voice. I was by the kitchen door when it happened, waiting for Evette to finish a conversation she was having with the head housekeeper. We felt the Shout reverberate through the stones and shake the building. Seconds later, while everyone was still trying to process what the hell just happened, Ulfric flew down the stairs right in front of me. He knew what he had done, he had to have known what the reaction would be. I’ll never forget the look on his face as he dove down that staircase. He was not in control, there was no plan, no real exit strategy, which makes no sense! I always sort of assumed that the assassination was carefully planned, that Ulfric had his Stormcloak sympathizers ready to go in Solitude to ensure his escape, wasn’t that the whole plot point with the man who gets executed when the DB gets to the city for the first time in the game? So, okay someone opened the gates for him, but how had he thought he was going to get out of the palace? I’ve laid in bed thinking about this for hours on end, sweating like a pig and puking into a bucket. I’ve come to the conclusion that Ulfric Stormcloak is an idiot and I hope his rebellion fails miserably.

It took about a week for the infection to clear up. It was touch and go there for a while, but Lami knows her stuff, even talked me through what she was doing while she was preparing the potions she was feeding me. It was fascinating, way more involved than just throwing ingredients into a bottle and seeing what happens. I get now why you need the alembic. Some ingredients need to be distilled, others must be powdered, or macerated and turned into a solution with a neutral medium. She gave me cure disease and healing potions but had to keep the doses low so it wouldn’t shock my system.

Eventually I was able to walk more than six feet without getting dizzy and made it outside. Not that there is much to see in Morthal. Cold fog hangs over the town most days. Even when the sun is out the damp never goes away, it just turns into a miasma of marsh muck and deathbell (which smell disappointingly like dogwood).

Idgrod made sure that I got new clothes, nothing fancy but much better quality than what I had. What was strange was she seemed to have them handy, and they fit perfectly, but they couldn’t be hers or her daughter’s, both of them are a good deal taller and slimmer than me. I didn’t want to be impolite by asking where they came from though.

She also insisted that I have dinner at the longhouse with her family every night once I was well enough to walk that far. Whatever her reasons I wasn’t about to snub my nose at a free meal.

Each evening after everyone else went to bed Idgrod and I sat around the fire and talked. She never got frustrated with me when I needed a minute to mentally translate a sentence. In fact, she often knew exactly the word I was searching for. Considering that she’s supposed to be clairvoyant it makes sense, but it’s unnerving just the same.

On the second evening, by which time we had already talked about where I came from (in very general and vague terms), how long I had been in Skyrim, and my relationship to the Bard’s College, Idgrod asked “What will you do now, Esme? You are well enough; do you wish to return to Solitude?”

I honestly didn’t know, and I told her as much. I miss Bendt, and the smell of the kitchen, the bards and the music, but I know I can’t spend the rest of my life there scrubbing the floors. My ultimate goal is to get home. To do that I need to find someone who can help me activate the mirror or find another gateway if it exists. My best bet is a mage.

It wouldn’t surprise me if Idgrod knew all of this already, but she didn’t say anything. She just sipped her wine, perfectly content to wait while I worked out my answer. I decided to just be honest. The fire had died down to coals by the time I finished telling her everything. That’s the amazing thing about Idgrod, she doesn’t judge, or push. She’s probably the most patient person I’ve ever met in my life, because she knows. I did leave out the whole "your reality is an open world RPG" part, I figured that would be too much even for her.

“If you like,” she said, “I can introduce you to Falion. He’s an accomplished scholar, if he doesn’t know of the method needed to return you to your world, he may know who does.”

Of course, I agreed. Why hadn’t I remembered there was a mage in Morthal? To be fair there is a court wizard in Solitude too, but there’s no way in hell I’m so much as looking in Sybille Stentor’s direction. That woman is scary and I think she might be a vampire?

Idgrod made Falion swear to secrecy before letting me fill him in on my situation. He went from being kind of salty with me to downright fascinated. He promised to make inquiries and research it, and to his credit he did. He wrote letters to former colleagues and every court wizard in the province. While we waited for their replies, I hung out with Lami, learning all about alchemy, and spent my afternoons walking with Idgrod the Younger, who seemed to be pleased just to have someone to chat with who wasn’t her mom or brother. I also received a letter from Solitude, delivered not by courier but to the Inn, which is apparently the more normal (read cheaper) way of getting mail. Actually it was addressed to Idgrod, but she handed it over as soon as Jonna delivered it. I’ve kept it, so I’ll just pin it with the rest of these pages.

To the esteemed Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, Morthal

It was with profound gratitude that I received your correspondence informing we of the Bard’s College that our retainer, Esme, has entered into your care after her kidnapping and subsequent release. I extend my most heartfelt thanks for this joyous news and to hear that the girl is once again in good health.

As she is not well versed in the written language of Tamriel, a fault I place squarely upon myself, I address this to you. I ask that you communicate the well-wishes of the entire College to Esme. Please assure her that her place with us will remain open and she may return any time she so wishes. I will also be more than happy to arrange transportation to Solitude should she request it. Please keep me apprised to any developments regarding her recovery and overall progress.

Most sincerely,

Headmaster Viarmo
Bard’s College, Solitude

So, my place as weird foreign kitchen help is open whenever I want to come back. That’s nice to know, if this research never pays off and I need a place to crawl back to I know where to go. Idgrod very pointedly said as she handed me the letter, “The headmaster says far more than he thinks he does. Clever men often do not see their weaknesses, after all.”

Once I was able to decipher it (I wouldn’t let anyone help me, I’ll learn better doing it myself) the letter just seemed overly officious to me. Maybe she’s reading between the lines in a way I can’t?

I don’t like the thought of disappointing anyone by not coming back, but Falion has leads, so I worked on a reply. It took three drafts, proof-read by Idgrod, before it sounded right and not like a tiny child wrote it. I’ve pinned one of the drafts, which is correct except for a few spelling and punctuation errors, to my paper pile. One of these days I’ll get a folder or something for this mess.

Headmaster Bard’s College, Solitude

Sir,

I rekceived your letter from Jarl Idgrod. I am well. My studies continue. Thank you all for thinking of me. I am glad to know that I may return. I would like to, but events have convinced me that I must see more of Skyrim if I am to understand its culture and people. My plan is to start do so as soon as possible. I will always be gratefully to the College for giving me a home when I had nothing and no one. I hope to see you all someday soon.

Sincerely,

Esme

That took ages to get right. And it still sounds as stilted as a middle school book report. Because she was proofreading Idgrod of course immediately asked me how I planned to see more of Skyrim. At that point my plan was to wait for Falion to point me in the direction of someone who could help me, and just get to that person wherever they happened to be. That was as far as I thought it out.

I’m sure that she has something in mind but hasn’t mentioned it yet. In the meantime, I’m making myself useful by helping Lami and reading through Falion’s books (which is slow going to say the least). Lami showed me how to make a topical remedy for arthritis out of mora tapinella, fire salts, blue mountain flower, and briar heart. It smells like a dumpster fire, but she swears it works, so I sent a jar of it along with my letter to Solitude for Inge Six Fingers. I don’t like to see anyone in pain, okay? And she reminds me of my granny.

Chapter Text

Morthal

Sundas, 14th of Mid Year 4E201

One of the benefits of there being fuck all to do in Morthal is that almost everyone is happy to take the time to teach me something they know about. Lami has been great not only with the alchemy lessons, but improving my pronunciation during our chats, while Idgrod helps me with reading in the evenings. Even Benor agreed to show me some self-defense moves bare-hand and with a dagger. Falion is less patient but has been incredibly helpful with things like the Tamrielian calendar, which ties into our history lessons, which in turn tie into our research into the mirror.

Unfortunately, so far we haven’t found anything promising. But I have to remind myself that everything goes much slower here. I’m just anxious to know that there might be a way out before things get dragon-attack-y.

Was I plopped in the middle of all this to disrupt how it goes? I would almost welcome a Daedra showing up and demanding me to do something, at least it would give me some insight into the purpose of all of this. If there is any. That’s the thought that depresses me the most, that there might be no reason at all. Maybe it’s some stupid bet between immortals a la Discworld. What will the silly mortal do? Let’s watch!

Now that Torygg is dead the events of the beginning of the game might have already started. I don’t remember if it’s mentioned how long it took for the Imperials to catch up with Ulfric after the murder. The latest news is that he’s still on the run. I’m driving myself a little crazy wondering.

I dropped a hint to Idgrod and Falion about Alva being a vampire. The fire hadn’t happened yet, so I thought maybe there’s still a chance that it can be prevented. Maybe I’m tempting fate, but I really don’t want that little girl to die. I see her playing with the other kids every day. She can’t be more than six or seven years old. I think Falion already suspected, but Idgrod won’t do anything without evidence and I can’t very well tell her that all of this is a game I’ve played, it’s already a stretch getting them to believe that I’m from another world.

Since sunlight doesn’t make vamps burst into flames here (that would have been convenient!) and garlic doesn’t work I had to figure something else out. Then I remembered the journal. Scared shitless wouldn’t begin to describe it, I can pick a lock and I can be quiet, but can I sneak passed a vamp? Probably not. It took some coercion and coordination to make it happen. Falion agreed to watch my back and Idgrod greased Benor’s palm, so he was on standby as muscle in case things got out of hand. She didn’t want to start a panic, but she believed me.

Back home I’d call Alva a thirsty ho, which would almost be funny if she wasn’t also a stone-cold killer. She spends a lot of her time in the tavern “entertaining” the guests so we waited until sundown when she was accustomed to go work and I snuck in. If I ever get back home, I’m going to hug the crap out of my sister for always locking me out of the bathroom. Lock-picking is the only useful skill I’ve had since the beginning of all this.

The journal was, miracle of miracles, in the coffin exactly where it was in the game. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to find! What I hadn’t counted on was Alva coming back early. She was too busy to notice the lock, or my scent, but I did have to hear…everything as I hid in a cupboard with my pulse hammering. It’s funny what you notice when you’re wedged in a confined space, waiting for people to finish having sex. Like the contents of their pantry. Alva doesn’t need food, but I still found myself sitting on a pile of what turned out to be crystallized honeycomb. I really don’t want to think too hard about what she used it for. Once her guest left I could hear Alva shuffling around. She would have found me, I have no doubt of that at all, had Benor not banged on the door and told her that Jonna wanted her for something at the Inn. Bless that man, he does have some brains!

I went straight to Idgrod with the journal…and a substantial amount of honeycomb stuck to my ass. She organized a small group of guards to arrest Alva, but the sneaky bitch had to have known something was up and disappeared, probably back to the vamp lair where her master is hiding. The plan had been to drag her to the mound where Falion could perform the cleansing ritual to cure her. In hindsight I wouldn’t put it passed her to run right back to her vamp pals and beg to be infected again. Based on her journal entries she’s too in love with the power to give it up. At least now people know there is a vampire problem and can be on their guard. And that little girl and her mom are still alive. I feel pretty good about it, like maybe I can help people. Maybe I’m supposed to.

Chapter Text

Morthal

Fredas, 19th of Mid Year 4E201

No word on vampire activity, I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or not. They might just be regrouping. Idgrod keeps telling me not to worry, that she and Falion have it under control. I'll just have to take her word, it’s not like I’m going vampire hunting by myself. I did suggest that she get the Dawnguard involved. Let them come in and slaughter the undead, that’s their job, right? Falion seemed resistant to the idea, but wouldn't say why. Maybe he has a history with them as well, I mean he can be a little difficult to get along with. Even so Morthal needs more than a handful of guards and townsfolk with pitchforks.

****

We might have finally caught a break! Falion heard back from Winterhold. He’s still on relatively good terms with Tolfdir, who sent a very enthusiastic reply about a similar sort of mirror being referenced in an obscure book in the college library. He of course didn’t have the book on hand but promised to have the librarian locate it and set it aside for study. The book can’t leave the college, in other words, but I can go to the book. Okay, I’ll take that!

Idgrod of course had a plan ready the moment we shared the news with her. The court wizard in Whiterun, Farengar, has already agreed to accompany me on a trip to the college. Since I’m not a mage I won’t be allowed in without an escort and Falion refuses to go, for reasons he’s decided to keep to himself.

I leave for Whiterun in the morning. So of course, this afternoon Jonna delivered another letter from Solitude.

Thaumaturgist’s Hut, Morthal

Esme,

I was pleased to hear that you are in no immediate danger after your illness. The jarl is truly a generous and kind woman.

I must express my disappointment however, to hear that you intend to leave her protection to pursue endeavors of a magical nature. While magic has always had a place in our history, it can be exceedingly dangerous.

Skyrim is a beautiful land. I encourage you to explore it but know that there are less hazardous ways of doing so. Should you return to Solitude I would be glad to arrange your inclusion in our future tours through the province. There are cities far more pleasing than Winterhold to visit, I assure you.

If you insist on going forward with your current plans, of which the jarl has already graciously informed me, please let me know how you fair whenever possible. I am delighted by the improvement of your writing. The additional practice can only be a benefit.

Bendt is holding your things for you. The students and staff all extend heartfelt well-wishes, whatever your decision.

Most sincerely,
Viarmo

Idgrod had to have told him about the Whiterun expedition before we got the reply from Tolfdir. Why she thought he needed to know before I did is a mystery to me. I guess I should be upset by that, but it’s just how she operates. I’m less okay with Viarmo’s implication that I can’t handle the dangers of an escorted wagon ride to see some mages. Am I a weakling? Absolutely. Do I like being reminded of that? Nope.

It would take all night to write a coherent reply, so I’ve decided to wait until I get to Whiterun. That will give me time to think about what I want to say.

Chapter Text

Whiterun

Turdas, 23rd of Mid Year 4E201

It was a fairly uneventful journey, just bumpy, cold and uncomfortable. Because of the terrain it took two days to get from Morthal to Whiterun. The driver, Jervar, turned out to be the son of the Whiterun stable master. Idgrod also sent Benor with me as a bodyguard. And joy of joys I got to discover on the road that these men hate each other. Jervar is a clod, but guileless, while Benor is sort of the resident jock in Morthal. Both suffer from the same pathological need to prove they’re the baddest mofos in the Providence that most Nords seem to have. The whole journey was a constant pissing contest.

When we stopped to camp I slept in the back of the wagon and they set up their bedrolls as far away from each other as possible. We didn’t make a fire, it was a clear night and any bandits on the road would have spotted it instantly. Idgrod outfitted me with warm clothes, but it was still a miserable night. The wilderness in Skyrim doesn’t sound right. No birds and it’s too cold in this region for insects, so it’s mostly this eerie mix of wind blowing through the crags and the occasional wolf call in the distance. Fortunately, we never saw any wolves. At least the landscape is pretty and I got to see the aurora. The whole sky lit up with shimmering greens and pinks. I watched the light show for a long time before I finally fell asleep.

The second day it started to snow a bit. By the time we made camp again Benor and Jervar were sniping at each other for the umpteenth time. I made rabbit stew with elves ear, garlic, carrots, and some diced potato. That meal around the fire with snowflakes falling all around us was the most enjoyable part of the trip and it was utterly ruined when Jervar made a pass at me.

“It’s too cold to sleep in the back of the wagon. You can share my tent if you wanna stay warm.” end quote.

Benor wasn’t about to let that go. Before I could even react with a stern “no thank you” he declared Jervar’s entire family were without honor and called his ancestors dung-shovelers. A brief, and not particularly impressive, fist fight broke out leaving Jervar with a serious set of bruises and a cracked tooth. At least they got it out of their systems.

It was a relief to see Dragons Reach come into view the next morning, though I’m a little disappointed that we didn’t spot any giants or mammoths on the way. I don’t want to fight them of course, just to see them in the distance with a good stretch of tundra between us. The snow had completely cleared and it was relatively warm and sunny as we rode up to the Whiterun stables. I very much wanted to stop at the Khajiit merchant’s tent outside the city walls, but Benor wouldn’t let me, mumbling some racist line about all “sand cats” being thieves and swindlers. I held my tongue, but I'm sure he noticed that I was less than pleased with that.

We left Jervar at the stables as soon as our things were unpacked and headed into the city. I can understand why they don’t allow horses inside; the mess would be horrific. As picturesque as it is the faint smell of shit from both animals and people still lingers in the Plains District. What I wouldn’t give for some Purell. After being outdoors for so long it hit me hard, but like most things I just got used to it after about a half hour. Benor did his duty by getting me to the Cloud District, then went off to get his real business done, applying to the Companions. Since I don’t remember him ever being one in the game, I assume it didn’t go well. I haven’t seen him since.

Jarl Balgruuf was gracious enough, though I’m sure that had everything to do with his respect for Idgrod and nothing to do with me, which is fair.

Farengar turned out to be as condescending as I remembered his character. He had already been planning a brief visit to the college anyway, he said, to consult with the mages about a matter for the jarl. Since dragons haven’t happened yet I suspect it has something to do with Balgruuf’s creepy son, the one who is talking to the Daedra in the basement. Mephala? Or Namira? One of those. So far she hasn’t spoken to me and I’m very okay with that.

I was put in a tiny room, probably part of the servant’s quarters reserved for retainers of visiting nobles, which is sort of what I am, I suppose. Balgruuf called me Idgrod’s “ward” and that’s as apt a description as any. She’s taking care of me, making arrangements, even gave me a little spending money.

I spent most of the day trying to work the wagon ride kinks out of my spine. I walked down to the Market stalls, bought a few ingredients from Arcadia and used her alembic to make a healing potion like Lami taught me. I wanted to have one for the road, just in case. She and I had a nice chat while I worked. The backstory Idgrod gave me is that I’m a Breton war widow whose dead Legionnaire husband (we decided his name was Drevor) had family ties to Morthal. Having no family or prospects Idgrod took me into her service and is sending me to Winterhold to research something from one of her visions. I practiced it in my head a dozen times but stumbled when Arcadia innocently asked how long I’d been married. Damn but people are nosy. At least it gives me something to mull over while I procrastinate. I haven’t forgotten about writing Viarmo back, I just don’t know what to say. I wish I could send a letter just to Bendt, but I’m pretty sure he can’t read.

*******

After spending almost all day wandering around I bumped into Lisette! She was coming out of the Bannered Mare as I was heading for the stairs and we had an embarrassingly girly reunion right there in front of the town well. Before I knew it we were sitting at a table in the Mare with Jorn and Aia (who gave me the stink-eye, but I ignored her) catching up over mead. They were all still dusty from the road, I noticed. When I asked what they were all doing in Whiterun uncertainty crossed all their faces at once. Lisette said it was unusual to tour so close to the Festival, but that Viarmo had insisted. And speak of the devil the Headmaster himself popped out of nowhere just then, grinning broadly and urging me to have dinner with them. I couldn’t very well say no, but I did pay for my own meal. It was nice, at first, I got to recount everything that happened since the Blue Palace. Even Aia listened intently. I can only imagine that they were all mentally composing their own ballads about the tragic murder of High King Torygg. They can fight amongst themselves about whose is better later. I had just gotten to the bit about the Morthal vampires when a blonde man I didn’t recognize pulled a chair right up to our table and plopped himself down beside me.

“Good evening fellow Bards!” he drawled like they were old friends. The others collectively rolled their eyes. Viarmo looked like he could chew through his beer stein. This turned out to be Mikael, who shamelessly flirted with everyone at the table-and I do mean everyone-until the matron barked at him to get back to work. Then oh the side-eyed gossiping once he was gone! Jorn called him an “absolute dog” who “couldn’t be left alone with a fresh cheese.” I think that might be a euphemism.

We all talked for a long while before I actually got any kind of sense of what they were doing there in the first place. Viarmo said he has a friend, Adonato Leotelli, who is visiting Skyrim from Cyrodiil and they were supposed to meet in Whiterun. He decided to make a trip out of it, since bards need “constant stimulation and must challenge each other regularly.” Aia took up that thread and went to riff with Mikael, who was soon just playing back up for her. Attitude aside I have to concede that she’s very good. Lisette and Jorn soon joined in, leaving just me and Viarmo at the table. While the crowd of regulars gathered around the fire, clapping and hooting, it did not escape my attention that the elf scooted himself as close as he could get to me without touching.

“I don’t want you to go to Winterhold.” He blurted out once we were alone. “You can come back with us. Everyone misses you.”

Now I wasn’t drunk, but he was well on his way. He flushed, making those green eyes of his practically glow. And I’ll admit thinking he was very pretty right then, looking all bothered and vulnerable. I always assumed that, being an elf, Viarmo was probably a great deal older than me, but now I don’t think so. He might only be in his thirties or forties, which is really young when you could conceivably live to two hundred. That idea clicked for me, and I think for the first time I saw him as just a guy, instead of an authority figure.

Of course, I can’t just shelve my plans. I told him that I miss them all too, but Idgrod gave me a task and I owe her to complete it before I can return to Solitude, which I do plan on doing eventually.

“And besides,” I said trying to lighten the mood, “I’m sure not everyone is sad to see me gone. Aia does not like me.”

“Aia thinks she deserves the world’s regard and anyone who doesn’t agree should go to Oblivion.” He said more heatedly than I expected. Well, at least now I know that I’m not the only one who thinks that Aia is stuck up. I couldn’t help it, that made me smile. He smiled back.

And I’ll never know what might have happened after that. The music stopped; glass shattered. An explosion of slurred battle cries and flying flatware suddenly erupted from the center of the room. I could just see Jorn through the crowd, pounding the absolute shit out of Mikael. The city guard must have heard the ruckus and came flooding through the door. Viarmo ushered me out through the kitchen.

I never did find out what Mikael did to piss off Jorn enough to warrant such an epic ass whooping. Even Lisette was surprised. Mikael was limping and doubled over the arm of a guard when they finally came out. I followed them up to the Keep, because both men either couldn’t or wouldn’t pay their fines and found it preferable to spend the night in a cell. By then it was late. Our travel party was supposed to leave for Winterhold at dawn, so I reluctantly said my goodbyes to the group. I hugged each of them, even Aia which seemed to annoy her (bonus) leaving Viarmo for last. He didn’t get too handsy, but he did press his face into my hair and mumbled for me to write. Often. They went back to the Bannered Mare and I slunk back to my little room to get a few hours sleep.

Chapter Text

Winterhold

Middas, 1st of Sun’s Height 4E201

I am never traveling with Farengar again. I can barely stand to be in the same room with him after that journey. It started out fine, we left Whiterun with two female guards, Mette and Juni, and our driver which thankfully was not Jervar this time, but an old Nord named Axel (really). He reminded me a lot of Jack Palance. I kept picturing him with a cowboy hat and annoyed Farengar with my inexplicable snickering. Axel drives the stage from Whiterun to Windhelm then up to Winterhold picking up and dropping off passengers and cargo along the way, then he turns around and does it again. That’s how Farengar will go back, Balgruuf paid for a round trip.

Even though the mage’s expenses were covered, even though he was given not one but two bodyguards, food and accommodation when it was available, the man spent the entire trip complaining about absolutely everything. I’m not saying I don’t agree with some of his points, sleeping out in tents isn’t my favorite thing either, and traveling by stage is slow, but good lord did it get old.

He also can’t seem to stop being condescending either. I made the mistake of asking about the book he was reading on the first day, just to try to make conversation.

The first words out of his mouth were: “I doubt you could comprehend it even if I explained it to you in the most basic terms.”

Yeah. Five days of that. So fun. Any time anyone asked a question, or even made an offhanded remark his responses were very much in the same vein. You are all ignorant and inferior peasants, blah blah blah. If all mages were like that, I would rethink this whole trip.

We stopped and stayed at the Candlehearth Inn in Windhelm on day two. I wasn’t sure what to expect. In the game it was probably my least favorite city, it just looked severe and bleak and cold, even the “nice” parts above the Grey Quarter. Sadly it was all of that magnified by the power of smell. There’s this perpetual odor of hot metal, human waste, and fish that just hangs over the city. And unlike Morthal, where I got used to the swampy muck stench, Windhelm just kept finding new ways to ruin my day. It’s spring now, so it’s not completely covered in the snow and ice shown in the game, but that made it worse. I could feel the water vapor laced with who knows what germy goodness rising out of the stones as we walked through the gates, swirling around our ankles with every step. Axel had cargo to pick up the next day, so even though it was just after midday when we arrived, we stayed overnight. It gave everyone a chance to stretch. The four of us left Axel at the stables and went to the Inn to check in. We had two rooms reserved for us, and Farengar of course insisted that he should have one to himself. The prick. That meant that Mette, Juni, and I had to share a room with just two beds, but it sort of worked out. While he spent the whole time alone in his room the rest of us explored the Grey Quarter (at my insistence). It is slummy, and all the street filth does run down into the quarter when it rains, you can see the flood stains. For all that though I wanted to throw some business the elves’ way, especially after hearing some very casual racist remarks from people not only at the inn, but in the street, which I won’t repeat here. Windhelm makes Solitude seem like a progressive haven by comparison. There’s still anger toward elves in Solitude of course, but the open, tolerated hostility in Ulfric Stormcloak’s city is truly sickening. It doesn’t help that with their jarl still MIA there’s a lot of uncertainty in the city. The steward is in charge, so it’s not exactly a state of chaos, but you can feel the tension.

We found some really great food at a tiny hole in the wall run by an old dunmer couple, Vonoron and Tirvise. They were suspicious of us at first, I couldn’t really blame them, but my foreignness helped break the ice. I explained that where I’m from there were so few elves that I had never seen one before coming to Skyrim (that’s not exactly a lie) so I wanted to experience their culture while passing through.

Elvish food, or at least the cuisine from Morrowind they served, reminded me a lot of Indian. Heavy on the spice and frost miriam, with a tang of something that almost passed for citrus but turned out to be a very assertive yogurt. I made a point of praising it until the proprietors were grinning from ear to ear and even gave us free dessert, which was warm bread pudding with roasted nuts on top. Easily the highlight of the trip. If I pass through Windhelm again I will definitely go back.

Mette and Juni eventually relaxed and by the time we returned to the inn from wandering the market stalls we set up a sleep-over arrangement in our one room and munched on apples and cheese for dinner while we chatted.

Turns out Mette is a widow who started doing mercenary work in Whiterun. Then she was injured on a job and had to settle for joining the Guard to keep her kids fed. Juni grew up on a farm but wanted to travel and hit things. She’s seeing a guard from Dawnstar and they plan to settle down and raise a family when their fighting days are over. It was so sweet, listening to this woman who could crush my skull with her bare fist talk about all the babies she wants someday.

I decided to sleep in my bedroll on the floor, mostly because I didn’t trust that the inn’s beds wouldn’t be full of bugs and who knows what other nastiness, but I didn’t mention that. Mette and Juni spent the rest of the trip after that making sure that I was comfortable.

The journey north from Windhelm to Winterhold was uneventful. Except that Axel and Juni took down a sabre cat. It didn’t attack, in fact it looked like it was gnawing on roadkill as we rolled up, but they weren’t going to take any chances. Juni shot it with an arrow from the wagon, then Axel finished it off with his axe. We all helped skin, gut, and dress it, except for Farengar who sat on his ass the whole time complaining about how long we were taking. I’m glad he was ignored. It would have been upsetting to kill the cat and just leave its carcass on the side of the road. Axel packed the meat in snow and sold it cheap to the Innkeeper at the Frozen Hearth once we arrived.

Even in summer the mountains to the north where the Mage’s college was built are stupid cold. The wind blows straight off the water and into your bones. Winterhold is larger than it seemed in the game, like most things, but you can see the ruins of the abandoned houses and broken architecture from the great collapse everywhere.

By the time we arrived on day five it was late and the college had closed its gates, so once again we took rooms at the inn. Axel joined us in the main room for supper, which was nice because once he has a few drinks in him he starts telling horrible, raunchy stories about all the weird shit he’s seen as a driver over the years. And once again I couldn’t help but imagine him as the Marlboro Man with a cowboy hat and spurs riding a mammoth, which made his stories even funnier. My favorite was the one about a bandit outside Windhelm who was so drunk that he tried to rob Axel with a wooden sword. Any story that ends with “And there he was, standing bare-assed in the snow, and me with his coin purse” is an instant hit around here.

All four of us were rolling and red faced by the time we finished our last round. Farengar elected to eat alone in his room. The innkeeper was nice enough to give me a tiny room of my own once he saw what a selfish dickhole the mage was being. He might also just be a teeny bit prejudiced against mages. Since they don’t get much traffic and the room wasn’t being used anyway, he said it was no hardship. I still ordered a very big breakfast in the morning and tipped the serving girl, which confused her into a fit of giggles. I guess tipping is only a bard thing? This confuses me.

Anyway, we walked up to the college the next morning, with Farengar leading the way with his chest puffed out like he owned the place. There was no one standing guard at the entrance on the outskirts of town. That always seemed like a ridiculous thing to ask someone to do, just stand here and wait for new students to cast a spell or be convincing enough to let in? What a boring job. The seal at the entrance recognized Farengar as a mage and let us pass.

We trudged up the ramps for what felt like ten fucking miles with the wind blowing across our path the whole way and not a single railing in sight in some sections. Oh Dear Sweet Buttery Jesus WHY?! I get there was a collapse but…mages can’t hire masons? Or tie a rope across the exposed bits? Something??? I started chanting the Bene Gesserit mantra from Dune to keep myself from freaking out or throwing up. It helps.

By the time we got to the actual college gates, huffing and wind-burned in a single file line, Tolfdir was already waiting for us. What a nice man. He was even nice to Farengar, which puts him in the lead for the most patient person in the universe contest as far as I’m concerned, right behind Idgrod. He showed us to our temporary rooms in the dormitory, we each got our own, even Mette and Juni which must have been a pleasant change for them.

There really are NO DOORS. None. Not a single door to any of the dorm cells. When I asked why that was Tolfdir said there are doors, but they have to be activated by magic, it’s one of their little initiations for new mages. You want privacy? Figure it out. How fun, there’s hazing for mages.

I thought about asking him to just tell me how to do it, but it felt wrong, like asking for the answers to a pop quiz you didn’t study for. Instead I squeezed into the full-sized wardrobe to change out of my traveling clothes and promised myself as I knocked my elbows into the wood panels that during my stay here I will endeavor to learn a little magic. Maybe something practical, like fire, since I may never see my Zippo again. Invisibility would be sweet too. I’ll ask around and see if anyone is willing to show me a thing or two. But first! Tomorrow I head to the library and start studying that book. How crazy would it be if I came across the spell to activate the mirror on day one? That would be great. Incredibly unlikely, but great.

Chapter Text

Winterhold

Turdas, 9th of Sun’s Height 4E201

Urag the Librarian is a terrifying man. Orcs look like straight up demons in person, with their crazy long canines and green skin, but that’s not why he’s scary. Urag takes his job very seriously. When Tolftir directed me to the library I didn’t know what to expect, so I wore a set of novice robes they provided (which are exceptionally comfortable, I’m going to ask if I can keep them) and approached him as a pupil would. That might have been a mistake, because he immediately asked me a number of embarrassing questions about my hygiene regimen.

I didn’t say “Hey buddy I don’t plan on picking up the book with my butt cheeks” but I certainly thought it loudly.

I started to explain my task and who I was but he already knew. Idgrod wrote him personally, which is the only reason he’s tolerating my presence in his precious library. I sat through a lecture on proper handling and book conservation for about an hour before he finally sat me at a small desk where he could keep an eye on me and placed the book down like a cleric with some holy relic. He handed me a pair of soft gloves and tiny silver tweezers for page turning. By the time he left me with it I was terrified to so much as breath on the damned thing. At least someone had been nice enough to mark the section in the book I needed with a scrap of parchment.

The book is called: A Treatise on Harmonic Displacement: From Theory to Practice. Catchy. There’s also no attributed author, or rather there isn’t any more if the scorch marks are any indication. No wonder Urag is so nervous about letting strangers touch his books. I had to ask for a dictionary as well, which seemed to both annoy and amuse him. I ran across about a dozen new words on the first page alone. It’s been a week now and I’ve gotten through four and a half pages. This is going to take forever.

Farengar, Mette and Juni all left to return to Whiterun this morning. I will miss those badass ladies. They seemed genuinely sad that I wasn’t going with them and I told them to stay in touch. I mean it too, I’d love to get letters from someone other than Viarmo, though I haven’t heard from him or anyone else for that matter since we left Dragonsreach. Juni promised to deliver my correspondence to Jarl Balgruuf herself and to make sure my letters to Idgrod and the Bard’s College are sent from Whiterun. According to the locals getting mail in Winterhold is irregular at best. Sometimes couriers simply vanish on the long, icy road up here.

The court wizard gave me a very polite, formal farewell in front of the gates before heading off to meet Axel at the Inn. He spent most of his time picking the brains of the other mages here while I’ve been studying. From what I’ve overheard I think I was right that he was trying to find some reason and/or cure for Balgruuf’s youngest son’s behavioral problems. From the sour look on his face I guess it wasn’t successful, but it’s hard to tell, he kind of always looks like that. So…I probably shouldn’t have but I mentioned in my letter to the jarl that he might want to investigate the locked door in the keep. I told him that while I stayed down there, I thought I heard a child’s voice whispering to someone through the door and that I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but I had since heard about the boy’s odd behavior. Hopefully he won’t take it the wrong way.

Farengar might be pissed if he finds out I went over his head, but I don’t really care. I tried to talk to him about it before and he completely shot me down saying I should “learn my place and stop trying to interfere with matters that don’t concern me.” Maybe there’s a nugget of truth in there but coming from him it just made me angry. Trying to help a little boy isn’t my place? Donkey balls it isn’t! I saved at least two people in Morthal and the universe hasn’t collapsed, so if I’m careful maybe the butterfly effect won’t destroy the timeline as I know it after all. Plus I’m not going anywhere near that door myself. I don’t remember the details, but I’m pretty sure it’s a cursed sword in there. No thanks. Balgruuf can just move the damned thing somewhere more secure and far away from his family, problem solved. The DB can figure it out later. Speaking of, still no news on that front, nothing about Ulfric being arrested, or anything weird happening in Helgen. Yet.

Chapter Text

Winterhold

Sundas, 12th of Sun’s Height 4E201

I’ve gotten through a whole six pages in the book and…I don’t understand any of it. I’m trying! But whoever wrote it had to have been a seasoned academic, that’s the only excuse for all the insider jargon and eleven-syllable words I keep having to look up.

On the bright side I’ve already learned a spell! I wasn’t sure how magic works in this universe exactly, everyone seems to be able to do magic if they just memorize the right phrase or pick up a staff, but I’ve never been clear on where the power comes from exactly. Enchanting requires soul gems (which I’m not comfortable with, even if we’re just talking animal souls you’re still enslaving the spirit of another creature and that’s messed up) but regular magic seems to draw energy from the caster’s own body. Faralda taught me a simple fire spell. She also took pity on me and showed me how to activate the door runes in my room. No more sleeping fully clothed!

“It’s not about memorization exactly,” she said, “but about focusing intent. Spoken spells help beginners with that, but the caster must always be very clear about what they want to happen. If you only think ‘fire’ without concentrating on where it should go, how intense you want it, and how far away from your skin it should be cast, you’re risking incineration just to light a candle.”

Then she started describing mana. I wasn’t sure if I even have any, since I wasn’t born in this universe. I always thought of it as a reserve of special energy that you draw from, but Faralda said that’s a contrivance. It’s more like running or lifting weights, that energy is coming from your body. Same concept, just from a set of “muscles” you don’t use for anything else. After a few completely failed attempts I managed a tiny spark and felt like I’d just run a marathon. I don’t think Faralda even expected me to manage that and told me to keep practicing. As condescending as her Altmer accent makes her sound I can tell that she really does want me to succeed and I’m grateful for the encouragement.

There must be something about this planet or this universe at large that allows magic to be tapped into, otherwise just thinking about setting stuff on fire would have worked on Earth…and our entire society would be WAY different as a result. No one seems to know what that something is, of course. How could they? I’d love to discuss it with some of the instructors, but I’m not comfortable with letting everyone and their brother know that I’m not native to Nirn. At best it would result in a lot of unwanted attention from every scholar and mage in Tamriel. At worst it would put a target on my back. I have zero interest in becoming anyone’s guinea pig, particularly since they haven’t developed anesthetics here yet. Skooma doesn’t count.

Still, I’ll be practicing the fire spell until I’ve got it down and hopefully feel less horribly weak after casting. It also gave me a headache, which is less than ideal. All my painkillers are still in Solitude. I’d ask Viarmo to just send my stuff here but that would tempt him to look at it, which I don’t want, and it could get lost or stolen on the way, which would also suck. No, it’s better if I work with what I have. There are alchemy stations all over the college, it’s just ingredients that are difficult to get. There’s only so much you can forage from a frozen wasteland.

Chapter Text

Winterhold

Loredas, 18th of Sun’s Height 4E201

I finally gave up and just transcribed the marked section of the book and sent it off to Morthal for Falion to figure out. Took a full day to copy. After that I was left with time on my hands, and a cramp, so I’ve been scouring the library for anything that looks useful or interesting. Urag still keeps a watchful eye on me, but that’s okay. I found a basic invisibility spell! My number one most favorite superpower ever! I still haven’t been able to actually make it work, but that will just take time and practice. I can also hold a small flame now without burning myself. When I can hit a target Faralda promised that we’ll move on to ice next. She’s sparing in her praise, but I think I’m doing okay.

I can’t say that I understand the magic theory books that are recommended for apprentices. All of them seem to have been written with the assumption that the student already has a rudimentary understanding of how magic works in a practical sense. Since I’m only just getting a grasp on that, and it’s really more instinctual than intellectual, I’ve found it’s more useful to listen in on the periodic lectures given in the main hall with the other students. Colette gave an interesting, if somewhat passive aggressive, speech about the importance of the Restoration school that put healing and wards back on my radar.

My reading has been geared toward histories. I wish I had paid more attention to the codex before, but I’m making up for it now. A section in a collection of stories centered around Queen Potema caught my attention. It was just a brief passage, which I’ve copied:

“Upon her arrival much pomp and celebration were decreed. Her husband, King Mantiarco, withered by age and unseen by his young bride, sought her love most eagerly and dangled power before her as one might tempt a child with a bauble. Many a well-known painter found his end in Solitude then, for no commissioned portrait was found acceptable to the new queen. Greater in size and embellishments each offering became. Still greater the count of bloody heads did roll from the block for her disappointment. Finally, the artisan Dervenin presented the queen not with a portrait, but a magnificent looking glass of grand scale and exceptional clarity that she might gaze upon her loveliness unadulterated. Only then was the Wolf Queen satisfied.”

Granted this sounds more like a fairy tale version of events and I haven’t been able to find any other references to Dervenin yet, but it sure as hell sounds like the mirror I fell out of. It even had a painting stretched over it, which my hefty ass ripped to Oblivion on impact. Not a bad hiding place. I’ll copy that passage and send it to Falion as well.

In the meantime, I need to figure out what to do about Saarthal. Tolfdir talks about the dig with such boundless enthusiasm it’s hard not to get caught up in it. Then I remember the utterly pointless clusterfuck that occurs after they find the Eye of Magnus. This isn’t an easy one to fix. Tolfdir won’t abandon the site for anything and if I tell him what’s down there he will just be more likely to want to see for himself. How do I keep them from uncovering it? I wish it was as simple as clearing everyone out and dynamite blasting the whole complex til it’s just a smoking pile of rubble. I realize that would be a huge loss of local history, like nuking the pyramids, but that glowing ball of fuckery needs to stay buried.

Fortunately, Tolfdir is adamant, at least for now, that it’s no place for students. As far as my limited influence goes I’ll encourage that line of thinking. So far they’ve only just gotten to the first chamber and are busy cataloging every pottery shard they find. I also haven’t seen Ancano yet, so there should still be time.

Maybe I can cheat a little and tell them Idgrod Saw something in one of her visions, something dangerous that would lead to the Arch Mage’s death. That might get Savos’ attention if nothing else. Okay so it would be a lie, and I would be using Idgrod’s name to get my way, but it would also mean that several people won’t have to die.

However, there are two problems with that tactic:

A) The Arch Mage and Tolfdir would be totally justified in writing Idgrod to ask her if I’m telling the truth.

B) If I ask Idgrod for her permission first, so that she can confirm what I’ve told the mages, her next logical question would be how I know what’s going to happen at Saarthal. I really don’t want to have to explain that, especially in the form of a letter. A letter that could be read by anyone else who happens to get hold of it from here to there. If we have to have that conversation, I’d prefer to do it in person somewhere private.

So far all of the books Urag has been able to find on Saarthal are common histories, which Tolfdir has already read through, so I know there won’t be any references to the Eye then. They deal with the involvement of Ysgramor, the Night of Tears, and tend to skew to the Nord perspective. Not very helpful. I also haven’t been able to find much on the Psjic Order. The only interesting tidbit that I didn’t know was that they’ve disappeared more than once in history. The first time was in the 1st Era, then again about a hundred years ago. That seems significant to me. None of this gives me any insight on how to stop the Eye from being discovered, however. I’m getting frustrated.

**********************************************

I needed advice. I absolutely needed someone to help me with the Saarthal dilemma, in my mind anyway, so I did something incredibly stupid and dangerous. I went to find the Augur of Dunlain. Clearly it didn’t kill me, but I’m not exactly in one piece either.

The Midden isn’t hard to get into, turns out. I snuck down there after midnight with a pack of supplies and a hatchet Sergius gave me to practice enchanting on. I managed a weak fire rune. What I should have brought was someone who actually knows how to fight. At first I just kept running into skeevers. I HATE skeevers. They’re like the greasy, disease-riddled love children of garbage-fed possums and the ROUS’ from Princess Bride. Only not as charming. The first one I killed on instinct. It skittered at me in the dark and all those hours of chopping wood in Solitude paid off when my hatchet connected with its skull. It wasn’t pretty. Also, downside to fire runes: the smell.

*Note to self: get a crossbow and convince someone to teach you how to use it.

No trolls, thank God, but I eventually had to deal with a couple skeletons. Maybe I have some Sneak in me, because I managed to stay low and got behind them. They can’t have very good eyesight, since they don’t have…eyes. How does that work?? Anyway, you can just knock them over if you give them a solid hit to the spine from behind. They still move, though. The jaws still work and the finger bones flex for a few seconds once they’re down. Ugh. The most dangerous thing was how dark it is down there. I had a torch, but it only did so much. There are pits and crumbling stairways covered in ice, I’m surprised I didn’t fall and split my head open. It took hours to find my way through the maze of corridors and chambers and half-collapsed tunnels.

I don’t know what I expected when I finally found him. It? Maybe just a mad hope that he would have answers, or insight. Something. And he did, after a fashion.

There’s something very cathartic about telling your life story to an incorporeal ball of light. Everything I can’t say to anyone else just fell out of my mouth. Not just about the college. About missing home, about the constant worry and anxiety I feel every day about doing the wrong thing or saying the wrong thing. When I finally stopped, I realized that my cheeks were soaked, and I was shaking. Shit. I guess I’ve been bottling everything up all this time. Just shoving it all down, deflecting with humor, it’s what I’ve always done. Only I’m not suppressing intimacy issues, or impostor syndrome. I’m scared, well and truly scared, in a way I never was before Skyrim. And I’ve been lucky! People have been willing to help me, and I’ve managed to stay out of trouble. But the fear is still there. I just didn’t realize how much damage I was doing to myself by not acknowledging it.

He let me finish, not that I gave him any say. The monotone voice was in my head, not projected from the light or anywhere external like I thought it would be; that was a bit jarring.

He said: “You know more than you credit, Little Traveler. The simplest answer is often correct, is it not?”

I had to think about that for a second while I wiped tears and snot into my sleeve. To me the simplest answer would be to tell the truth, but that’s a risk, one I found unacceptable, which I told him.

The Augur sort of…pulsed which might have indicated an emotional response, or he could have been flexing for all know. “Do as you will. Mention Atmah to Savos, if you choose, ask him if he still lights a candle for her.” He said. “If events unfold as you say we will speak again. I hope for your sake and those who dwell above, that we may not.” POOF.

All of that and I got maybe two minutes of dialogue out of him before he blinked into nothing. Won’t lie, I felt like an idiot for going all the way down there just for that. And who in the sweet hell is Atmah?

I sat on a bit of mossy ground, drank some water, shoved a piece of bread in my mouth and absolutely did not cry again. Nope. Not even a little bit.

Once I was done not crying, I started climbing back up through the Midden, which should have been the most boring part of the excursion. I’m either sneakier than I thought, or the stupid thing was sleeping on my first pass-through because I walked right into an ice wraith! I didn’t see it before I felt it, like a blast from an open fridge, then it was all teeth and panicky, frantic ax swings. Eventually I managed to hit it in the head and it crumpled into a smoking pile of dry ice. Probably because of the cold I didn’t realize that it had bitten me until I saw the blood spurting from my left hand. The ring finger and pinky were both just sort of dangling by a flap of skin. I managed to wrap it up with a bit of cloth and hauled ass back to the surface. Thankfully I had one of my healing potions on me or I would have really been screwed. It wasn’t strong enough to heal it completely, but the flesh knit enough to slow down the bleeding.

I’m told that I was found near the hatchway in the courtyard babbling in an incomprehensible language. I don’t remember any of it but knowing me I was probably violently cursing in English. They got me to Colette. She fixed me up and managed to save the fingers. I’ll probably have some serious scars, though. Also had to sit through several lectures about wandering off by myself with so little training.

Colette demanded that I stay in bed for at least two days to recover from all the blood loss. It gave me ample time to think about what the Augur said. Absolute truth may not be the best tactic. I don’t think that’s what he was suggesting, either. I decided to be honest about what’s relevant to the situation and not to wait. Waiting too long to do a thing just gets your ass in trouble, my run-in with Ulfric proved that to me. It took some whining, but I eventually got the Arch Mage to come speak with me. I retconned the reason I went down there.

‘Went to find the Augur because of stupid curiosity and wouldn’t you know it he had some foreboding shit to say about Saarthal. You should shut down the dig.’ And so forth. He looked like the physical embodiment of the word “skeptical” til I told him what the Augur said about lighting a candle for someone named Atmah. That got his attention, in fact I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his skull. Turns out Atmah was the head of the Labyrinthian expedition, the one only Savos survived. He still feels guilty for her death. I put on my best innocent face and waited for him to draw his own connections to Labyrinthian and what could happen at Saarthal.

I’m up and about again and word is the dig is being restricted. Only Tolfdir and Arniel are allowed in and they’re not to touch or remove anything without Savos’ expressed permission. That still leaves a slim chance that someone will go against his orders, or just sneak in there and pull some shenanigans, but at least now it’s way less likely that a certain student will stumble into the trap waiting down there. Unlike using Idgrod as my excuse I very much doubt that Savos will go looking for the Augur. It’s still a lie, or at least a half truth, that got Savos to act. And I know that it’s a slippery slope, one minute you’re lying to save lives, the next you’re justifying every decision to get your way. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be that person. Maybe that’s why I hang onto fear, it reminds me not to get comfortable, not to stop questioning myself. Fear keeps me grounded. I’m acknowledging it, but I’m not going to banish it.

Chapter Text

Winterhold

Fredas, 24th of Sun’s Height 4E201

Axel is back again. Some of the other apprentices dragged me from the dorm at the ass crack of dawn to go down to the inn to pick up mail. I was rewarded with a stack of letters, which Axel handed me himself. We all sat down to a round of drinks (I do not have a problem! Mead for breakfast is completely normal in Skyrim) and for the hundredth time I was forced to tell the heroic tale of how I got my fingers bitten off in the name of curiosity. Since my little misadventure I’ve suddenly developed a completely undeserved reputation as a badass. It’s deeply embarrassing. I try to downplay it, truncate the story, but without fail someone will chime in over my shoulder and make the ordeal last even longer. The other students keep embellishing and adding new details, it feels like the story has taken on a life of its own. Axel sat back and looked like he was enjoying the spectacle. He can’t possibly believe any of it. He saw me cower in the wagon on the way up here when Mette spotted that sabre cat on the road, he witnessed the extent of my marshmallowy battle prowess. I got LUCKY in the Midden. I did something stupid and I am lucky to still have a pulse. I’m not going to let myself forget that.

Once I was done rushing through my story Axel regaled us with the latest gossip. He said there are rumors of the Imperials getting close to tracking down Ulfric Stormcloak. Word is that Tulius was furious when he escaped Solitude (imagine that) and has been trying to find him since, but the slippery bugger kept disappearing. Outside of Morthal the Imperials assumed he would take the northern route and get to Dawnstar as quickly as possible, since he has known support from Skald, but now the reports say he was spotted south riding through the Reach like a bat-outta-hell, then they lost him again. The Forsworn hate his guts, so that was a risky move. Dude has balls. I still think he should choke on a dick for taking me hostage, but he’s got balls.

He’ll get captured, eventually, and that will signal the official start of the game timeline and the return of Alduin, at least I hope it still works out that way. I have been worried about that. I don’t regret interfering with Alva in Morthal, or dropping hints about Balgruuf’s son, or even that messy business with the ice wraith, since the outcome did get Saarthal restricted, but the more I think about it the more anxiety I have. I can’t know what changes could lead to disaster. Do I just keep living my life like I belong here or go camp out in a cave before I fuck up something important? Something that could lead to Alduin winning? There’s a lot of T.S. Eliot in my head right now. My last letter to Idgrod addressed all that, I read her reply when I returned to the library, but I can’t say it reassured me much.

Mage’s College Winterhold

My Dear Esme,

I am pleased to hear that you arrived in Winterhold safely. Falion is busy studying the transcribed pages of the Treatise.

He and I have spoken at length about your situation and the implications you fear. Academically it is a fascinating topic, but I’m sure you are more interested in practical ramifications. I do not have answers, only perspective.

During your convalescence you once inferred that your people do not believe in the Divines. It is a deeply personal journey to faith, one that I have walked for many years, and I will not attempt to convince you one way or another. I will say that I have felt their influence through my Sight. I have never hidden this. We mortals cannot know the motives of the Infinite, men have gone mad attempting to do so, but I like to think that the effort they expend to reach out to us serves more than petty vanity. There is a larger goal we cannot see. If you embrace your part in it, I promise peace of mind will eventually follow.

In the meantime, I encourage you to continue to learn from the mages. They can teach you valuable skills that may save your life someday.

By the way I was surprised to receive another letter from the Headmaster of the Bards recently. He is keen to see you return to Solitude, so much so that he asked for my intervention in the matter. I will of course do no such thing. Your life is your own. I do think that you should lay down terms with a certain elf, one way or another, soon. To do otherwise would be verging on cruel, and cruel you are not, my friend.

Falion continues his research when he has the time. Should he find something useful I will of course contact you as soon as possible. I feel a great weight looming, of trials soon ahead for us all.

Stay safe.
Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone

It bothers me that she hasn’t said boo about the vamps in Morthal or what happened to Alva. Falion is probably working on that. I wish I could just turn my brain off and let it be, but I feel responsible for what happens now. I’m also not looking forward to explaining my newest injury to her but if I don’t, I’m sure Tolfdir will. My hand is functional, just scarred, so that’s something to be happy about. Maybe she knew, or Saw what happened, and that’s what she means by great weights looming, but I don’t think so.

As for Viarmo, it sounds like Idgrod thinks I’m leading him on. Am I? I didn’t think I was but…well shit now I don’t know. I would rather just leave it unsaid, but then I’d be ghosting him and that’s not any better. Like I don’t have way heavier issues to deal with.

Viarmo’s letter was also in the stack, though it looked worse-for-wear even compared to the others. I read that next, which I’ll pin to the rest of these pages. (I miss my notebook! I’ve had to resort to stacking loose pieces of parchment in a leather satchel I bought in Windhelm.)

Mage’s College Winterhold

Esme,

Thank you for informing us of your safe arrival. Your journeys have become an amusing diversion for many, and the students look forward to your letters most eagerly. I encourage you to be as descriptive as possible. This will help sharpen your writing skills and will hopefully satisfy the curious, who often bombard me with questions I cannot answer.

Evette San sends a bottle of spiced wine with this message along with her well-wishes. I hope the bottle stays intact on the long journey. The Burning of King Olaf Festival is set for the end of Last Seed. I sincerely hope to see you in attendance if you are able. The Festival is the pride of the college and I would be gratified to know that you were able to enjoy it. Bendt has promised to make a truly obscene amount of boiled crème treats. Alternatively, if your newfound studies keep you in Winterhold please inform me when you will next be in Whiterun. I would enjoy meeting up again, perhaps without any drunken brawls this time.

Yours,
Viarmo

He has a sense of humor! Who knew? Also, the wine was okay. What I don’t understand is why the Festival hasn’t been cancelled yet. Torygg is dead, so why is it still on? Maybe it took so long to get the letter that Elisef hadn’t made any declaration about it yet when he wrote it? I’m going to go with that. Because I don’t want to believe that Viarmo would lie just to get me back to Solitude. Still it would be nice to see everyone. I want to stop in Morthal to visit Idgrod and speak with Falion, then go on to Solitude and pick up my stuff. If Falion has any useful insight by then maybe he will go with me and check out the mirror himself. That would have to be easier on him than trying to figure the thing out just through vague historical references and my less than helpful description. The room was dark, after all and that was nearly six months ago!

The third letter I received was from Jarl Balgruuf thanking me for the insight about his son. Unfortunately, I had a little accident while practicing my fire spell and that letter is no more. Faralda assures me that my eyebrows will grow back in no time.

Chapter Text

Winterhold

Sundas, 26th of Sun’s Height 4E201

Money is and isn’t a problem. Of the hundred septims Idgrod gave me for “incidentals” I have thirteen left. Like being at the Bard’s College it’s a relief not to have to worry about food or tuition, but you’re still responsible for most other consumables, including alchemy ingredients, parchment, ink, soul gems if you’re into enchanting, etc. I’ve blown most of the gold on writing supplies (I keep academic notes separate from journal entries) and decent meals.

I miss Bendt’s cooking so much! No one actually cooks here. Some of the faculty use their personal alembics to brew tea and soup, but that’s dangerous if you’re not an expert. Great way to poison yourself. Students are expected to feed and clean up after themselves, one way or another. Since the attitude among most mages is if you can’t do it with magic then it’s not worth doing domestics tend to be low on everyone’s priority list.

Rumor has it that years ago a novice tried to Conjure up a servant to clean up after him and ended up summoning a dremora by mistake. Supposedly the dremora wore the student’s head as a hat and went on a rampage through the Hall until the Arch Mage banished it back to whatever realm it came from. Savos will neither confirm nor deny this. Nice to know that campus cautionary tales are a thing no matter what universe you’re in.

I got sick of eating half-frozen veggies and bread from the inn (it has a weird aftertaste that I can’t identify) and eventually found the kitchen, if you can even call it that. There’s an open pantry with a single oven on the upper level of the Hall of Countenance. The room is practically an icebox when the oven isn’t lit, so the produce Axel brings and things like flour and butter keep well without magic. After hours of wood chopping, ingredient gathering, and looking for something that would make a semi decent rolling pin I managed to make flat bread. That naturally led to pizza. Well, as close to pizza as I could get. There’s nothing that can really dup as oregano, but I still managed to make a decent tomato sauce with tons of garlic, onion, and a little frost miriam. I had to settle for sharper cheese than I’m used to and substituted smoked horker meat for sausage. It was okay, like the sort of thing you improvise as an after-school snack when your mom won’t spring for bagel bites. The apprentices were divided between being baffled by the lopsided, slightly burnt monstrosity I made and thrilled that there was something hot to eat.

Unfortunately, now they all think they can make requests. Maybe I’ll start charging, that would bolster my funds for when I need to travel again. That should be in about ten days, give or take. I missed Axel thanks to a migraine. I knew it would happen eventually, but I still had that “oh no” moment last night before supper where I felt it coming on and couldn’t do anything about it.

There is a tea Birna sells made of comfrey, valerian, and willow bark; ingredients that have to be imported so it’s not cheap. I bought it anyway. Ha. It’s about as strong as children’s aspirin and as effective as tossing ice cubes at a bonfire. Healing potions don’t do much either, so I had to go with the old school method of lying in a dark room, shoving cotton in my ears, and waiting it out.

Colette had some words of warning after treating my hand about abusing healing potions anyway. Apparently, overuse can make them just as addictive as skooma. She called it “Warrior’s Waste.” There’s also a pervasive idea here that migraines are a curse caused by Hermaeus Mora. Colette even asked me, dead serious, if I’d made any deals with the Daedra. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so nauseous at the time. I hope this is just a superstition.

Until Axel comes back I’m going to concentrate on squeezing as much knowledge out of the instructors as possible. Mostly I’ve been bugging Colette, Faralda, and Drevis. My grasp of fire manipulation is pretty solid, but I can’t hit a target to save my life. The fireball just sort of peters out mid-throw. I still haven’t been able to get Invisibility to work at all and Drevis isn’t exactly forthcoming on what I’m doing wrong; I suspect he doesn’t know. He said the Illusion school is tricky because the spells often center around the caster’s emotional state. So, I’m either too emotional or not emotional enough to become invisible…sure, okay that’s helpful, I guess. Maybe I should try meditating? I’ll put that on the back burner for now.

Colette is helping me with basic healing. I hadn’t thought about it before, but she mentioned that I might be better off concentrating on just one school, that tends to be easier for beginners. She probably has a point, I just really, really, reeeeeally want to be invisible…and to get rid of a migraine without drugs. I feel like these are modest life goals.

I wish I had written ahead to Idgrod and Viarmo before Axel left. I’ll just have to wait now. Hiring a courier is expensive and the only one in Winterhold was Ranmir, but he’s “retired” as Dagur the innkeeper put it. I’ll file that away, “retired” means “unemployed alcoholic.” I wouldn’t trust him not to lose the letters in a snowdrift anyway. That sounds less than charitable, I know he is the way he is because he’s in a depression spiral, but his sister doesn’t deserve all the crap he gives her. If not for Birna and Dagur the village probably wouldn’t even exist. They really don’t get enough credit for essentially being the backbone of Winterhold by keeping up trade between Windhelm and the College. This far north large-scale farming is pretty much impossible, hunting and fishing are dangerous, so if the convoy didn’t come regularly to bring food to Winterhold and things like enchanted weapons and potions back to Windhelm everyone would have to decide whether to stay and starve or leave altogether. Whether they like it or not everyone knows that they need the mages.

Tirdas, 28th of Sun’s Height 4E201

I don’t know what possessed me to agree to be Breylna’s test subject. It jogged a vague memory, but I got caught up in her enthusiasm. She was sure that she could remove the ice wraith scars from my hand. Nothing turned green, and I am fairly certain I stayed human, but I’m of the opinion that when your fingertips turn black it’s time to see a professional. I’m sure Colette is getting sick of me.

Can you call a place chaotically boring? Because that’s how I feel about the Mage’s College. The last month has been mostly quiet days studying in the library, walks along the battlements (when it isn’t snowing the view is amazing) and low-key blowing off steam sessions at the inn. Meanwhile there’s a whole dungeon full of monsters beneath our feet. Every demonstration in the Hall of Elements is a spectacular light show and every mage can do things that shouldn’t be possible. Some days it feels like summer camp at Hogwarts. I feel bad that most students are scared shitless. They don’t come out and say it to each other, or the instructors, but for some reason people think it’s safe to tell me their inner most fears. Mom was right, I should have been a shrink. Between the distrust Nords have for them and normal worries about being good enough to graduate I can completely sympathize. How many nights did I lie awake wondering if my degree was worth all the work and debt I was racking up?

Being a mage isn’t exactly a safe occupation either. Not that there is such a thing in Skyrim, even bards have to be careful. Alda once mentioned that young graduates are often approached to be infiltrators. I thought she was blowing smoke up my ass at the time, but several other people have confirmed since that bards make excellent spies. It’s sort of expected that if you’re a full-blown bard you’re probably someone’s agent. With mages it’s kind of the same, every court and influential organization wants their own token mage. It makes sense, use your own personal bard to spy on your enemies, then use your mage to guard against, or attack said enemy. Puts a whole new dimension on the politics of Tamriel that I never thought about before.

I don’t really know where I stand in any of this. I am not a bard and never will be. As Aia once so eloquently put it I have the “voice of a distressed horker.” And I pretty much suck at every instrument besides the lap drum. I’m not a mage either. I can learn spells if I really concentrate, but that’s nothing compared to the natural mages here. Some people are just better at it than others with little to no effort. Breylna said her family knew she would be a mage before she could walk, lit her aunt’s dress on fire while having a teething fit. That must be a scary day for a parent. One minute your baby is just a baby, the next WHOOSH! Honey, we need a new roof.

Chapter Text

Winterhold

Fredas, 7th of Last Seed 4E201

I saw Ancano briefly this morning. At least I’m pretty sure it was him; a tall, white-haired high elf in dark robes was walking with Savos and Mirabelle toward the main Hall as I was leaving the dorm. Hopefully I won’t have to actually talk to him before I leave. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself from getting salty with him.

You’re welcome for saving your greedy, power-hungry, Altmer spy ass, you sour-faced dipshit.

I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid. I never pegged him as the type to get his hands dirty, but he might try to convince a student or get one of his Thalmor agents to sneak into Saarthal for him. I did NOT almost lose my fingers so he could undermine all my work! Since the Midden I’ve been quietly sowing paranoia about the dig among the students. I want them to distrust it, even be scared by it, if only to keep them safe. It’s amazing how the odd comment spoken with sincerity can take root in people’s minds. “I heard a rumor” strikes again! Only this time I’m going to be well away before shit gets real. And everything that I’ve said is 100% true. I really have heard of terrible things lurking in caves and crypts under Skyrim, everyone has. Draugr have a weird place of honor in the hearts of Nords. They’re feared and reviled but also respected for what they once were. Some even pity them. And if they really are humans who swore loyalty to the dragon priests and then were doomed in death, then yeah that’s really sad. Did they have a choice? Maybe some did, but I’ll bet a lot of them just did what they thought they had to. That sort of “doomed to wander for all eternity” thing isn’t so glamorous when your soul is tied to a shambling corpse. I haven’t seen any in person and I hope I never do. The skeletons in the Midden were close enough, thank you very much.

Waiting this long for news is infuriating. If I’m stranded here for much longer I’ll need to find an actual occupation. I can’t live on Idgrod’s charity forever and I wouldn’t want to. I know I can sell potions, at least.

Axel was due back today. I spent most of the afternoon milling around in town, trading potions for traveling gear with Birna, and listening to Nelacar drone on about harmonic interference in respect to tonal deference (which I think translates to “sounds that get in the way of other sounds”) but the wagon never showed up. He might have been delayed. Dagur promised to send word when he turns up at the inn.

As valuable as my time here has been, I’m looking forward to returning to a more hospitable climate. I like snow as much as the next person, but it’s summer and I still can’t walk outside in less than two layers without feeling like my toes are going to fall off. At least the main halls and living quarters at the college are fitted with runes that keep the chill away. The villagers rely on fire. Since Nords run hot they don’t seem to think that it’s a big deal. Lucky bastards.

Wood is a precious resource this far north, so mostly they burn “chips” I found out, which is just a polite term for dried poop. Fire is for cooking or boiling snow; they don’t worry about heating their sleeping spaces. Of course, once I learned where the “chips” come from I stopped eating at the inn altogether. I always wondered where Ranmir gets his drinking money when Birna cuts him off. Now I wish I didn’t know.

When word got around that I’m going to be leaving soon a few people started approaching me with fair wells and little goodbye gifts. Tolftir gave me a spare set of Novice robes, since I like them so much. The robes are much warmer than the simple wool dresses most women wear and infinitely more comfortable than armor. Colette gave me a Restoration scroll for quick healing; in case I get into trouble. She explained that I must focus on my intent to use it, just like when casting. The only difference is that it’s the scroll that knows what to do. It will draw the initial energy from me and then disintegrate as soon as the spell is cast. Unfortunately, I can’t test it without destroying it, so if I’m in a tight spot I’ll just have to trust that it will work. I’ve hidden it way down in my bag for safe keeping.

Urag handed me my very own pocket dictionary with what might have been a smirk (those tusks, man, they’re gnarly but so damn cool). I hugged him for that and for the first time he showed an emotion other than resigned annoyance. After a beat he sort of snort-chuckled and gave me a one-armed squeeze back. He said “You treat books with respect. You’re welcome in my library whenever you need.” Highest compliment anyone could probably get out of him, I think. I damn near got misty eyed over it.

Faralda gave me a plain silver ring to help boost my Destruction spell (she taught me Ice, but for some reason I’m not taking to it as well as the fire spell). I asked her if she wanted anything for it, but she waved me off saying she has a cask full of trinkets set aside for enchanting, this one was a practice piece she has no use for. I learned in one of Sergius’ lectures that you really can enchant anything, but it’s more valuable afterwards if it’s something useful like a weapon or clothing. It would be considered a terrible waste and kind of a mage faux pas to enchant a rock or a hairbrush. Something else to remember for later. I am not comfortable with enchanting, on principle, but I might be forced to use it at some point if only to recharge a weapon. I’m better at potions than anything else. It’s like cooking, except if you screw up the results can kill people. So, yeah exactly like cooking.

I’m not exactly universally liked in Winterhold, but I think at the very least I’m looked at as an amusing oddity by most. That being said Nirya, who hasn’t said a word to me since I arrived, came up to me yesterday and demanded that I “explain myself.” When I asked her what she meant she scoffed and said “If you’re a Breton I’m an argonian housewife. Your accent is incomprehensible, your magic infantile, and your grasp of basic elemental theory almost non-existent. So, I shall ask you again. Explain yourself.”

If I hadn’t had all this time to round out my backstory, I would have probably just stood there with my mouth hanging open. During my time in the library I made a point of studying an atlas, one of Urag’s treasures that you have to handle with kid gloves, and read up on regional history. It would be suspicious to completely change the story Idgrod came up with, so I embellished it. I put on my best poker face and gave Nirya an explanation I’ve rehearsed in my head about a hundred times. Since I don’t know how well I can keep trusting my memory I’ll just put it down here as well:

“I was born in a small village near Stonetooth on the island of Betony. My father was a native, whose farming family (surname Emard) had been there since the island was retaken from the Orcs in the 3rd era. My mother is an Imperial, the daughter of a blacksmith from Colovia (surname Gallus). They met in Daggerfall during the Mad Pelagius festival where her family had set up a booth to sell souvenirs. My mother did not approve of magic and did her best to discourage its use. In fact, growing up in a farming community, I received very little education at all. My father died when I was fifteen, leaving my mother, myself, one brother and one sister. Being the eldest I was expected to help support the family, which I did for the next several years by working as a cook and nanny for a wealthy family in Betony City. When my mother decided to relocate us to Colovia to live near her remaining family I went with them. Shortly after that I met a soldier named Drevor, who was originally from Morthal and participating in an Imperial training exercise. We hit it off, married and I returned with him to Solitude. Sadly, we were only married six weeks before he was sent to rejoin his regiment. A few weeks later he was killed in a Forsworn attack near Dragonsbridge. After I was widowed, I worked for the Bard’s College to support myself. Jarl Idgrod, who knew Drevor and his family, later offered me a position as her personal maid/assistant and sent me to Winterhold to do research for her.”

Check my research, Nirya, I DARE you.

Okay, granted I’ll be in trouble if anyone goes looking for a record of my Breton or Imperial family, but I’ll just have to deal with that as it comes. I need to ask Idgrod for a last name to give my fake dead husband.

I left out the kidnapping in Solitude, because I don’t want to go down that rabbit hole. And as a button to close up the conversation I said, oh so self-deprecatingly, “Faralda thinks I exaggerate when I say that the dialect of Betony is unlike the rest of High Rock. I am embarrassed by my accent, to be honest.”

Nirya stiffened at Faralda’s name (as I hoped) and changed her tune immediately. “Well,” she said “I for one would never shame anyone like that. I’m so sorry for your loss. Oh, look I see Phinis across the courtyard, I really must speak with him, excuse me.”

Maybe she’ll drop the attitude now. I figure the backstory shouldn’t be too hard to remember, since most of the family stuff is close to my own past. Except dad didn’t die, he moved to Syracuse after the divorce. And I did work as a nanny, but that was to get myself through college. It’s the details that will trip me up, I’m sure. Emard seemed like a good enough Breton name, I’ve seen it mentioned innocuously in books here and there and it seems about as common as Smith or Jones. Welcome to the world, Esme Emard, I wonder what will become of you.

Sundas, 9th of Last Seed 4E201

Still no Axel, I’m starting to get worried. Dagur doesn’t know anything, except that he’s running low on mead and ale. Ranmir may start a riot if stocks aren’t replenished soon.

Bought 4 gold in blue mountain flower extract off Enthir. Gathered imp stool from lower levels (didn’t actually go into the Midden, but the tunnels just outside).

Sold four distilled bottles of restoration potion back to Enthir for 10 each.

36 gold profit.

*******

Middas, 12th of Last Seed 4E201

No Axel, no word from Windhelm, everyone is getting nervous. If I could afford a horse I probably could have ridden to Morthal by now.

*******

Turdas, 13th of Last Seed 4E201

Finally had a little success with Invisibility! Breylna and I have been practicing together, to give each other feedback, and she said I went translucent for a few seconds. Progress! Sweet, distracting progress!!

*******

Sundas, 16th of Last Seed 4E201

Enthir of all people was the one who finally had enough (I think he’s waiting for a shipment of stuff to fence) and announced yesterday that he’s going to head to Windhelm on foot. Me and Onmund will be going with him. At least in a group we will be better able to protect each other. I’m more than ready, my things have been packed and waiting by the door for more than a week. We leave at dawn.

Chapter Text

Mordas, 17th of Last Seed 4E201

We set out at dark-thirty before the sun even thought about coming up. Onmund had to wake me. I still have no idea how people tell time here, it’s almost instinctual. An instinct I clearly lack. Dagur (after being nagged by his wife I suspect) supplied us with travel rations in exchange for taking the pile of waiting mail with us to Windhelm. Onmund insisted on carrying the letters. I can’t decide if that was a gallant gesture, a practical one since he is the biggest and strongest of the three of us, or “other.” I don’t like “other,” it makes the worst possibilities pop up in my head, undeserved because he hasn’t done anything to make me suspect that he’s up to something at all.

I haven’t had many conversations with Onmund, though I’ve seen him around. I think he arrived at the college not long after I did. Enthir on the other hand makes a point of “making himself available” to everyone. I wasn’t two steps out of the dorm on day one when he introduced himself, and his services, unprompted and with very little effort at being sneaky. He’s a sleaze, but at least he doesn’t try to hide it. Makes it easy to understand his motivations. Meanwhile I can’t get a bead on the vanilla Nord and it’s annoying me.

The road south is compacted snow with pulverized rock underneath. We followed the carriage tracks left by Axel’s thousands of past trips with Enthir in the lead holding a ball of light above us til the sun finally came up. They won’t let me lead or trail behind, but keep me between them, which I’m fine with. A month of sitting on my ass studying has done me no favors physically. Though casting does seem to burn calories my leg and back muscles haven’t gotten much love lately and I’m feeling it now. On foot, assuming we don’t run into anything that plans on murdering us, it will take three or four days to get to Windhelm. There isn’t much to look at. Mountains to the right, icy white hills on the left. Snow glare is a problem, but Enthir thought of that and brought “eye flairs” that he just happened to have. (I get “they fell off the back of a truck” vibes, but whatever.) They’re made of some sort of soft wood with narrow slits carved for each eye and little leather loops on either side to go around the ears. Friggin’ genius, really. They rub the back of your ears and bridge of your nose after a while though, and obscure your peripheral vision, so I’m even more paranoid about getting pounced by a sabre cat or a troll.

We walked until the sun was at high noon (at least I can tell that much), munched some elk jerky, and went right back to trudging. There wasn’t much conversation, mostly because Enthir and I were huffing into our hoods trying to keep up with Onmund. I haven’t been this sore since those early days in Solitude. Seems like forever ago.

As the afternoon wore on I could have sworn I heard something, like thunder from very far away. Onmund insisted it was just a rockslide further up the mountain. Rockslides and avalanches. Another thing we have to be cautious about. Enthir sneezed this morning and I thought Onmund was going to bludgeon him to death. It’s summer, so the threat of half the mountain coming down is very real. What if that’s what happened to Axel? I kept expecting to come across his buried wagon as we travelled. He’s a seasoned veteran of the road, but that wouldn’t mean anything against two tons of ice and rock…

We saw nothing, though, at least today. By sundown Enthir spotted a cave with those sharp elf eyes of his and after checking it for anything living (I will have to ask him to teach me that spell) we hunkered down for the night. It isn’t so much a cave as a rock outcrop that has been dug into, probably by miners, then abandoned. I would love to have a fire, but the boys say no. Even out here it would be too conspicuous, and there really isn’t anything to burn anyway. Dinner was hard tack, more jerky, and a mead slushy Onmund made by filling a sheep’s bladder bag with snow and pouring half of one of the bottles Dagur sent with us into it. Shake vigorously and serve. He said it was a trick to make the mead last longer, while keeping us hydrated. Just eating snow lowers your body temperature too much. M---

Tirdas, 18th of Last Seed 4E201

They made me put out my light and go to bed rather abruptly after dinner last night. Onmund caught a glimpse of my journal and asked what language I was writing. He didn’t like me trying to change the subject by asking why he volunteered to go to Windhelm. He said his family let him go to the college as if it was a death sentence (oh, that’s right) and he needed to assure them that he’s okay. Then he immediately switched the topic back to my writing. I had to bullshit on the fly about it being a dialect specific to Betony, something my father taught me, which is also why my accent is so odd. Enthir wasn’t particularly interested, but Onmund kept pushing for details as we travelled today. What sort of farm was it that I grew up on? Were the seasons much different than Skyrim? Were there many mages in our community, being Bretan and all? And so on.

I spent the whole day doing mental gymnastics. Thank you, Urag, for giving me free reign in your library, you beautiful green bastard, or I would have been completely unprepared for the onslaught of questions. There isn’t anything else to do but talk anyway. Talk, walk, stop to eat, repeat until sundown. This is going to be a long trip. Eventually I got Enthir to start reminiscing about Morrowind, that bought me a few hours of peace. Being a former farm boy Onmund wanted to know everything there is about growing mushroom structures.

The further south we get the less snow and the more mud there is to slog through. Hoo-fucking-ray. I’m going to have squelching bits of grit between my toes til the end of my days. Any people we’ve seen so far have been at a distance. With all the bandits in the game I’m kind of shocked that no one has even tried to rob us.

My jaw hurts from chewing jerky. I want soup. Just plain ol’ soup. And a grilled cheese. And a hunk of dark chocolate.

Turdas, 20th of Last Seed 4E201

We finally reached Windhelm this morning. Nothing much happened on the trip down here. We saw a few wolves, but I managed a fireball big enough to scare them off. I was ridiculously happy with myself. There were more and more people the further south we got, including a group I thought I recognized hooting at each other and holding bottles of mead to the sky like a drunken offering to the gods.

The city hasn’t changed much outwardly, except that things seem a little more…charged? I can’t think of a better word, everyone seems anxious, like they’re waiting for something big to happen. I wanted to ask the stable master if he’s seen Axel, but neither he or his wife were anywhere to be found and I was too tired to wait around for them.

Enthir announced that he wasn’t going to be staying at the Inn with us just as we passed the main gates, said he has a cousin in the Grey Quarter who will put him up for free. Onmund gave him a very dirty look. I had to jump in as the reasonable party, telling Enthir that he was welcome to change his mind, but we understood. We all agreed to meet at the Inn for dinner once we had a chance to clean up and rest. (Nords eat five times a day. I like this about them, but it means I have to pay special attention to the word they’re using for which meal, so I know when to show up. Even then I get confused.)

After Enthir trotted off Onmund and I went on to the Inn to get rooms. I couldn’t resist pulling him aside and asked what was wrong. He played dumb. That pissed me off.

“No.” I said. “Enthir made you angry when he said he was going to stay in the Grey Quarter. Why?”

He fidgeted with his pack and shifted from one foot to another. It would have been cute, if he were a five-year-old. When I didn’t back down he finally sighed and admitted that he had traded a family heirloom to Enthir, and regretted it now. He was afraid that Enthir was going to pawn it in Windhelm before he could convince him to trade back. I could have face-palmed right then. The amulet, of course, one of the bajillion little things I’m likely to forget from the game.

“If he sells it, I may never be able to get it back,” he whined, “and if my mother ever finds out…”

Internally I was playing the world’s smallest violin, but I did my best to put on a reassuring face and told him I would talk to Enthir at dinner. Why not? The worst he can do is say no.

We settled into our rooms and for the first time in four days I was able to peel off my robes and have a wash. Ye Gods I miss showers! The Candlehearth doesn’t even have bathtubs. I had to settle for a basin of hot water and a scrubbing cloth. At least they have soap. Once my skin was as clean as it was going to get, I dunked my robes and ran them over a wooden washboard. The water turned dark grey. I thought about trying to dry the robes with fire but decided not to risk it. My control is still not great, and this place is a tinderbox with all the straw on the floors and stuffing the mattresses. For the first time in weeks I dug out the wool dress Idgrod gave me. It’s a little baggy now. I’m not sure if I just didn’t cinch it correctly, or if I’ve dropped a few more pounds since I last wore it.

After a nap I wandered upstairs and who should I see sitting by the fire with a tankard and a scowl but my buddy Axel! I was so happy to see him alive I might have squeed. Just a little.

I’ve never seen the old man so livid. Not at me, but at what happened to him and what he’s still dealing with. I didn’t wait for the others; I demanded the story and he was only too happy to oblige once I bought us another round.

Axel’s last run west was utterly routine. He picked up one passenger in Whiterun and some cargo like normal and headed back to Windhelm. He was about to cross the river east when he was hijacked by a group of Legionnaires and that’s when everything went to shit. They demanded that he surrender his carriage for “official Imperial use” and forced him to make a detour all the way to Ivarstead. There they dumped Axel and his cargo but took his passenger prisoner because he supposedly matched the description of a known thief from Haafingar. Then they took off east, leaving Axel with no choice but to hang out and wait for the next carriage to take him to Riften. I was surprised by how vehemently Axel hates Ivarstead. He called it a “boring little village populated by fools and louts.”

The route between Ivarstead and Riften isn’t a particularly popular one so he had to wait a week just for the wagon to show up. Then it was another week and a half to get to Riften, switch carriages, and head back north to Windhelm. He managed to convince the stable master to use his own cart to take supplies to Winterhold, which is why we didn’t see Ulundil at the stables when we arrived this morning. I guess we must have just missed him, but I didn’t see him on the road. Maybe there’s another route I don’t know about.

Now Axel is stuck waiting for his grievance over the loss of his horse and wagon to be reviewed by the steward, since the incident technically took place in his Hold. I would be pissed off too. Though I had a hard time expressing sympathy when alarm bells were piercing my brain from the inside out. It’s finally happening. Imperials this far east, in need of wagons, then the thundering noises we heard on the road…What if the passenger they took prisoner was the supposed horse thief? Or the Dragonborn! Holy crap on a cracker he could already be in Whiterun by now!

I must have looked panicky because Axel pushed another drink at me with his eyes narrowed and assured me that it was inconvenient, but not the end of the world.

Not the end of the world. OMFG. That was too much for me, I had to find a latrine to throw up in and fast.

Onmund and Enthir showed up by the time I was done having a panic puke. Axel regaled them with his tale, which gave me a second chance to ask more questions about his former passenger. I tried to play it off that because I used to live in Solitude, I might have known him. I don’t think Axel bought it but gave me a description anyway. Looked like an Imperial, had that sharp, dark look to him, but 100% human. Seemed like a decent enough fellow. Showed up on foot like most people do wearing the sort of practical wool garb a travelling farmer or merchant might wear. Said his name was Antonius, didn’t give a last name.

Definitely not the horse thief, then. Okay, so the DB might be an Imperial named Antonius. Fuuuuck! I'm not ready for this yet.

I was so distracted I almost forgot to talk to Enthir about the stupid amulet. All through dinner Onmund kept pouting til I remembered. Ugh. Giant toddler, that one. After some coaxing and a generous amount of mead Enthir finally agreed to give the trinket back in exchange for a favor from me. Fine, good, whatever I should have pried and asked what kind of favor, but my mind was elsewhere. I'm running out of time. I don’t want to be within a thousand yards of Ulfric Stormcloak (AKA Kidnappy McPrickerson) and I certainly don’t want to be anywhere near Whiterun when that first dragon attacks.

What I wouldn’t give for a fast travel option to Solitude right now. As it is there’s no way I can afford a horse and if I’m right about this being The Beginning, then Axel is never seeing his wagon again. RIP to his poor, innocent horse. That leaves walking the rest of the way to Whiterun. Since Onmund and Enthir are going back to the college and Axel needs to stay in Windhelm til his grievance is settled, I’m stuck til I can find a caravan to go with, or something. Axel promised to ask around, he knows a lot of people here.

After dinner I slunk off to bed and bolted my door. It feels good to be alone. I can have one anxiety attack after another without any judgey stares.

Chapter Text

Wiidhelm
Fredas, 21st of Last Seed 4E201

Didn’t get much sleep last night, too busy obsessing over the timeline and wondering what sort of person this Antonius guy might be. Axel exchanged only a handful of words with him, so that doesn’t give me a full picture at all. His character will drastically affect how things go from here on out. Assuming it’s him, that is, and the Imperials didn’t capture any other rando’s on the way.

It also occurred to me at some time around…we’ll call it 2 AM, that because Ulundil took Axel’s cargo up to Winterhold before I got here any letters addressed to me went with him. If Viarmo wasn’t freaking out over not hearing from me two weeks ago he probably is now and there’s not a whole hell of a lot I can do about it. I miss hearing from him. And Idgrod, but that’s a little different.

I rolled out of my too firm bed this morning with a crick in my neck and clumps of fur from the bearskin coverlet stuck in my hair. It was better than sleeping on bedrolls with Enthir and Onmund huddling on either side of me, but not by much. Onmund is super warm and neither of them shed.

Axel is staying at the Candlehearth too, at a discount apparently. After he told his tale of woe to Elda the owner and she realized he’s going to be having an extended stay she knocked a few septims off his rate. He treated me to a spread of hot cider, savory barley porridge with leeks, bread and butter, and salted salmon for breakfast. Luxurious after a month at the college. I tried prying more details out of Axel as we ate. He gets this scrunched eye glare on his face when he’s thinking. Makes him look like a baked apple.

“You really think you know that Antonius fellow, eh?” he asked, still scrunching.

I shrugged, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, and gave him a maybe. I met all sorts of people when I was with the bards. That’s what they do, interact with people.

He harrumphed at me, a real proper old man harrumph with a mouthful of barley squeaking in his teeth. He couldn’t tell me anything more about Antonius, but that didn’t stop him from giving his thoughts on bards and Imperials. Being a Nord, he doesn’t think much of either group. Being a cranky veteran cab driver, he doesn’t think much of people in general, but gives me a pass because I “don’t put it on.” I’m not sure what that means.

By the time Onmund wandered out of bed the morning was half gone, not that any of us have anything to do right now. At least he’s happy about the amulet. Maybe too happy. He kept asking if I needed anything, so I finally took a chapter out of Enthir’s book and just told him he could owe me a favor.

Axel announced that he had some people to see and that he would meet me back for dinner with an update if he hears anything useful. That left me with fuck all to do but wander around Windhelm with Onmund trailing me like a puppy. I thought about sending a letter to Idgrod by courier but scrapped that plan when I found out the going rate to Morthal is thirty septims. THIRTY! Elda didn’t bat an eye when she told me. The further the distance the higher the rate, that’s how it is. If you don’t know where in Skyrim the addressee is then it’s a flat one hundred gold with a money back guarantee. What a bargain, except that I have exactly twenty-two septims to my name. Not counting that ring Faralda gave me.

Having nothing better to do I decided to go to the Market, because browsing is free. I was trying to decipher the very swirly title of a book at one of the second-hand stalls when someone tapped my shoulder, someone who turned out to be a guard. That got my hackles up til I realized it was Juni! I had to beg her forgiveness for not being able to write and told her all about what happened to Axel, though she had already heard most of the story. It was from her that I learned that the Butcher murders have already started. Of course, they’re not calling him the Butcher, yet. Juni didn’t know much, only that there’s been one victim, some poor girl so torn up the body hasn’t been identified. She couldn’t have been a local, then. Someone would have reported a disappearance.

Juni made me promise not to go off by myself while I’m in the city. After she left to go back on her rounds Onmund asked me why I looked like I just swallowed a bee. It’s called “duty of care,” sweetie. I didn’t say that. I thought it, grumpily. I can’t sit on my hands and hope that the DB will show up. I’m going to have to figure out how to get Calixto arrested before he kills anyone else.

We continued meandering, which gave me time to formulate a plan.

1: Ditch the farm boy.
2: Get into the Hall of the Dead and see if there’s anything noteworthy about the first victim.
3: Case Calixto’s shop.

Of course, the best laid plans of mice and men are bound to go tits up when your companion is an honor obsessed Nord. Onmund didn’t hear the whole conversation with Juni, but he gleaned enough gossip in the Market to know that there’s a killer on the loose and refused to go back to the Inn without me. He’s green, not dumb. I was not looking forward to talking my way into the Hall of the Dead anyway, and even less enthusiastic about perusing a dead body, but that’s where every crime drama I’ve ever seen starts, so here we go, Season one of CSI: Windhelm.

I chickened out though and decided to go to Calixto’s shop first. I think I remember that there was evidence in a trunk in his house that you couldn’t lockpick in the game, but I hoped that wouldn’t be the case IRL. We paid our two septims for the lame tour and I kept looking for anything incriminating, anything I could use later, while the old man blathered on about Ysgrimor’s soup spoon. It’s unnerving how normal the guy seems. He’s perfected the “I’m just a harmless shopkeeper” routine, that’s for sure.

I did spot a chest on the second floor out of the corner of my eye. That has to be it, but there’s no getting up to it without being seen, it’s all open to the lower level. I’ll either need to sneak in when Calixto is out and hope that the lock really isn’t unpickable or find another smoking gun. Hjerim is still in possession of the Shatter-Shields, so he hasn’t turned it into a Frankenstein torture dungeon yet. That means that he probably did his butchering somewhere else, so if I can find where that is it might be enough to link him to the murder and get him put away.

Two gold wasted, I decided to pull up my big girl panties and get on with the next step.

I told Onmund, and by extension the priestess of Arkay, Helgird, when we entered the Hall of the Dead that I wanted to see if I could identify the victim. Helgird just shrugged and showed us to the cavernous vault where the body had been laid out.

I’ve seen bodies of older people before, embalmed and slathered in makeup, laying in wooden caskets like human taxidermy displays. That shit is unsettling enough. This though, was a whole new experience. Onmund went pale and kept his distance while Helgird pulled back the filthy sheet covering the stone slab. I understood immediately why the first victim had never been identified. Her face was gone. She’d been scalped from the base of the skull forward, then someone had carefully flayed the skin all the way down her neck to the clavicle so it could be removed in one piece. He even took the time to get her eyes and ears. Her hands at the wrist were also missing. The rest of her was untouched Helgird made a point of mentioning (meaning there was no sign that she had been violated before or after death).

At that point I was channeling my inner Clarice Starling. Be professional and respectful. Do not throw up.

I asked Helgird if she noticed anything unusual while preparing the body. The priestess pursed her lips and said, “I wrote a full report and sent it to the steward. Whether he bothers to read it is none of my concern. To summarize, this was a healthy woman anywhere from twenty to thirty years of age, judging by her teeth and skin. The hands, scalp, and face were removed with delicate tools. This was not the work of someone in a rush. Her feet show some mild frostbite, probably because of the odd shoes she was wearing, very ill-suited for Skyrim weather. There is also a very fine tattoo on her right side, expensive work to be sure.”

Helgird pointed to the tattoo on the other side of the table from me before going to retrieve the woman’s clothes from a basket nearby. My throat closed up when I rounded the table. Whoever this woman was, she had the Deathly Hallows on her hip with the word “Always” in cursive beneath it.

The clothes in the basket were so similar to what I had been wearing when I first arrived in Skyrim it was shocking. Helgird laid a pair of blood-soaked jeans and a baseball tee on the empty slab next to the body, then a black sports bra with a snapped and frayed strap, and a pair of tattered black and white Converse with the socks shoved inside. The shoes, socks, and jeans up to the shins were also crusted over with mud. Wherever she had emerged from she’d tried to find help, probably crossed the marshy tundra looking for civilization, only to find Calixto…

I was doing this out of a sense of decency before. Now I want revenge. Revenge for this girl I might have passed on the street, or sat in a class with, whose fate might have been mine if circumstances had been only slightly different. It doesn’t matter if she was a blood relative or a complete stranger, she was from home, and she didn’t deserve to be carved up like a fucking turkey.

I claimed the body. It cost me every septim I had left, but I didn’t care. Paupers without family get cremated in an unmarked pit outside the city. That is unacceptable. She didn’t have a wallet on her, but there was a heart shaped keychain with a broken clasp in one of the jeans pockets. The name Sarah was printed in purple resin on it, with little pink flowers. Sarah is getting a real burial. I declared her a cousin to satisfy Helgird and give her something to write on the death certificate.

It was dark by the time all the arrangements were made and I trudged back to the Inn, leaving Helgird to inter the body in the catacombs beneath Windhelm. Onmund hung back, completely silent the whole way. We met Axel and Enthir again for supper, but neither of us had much of an appetite. I couldn’t tell you what they talked about during the meal if you put a gun to my head. I just kept seeing that faceless corpse. That cannot be allowed to happen to anyone else. Period.

It wasn’t long before I excused myself to go to bed early. Onmund cornered me just inside my room and asked what I was going to do. Playing dumb didn’t work.

“That was not your cousin.” He said flatly. “And you’re so angry you can barely breath. If you tell me what’s really happening maybe I can help.”

He wasn’t wrong. I was seething with rage and knew that I needed to calm down before moving forward with any kind of plan. I told him to get Axel and Enthir and bring them to my room. If he had any puritanical qualms about that he kept it to himself and was soon back with the doors shut on the group. Something about being in an enclosed space makes me feel better. Like reverse claustrophobia. I told them all about the victim and what we saw. My suspicions about Calixto I framed as a simple hunch. The man was a collector, he’d been abroad for decades before settling in Windhelm, learning who knows what on his travels, and he’d obviously been in love with his dead sister.

That got their attention. While the odd instance of incest is quietly tolerated in Skyrim, it isn’t encouraged either from what I’ve heard. Enthir was the first to point out that a hunch is not evidence and that I should leave the matter to the town guards. Axel disagreed.

“I’ve lived long enough to know that they won’t really bother to investigate until someone noteworthy is killed. Someone with money.” His tone was surprisingly bitter. Now isn’t the time to delve into my friend’s past, but I will revisit the topic if I can later.

“You’ve spent more time in this city than any of us,” Enthir said to Axel, “do you think Calixto is capable of murder?”

The old man’s face scrunched. “Possibly. There's no knowing a man's nature by looking at him. I did overhear him talking to Elda yesterday about a ring she found, one that’s gone missing. He said the description sounded like the Death ring of Something-or-other. Calixto is always looking for new displays, so I didn’t think anything of it. Sounds like a necromancer’s bauble, though.”

We all agreed that it was suspicious that he would know so much about something like that, and that the ring was suddenly missing from Elda’s strong box. But, thievery and an interest in necromancy isn’t evidence of murder. Even if he’s caught with pilfered goods, he’ll just pay his fine and be back on the street in no time.

After a long discussion Enthir reluctantly agreed to lend me some proper lockpicks (he still thinks the guards should handle it, but he has cousins in this city he doesn’t want murdered so he’s going to help in the most passive way possible). When Calixto comes to the Inn for breakfast like he always does, Axel will do his level best to keep him there as long as possible while I break into his shop. Onmund will be my look out. This will be a lot like my little operation to break into Alva’s house in Morthal, except I’m even more nervous for some reason. At least with a vampire you know where you stand. I have no way of knowing how Calixto will react to a trespasser. He’s a sick fuck, but he’s clearly been planning for a long time. He’s smart and he’s patient. And if I screw this up I might end up his next target.

Chapter Text

Winterhold
Sundas, 23nd of Last Seed 4E201

I woke up before sunrise on Loredas and couldn’t get back to sleep. Eventually I gave up after journaling and practiced locking and unlocking the door to my room. At least the tools Enthir lent me are sturdy and don’t seem inclined to snap at the slightest resistance. My nerves can do without that.

I didn’t want to be caught staring at the inn doors like a creeper waiting for Calixto to show his face, so I sat at the counter trying to wake up over a cup of what Elda calls “virgin grog.” It’s sweet, bitter and tastes like prunes and boiled fennel are having a civil war in your mouth. Calixto must have entered through one of the side entrances, because one minute I was sipping my breakfast beverage the next he was right beside me, asking Elda over the counter if there were any messages. That woke me up. It took every ounce of willpower not to bolt for the door then and there. I clenched Sarah’s keychain inside my dress pocket, trying to push all the tension in my body into it. Had anyone tried to talk to me at that point the whole day would have been lost. I was just a mass of anger and terror. I didn’t even notice that Calixto had gone upstairs for his customary meal until Elda asked me if I wanted a refill. That was a big no.

Onmund was already waiting by the side door as we had agreed, as nervous as I’ve ever seen him. We wasted no time getting to the House of Curiosities. It was early enough that there was virtually no traffic on the street at all, just the occasional lone guard on patrol. Still I had to work quickly and get inside before we were spotted. It was a little more difficult than my practice lock, but the tumblers eventually clicked into place and I slunk inside. The first thing I noticed was the smell, overwhelmingly strong cedar and lavender from sachets in bowls peppered around the room.

I immediately went for the trunk on the second floor. And of course, because my luck had to run out sometime, that lock was heavy duty. It didn’t take long to realize that it could be hours before I managed to crack into the damn thing, and I only had maybe twenty minutes before Calixto finished his breakfast. I thought about aborting, until I noticed a smell filtering right through the potpourri. He was trying to cover up the unmistakable stench of old blood. A little alcove on the other side of the second floor was mostly obscured in shadows, but I managed to feel my way over to a plank of wood connecting it to the platform behind the chest. The smell got stronger. I prodded the sacks and storage barrels until my elbow smacked against the wall with a hollow thunk. A small piece of the wall had been carefully cut away, then put back with a scrap of wood acting like a toggle. It was just big enough to crawl through and I did just that, trying very hard not to think of what might be on the other side.

The space was completely dark, there were no windows, no candles. I had to bring a small flame up and hold it just above my palm. That was enough. A wooden folding table, the sort of thing you might take camping, sat in the center of the tiny room covered in a heavily stained sheet uncomfortably similar to the one Helgird used in the Hall of the Dead. I didn’t have to lift the sheet to know what was beneath it. Dark splatters on the table legs and floor showed some signs that Calixto tried to clean up the mess, but either gave up or was interrupted. The hum of magic clung to the table, but it was wrong. My time at the college taught me that strong magic is noisy, but when an instructor cast it was like hearing a song condensed into a burst of power. This was something else, a hanging chord played out of tune, and it set my teeth on edge.

I just stood there, shaking with fury, when I heard voices outside the front door. If I’ve ever moved faster in my life I do not recall. Adrenalin pulled me into action, crawling out of the hole in the wall and replacing the panel just in time to see Calixto walk into the room below, talking with an overly loud and exuberant Onmund. I froze, crouching on the edge of the plank that led to freedom listening to my friend babbling on about the history of the mage’s college. Crossing the room Calixto looked up and right at me. I held my breath and waited for him to do something. Tell me to get out, yell for a guard, just something.

Seconds ticked on and his eyes slid past me to Onmund.

“That is fascinating, my young friend, but if you will forgive me I really must see about opening the shop.” Calixto said.

I took a tentative step onto the plank and could not see my own leg. Well, now I know that for Invisibility to work all I need is to be scared shitless. I followed Onmund as silently as I could out the door, into the street, and straight into a sprint downhill to the Grey Quarter. We met, as planned, at the New Gnisis Cornerclub. Onmund was furious.

“What happened?! I had to stall him when he came back early, and I didn’t know where you were and…are you crying?”

They were stress tears, okay? I filled Onmund in on what I found, whispering low at a corner table, just in case. Elves have excellent hearing, after all.

“So, you didn’t get any actual evidence?” Onmund asked, sounding deflated and so done with the whole business.

“I found a secret room full of bloody furniture.” I hissed. “All we have to do is bring this to the steward and get some guards to check out that room. Then that bastard can spend the rest of his life in a cell.”

Onmund looked like he wanted to object, but I was already heading for the door. Off to the Palace of Kings, which is a hell of a lot harder to get into than I expected. There was a line, for one thing, of people with grievances waiting to speak with the steward. I got in the back of it, crossed my arms, and waited. And waited. So much waiting. In the subsequent hours I got to hear all about how the man standing in front of me had been wronged by a neighbor who kicked and killed one of his chickens. The lady behind me was convinced that a coven of witches had taken over the bunk house at the mill. Riveting stuff. Once I finally got up to the doors, I had to convince the equivalent of Jorlief’s PA that I deserved to actually speak with the steward. Chicken man was dismissed. The bored looking woman eyed me up and down with a clipboard ready to do the same to me before I blurted out a truncated version of what I planned to say to Jorlief. After an agonizing pause, she waved me through. Onmund remained outside. I give him a hard time, but he really is a good guy, he could have just left me there by myself, but he didn’t.

It’s telling that the first thing Jorlief asked once I had said my piece was where I am from. Wow. Just wow, I tell you that there’s a murderer living in your city and gift wrap you his location and you’re more worried about my accent? Instant dislike. After another brief run down of the situation and emphasizing that Calixto is an Imperial, because apparently that’s all Jorlief cares about, I finally convinced him to send guards to check the house. I had to wait so that I could give my testimony.

More. Fucking. Waiting. At least by then the PA took pity on me when she saw me fidgeting and had a maid show me to a washroom upstairs. And what a washroom! Maybe it was the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on, or the fact that I haven’t seen a real bathtub in going on seven months, but I damn near broke down in tears at the sight. There was a tub, a sink with a drain, and a toilet. Granted it’s just a box with a hole over the chamber pot inside, but it’s nicer than the open sewer latrines we commoners get to use. There was also a silvered glass mirror on the wall. I am confirmed for looking like crap. Maybe it was the lighting. All the windows in the Palace are barred and stretched over with sheepskin to keep the cold out, so it’s not exactly cheery.

I shamelessly lingered in that room. If there had been taps to fill the copper tub, I totally would have taken a bath. (The poor servants! I pity the unlucky peon who has to fill that tub. I hope they have a pully system or something. My back hurt just thinking about it.) After emptying my bladder, I used the basin and had a good thorough scrub with three different kinds of soap. Didn’t matter if the water was cold, I needed it. Feeling fortified I was on my way back down to the main hall when I bumped into Ulfric fucking Stormcloak. He hardly acknowledged me, just grunted something about watching where I was going and continued on his way. He looked like a dragon had broiled him, swallowed him whole, and shat him out. The fact that he’s been to hell and back gave me an intense schadenfreude moment. I’m very glad he didn’t recognize me.

The warm fuzzies drained out of me once the guard brought in Calixto, looking eerily calm and cooperative. Onmund followed quietly behind.

“No evidence of foul play was discovered upon inspecting the domicile of one Calixto Corrium.” The guard reported to Jorlief.

My jaw dropped. Even city guards couldn’t be so incompetent that a killing room covered in blood could be explained away. Calixto had to have known something was up, somehow, and spent the hours it took me to get an audience cleaning that room from top to bottom. The smug son of a bitch had the gall to look put out by the inconvenience of it all.

“A chest on the second level of the home was opened by the owner and inspected by myself and Captain Bjarn. No weapons or implements of torture were found. Nor any illegal or reportedly stolen items.” The guard then produced a sack that he dumped onto a small table by the steward’s chair. Neither guard must be literate because it was PA lady who had to stand at Jorlief’s shoulder, cataloging the items.

“I understand that there has been a tragedy in this city,” Calixto said, “but this is really getting out of hand, don’t you agree? I’m sure that the victim’s family, wherever they are, would not want an innocent man condemned for their daughter’s untimely demise.”

I wanted to spit. I wanted to beat the living shit out of his filthy lying face, and in hindsight I think that’s exactly what he wanted. Discrediting my word by making me look crazy and violent would work to his advantage. What saved me was the familiar sound of jangling. As Jorlief prodded through the objects on his table I saw something that didn’t belong. Sitting there among junk drawer odds and ends were the mud-splattered keys to a Toyota on a silver ring, with the nub of a broken clasp still dangling from it.

I picked up the key ring and looked Calixto in the eye. “May I ask where this came from?”

Fucker didn’t even blink. “I traded a dwemer plate for it in Cyrodiil. Unusual piece. I planned to take it to a lock smith for study, but never found the time.”

“Really?” I asked, pulling Sarah’s keychain out of my pocket and holding the broken ends together to show Jorlief how they fit. “Because Helgird can confirm that this was found on the victim.”

Calixto’s façade cracked just a little. He called me a “vicious slattern” and warned that there would be “dire repercussions” for sullying his good name.

“Enough!” Ulfric barked. I hadn’t noticed him enter the room, but I could feel the power in his voice move the air around us. The jarl sat on his throne and sent for Helgird to testify. It didn’t take long for her to arrive, death certificate in hand as well as a detailed list of items found with the body. The guards then searched Calixto (I couldn’t believe they hadn’t done that before!) and found not only the necromancer’s skull amulet under his shirt, but the alabaster ring Elda reported missing in one of his pockets.

Wuunfurth the court mage grumpily identified the amulet as if it was the most common thing in the world. (I understand that life is rough here, but why the hell isn’t murder a bigger deal to these people?!) He and Helgird, along with two more guards, were sent back to the House of Curiosities to do a more thorough inspection. I sent Onmund back to the inn. I had to the wait the entire damn day, no sense in making him starve at my side.

While the killing room had been cleaned Wuunfurth reported residual necromantic energy and Helgird found traces of blood embedded between the floorboards that the guards hadn’t noticed. The moment Helgird finished her statement Calixto lunged at her. I managed to push her out of the way, but that only earned me a pair of surprisingly strong hands around my throat. He would have crushed my windpipe if the guards hadn’t pried him off. That was, finally, the last straw for the court. In addition to charges of theft and perjury Ulfric sentenced Calixto to death for the killing and dismemberment of “the vagrant.” Harsher than I was thinking. Then again, they’re in the middle of a civil war, the Stormcloaks probably don’t have the resources to keep a prisoner indefinitely.

Then Jorlief turned on me. “While we thank you for bringing this man’s crimes to our attention you have confessed to willfully trespassing. You will pay a fine of five septims or spend the night in a dungeon cell.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Maybe it was stupid, but I actually looked around the room, trying to gauge whether I was being pranked. Ulfric just sat on his throne with an unreadable expression. Nope, not a joke. I wasn’t about to ask Helgird for a loan, so I straightened my spine and took the jail time. I may be destitute but I’m going to keep the sliver of dignity I have left, even if my voice does sound like a chain smoker gargling lighter fluid right now.

The two guards dragged Calixto to the dungeons. He’d given up the mild-mannered shop keeper routine completely and screamed about how he can’t be stopped and you’re only delaying the inevitable, all the classic villain cliches. Jorlief’s assistant, the lady with the clipboard, escorted me down the same hallways deeper and deeper under the palace. She instructed the guards to give me a decent supper. Calixto was to have nothing. Maybe Ulfric recognized me after all, or maybe my sentencing was just posturing to make sure he didn’t appear too weak or lenient. I really don’t know.

They put some fresh straw on the floor with a goat skin over it, so I didn’t have to sleep in the dirt. As I hunkered down, trying to stay warm, I could hear the guards grow more impatient with Calixto’s ranting. Eventually one of them took a wooden club to him. I wish I could have found some catharsis in the grunts of pain he made, or the heavy smack of wood on muscle but I didn’t. I just wanted it to stop.

After a while the guards got bored and wandered away to their table to play cards. I could still hear Calixto breathing heavily from the cell next to mine, too deliberate and labored to be unconscious. I figured I may never get the opportunity again, so I asked him what he did with the body parts. He didn’t answer, so I asked again, “What did you do with Sarah’s face? Her hands? They must be somewhere.”

He fucking laughed. “Was that her name? Insignificant to the Whole. You have interfered with genius far beyond your understanding, child, but no matter. I will be free to continue my work soon enough.”

I’m not sure if all that was bravado, insanity or a little bit of both. Frankly at that point my head was pounding, my throat hurt like hell, and I just wanted the whole miserable day to be done, so I curled up into a ball and tried to sleep.

They let me out of jail this morning. I found Axel outside the Palace waiting with a letter in hand. He threw a comforting arm around my shoulders and asked me if it was my first time. We both chuckled at the double entendre as we walked back to the Candlehearth. The letter was a sort of voucher from Jorlief, giving Axel the rights to a replacement horse and wagon from the jarl’s military reserves. With things being the way they are that means an old nag and an even older wagon, but Axel needs to get back to work, so he’ll take what he can get. This also means that we will be leaving for Whiterun the moment Ulundil gets back from Winterhold. I could not be more ready to get out of this wretched city.

Chapter Text

Turdas, 27th of Last Seed 4E201

Goodbyes in Winterhold this morning were brief. Enthir is waiting for a business contact, so he will be staying until Axel makes his rounds again, then return to the college. Onmund decided to visit his family near Kynesgrove. None of us were keen on staying for Calixto's execution and I wasn’t crazy about all the attention from random strangers for catching the killer either. I also found out that executions are more or less mandatory events in Windhelm. Elda handed me a note delivered by page extending an invitation to attend, like it’s a fucking quinceanera. There's a mental image. Calixto in a fluffy dress getting his tiara'd head lopped off. I'll pass. I didn't even bother to send a reply. I doubt anyone will care.

Ulindil finally got back from Winterhold and returned my mail. Two letters, one from Falion and one from Viarmo. The letter from Viarmo was just the long-awaited notice that the Burning of King Olaf festival has been cancelled. It wasn’t panicky or demanding, so it must be old.

Falion has never written me himself before, which probably means that he didn’t want to bother trying to dictate to Idgrod, or he felt more comfortable keeping the correspondence to himself. As follows:

College of Winterhold
Esme,

I have examined the transcribed pages you sent (your handwriting is truly terrible, by the way) and cross-referenced some other texts I’ve been able to get my hands on. I’ll give you the good news first. Based on the author’s cryptic, but not incomprehensible, notes in the Treatise I’m confident that I can reactivate the mirror. The bad news is that I’m equally confident that it will only take you back to the waypoint.

If you have not already done so I strongly suggest that you find and read The Doors of Oblivion. The fate of the author’s mentor is not one I would wish on anyone. Once you have read the book return to Morthal. We will speak in greater detail about the dangers going forward.

-Falion

He assigned me homework. Yay. I assume the “waypoint” is the grove I found myself in after I fell out of the first portal. Makes sense, my thought was to get that far and see what happens. I’m not thrilled about going back into the mind of a dead homicidal monarch, but if that’s where Sheogorath is still “vacationing” then that’s where I need to go. I did look for that elf with the hip bone from the game, but he was never in Solitude. Maybe he will be there when I get back, that would save time, but I can’t count on it. Falion is my backup.

I read the letters on the road to pass the time. Axel’s new rig has him grumbling, but he’ll just have to make do until he can afford an upgrade. He didn’t even get a horse. I have affectionately dubbed his new mule Ferris for my own amusement.

We’re taking the journey slow because the weather is gorgeous, and the wagon could very well fall apart at any moment. There are no other passengers, just the two of us plus cargo. Even so Ferris will periodically stop in the middle of the road for no discernible reason and can’t be convinced to move again unless there's a carrot involved.

I need to do something nice for Axel. Not only is he letting me ride to Whiterun for free, but he’s feeding me from his own rations. He won’t take the ring Faralda gave me, I already tried that. Stubborn ass. He and Ferris deserve each other.

At least the mud is mostly dried out now, it makes the journey a lot more enjoyable. I’ve taken to walking along the wagon picking plants for alchemy use later. Once we arrive in Whiterun I just need to get to an alembic, then I can make some money and it’s westward ho!

******

I took out a wolf this evening! The pack was sniffing around camp and spooked Ferris. While Axel was busy keeping the mule from bolting, I hurled a fireball that scared all but one away. It lunged, I managed to sweep to one side and finished it off with my ax. I guess it’s a thing now that I go invisible when I’m scared. That’s useful. I would rather be able to do it at will, but if it keeps me from getting torn apart by an apex predator I’m not going to complain. Axel was a little put out because there’s no snow to pack the meat in, and we don’t have time to smoke it. Instead he skinned the carcass, then carried it off and buried it away from the road so it won’t attract more scavengers. Rules of the road, he said.

Fredas, 28th of Last Seed 4E201

Axel has never seen me fight or kill before. Once Ferris was settled and we had camp packed up this morning he had some things to say about my lack of technique. To paraphrase: “Swinging as hard as you can is not a strategy.”

Okay, so he’s right. I need training. Since we both use one-handed axes, he showed me some moves and a better grip. It’s a good thing too, because as the sun was going down and we were debating whether to camp again or keep going an arrow zipped through the air and embedded itself in the side of the wagon. I recognized the location by the stone bridge stretching between two towers over the river. Three bandits appeared in front of it and I’m sure they would have demanded a toll, or something equally expected, but Axel was having none of it.

For a guy who has to be pushing seventy that man can move. Before he’d even left the wagon he brained the biggest of them by throwing an iron skillet, then tossed a dagger into the chest of the second. The third, a very dirty woman with black teeth, tried to rush him. While he dealt with her, I decided to take the initiative against the tower archer before he got a lucky shot. Invisible and shaking with adrenaline I ran into the tower and climbed the stairs all the way up to the top. The archer was taking aim when he came into view so I did the only thing I could think of, I pushed his ass off the edge. I spotted two more crossing the bridge below me and hurled fire at them as hard as I could, then tossed my ax, which only managed to wing one of them. Axel appeared on the landing, kicked the bandit with the heaviest armor off and into the river, and beheaded the wounded one. He went across to check the second tower and slaughtered the last archer, who was cowering behind a rock.

My legs went wobbly and it took a while for me to manage the stairs back down. The archer’s body lay face-down to one side with his arms flung at odd angles. I killed him. I killed a person today. Jesus H. Christ, I know if I hadn’t he would have killed Axel, and then me, but this isn’t okay.

Bile rose in my throat as the reality sank in. I’m a murderer now. Nothing will change that.

I don’t know how long I stood over his body, the amount of time it took Axel to loot the towers I suspect. He seemed to understand. He led me over to a stump by the tower door, then he went to collect the wagon. Ferris had taken off, but the lazy animal hadn’t even gone a quarter mile, so it didn’t take long.

The corpse of the female bandit was missing an arm and laying in the middle of the road in a dark pool of blood, piss, and shit. Her mouth hung open, each rotten tooth in her head on display. The big guy was still twitching, but judging by the amount of skull fragments and brain matter on our cooking skillet that was just nerve endings firing off. The one with a dagger in his chest was still alive, I discovered as I sat there, willing myself not to vomit, watching him slowly try to crawl toward me. I don’t think he saw me; he was just trying to get away, get to shelter. It was like watching a blind kitten feel its way across a blanket. Only the blanket was gore-splattered turf and the kitten was a scrawny, sunburned teenager with blood dribbling out of his mouth.

That’s when I remembered the healing scroll Colette gave me. I ran to meet the wagon, jumped into the back, yanked the scroll out of my bag and ran back to the tower. By the time I got there the kid had stopped moving. I nudged him with my boot. When he didn’t react, I rolled him over to check his pulse.

“Don’t waste it.” Axel called as he slowly walked Ferris to a tree and tied the reigns off. He knew the kid was dead before I did.

I don’t know if saving him would have helped my conscience. I keep telling myself that it wasn't my fault. I didn't want to kill anyone. It feels important to document everything I can, not so much for the Whiterun guard, but for me. Future me.

It took a few hours to clean up the mess. Axel looted the bodies for anything valuable and stowed it all away in a sack in the back of the wagon. They weren’t well equipped at all, probably why they set up shop at the towers, hoping for easy marks. We found the one Axel knocked off the bridge caught on some rocks further downstream. His armor was so heavy it likely drowned him. It took us both plus a length of rope to yank him up onto the bank.

I thought that we would bury them like the wolf, but Axel wants to see if any of them have bounties in Whiterun, so we had to rearrange the cargo and pile the bodies in the wagon. By the time we were done it was dark and we were both exhausted, so we made camp at the towers. I couldn’t eat and the fact that Axel could was a little unnerving. I took the opportunity while he was munching on hard tack and cheese, to ask where he learned to fight.

“And don’t say ‘on the road.’” I threw in for good measure. “You didn’t learn to fight like that on the road.”

He sat there and chewed for what seemed like an excessively long time before admitting, rather begrudgingly, that he had been a soldier under Hoag Stormcloak until after the Great War. I’m not used to stories from Axel that don’t involve naked bandits and quips about how argonians use their tails. I think it was weird for him too.

He didn’t go into great detail, but I got the bullet points. Joined the army, learned how to fight, saw some horrific battles, developed PTSD, got discharged from ranks, did some unsavory shit to makes ends meet, eventually settled on being a driver because it was the only legal job he could get. He also mentioned that the only reason he got the job was because his sister Fralia worked it out. I know that name. I can’t remember who she is, but I know it.

The doors are all barred and we’re camping out on the second floor, where it's cleaner. I can’t sleep. This is a problem with me lately, I haven’t been able to get more than a few hours a night. Maybe the sound of the river will help.

Chapter Text

Whiterun
Loredas, 29th of Last Seed 4E201

Fortune, thou art a fickle bitch. I want to start this entry by reminding myself that freaking out over everything I have no control over just makes me anxious and angry. What’s making me feel this way, you may ask? Outside of riding into Whiterun with six dead people, the Dragonborn is an irresponsible dickhole!

Let me back up. I managed to get what felt like five minutes of sleep, so I was cranky from the get-go. Axel didn’t appreciate my sour mood, so after our meager cheese and tomato on hard tack breakfast he proceeded to push me into the river while I was washing. The water is lower than it would be in spring with snow melt, but it’s still fast and cold. I scrambled onto the rocks weighed down by soggy wool layers, swaying and cursing like a sailor. Meanwhile he’s standing by the wagon pissing himself with laughter.

I know Axel was trying to get me to lighten up, but I wish he had just gone straight to telling dirty jokes. Had to change back into my novice robes, but I only have one pair of boots, so I got to squelch all the way to Whiterun. I’m continually surprised when Axel complains about the summer heat. Honestly it feels more like early May to me, so even in dry clothes I had to walk rather than ride just to keep from shivering. I wanted to maintain a healthy distance from our disgusting cargo anyway.

The closer to Whiterun we got the more people we saw. Mostly farmers moving their produce and the occasional peddler. While the robes are comfortable, it’s hard not to notice the increase in distrustful glares when I’m in them, from Nords anyway.

We passed a small caravan a few miles outside the city. Khajiit look so fluffy and enticing in person. The obvious pride in personal grooming cat people have makes your average human look like mud-wallowing rubes in comparison. Not a hair out of place, every piercing and piece of armor polished to a high gloss. All of them wrinkled their adorable noses as we passed, smelling the slowly swelling corpses in the back of the wagon, no doubt.

By the time we got to Whiterun the stink was starting to become a real problem. Thankfully two of the bandits did have modest bounties on their heads, so the effort wasn’t completely wasted. God knows Axel could use the coin. He invited me to stay with his relatives, which is how I found out that his sister married into the Gray-Manes (that’s where I know the name Fralia, she’s Eorlund’s wife!) and that Axel doesn’t have a house of his own. That’s why he’s nice to me, I think, he’s been where I am now. The whole hijacked carriage thing was nothing new, he’s had to start from square one more than once.

Eorlund’s house is more like an estate. He said he built it over the ruins of an older family home that fell into disrepair and was simply too small for them all. At one time Fralia and Axels’ parents and Eorlund’s mother lived with them as well, so there are plenty of extra rooms. I just hope they changed out the mattress after granny Gray-Mane drifted off to Sovngarde. It is the nicest room I’ve stayed in since arriving in Skyrim. No magic-activated doors or sharing with a dozen strangers. Everything is clean and homey with bright textiles and ancient weapons on every wall. Fralia is fastidious, but welcoming. I get the impression that her husband and son are suspicious of me, but Nords are like that. They both visibly relaxed when Axel assured them I'm not a mage. They’re also not as well off as they once were. There are cabinets and shelves in the main room that look like they once contained heirlooms or collectibles but are bare now. The family survives on Eorlund’s reputation.

Their son, Avulstein, never leaves the house and the other one, Thor-something? I haven’t seen at all, so he may have already been captured by the Thalmor. They don’t know me well enough to discuss it, and I am not going to bring it up. That or my opinion of Ulfric Stormcloak.

After settling in I immediately sent letters to Idgrod, Falion, and Viarmo all basically assuring them that I am not in fact dead and that I am trying to get back to Morthal as soon as possible. There is a complication, though, and it presented itself in the form of one Antonius Aretino. Yes, his last name is Aretino, a name I remember very well. There’s a little boy in Windhelm who would be very interested to know that he’s not an orphan. I’m putting a pin in that for now.

He was sitting in the Bannered Mare, where Axel spotted him and sat at his table to get the story out of Helgen while I dropped my letters off at the counter. He’s a wiry, middle-aged Imperial with black hair greying at the temples and a hooked nose that’s been broken more than once. Kind of reminds me of an older, weather-beaten Oscar Isaac. It was barely midday and he was already pretty well sloshed. And I could tell that he had already told the Helgen story ad nauseum, but he humored Axel, after he bought him a drink. It was more or less as scripted, which was weird to hear. That also cinched it for me, he’s got to be the Dragonborn, he just doesn’t know it because he hasn’t gone to Bleakfalls yet. Farengar asked him to retrieve the tablet already, but he hasn’t decided if he wants to take the job. And here we come to my realization that this guy is an asshat, child abandonment not withstanding. Antonius is a self-described sellsword, so I get that he’s only thinking about whether the coin is worth the effort. But when I suggested that getting an artifact that could help stop dragon attacks was more important than the cash reward, he looked at me like I had sprouted horns. Philanthropy is clearly not his jam. I internally panicked, if this guy just decides to walk away what happens? If there’s no DB to even try to defeat Alduin will the universe correct itself or will we all just die? I think we all die.

I can be persuasive when I want to be, but man was it a hard sell. When getting him to talk about Riverwood he had fortunately heard about the golden claw that had been stolen, so I went with the two birds one stone argument. One trip up a mountain, two rewards for your trouble. And I promised that I would get him back up. Axel scrunched hard at that but said nothing. Eventually I got Antonius to agree to take the job, if I make good. He then staggered off to do whatever he needed to do before going up to Dragons Reach and left me to formulate. Axel rightly wanted to know what in the good fuck was happening. There was no other explanation I could give for why it’s so crucial that this drunk I barely know go find a tablet in a tomb, so I had to tell the truth, mostly. I waited til we were back at the Gray-Manes, then couched the story in a mystical vision of the future. Idgrod will have to forgive the fib.

Axel doesn’t believe that Antonius is Dragonborn. His exact words were “If that man was chosen by the Divines, I’m a pink-bellied virgin.” However, when I insisted that I need to make sure that this thing is done even if I have to drag Antonius up that mountain by the ear, he promptly walked downstairs and told his nephew to get ready to go questing. Avulstein looked equally confused and relieved. I think he’s going nuts being stuck inside. Fralia was nervous about letting him go, but it's relatively low risk. There aren't likely to be any Imperial patrols in Riverwood and there should be none near the Barrow. She got busy gathering supplies and Eorlund confirmed that Benor did not make it into the Companions, so he was out as back up. The only other person I know in Whiterun who fit the bill was Mette. I hated to ask her to take time off from her duties, but when I showed up at the barracks she was eager to help. Whiterun is boring, that’s why Juni transferred to Windhelm, apparently.

I don’t want to go, and Axel doesn’t want me to go, and I’m sure Antonius doesn’t really want me to go, but I’m gonna. I’m tired of traveling and I don’t want to fight draugr. But I have to be sure that the quest-line starts the way it’s supposed to. Once Antonius gets close to the word wall, then absorbs his first dragon soul later, my hope is that things will fall into place and he’ll do what’s needed on instinct. Then I can take the training wheels off and go do my own thing. Call me a control freak. I even followed Antonius and made sure he really did speak with Farengar. He did, I could still smell his boozy vapor trail. Farengar was polite, but dismissive when he saw me, so I used his alchemy station, then left. We head south in two days.

Inventory: Skyforge steel axe (thanks Eorlund), 6 healing potions, 3 stamina, 4 soup “packets” (okay this is impressive, it’s like soup dumplings, they make the soup base then coagulate it with collagen and wrap the blobs in sheep bladders to be heated up later), plus bread and cheese. 1 water skin per person. Resupply in Riverwood.

Chapter Text

Tirdas, 1^st of Hearthfire 4E201

We decided to head to Bleakfalls directly. Avulstein knew a shortcut from Whiterun that shaved a couple hours off the trip. I almost left this journal at the Gray-Mane’s to cut down on weight but being without it feels wrong. It’s not like anyone can read it, but I’m already paranoid about what’s happening with the stuff I left in Solitude, I don’t want to add to that. So, I’ve got an extra five pounds of paper in the bottom of my pack. Sorry, spine, you’re taking one for the team.

It’s weird to see Mette out of uniform. I hope she didn’t get into trouble asking for time away to help me with this. She insists that she didn’t and that her boys are old enough to be on their own. The youngest is fifteen. She did mention that she got married very early, but damn. Except for a couple crows feet she doesn’t look a day over thirty.

We’re traveling by foot to be less conspicuous. Antonius made the suggestion. He seems to have an aversion to horses, he cringed as we went passed the Whiterun stables and stayed well away from Ferris while I was saying my goodbyes to Axel. First I’ve seen anyone have that reaction.

I wish Axel could come with, but he must continue his endless trek back to Windhelm. He tried to convince me one last time to just head back to Morthal. I could have, Avulstein and Mette would probably keep Antonius on task, but if something goes wrong they don’t really understand the consequences. As much as I’d like to, I can’t take the easy way out and hope everything goes the way it should. At least the others bought my “this is part of a vision” explanation. I’ll just be an advisor and emergency fireball thrower.

This has to be my purpose here, right? Why else but to use what I know to keep this whole prophecy thing on the rails? I’ll ask any Daedra who will talk to me, any time. Hell, I even tried talking to the one in the Dragons Reach basement just to see what would happen. A whole lot of nothing, that’s what.

It took the better part of the day to get to the Barrow. I forgot that there were bandits up here too. As soon as the watch tower came into view Mette pulled me aside and made me hunker down behind a rock while the rest of them snuck up the trail. She’s good with a bow and picked off two before they knew what was happening. Antonius and Avulstein cleared the rest out in less than five minutes. I expected the Nord to barrel in like a berserker and the Imperial to take a sneakier approach, but they proved me wrong. While Mette backed them up from a distance, both men quietly infiltrated the keep with daggers drawn. When I was finally allowed to come out of hiding, while Antonius was busy ransacking the place, I noticed that all the bodies had a stab wound under the ribs and their throats slit. Avulstein mumbled some writ about bandits not deserving an honorable death while he meticulously cleaned their blood from his father’s blades. Mette kept watching me. Probably trying to judge how I was handling it. If she saw through my poker face she didn’t say anything.

There were a few more in the main chamber once we finally got up here, also not much of a challenge. We took over the preexisting campsite but tossed the bandit’s bedrolls out. The most useful I’ve been so far was hauling skeever corpses into the snow and cooking dinner. With a thorough hand washing in between.

Antonius picked at his rations and opted out of conversation for the most part. He packed his own supply of mead, I noticed. The rest of us mostly talked about what might be inside the tomb. Of the four of us Antonius and Mette have dealt with draugr before. When she was still doing mercenary work, Mette said she was hired to clear out an infestation of undead in a mine that hit part of a tomb network. This apparently happens a lot. Apart from magic-wielders, Deathlords, and Dragon Priests (which she’s only heard about) the major worry is infection. Ancient weapons are rusty and dirty, plus she said the buggers claw and bite if they’re disarmed. All Antonius had to add was “go for the joints.” Avulstein hung on every word. He’s like a kid before Christmas morning who just can’t wait to rip into his presents. His hostile, armed zombie presents. We’re turning in early. Hopefully tomorrow will go well.  

Bleakfalls Barrow

Middas, 2^nd of Hearthfire 4E201

It didn’t take long to get to the puzzle room and dispatch the one bandit stuck there. I won’t make fun of him for not being able to figure it out, it was nowhere near as simplistic as the game. The statuary isn’t prominently displayed, for one thing. When we finally did find the symbols on the walls, hidden in chevrons and corners where they’re hardest to see, the images were so worn two could barely be made out and one was missing completely. Fortunately, I remembered that it’s snake, snake, fish from my many playthroughs. The rotating pedestals were so old and crusty that even Avulstein with his giant tree trunk arms could barely get them to budge. Antonius had a solution for that. He pissed on the bases. I mean a long, satisfied “I’ve always wanted to do this” piss too. Gross, but it worked.

Skeevers after that. I squealed like the mom in a Tom and Jerry cartoon when they came up the spiral staircase and fried them to crispy critters. Avulstein and Mette tried not to laugh, at least. Antonius had to hold his knees as he gasped for air. Jerk. Then we came to the spider chamber. It was the first giant spider I’ve seen and…yeah, they’re nasty. The whole nest smelled like rotting meat with something acrid under it, like burning rubber. We fanned out, Mette and me on either side shooting arrows and fireballs respectively while Avulstein broke its mandibles to gooey bits with his war hammer and Antonius slashed at the slightly softer parts with his daggers. Took a while to bring it down. All the while the dark elf caught in its web kept shouting for help. I fully intended to try to save the jackass from himself, but Mette got to him first and cut him down without question. The moment the webbing loosened he hit the floor and took off down the passage. Predictable results. By the time we caught up to him he was already dead. Antonius took no time at all rifling through his pockets, pulling the claw from the elf’s pack with an expression of utter glee. The rest of us were fine with letting him do all the looting. Touching dead people doesn’t seem to faze him at all. That’s good, once he realizes that he’s the Dragonborn he’ll be doing this sort of thing a lot more often.

Draugr must be held together by magic and spite. Mette wasn’t kidding about the biting, either. I stayed back and sent bursts of fire at the ones rising out of their niches. I’m getting quite good at hitting from a distance. The others struck down the already awake and very pissed off undead further into the chamber. I thought I’d gotten them all until Antonius flung one of his many daggers into the face of the corpse just behind me. It didn’t like that. I swung my axe and managed to slice off its dry-rotted wrist, and the sword it carried with it, but that just made the thing lunge forward and try to sink its teeth into my shoulder. Antonius shoved me aside and lopped off its head. It crumpled and twitched before the faint blue light in its eye sockets dimmed out. A string of my most colorful English curses spewed out of my mouth, before I caught myself and thanked Antonius for saving my ass. There were more draugr to fight, so we quickly went to catch up with Avulstein and Mette.

We went through the crypt holding an unspoken formation, Avulstein in front, then Antonius, me, and Mette at the rear. As we progressed, I started to notice that Antonius had gotten deathly quiet. He didn’t seem to take this mission very seriously from the beginning but did obviously get real pleasure out of finding treasure. That all evaporated after the first main chamber. He still methodically looted every corpse, chest, burial urn, and sarcophagus, but it was like he was on autopilot.

It took about two hours to get to the underground stream. We took a break there, because the pull chain on the iron gate was rusted in place. Antonius drank his lunch and counted septims while Avulstein kicked and cursed the gate. Mette munched on some sort of root that she pulled from the wall. It smelled like licorice, but I decided not to partake.

An unexpected side effect of fighting very dead things is the dust. Every severed limb sent a cloud of dead guy into the air for us to walk through, not to mention the soot from my many fireballs. I felt like it was clinging to every inch of my skin and I know there was some up my nose. I spent most of the break washing. It probably wasn’t a very practical thing to do, in hindsight. We weren’t done fighting and I was just chilling my skin down in an already cold, wet cavern. There was a brazier full of oily coals that didn’t take much effort to light, though. That’s when Antonius spoke to me directly for the first time since we met.

“For someone who claims not to be a mage you sure like using Flame a lot.” He said.

It wasn’t a particularly astute or snarky thing to say. What left me speechless was that he said it in perfect English.

I needed a second to recover. I haven’t heard my native language, except when I mumble to myself, in months and it brought a plume of homesickness to the surface that I had to tamp down before I trusted my own voice.

“It’s the only spell I’m good at.” I answered, also in English.

Mette and Avulstein exchanged confused glances. Antonius chuckled, bitterly.

“I thought I recognized your accent, but it’s been a long time…” he trailed off, putting his coin purse away and finally looking me in the eyes. “Mid-west?”

“Chicago. You’re…from the east coast?”

“Jersey. South Orange.” 

“It’s muddled. How long have you been here?”

“About twelve years. You?”

“Going on nine months.”

I’ll save the paper and paraphrase our conversation from here. I had many questions and he likes giving succinct answers.

Antonius (formerly Anthony) had been on vacation in Bolivia with a group of friends from engineering school. Specifically, they went to see the Salar de Uyuni. I confess I didn’t know what the Salar de Uyuni was until he explained that it’s a huge salt flat that becomes the world’s- our world’s -largest mirror during flood season. The place is apparently a big deal if you’re into satellite calibration. On the last day there, Anthony decided to walk out onto the flat one more time.

One minute he was staring out at the biggest reflection on Earth, watching the sunrise with a dozen camera-wielding tourists, the next the ground under him disappeared. It didn’t collapse, he emphasized, it just wasn’t there anymore. He blacked out, then found himself in a cavern, dazed and alone.

I feel like an ass for judging him now. I’d probably be a cynical alcoholic too after being stranded for over a decade with no cultural touchstones and no way out. At least I had the benefit of having played Skyrim, several times, before being sent here. Antonius had no idea what was going on or where he was. As unhelpful as Sheogorath’s very brief intro was before he tossed me headfirst into Solitude, at least he extended that courtesy. Whatever or whoever brought Antonius didn’t even bother with that. When I asked if there was any other sort of mirror or reflective surface in the cave, he said he couldn’t remember. That’s fair, he was probably in shock at first, I know I was.

He doesn’t remember where the cave is either, which is unfortunate. If the mirror in Solitude doesn’t pan out, maybe whatever exit he came out of will, if we can find it. All he could remember after finding his way out was there was snow and he was in the mountains somewhere. A hunting party found him suffering from altitude sickness and got him to, of all places, Helgen, where he was healed…and robbed. He woke a day or two later in the apothecary’s basement wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.

My next question was whether he’s seen anyone else from Earth here. Something like incredulous despair flicked across his face. He said once he pieced together that he wasn’t even on the right planet anymore (the double moons are a dead giveaway) he’d given up hope of running across any others. When he heard me speak for the first time at the Bannered Mare, he thought he was going crazy.

At that point in our conversation Mette got frustrated and asked us what we were talking about. I think we both forgot she and Avulstein were still there. I started forming a side-step explanation when Antonius said, oh so casually, that we both speak an obscure southern High Rock dialect and were talking about our experiences with it. He is…very good at lying. Probably all the time he’s spent here pretending not to be an alien. Ew, I don’t like using that word, never use it again!!

Avulstein was itching to go by then, so we all went to work prying up the iron gate, which took quite a bit of effort and a lever made of a draugr battleaxe handle. After we finally got into the natural caves we carried on as before, only this time I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the implications of everything Antonius had told me. First Sarah, now him. There could be others. How many of them are still alive? How do we find them? If we band together our chances of surviving this world, and leaving it, increase. This is HUGE. It’s also a distraction that could kill me. Mette had to grab me from behind before I walked right into a me-sized hole in the floor. After that I forced myself to focus on the here and now.

Troll by the waterfall with the natural spiral ramps. That’s another first and maybe the grossest creature so far. Like a gorilla on meth. I hadn’t realized how late in the day it was until we had gotten to that area. The light filtering through the hole in the ceiling was coming from one of the moons. About an hour or so later we came to a massive double wooden door and decided that was as good a place to camp as any. It’s unlikely that anything will be able to sneak up on us in this chamber and we’re all beat. Warmed up soup blobs for dinner. I want to ask Antonius more questions, but he fell asleep immediately. It will have to wait. The last chamber can’t be that far now, we’ll get the tablet tomorrow, then head back to Riverwood to return the claw. I am going to put my foot down about that. No taking it to get appraised first or trying to sell it in another Hold. Local good will is more important than gold.

Chapter Text

Loredas, 5^th of Hearthfire 4E201

It took every ounce of self-control not to bombard Tony (I couldn’t decide if Anthony or Antonius is more appropriate, so he’s Tony now) with questions from the moment he woke up that second morning. Priorities. There were undead to dismember and oversized creepy crawlies to deal with. We agreed to save the big conversation we need to have for later. Mette and Avulstein don’t like it when they’re excluded anyway.

We finished off our rations, so there was more of an urgency to wrap things up. More draugr, more chambers and tunnels. It took about two hours or so to get to the final cavern. I’ve never seen a cave like it, the rock had a green sheen to it, but not from moss or lichen. It was like stepping into the center of an uncut emerald. Light filtered through narrow keyholes and chimneys above us, making the final walk to the tomb almost pleasant.

The closer we got the louder the word wall became. It didn’t chant, though that’s as good an interpretation as any for what it was doing. It was like jacked-up ASMR. A full-body tingle started in my ear canals and shivered to the base of my spine all the way down to my toes and back up again. Over and over. I don’t know if the others experienced the same sensation, but no one was unaffected.

I watched Tony carefully as he approached the word wall. Not that I was expecting a glowing swirl of light to float into his chest or anything, but I assumed something would happen. That’s when the overlord decided to pop the lid on his sarcophagus and attack. I knew it was coming, but the sudden force of the Shout it unleashed still knocked me off my feet. The back of my head smacked against the stones. While Mette covered my position with her bow, I used the word wall to pull myself up. The pain in my head and the ringing in my ears made it difficult to focus, but I swear the wall buzzed under my hands like it was alive. I had to shake off the disorientation and practically belly-flop out of the way when the draugr’s blade came down to the place I was only a second before. That unbalanced it enough to let Tony sweep the leg, then Avulstein sent his war hammer down on its head. The corroded iron helmet crunched inward, which had to have turned whatever was left of its brain to powder, but the arms and legs still had to be chopped off before the body finally stopped moving. Romero zombie rules do not apply to these things.

Mette checked on me while Tony got to work looting. I felt dazed and sick to my stomach. No one else was hurt, though and we found the damn Dragonstone. It could have gone a lot worse. Avulstein claimed the overlord’s sword as a trophy. His father will probably overflow with Nordic pride when he sees it. I took a healing potion, which helped with the goose egg on the back of my head, but not the nausea.

There was an exit in the back of the chamber; the climb down was not fun. It was dark by the time we got to Riverwood and we were all hungry, tired, and dirty. I forced myself to eat some stew, because I knew that if I didn’t eat I’d only feel worse later. The pressure in the back of my head had been steadily building and I knew it was going to turn into a full-blown migraine.

As Tony dove into his third consecutive bottle of spiced wine I took the claw out of his pack and told him we would be going to the Riverwood Trader together in the morning. He looked annoyed that I didn’t trust him, but just waved me off and kept drinking.

I gave the tablet to Mette and bid them all the nicest good night I could muster, walking calmly to my room, all while the back of my eyeballs felt like they were constricting further into my head with every blink. Light hurt, sound hurt, that’s normal for a migraine. But I felt like I wanted to peel off my own skin, and that was new. I couldn’t get comfortable. Even after stripping down and dunking my head in the wash basin the itchy, tight feeling only got worse. Water normally helps, if only as a sensory distraction, so after a few agonizing hours of tossing and wondering if I had contracted bone break fever or something, I decided to try the river. I pulled on just my underwear and the sweat-stained shift that goes under my robes and left the inn as quietly as possible. There’s a spot behind the guard wall where I could hide somewhat. The water was cold, but not unbearable. Toes in the sand, and a sliver of moon overhead. I wish I could have enjoyed it. I like the way Riverwood smells, mostly of pine and freshly cut logs from the mill. The water at its deepest probably goes over my head, but I stopped at about knee depth when the sand at the bottom became mud and started sucking my feet down. That’s when I heard heavy footsteps behind me. My ankles were still anchored so I had to turn at the waist and caught sight of a very disheveled Tony yanking his boots off by the retaining wall. He rolled his trouser legs up and waded in next to me.

We didn’t talk for a while, just stood there feeling the cold water rush past. I was not feeling any better and wasn’t up for conversation. Too bad.

“I was going to steal the claw back from you tonight.” He said in English.

Ah, so that’s how he knew I was out of bed. “So why tell me?” I asked. Oh man it felt good to speak my own language again. He seemed to be getting a kick out of it too, though his accent has changed so much some words come out a little awkward sounding.

“Got to your room and decided not to. You know something I don’t. So, spill it.”

He’s more astute than I gave him credit for. Or he read my journal. I had to take a few deep breaths and will myself to ignore the throbbing in my head, so I could give him the cliff’s notes version. I told him about Sheogorath. I told him about Sarah, and my suspicions that we’re not the only earthlings (I need to find a better term!) here. Then I told him about the Dragonborn.

Tony was sufficiently sober by the time I finished. We sat on the stone bridge shoulder to shoulder drying off and just…dealing.

“Prophecy horseshit.” He finally muttered. “Lemme get this straight. The Dragonborn is like a Skywalker? Born to be a great warrior or the Chosen One or whatever. How could that possibly be me if I wasn’t born on this planet? You sure you’re remembering it right?”

I rubbed my aching eyes and admitted that no, I don’t know how it’s possible, but all the signs are there. I asked him if he felt anything at the word wall at Bleakfalls. He shifted uncomfortably at that.

“Yeah, okay I felt something, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. So the wall hummed. Big deal. You haven’t been here long enough to have seen all the fucked-up shit I’ve seen.”

And I lacked both the time and the ability at that moment to get caught up. I can very well imagine what he’s been through the last decade, though and I’m not about to abandon a fellow refugee. Whether he likes it or not.

I told him that I wasn’t going to argue with him. If I’m right, then I’ll do everything I can to help. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong and we’ll deal with it later. Farengar still needed that tablet (I would love to see the expression on Delphine’s face if I were to just hand it over to her, but she’s not the one paying for services rendered) and the claw still needed to be returned. I scooted down off the wall and started heading back to the inn hoping to get a few hours of sleep.

When I woke the next morning my head still felt like a tiny goblin was kicking the backside of my retinas with spiked shoes. Joy, thought I, it’s going to be one of those multi-day torture sessions. I rolled out of bed, still slightly damp from the night before and checked my pack. The claw was gone.

I cursed all the way through dressing and burst into the main room ready to unleash hell when I saw Mette, Avulstein, and Tony sitting at a table smiling at me as if everything was fine. Everything was not fine. I stomped over, probably looking like roadkill, only to have Tony shake a hefty sack of coins in my face.

“Before you get mad, listen to that lovely sound.” He said in Tamrielian, presumably so the others wouldn’t feel left out. “You’re sick, so I took the claw back to Valerius and collected the reward myself. Here’s your cut. Did you sleep?”

I grumbled and plopped down beside Mette so I could bury my head in the smelly sleeves of my robe. She rubbed little circles into my neck and forced me to eat some porridge. She’s such a mom.

Tony ignored my less than cheery mood and recounted the shopkeeper’s enthusiastic reaction to getting the claw back and the generous amounts he paid for some of the better stuff Tony had pilfered from the Barrow. He split up the take between the four of us, which ended up being 162 septims each. He might have skimmed off the top, frankly I don’t care.

We packed up the breakfast leftovers and headed back to Whiterun. Not long after we hit the road a roaring sound echoed off the hills. Avulstein was the first to see the silhouette and motioned for us all to flatten ourselves against the rocks on the roadside. The unmistakable outline of a dragon passed overhead, circled once, then continued up into the clouds where it disappeared. Distance and size are hard to judge, but from where I was cowering, I’d swear the thing had to have been the size of a 747 from snout to tail. Tony gave me a “I’m supposed to fight that?” look. All I could do was shrug. Yes?

Following the road, the rest of the trip took about half a day. Mette had to get back to her kids, so we hugged our goodbyes before I followed Avulstein back to the Gray-Mane’s and Tony went off to the Bannered Mare. I was looking forward to a nap, but he showed up not twenty minutes later expecting me to go up to Dragons Reach with him. When I asked why he needed me there he quirked a brow like I had just said something stupid.

“You’re the one with all the prophetic knowledge, remember? Don’t you want to make sure everything goes okay? Besides…Irileth scares me. You can be my human shield.”

Yeah that was a deflecting move, but I went anyway. I really did want to see it through, I just wish that he had given me one solid hour to rest, maybe change clothes. Irileth wasn’t even there. In fact except for Balgruuf’s children, Farengar, and Delphine trying hilariously to disguise herself behind a hood, the place was empty. We handed over the Dragonstone, got paid. I waited for the dragon attack to trigger. Nothing. Farengar dismissed us, we walked through the hall, to the door…still nothing. I started to think that maybe that would be it, maybe the Universe would cut me a break. Ha. No. A roar shook the building and all hell broke loose.

Balgruuf came ripping down the stairs followed by half his council. I guess they were having a meeting. Irileth barked orders at her men but ignored Tony and me. Inward sigh. Do I take the out and leave the soldiers to kill the dragon, or do I prompt Tony to get on with the whole Dragonborn business? Of course I told him to follow the guards.

“What?! Why would I do that?”

“Because that’s what happens!” I snapped in English.

I practically dragged him through the city. We could see the dragon circling in the distance, so could everyone else, which caused no small amount of panic. The market cleared, people on the street fled screaming into their very flammable homes. The huge lizard seemed to be heading away from the city, and I knew where it would end up attacking. At least I thought I did.

I realized as we passed the stables that I was completely unarmed, but it was too late to go back for my axe. I figured Tony would be the one doing the fighting anyway. I also noticed that the dragon wasn’t heading west toward the watch tower. Of all the things to go off script. It was dangerously close to the city, about a mile south, hovering over the meadery. The workers and farmers from the nearby fields ran past us frantically trying to get to the more solid walls of Whiterun.

Guards ringed around the meadery shooting arrow after arrow at the dragon’s wings. They must have been at it for a while. Every time it swooped around it came down a little lower and rained hot splatters of blood from the wounds on its belly and legs. Gouts of fire caught the roof of one of the main buildings. When the thatching collapsed a side door burst open and a man dressed in rags with green glowing gloves ran out of the meadery and started firing lightning bolts at the dragon alongside the guards. Even over the screaming and roaring I could hear his maniacal laughter. The dragon targeted him on its way down. The damage to its wings was too severe to stay airborne, so it swooped low and vindictively blasted fire at the guards, the mage, and half a dozen skeevers running around him. I have no idea where the skeevers came from.

It hit the ground hard. Everyone stumbled with the impact and what remained of the meadery went up in a booze-fueled mushroom cloud that sent debris flying. A shard of shrapnel caught my arm. The metal was so hot it scorched through the fabric. The cut wasn’t very deep, but it hurt like a motherfucker.

Tony had been standing with me watching the spectacle from a half-fallen wall by the road up to that point. I guess once the dragon was down, he decided he should probably contribute before swallowing its soul. He grabbed a bow and quiver from a fallen guard and shot into the ribs. The remaining guards continued to go for the head and neck while it viciously snapped at them with teeth the size of steak knives and whipped its tail. Even from where I stood I could see rivulets of blood staining the ground beneath the dragon’s chest and belly. After a while the head drooped to the ground. The dragon stopped moving. It didn’t even die with a roar. A pathetic, wet wheezing sound escaped its throat before it went completely still. After a few minutes, waiting for some sign of life, Tony looked back to me and made a “do I just go up to it?” hand signal. He looked like he was going to be sick. I nodded.

He tentatively walked forward, watching the dragon’s huge amber eyes slowly glaze over. The guards moved in much the same way, like they couldn’t believe it was really dead. Tony edged closer. He stepped up to the side of the head. No glowy lights, no disintegrating flesh. I pulled myself up and started making my way over. I had to pick through rubble and the shredded remains of one of the wings, laying across the road like a splintered, bloody curtain. Laid out it was probably nine or ten meters long. Tony nudged the snout with his boot, which got a nervous laugh out of some of the guards. That’s when the skin started to flake away. They all jumped back with a collective yelp. Light erupted out of the body, swept through the air like whirling vengeance and slammed right into me.

The pain in my head and the tight feeling I’d had since the Barrow exploded with the light and loud, angry buzzing words that I did and didn’t understand pulsed between my ears. I felt like I was being pulled apart on a cellular level. Then it just stopped. Everything stopped; I couldn’t feel my body, but I could vaguely hear voices around me. Panicky shouting, but it was so far away it didn’t seem to matter. Nothing mattered. I think I blacked out after that.

When I finally opened my eyes, I found myself in a quiet, dark room. Except for a slight stiffness in my neck I felt surprisingly okay. A tiny, stupid optimist in the back of my mind wanted to believe that I was waking up from a coma and my mom would be coming in any minute to tearfully berate me for making her fly all the way from Arizona to check on me.

The ornately carved wooden door soon opened, and I was greeted by the sight of Farengar holding a candle and several glass bottles. That’s when I noticed the leather straps holding my wrists and ankles to the bedposts.

Fuck optimism.

His bedside manner is pretty much non-existent. He got the less than sincere apology for the straps out of the way first, claiming it was to keep me from hurting myself, before plying me with potions and barreling into questions. How long had I known I was Dragonborn? What did it feel like to take the dragon’s soul? Did the dragon say anything before it died?

This is exactly why I didn’t want people knowing that I’m not from Nirn, I have become a scientific curiosity in a world where science still involves leaches and poking things with sticks. Being Dragonborn is just another layer on that shit cake. Suffice to say I was in no mood to answer Farengar’s questions. I also refused to drink the potions, since he wouldn’t tell me what they were. Irileth stepped into the room just in time to see him trying to force a thick green sludge down my throat. She pulled him away by the scruff of the neck like a dog.

“She’s not a prisoner or your plaything!” the elf snapped. Oh, I like her.

Farengar started to argue, but she ignored him and went to untie me, muttering about overzealous mages and Nord superstitions being a bad mix.  The entire court, plus Tony, was waiting in the main hall. At least Balgruuf left the formalities brief before he called for a council meeting upstairs, I felt awkward enough standing at his war table in dirty, blood stained robes. The council consisted of Irileth, Balgruuf’s brother, Farengar, the steward, and the Imperial captain. Tony was included as a witness. While I recounted the attack, the steward wrote everything down. Farengar stayed in a corner, probably still pouting over not getting to experiment on me.

I missed the Greybeard’s call, but no one else within a hundred miles did, it seems. I know what comes next and I’m not ready. This all feels like a joke. I have no business being the Dragonborn! I’m not a fighter! I'm a grad student! 

As soon as the minutes were taken and Balgruuf dismissed us Tony looked like he was going to make a beeline for the door. I had to jog to catch up to him. His hair and armor were completely caked in dirt and his eyes were bloodshot. It aged him about ten years. I’m sure I didn’t look any better. 

All I wanted was to know that he wasn’t going to disappear. I need someone to watch my back and we might still have interdimensional comrades wandering around Tamriel looking for help. I can’t rescue them and save the world all by myself. He scrubbed at his stubble so hard I thought he’d take skin off, but begrudgingly agreed. We decided to take the rest of the evening to rest up, then meet at the Mare tomorrow to figure out a plan.

Balgruuf did not declare me a thane and I was immensely relieved to find Lydia was not waiting for me. What was waiting when I got back to the Gray-Mane house made me want to fall at Fralia’s feet in gratitude. Avulstein set up their wash tub in the sunroom and she had hot water on the fire, soap, and a clean change of clothes ready. Least she could do, she said. That sweet old lady is getting a get out of jail free card for her son if I have to write it in my own blood.

Their tub is just wood, with a waxed interior and a bung hole similar to a wine barrel. It is fantastic and I never ever want to leave it. Fralia let me marinade for a while before draining the grey water and refilling it by the bucketful. She wouldn’t let me argue, either. She said that I smelled worse than Avulstein when he returned, and he sent the twins running. I couldn’t help but giggle at that. By “the twins” I know she meant Farkas and Vilkas. With their werewolf senses I can just imagine them hauling ass back to Jorrvaskr holding their noses. Though that does beg the question: where in the actual fuck were they when the dragon attacked? It wouldn’t have changed the outcome, but still we could have used some backup. Four guards, two civilians, and a couple hundred liters of mead were lost in that attack, the Companions could have at least made an appearance.

After scrubbing all the grime away and washing my hair twice Fralia helped me into one of her daughter’s old dresses, which is too long, but no matter. My robes might need to be burned at this point. I had dinner with the family and let Avulstein talk all about the Barrow. He is basically under house arrest again, but maybe our little adventure will be enough to keep him from going crazy for a while. I think he also has a bit of a crush of Mette, time will tell if that turns into anything. I hope it does. They’re cute together.

Tomorrow I guess I’ll have to deal with being Dragonborn. I wish I could stop myself from thinking about it. That leads to overthinking, which leads to anxiety, which I have enough of. As soon as I finish this sentence I’m going to sleep for as long as I possibly can.

Chapter Text

Whiterun

Sundas, 6^th of Hearthfire 4E201

Woke up in the dark, the first time, with that high gear chest pounding you get from a nightmare that never leaves you with anything solid. Just an impression of dread. I lit a candle and hugged my knees until the adrenaline ran out.

The deep shadows reminded me of being a little kid, when my cousin used to lock me in the closet. Bucky thought it was so fucking funny. The more I screamed and banged on the door the harder he laughed. Then one day I decided not to scream. I just stood there, with my eyes trained on the sliver of light coming in from under the door. Minutes passed and shadows never reached out to grab me. No monsters pushed their noses passed my father’s flannel shirts to take a bite out of me. I remember certainty slowly dawning like a glorious beacon as I stood there in the dark. There are no such things as monsters.

Well, that’s a lesson I’m unlearning.

I picked up the candle from the bedside table and stared at it for a long time. My memory of taking the dragon soul is just a confusing jumble of panic and disbelief. I didn’t hear the Greybeards call and I certainly didn’t do any Shouting.

Softly, I whispered Fus at the candle. The flame not only puffed out, but I could feel and hear droplets of wax splatter across the mattress in front of me.

Funny, the word doesn’t feel special. I thought it would, or at least leave a foreign flavor when I tried it, like fumbling to pronounce something you’ve only ever seen in print. Maybe that has something to do with my foreknowledge. I already knew the meaning, so it follows that it wouldn’t be a surprise.

Aiming for the afterimage I whispered Yol. A tiny plume of flame snaked from between my lips and caught the wick. I almost dropped the candle as I shuddered back against the headboard. It was like the time I burned off my eyebrows. My skin isn’t damaged, but I could definitely feel the heat and smell the tiny hairs on my upper lip scorch ever so slightly.

I don’t know how long I lay in the fetal position trying to figure out if anything was different. I don’t feel empowered or particularly dragon-like. My thoughts still seem to be my own. As far as I can tell there aren’t any other personalities lurking around in there.

Really, I just feel like I’ve been hit by a steam roller.

I must have fallen back asleep at one point because when I finally dragged my butt from under the covers it was full day and a boujee little breakfast was waiting. Nothing cheers me up like food. And it’s autumn now, so everything is apple themed. Toast with apple butter, hot cider, and an adorable baked pygmy pumpkin filled with apple cabbage stew with pork belly croutons waited to be devoured and devour it I did.

I also found something draped over the back of a chair I hadn’t realized I missed until I saw them: pants! No more gusts of wind up the scooter for me!

Eorlund and Fralia had already left for work, so it was just me and Avulstein in the house. Poor guy. He’s so bored! I invited him to come to the Bannered Mare with me, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. He’s sure that if one of the Battle-Borns see him they’ll immediately out him to the nearest Imperial agent, and he’s probably not wrong. I want to help him and his brother, but I’m not breaking into the Battle-Born house. Maybe there’s a diplomatic solution. I need to pick the steward’s brain, he would know.

Even though we had traveled together and know each other well enough at this point Avulstein came off as nervous, almost shy, with me. I was confused at first. Then it occurred to me, everyone has heard about what happened with the dragon. Any soldier who witnessed the attack or gossipy courtier who happened to get a seat at Dragons Reach afterwards would have heard about my involvement.

I asked Avulstein if the whole city knew who I was. The short answer is yes and no. He said the entire city likely knows by now that a Dragonborn appeared in Whiterun, but the jarl tried to keep my name off the record. That checks, when Balgruuf made his little thank you speech in the keep (I’ll admit I wasn’t really paying attention to all the formal talk) he only addressed me as 'Mistress Emard.' That won’t last. Sooner or later someone will blab and my full name, physical description, and shoe size will be topics of discussion in every tavern from here to Markarth.

I’d like to hang onto my anonymity for as long as possible. With everything else I’m meant to do I really don’t want to have to deal with cultists or Thalmor or any other bullshit antagonists coming at me because they heard I’m Dragonborn. At least I’m unremarkable physically. They’ll be looking for a short Breton, that’s a pretty broad search.

Avulstein’s sister came in then to wash the vegetables she had been harvesting from their family plot and to scold her brother for not locking the door. I have no idea what Olfina does, but she always seems to be in a rush to go do it.

She turned to me and said, “Mother wants you to have this.” before dropping a key in my hand and skipping off to the kitchen.

They gave me a key to their house. I mean, I’m glad they trust me, but this is trippy.

I’m just floored by this family’s generosity. All they needed was a good word from Axel and they’re giving me free access to their home and trusting me with their son’s safety. That’s nuts. For all their standoffishness with mages and outsiders Nords seem to put a lot of stock in personal recommendations. Interesting.

I was almost scared to venture out. Most people have their hands full with bringing in the harvest and cleaning up the unholy mess at the meadery, so the city had partially emptied. That was a blessing. If anyone I passed recognized me, they didn’t make it obvious.

Tony was easy to spot at a table near the front of the Mare. He didn’t exactly look pleased to see me. I know what it looks like when someone is convinced you’re going to ask them for a favor they don’t want to give. The fact that he met me like he said he would was encouraging, so I tried to keep it light. Instead of diving right into strategy and to do’s I asked him what he had been on his way to when the Imperials arrested him. That got him talking. Maybe it was the amount of ale he’d already had, or the relative security of carrying out the whole conversation in English, but he gave me a pretty thorough idea of what his life had been like and what he’d been doing before Helgen.

His first year in Skyrim had been a nightmare, one he almost didn’t survive. He’d already told me that his first clear memory was waking up in the apothecary’s basement in his underwear. What he hadn’t mentioned before was that the apothecary was the one who had taken his things and the man was a fucking sadist. Tony worked out that he meant to experiment on him pretty quick. He was harvested regularly. Blood, chunks of hair and skin, even saliva and fingernails were taken. The sick bastard pulled out a molar and packed salt into the cavity to keep it from festering. Each session the apothecary came back more frustrated, clearly not getting the results he wanted. Tony had to watch, while chained and hobbled, as his stuff was ripped apart, ground and liquefied with body parts and other ingredients, then fed to caged skeevers to watch the effect. This went on for weeks. Finally, one night Tony managed to work the iron spike fixing his chain to the wall loose and escaped. All he managed to save was the broken remnants of his wristwatch.

He pulled it out for me to look at. All that's left is a sad, stained leather strap with a round face hanging from one end. The glass was so scratched you couldn’t tell what was beneath it. Tony wrapped it in a cloth and stowed it back in his coat like a precious relic.

I asked what happened to the apothecary. His face went dark. “I don’t know, but I hope he burned along with that fucking town.”

After escaping he eventually made it to Falkreath. He did basically the same thing I did, just kept hanging around learning the language from the locals and offering to work for food. A few months later he met a girl named Naalia. I didn’t ask for details, he volunteered that she kept him from killing himself. They tooled around the province together for a while, she introduced him to her Thieves Guild friends in Riften. He became a favorite with some of the higher ups. They taught him all about how things work in Skyrim’s underbelly and he took to it like a fish to water. Naalia didn’t like his reluctance to settle down, she wanted to leave the guild and go straight, he didn’t, so she left one day without a word. After that he stuck to the guild life (probably self-medicating but that’s my conjecture).

The reason he has a large bounty on his head in Solitude is from an embarrassingly botched job. He was supposed to break into the warehouse by the docks and steal a manifest and a trading agreement. It should have been simple, in and out, but he admitted that he’d been sloppy. Reason being a courier tracked him down with a letter from one of his guild buddies informing him of Naalia’s death and that her son was being sent to Honor Hall.

He couldn’t focus on the job after that. Several workers spotted him, chased him off, and reported the incident to the guard with a full description. That of course led to one of the soldiers who commandeered Axel’s wagon recognizing him later.

That gave me an in to ask about the son. Tony looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. Naalia gave the boy his last name and he’s the right age. After the botched job Tony had resolved to go see the child.

“I know I would be a shit father.” He said miserably. “But I just wanted to see him, you hear things about that orphanage, but I don’t know…”

“You’re not sure if he would be better off with you?” I chimed in.

He nodded. I didn’t want to push him too hard, but it was such a perfect opportunity. I asked him about the orphanage. It’s worse than I thought. The kids aren’t just neglected, they’re discreetly sold to the highest bidder. Usually people looking for cheap labor, tiny fingers to do delicate work, but some are groomed for unsavory work I’d rather not think about right now. Tony also mentioned that Naalia died three months ago.

Oh shit. Is that enough time for the kid to run away back to Windhelm, and perform the black sacrament? I don’t want that quest line to start at all.

“You should go collect him.” I said, hoping that it sounded more like wise advice and less like the panicky demand of someone who doesn’t want the Dark Brotherhood sniffing around.

Even if someone from the Brotherhood shows up and does his bidding Aventus still ends up back in the orphanage. That’s the best-case scenario. If it’s not the Dragonborn who finds him will a Brotherhood agent take the contract from a kid who plans on paying them with a plate, or will they kill him just for wasting their time? It would be better all-around if Tony would go get him and leave the Brotherhood out of it entirely. If Tony feels like he can’t take care of the kid, he could at least leave Aventus with someone who won’t mistreat him or sell him into slavery. No child deserves that.

*There has to be a way to deal with evil orphanage lady, other than assassination. I’ll look into that later.  

I suggested that he bring Aventus back to Whiterun. If no one will take him in I will pay for him to stay at the Bannered Mare for as long as I can til we can work something out.

That kicked off the discussion we needed to have about what we’re going to do from here out. The way I see it the only way I’m going to survive all of this is to become a Shout master. I’m not good enough at magic and I’m no warrior. That leaves shouting and being sneaky. But that means that I’ll have to climb up that big ass mountain and talk to the Greybeards, and I’ll need to find and learn words of power. If the Greybeards can’t teach me all the words that means scouting locations and finding as many word walls as possible. That will take entirely too long for me by myself.

When Tony asked me how I know so much about the Dragonborn myth I told him I learned about Nord lore while I was living with the bards. Technically, not a lie. I read a lot of lore while I was learning Tamrielic.

“Look,” I said, “you don’t have to help me. I would understand if you take off and just live your life. But the dragons aren’t going to go away. If the Nord legends are true then I’m obligated to try to stop Alduin, you’re not. But I think there are others like us, maybe stranded years apart, maybe on other continents, I don’t know. If you and I survived they might have too. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t at least try to find them. I mean, what if there really is a way home and I’m not just delusional, huh?”

He smirked at that and hefted a tired sigh. “I’m not sure if I could even function if we found a way home. Any major events in the last twelve years that I should know about?”

Internal scream. “Some, but nothing a few hours of internet research couldn’t catch you up on.”

We agreed that he would go to Riften, get his son, and see about recruiting a few scouts. Then we’ll meet back in Whiterun.

I need to get up to High Hrothgar before winter sets in and it becomes impossible to get up the mountain safely. But first I’m making a detour back to Riverwood to see if Delphine already has the horn of Jergen something-or-other. I’m not going all the way down into that tomb just so I can be told to go rent a room in an attic that doesn’t exist. It’s one thing to waste game time, at least you get a word of power and XP out of it; IRL I do not have time for round-abouts. And frankly, the Blades aren’t going to be much help. I already know what I’ll need to defeat Alduin, so I don’t need Esbern to tell me. Still, I don’t want the old man to get nabbed by Thalmor, so I also asked Tony to deliver a letter to the Ragged Flagon for him. Just a simple warning. “The Thalmor are looking for you, relocate immediately.” Simple, and to the point. I wish I could remember Delphine’s passphrase, but I can’t. Something about a specific date. Ugh. It’s getting harder and harder to remember. As paranoid as he is, I hope Esbern decides to listen. He might try to dig in like a tick and get himself killed or captured, I’d rather that didn’t happen.

Before Tony and I parted ways I gave him two warnings.

One: do not, under any circumstances, agree to a drinking contest with a Breton named Sam.

Two: Leave Mercer Fray and the Guild out of this."

Tony gave me the drunken side-eye. “You weren’t raised Catholic by chance?”

That struck me as a weird question. “No, why?”

“No reason. I gotta take a leak. I’ll leave tomorrow and see you in what? Three weeks?”

I nodded and returned to the Gray-Manes. I’m giving myself two days to prepare.

To Do’s:

_ Get a good map of Skyrim

_ Plot the fastest route from Riverwood to Ivarstead on said map

_ Write to Idgrod, Viarmo, Onmund, Breylna, Juni, Falion, and Axel

_ Talk to Mette

_ Talk to the steward (Proventus? Promethius? Pro-something)

_ Hire scary elf at the Drunken Huntsman? (need muscle)

_ Food, water skins, and potions!

_ Ask Avulstein to show me how to sharpen axe

_ Sharpen axe

Chapter Text

Whiterun

Mordas, 7^th of Hearthfire 4E201

Busy day. I’m happy to report that so far no one has given me any grief about what happened with the dragon. A few people are pointedly keeping their distance, but that’s okay.

Tony left this morning. I managed to get up early enough to see him off, which surprised us both. He hugged me sideways and told me not to do anything stupid before marching off with all his worldly goods strapped to his back and most of my septims in his pocket. Push comes to shove I’m sure Grelod can be bought. I don’t want her dead, no matter what shady shit she’s into. It would be great if this all works out, that Aventus is safe and can be removed from the orphanage without a lot of difficulty. I have a nagging feeling that it won’t be that easy, though. Sigh. Plan for the worst, hope for the best.

I also have to make myself acknowledge that this might be the last time I see Tony. I don’t want to hijack his life, I really don’t. Aside from being from the same world I have no claim on his loyalty and no right to ask for it. But I want it, very badly. I hadn’t realized in my previous life how heavily I relied on pop culture references and sarcasm just to communicate with other people. Now that I’ve finally found a person who knows what “jumping the shark” means and rolls his eyes at my terrible SpongeBob impression, I want to cling to the familiarity like a selfish little barnacle.

If he decides to take a different path I will be sad, but not angry. He has the right to walk away, I told him as much. Hopefully he will still step up and be the dad Aventus needs. 

Climbed back up to Dragonsreach to see the steward. Farangar glared from his worktable when he saw me pass by but said nothing. Still pouting, I guess. For his part Proventus was pleasantly surprised that I sought him out with questions. He reminds me of a high school teacher, all excited to have a student who actually wants to learn. We talked judicial politics. A lot of it went right over my head, I’ll blame that on the language barrier. Lots of Imperial jargon. Cyrodiilic sounds like backwards Latin to me.

I didn’t want to just come out and say that the Battle-Born clan conspired to get Avulstein’s brother arrested, so I had to ask hypothetical side-step questions. What if someone was falsely imprisoned by the empire? Is there an appeals process? His eyes lit up with interest and we spent several hours talking about the court system in Skyrim, such as it is.

A jarl can arrest anyone in their hold for any reason (OMFG). However, the people of the Hold can choose to appeal on behalf of the prisoner. If enough people speak up, or are influential enough, sentences can be reduced, or jail time swapped for community service or payable fines. Ultimately the decision is still up to the jarl though, or the steward if the jarl passes the decision to him. When a prisoner is taken by Imperials it’s a little different. A jarl can appeal if the prisoner was taken from their Hold, but they don’t really have the jurisdiction to do anything else. Imperials generally don’t listen to “the rabble.” They want to be seen as unshakingly fair and principled, but bribery in the time of the White Gold Concordant is on the rise. The Thalmor also have the right to formally request custody of a prisoner if they’re believed to be involved with any crime that violates the Concordant in any way. Proventus’ tone soured a touch at that.

So, if you’re falsely imprisoned in Skyrim you had better have rich, influential friends, or proof of innocence so solid (and publicly displayed) not even a Thalmor justiciar could poke a hole in it. Not shocking, really.

Even before giving most of my money away I didn’t have enough to bribe Thorald out of prison, so that was never on the table anyway. Fralia opened up a little bit about it, tearfully and only after Eorlund left for the day. Thorald went missing about a week before I turned up with Axel. He had been talking about joining the Stormcloaks for a while before that, so no one was surprised when he up and disappeared, at least not at first. Thing is Eorlund has connections and no Stormcloak regiment has admitted him. Still the family didn’t really start to get worried until recently, when they got word back from one of Fralia’s friends, Angelina, the nice old lady who runs the apothecary shop in Solitude, that Thorald was seen in Imperial custody being marched up to the Keep. After that, nothing. Now Fralia is freaking out and no one knows what to do, except blame the Battle-Borns. Proving their involvement won’t solve anything, it will just make their family feud worse, so I’m going to try the appeal thing. I wrote a rough draft and immediately saw a problem. Falion is right, my script in their language looks like cursive cuneiform. It’s really bad. I sent it along with a letter to Viarmo this morning, asking him to polish it up and send it to Falk Firebeard on behalf of the Grey-Mane family, with many apologies sprinkled in for asking for such a favor after being away so long. I hope he doesn’t take offense, but I need help. Who better than a seasoned lyricist, right?

The more I think about it the more I miss Solitude and Viarmo in particular. I’m not sure now if it’s just the idea of him I miss, or him. The bards were my first Skyrim family, then Idgrod and her people, the mages, now the Grey-Manes. I hope to find more. I want a network of adoptees, not just because it will help keep me alive, but because it will keep me sane.

Got a map, wet stone kit, and some more ink and paper from Belethor. He’s slimier in person. Good looking and he knows it, which is just the worst. I suspect that the map is wildly inaccurate, but it’s better than nothing.

I’ve gotten to be friendly with Arcadia and the biddies who hang out at her shop. I’ve learned a great deal just by watching and chatting with the local mid-wives and Olava the Feeble, who is anything but. Standardized measurements aren’t really a thing, which is where the variation on potion strength and effectiveness really plays. An old hat who has brewed hundreds of potions in her lifetime will get the ratio right through trial and error. An amateur without a mentor can fumble the proportions and make something too weak or too strong for its purpose. Even with a recipe it’s tricky, like trying to follow medieval baking instructions. It will call for “a cup” but what’s a cup? A tea mug? One of those hollowed out ox horns? I asked Olava and she just patted my arm in sympathy. I’m getting tired of feeling like the dumbest person in the room all the time. They do have standard weights, measured by copper cylinders on simple fulcrum scales. I borrowed Arcadia’s and watched Olava through the whole process of making a basic stamina potion, asking her to put each ingredient in a little bowl for me to measure before she added it to the mixture. We did this for several other potions, too. Health, magica, even invisibility which I got very excited about (since I still can’t seem to control that spell at will) until I realized that the potion is just as finicky. Dosage and strength vary from person to person, so you have to take things like weight and age into consideration too. It’s weird, but you can tell a spell is wrong by the way it sounds and a potion by the way it tastes. You can just tell when it’s not right. I’ll have to tweak it until I find the ratios that work for me. I can’t keep buying ingredients, so that meant a foraging excursion this afternoon with Olfina. We didn’t find much, everything is still very scorched in places. We did get to see the tundra at sunset, which was very pretty. The meadery is still smoldering, but at least the fire didn’t spread. The clean up will have to wait until after the harvest when there are more free hands.

I found out Olfina is apprenticing to become a healer. That’s what she does all day, practice alchemy and trail Olava. That leaves Avulstein and Thorald to take up Eorlund’s legacy, so I understand Fralia’s anxiety a little better now. Of the seven children she and Eorlund had only three live, and one is in prison. He’ll survive if I can help it. I have faith that Viarmo will rewrite my appeal better than I ever could. If that doesn’t work, I’ll find another way.

I’m going to try to sleep now. Off to Riverwood at first light. Avulstein is coming (his mom is not happy about it either, but she’s more upset with him than me). I suspect his decision was part boredom, part wish to see me not dead, and probably a word from Mette. He's already gotten to that stage when it comes to her and he doesn't even realize it yet. It’s adorable.

Chapter Text

Riverwood

Tirdas, 8^th of Hearthfire 4E201

I want a clock. Seeing Tony’s broken wristwatch reminded me how much more focused I felt when I knew how much time was really passing. I haven’t even seen a sundial since I got here, come to think of it. I wish I was mechanically minded. I could describe wind-up clocks I’ve seen, even draw one, but someone smarter than me would have to figure out how to put it together. All I know is gears and springs are involved. I think if there was one group of people in Tamriel who would have seen the benefit of time-keeping it would have been the Dwemer. Maybe there’s a schematic out there somewhere? I’ll try to remember to write to Calcelmo. It’s way down on my priority list, so we’ll see when/if I can work it in.

Before leaving Whiterun I did manage to get through my to-dos. Mette can’t up and leave to go scouting just yet, not until her youngest is on his own, but she promised to look out for good recruits. The pitch will be simple: if you’re out adventuring and happen to see a word wall from the Dragon era mark the location on your map and bring it to Whiterun for clinky, shiny gold.

Incidentally, I remembered Cicero this morning and face palmed hard. There is just too much to keep track of! And that left me with a last-minute dilemma. Do I take a detour north in the exact opposite direction I need to go on the off chance he’s already stranded there, or go with my original plan and hope that it will wait? I decided to stick with my itinerary. I did take an extra five minutes to leave a note for Axel at the stables. I asked him to look out for a stranded Imperial, if he decides to take that route. I’m sure the jester outfit will put him off if I don’t say anything. I’d leave it alone entirely except I have a vague recollection that if farmer Loreius doesn’t help with the wagon something very bad happens to him. It’s not a huge stretch to imagine Cicero getting stab happy if he’s left stranded too long.

Arrived in Riverwood around mid-day. Our last trip here was uneventful, so we don’t anticipate any problems, but Avulstein is still maintaining a low profile. Well, as low a profile as a six-and-a-half-foot pile of blue-eyed muscle can maintain, anyway.

I felt pretty good about myself when I walked into the Sleeping Giant and asked Delphine for the attic room. There was a slight chance that she hadn’t even gone to the tomb yet, and I might be jumping the gun, but the look on her face (priceless!) told me she knew exactly what I was talking about.

I left Avulstein in the room and went downstairs with her. She didn’t launch into the scripted speech like I thought she might, but instead just stood at her map table with her arms folded, staring at me. So, I folded my arms and stared right back.

“You’re…not what I expected.” She finally said, looking me up and down.

Understatement of the year right there.

I shrugged. “I believe you have something I need?”

“How did you know the Greybeards would ask for the horn? I have been preparing for this for weeks. You were with the party that retrieved the Dragonstone, I remember seeing you in Farangar’s office. There’s no way you’ve been up to High Hrothgar and back since then.”

The timeline is going to bite me in the ass, I just know it. I tried to look confident and calm.

“That’s true, but I am a scholar of sorts. As soon as I heard about the dragon attack on Helgen I began researching all the lore I could find. The Greybeards are nothing if not predictable.”

I hope I got that line right. It sounds right. I think.

Delphine’s eyes narrowed. “You read some lore and deduced that the Greybeards would ask the Dragonborn to retrieve the Horn of Jergen Wind-Caller.” She didn’t phrase it like a question, but almost like an accusation. “Then absorbed a dragon’s soul and immediately traveled to Ustengrav to retrieve the horn, and all of this was accomplished within the last three days?”

Crap.

“Of course not. I hired a professional to do it before we left for the Barrow. I was convinced that an acquaintance of mine was the Dragonborn, since he was at Helgen and survived the attack, but I was wrong. Retrieving the horn was meant to save him time. Imagine my surprise when my hireling came back with a letter instead, as well as an interesting account of a group of bandits and necromancers fighting in the tomb.” I gave her a pointed look. I always suspected that that was her doing. Pitting the two groups against each other would have been an effective way of distracting the draugr while she snuck further into the complex. 

Delphine’s lips puckered and her eyes narrowed even further. It made all the lines in her face stand out in the lamplight. She’s a lot older than I assumed. Her hair is more silver than blonde and the skin just under her chin has that telltale middle-age sag.

“Hiring someone to do your dirty work hardly sounds befitting of a dragon slayer of legend. I don’t suppose you can prove that you’re Dragonborn?”

I turned to the practice dummy in the corner and sent what I thought of as a moderate FUS at it. The thing smashed against the wall, sending splinters and hay flying.

“Sorry, I’m still getting used to it.”

“Yes, well…” Delphine huffed. “that’s impressive but it doesn’t prove anything.”

Oh for the love of all that is good and holy is this self-righteous interloper annoying. She got on with her explanation about the Dragonstone and how she plotted the locations of the dragon burial mounds. I should have anticipated a mandatory detour to Kynesgrove. Delphine is far too stubborn and paranoid to talk into handing over the horn without proof that I’m not just some fancy thu’um-wielding protégé of Ulfric Stormcloak. At least she has enough tact not to come out and accuse me of being a Thalmor spy. And yes, future me reading this, I know that those two things are contradictory.

So, now I have to go all the way to Kynesgrove to devour a dragon soul for Delphine’s viewing pleasure and not die in the process. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Avulstein was more than a little excited at the prospect of heading east. We’ll have to stop in Windhelm to resupply. Let him have his hero worship.

I could tell my Ulfric Stormcloak story to anyone who will listen, but what would be the point? At the end of the day I will have just put another ring on the ever-growing target on my back. I can’t afford to lose the few allies I have. It’s better to spread my own influence independently anyway, the ‘mighty jarl’ can hang himself out to dry without my help.

Windhelm

Fredas, 11^th of Hearthfire 4E201

Calixto escaped. It’s the first thing Elda said when I popped into the Candlehearth to say hello. Son-of-a-monkey-slapping-bitch! It happened the day after I left Windhelm, too. I managed to track Juni down, but all she could tell me is that he somehow escaped from the dungeon without a trace. The guard on duty didn’t hear or see anything (he was transferred immediately) and the door to the cell was still locked.

Great. Now there’s a homicidal Houdini on the loose and he’s pissed at me.

The three of us got to Kynesgrove in record time, thanks to the horses Delphine borrowed for the trip. My ass is killing me. I haven’t ridden a horse since I was nine years old and even then it was just a fifteen-minute romp around the grounds at day camp. Delphine kept criticizing my form. Ugh. Still, any way to shave time off this little side trip is welcome. I am not a mountain climber and couldn’t begin to guess what elevation High Hrothgar is at. What I do know is that the days are getting shorter and colder. I do not want to climb up there in the snow and if I miss my window what can I do? Hang out in Ivarstead and wait for spring? Balls to that.

There were no signs of a dragon when we arrived, much to Delphine’s obvious annoyance. And she kept looking at me like it was my fault. Like if I was the real Dragonborn the mound would have immediately irrupted in a screaming shower of dirt and reconstructed skin and bone the moment I showed up. I wouldn’t give a shit if she weren’t holding the horn hostage til I either die or prove her wrong.

I got up enough courage to ask her why we had to go through this farce if she’s already made up her mind that I’m a fraud. To her credit she gave me a straight answer.

She said, “Because if you are a fraud, I will see your head removed from your body.”

Okay then.

“As long as we understand each other.” I answered.

I should be quaking in my boots, I know she absolutely means it, but I also know how this will play out which makes it much easier to put on a brave face. She just needs to see me absorb a soul and she’ll back off. Assuming the dragon doesn’t squish my corpse into salsa, that is.

                        ***********************************

Of course, Alduin couldn’t show up in the daylight to wake up his buddy. The inn roof shook so violently as he flew by that every one of us sat bolt upright and anyone in the village still somehow asleep was roused by his ear-splitting roars as he circled the mound. The three of us jostled through the confused throng and marched uphill along with a handful of soldiers in Stormcloak colors.

Alduin is so black he practically disappeared against the night sky. I didn’t bother shooting at him. Delphine and Avulstein took my lead and concentrated on the dragon rising from the mound. I really wanted the bones to discombobulate before it ever pulled itself together, but when is anything that easy? My fireballs didn’t seem to do anything but mildly annoy it. After five or six in a row I was exhausted already. Delphine shoved a bow and quiver into my hands before launching herself at the dragon’s flank. There was no moon, so it was hard to see where everyone else was. I was so scared of accidently hitting a person that the arrows I did manage to successfully shoot flew over its back because I was aiming too high. I think I hit it once. Maybe. In the dark and the noise and the cloud of smoke and dust rising around it I can’t be sure.

The soldiers fanned out, trying to box the dragon in before it could get airborne. After I ran out of arrows I abandoned the bow. I tried to throw ice at it. I really hope Delphine and Avulstein didn’t see the pitiful shard I managed. Ice is harder than fire. No idea why. I gulped one of the little magica potions Olava helped me make, which tastes like garlicy ass, and tried again. I could hear a splink sound as the blast of frost and pebbly hale shattered against the dragon’s leg. That also didn't seem to harm him.

When the dragon's flesh knit enough to form vocal chords it started to speak. I think I might have been the only one who understood him. It was a weird feeling, like I was remembering something that never happened, if that makes any sense. 

"I am Sahloknir! Hear my Voice and despair!" the dragon called.

It would have been a triumphant statement, had Delphine's blade not shot up through the soft spot under his chin. Sahloknir reared back with a roar. I could just see the glint of the tip of the sword poking up from under his tongue. I managed to find my feet and shot a fireball right into his open mouth before leaping back to let Avulstein smash his war hammer into the dragon's face. A wet pop showered us both with hot liquid as its eye exploded, followed by a shriek of surprise and anger. Since magic wasn't helping at all I pulled my ax from the holster at my hip and started slashing at the nearest wing. The taut, leathery membrane gave way easily. Sahloknir frantically beat the bloody appendage away from me and a small claw on one of the fingers caught me by the robe. It sent me flying backwards into the dirt. I managed to shake off the daze just in time to roll away from the spiked tail whipping across the ground as the dragon tried to fend off the attackers at his sides.  

As soon as I got to my feet I aimed myself at his underbelly and went for a softball slide while releasing the loudest YOL! I could manage. Dragonfire erupted out of me, so hot I thought I'd immerge from under Sahloknir looking like Anakin Skywalker. He screamed then, rearing back on his hind legs, exposing his belly to the arrows and blades of the warriors, who took full advantage. Meanwhile I scrambled out of the way, but found myself slumped against a smoldering log, unable to breath. 

I'm not sure who made the killing blow. I was too concerned with my non-functioning lungs. It was one of the soldiers who found me, choking on nothing, and called for the others. Delphine didn't hesitate. She dropped to the ground next to me, grabbed my face and forced her mouth over mine, blowing air down my throat. When I stopped wheezing and coughing she sat back on her heals with the dawn light just coming over the trees and smiled. 

"Wait for the fire to go out before breathing in next time." she said helpfully, leaving Avulstein to pick me up. 

He carried me over to the dragon's corpse, glinting with streaks of blood in the blue light and just as before it collapsed back into the pile of bones and scales Alduin had resurrected. This time I didn't pass out. I felt Sahloknir's soul rush into me like furious gusts of hot and cold wind twined together. For a fleeting moment I felt both immensely angry and strangely...impressed? I'm not sure how else to describe the feeling. Then it was gone and I was just me again with a fierce pain in my chest and pounding headache. The Stormcloaks kept their distance, staring and muttering amongst themselves. Shit. They'll report all of this to their jarl of course. 

The soldiers gathered what scales they could carry. Most of the bones are simply too heavy to move, though Avulstein did snag an eight inch chunk from the eye socket he'd smashed. He carried me all the way back to the inn. It was a quiet march. One of the soldiers was badly injured, so they trailed behind us with their man on a makeshift stretcher. Delphine maintained a dignified pace in front. A small, anxious crowd waited in the village, watching us as the sun rose and a tiny smattering of snowflakes fell around us. I was allowed to walk back into the inn on my own, but Avulstein wouldn't leave my side. I probably looked like I was going to fall over. I certainly felt that way. 

They let me sleep through most of the day. When I finally got up to eat something I found that every resident of Kynesgrove, which granted isn't that many people, wanted to talk to me. Most just thanked me and shook my hand. A few kissed my knuckles, which was uncomfortable, but I let them do it so they wouldn't be insulted. One of the last was an older woman with a ratty shawl pulled over her shoulders. This turned out to be Onmund's mother, who had heard of me, and what I'd done in Windhelm already. Onmund returned to the college, like he said he would, and will hopefully get the letter I sent him before leaving Whiterun soon. Like everyone else I just asked for his help in finding word walls. To my surprise when I mentioned this to his mother, Inge, her eyes lit up and she promised to help in any way she can. How she plans on doing that isn't really clear to me, but it was sweet of her to offer. 

I also got a blessing from the keepers of the wood. Huh. Not sure how they knew what was happening, but three hags in fur cloaks with a long, twisted staff each appeared at the inn to blow sacred smoke in my face. That upset Delphine, since I'm still coughing and my throat and lungs are still raw. But I am now apparently protected by Kyne. I tried not to let my incredulity show, just thanked them and went back to eating soup, since that's all Delphine will let me have. 

We head to Ivarstead in the morning. From there Delphine will return to Riverwood and Avulstein and me will start up the seven thousand steps. Yay. 

Chapter Text

Sundas, 13^th of Hearthfire 4E201

The plan had been to double-back to Windhelm, then cross the bridge and take the road south along the river. Unfortunately, an Imperial patrol was spotted in that direction according to the locals and Delphine won’t risk being spotted. I tried to protest, on the grounds that it will take longer and I need to get up to High Hrothgar as soon as possible. I was overruled. Avulstein made it clear that his job is to keep me alive and he can’t do that if he’s arrested by “some Thalmor-loving milk drinker.”

After breakfast Del took one look at the map I bought in Whiterun and said it looked like it was plotted by a shopkeeper. (Dammit Belethor!) So, we’ll be relying on her directions.

With stealth in mind we left Kynesgrove before dawn, cutting through the woods and skirting a giant camp. They are massive! But you still smell them before you see them, like a barnyard inside a junior high locker room full of moldy jock straps. We kept our distance and while I’m sure they saw us they didn’t seem bothered. Avulstein looked like he wanted to take them on, but he restrained himself. When I asked him where the general animosity towards giants comes from, he looked genuinely surprised. He said giants are only peaceful when their herds are healthy. When they get hungry or feel threatened, they regularly go after the Nord’s crops and livestock.

Mammoths also leave a huge mess everywhere they go. The poorest farmers harvest the tundra for fertilizer, but it can be dangerous if they get too close to the big piles of precious shit. (That scene in Jurassic Park flashed in my brain and made me giggle. It’s KILLING me that no one else here gets that reference! Delphine just rolled her eyes at me.)

Once we were clear of the sparse trees there was virtually no cover, which put my companions on edge. The terrain is so unstable in places that we had to walk the horses. Geysers, steaming fissures, and pools of sulfurous water pocket the ground. It brings to mind a deforested Yellow Stone, sort of. The swaths that look like dry, solid clay completely crumble underfoot. We spent most of the day ankle deep in smelly mud rich ladies back home would probably pay good money to slather on themselves.

The dragon eyrie in the middle of the hot springs was plainly visible in the distance, but we didn’t see or hear anything in that direction. I assumed Alduin hadn’t gotten to that one yet. I knew there’s a word of power up there, so we made a small detour. I didn’t want to add time to the trip, but while we’re here I figured I might as well get it over with.

I should stop assuming. It never goes well.

The last thing I wanted after yesterday was to fight another dragon. For one thing my throat is still beyond raw and my left thigh is scraped and bruised.  

Sahloknir at least stayed on the ground and we had half a dozen Stormcloaks to help distract him. This one must have been out hunting. We climbed up the steep plateau and I was just approaching the word wall, which like the one at the Barrow hummed ASMR static right into my nervous system, when Avulstein spotted the dov diving out of the clouds to the north. It circled once before swooping down to blast frost at us. It was like the damned thing had a reservoir of liquid nitrogen in its gut, the stuff that pelted us was frozen solid and slightly chunky. The cold wasn’t long lasting but stung like hell and made it impossible to see. I reflexively countered with fire while Del and Avulstein shot at it.

It took its sweet time landing. Just kept circling, swooping, yacking up showers of frozen dragon loogies, only to fly away again. Wash, rinse, repeat. It must have been compelled to protect the word wall, otherwise it could have just flown away when it got tired. Instead it alighted on the wall with a growl of frustration. And I don’t think I’m personifying either, he looked pissed.

The dragon snapped at Del, who is far faster than she looks and kept zigging and dodging while I shot fire balls at its soft parts. It crawled down from the wall so it could use its tail and claws. Avulstein has impressive aim with a bow, but the moment the dragon got low enough he switched back to his war hammer. He whacked it between the eyes so hard that it stood completely still, stunned for a few seconds. The dragon shook himself and made a sort of choking noise deep in his throat before suddenly whipping its tail forward. A long black spike caught Avulstein’s left shoulder and sent him sprawling backwards. The rock was so steep that he tumbled downhill, leaving a trail of blood all the way to the bottom. That’s when I heard Delphine screaming orders at me over the dragon’s low thu’ums (he was cussing us out) to cover her while she ducked behind a boulder.

I still go invisible during combat, but it doesn’t seem to matter against dragons. He could probably smell me. The pause gave him a second wind and he started fiercely snapping his jaws at my general direction in sharp, quick succession. He was just too close. There was no room to land a blow and retreat in time. I resorted to throwing fire into his eyes, then rolled into a narrow space between two slabs of stone that had collapsed against each other. By then Del had reemerged with her bow drawn. The dragon continued to snap at me, catching the hem of my robes, which became visible again as he used them to pull me out of hiding. I dragged my feet as hard as I could, but only ended up losing my balance and falling backwards on my ass as the dragon yanked me forward. Everything slowed down, like a car crash. My view down the dragon’s multilayered purple gullet might have been interesting if I wasn’t sure that I was about to go sliding down it in several pieces. Through a veil of dozens of huge teeth I watched Delphine take aim in slow motion, then fire into the side of the dragon’s head.

The shriek that erupted from it was deafening. And for the first time I saw a dragon die suddenly, not by a thousand cuts, but one well-placed final blow. I felt the breath escape it, cold and wet leaving little crystals of ice on the shredded bits of my robe still stuck in its maw. The head lolled to the ground with its jaws hanging open and went still.

I just lay there in the dirt for a while, looking up at the sky in shock. Del limped over to me, which was when I realized for the first time that she had a gash in her calf. A spike got her; I just hadn’t seen it. Once I managed to get to my feet I saw that Delphine’s arrow only barely stuck out of the dragon’s ear canal; the rest firmly lodged in its brain.

My novice robes are now a crop top, but I did manage to walk away with only a few more bruises and three long, shallow scratches up my leg.

This dragon’s soul felt more bewildered than anything and sent a final bone-deep chill into me that made the wraith scars on my hand ache. The word wall gave me FO. From some deep place in the back of my mind I knew, or rather my dragons knew, it means frost.

Avulstein was in rough shape. He still lay at the bottom of the hill bleeding, concussed, and disoriented. I walked to the clump of bushes where we had tied the horses and led them back, since there was no moving him just then. We had to take a few hours’ rest. Avulstein got a healing potion and a stamina restorative, but was still wobbly, which seemed to embarrass him. If I’m knocked on my ass it’s expected. When the big bad Nord gets knocked on his ass it’s a whole other story. He wouldn’t hear it when I tried to console him by pointing out that we were just fighting a giant lizard with death breath. I miss Tony, I at least would have gotten a pity chuckle out of him.  

Del took the opportunity to lecture me on what “covering” someone means. She needed time to poison her arrow and if the dragon had decided to leave me to hide and turn to the only other target in the vicinity it might have bitten off her head before she could get the shot. She didn’t sound so much angry as disappointed.

“We have to work as a unit.” She said. “You may be the Dragonborn, but I have the precious commodity of experience. If you don’t listen to me you’re going to get yourself or someone else killed.”

That stung. Not so much the “you’ll kill yourself” part, I’ve accepted that there’s a good chance I won’t live through this, but I can’t abide the thought of getting a companion killed.

“It is the destiny of the Dragonborn to save this world. I will gladly die to accomplish such a noble aim.” Avulstein spoke up defensively.

“As would I, however I’d like to live long enough to see the thing done.” Del countered.

Whoa. Heavy.

I didn’t know what to say. After a moment I just muttered that I would do better.

Delphine gave me an appraising look and asked how old I am. Its never come up before. When I told her she and Avulstein both looked at each other.

“You seem younger, like a sheltered child.” She said in her very matter of fact way.

I was sheltered, I conceded. Very much so. I had to stick with my backstory of farmer’s daughter turned war widow, but it tracks.

Del eased up a bit after that and we set off again. I changed into my wool dress since it’s the only intact piece of clothing I now own. Avulstein shoved a leather vest he never wears over my head and we had a good laugh over how ridiculous it looks. The stupid thing is so big on me that it almost reaches my knees, but he and Del both insist that I need the extra protection.

We traveled for a few quiet hours, but as soon as we turned west bulky shapes just out of sight started appearing. Spiders of various impossible proportions were protecting a nest around a small cave entrance in the side of a hill. Del insisted that I needed bow practice, so we stopped.

She and Avulstein leaned against a boulder while I clumsily knocked an arrow and after straining my arms for far too long sent it flying over the nest. Del said if my goal had been to murder the bushes on the other side it would have been a rousing success. She moved to my side and corrected my stance by kicking my feet apart. Steel toed boots exist in this world and they hurt.

The lesson lasted about an hour. My aim is so bad the spiders didn’t notice the arrows zipping past them until I finally managed to hit the biggest one, sitting in the shadow of the cave entrance like an eight-legged bouncer. It was a good hit, though. The arrow pierced one of its huge eyes and sent it skittering backwards into the cave. I managed to get one more hit into the abdomen of a drone with a body the size of a yoga ball before it got too close. Del finished it off easily. Avulstein hadn’t even bothered to move. He still needs to heal but won’t admit it.

Inspecting these things in the light of day, I don’t think they’re really spiders. They have eight legs and mandibles and too many goddamn eyes, sure but the body isn’t right. Under all the wiry hairs the skin is soft and moist to the touch. More like an amphibian that decided to sprout bore bristles than anything in the arachnid family. Evolution took a weird direction in this universe. Del hacked off a few legs and took the mandibles to milk later while Avulstein lazily cleared the few spiders too stupid not to retreat back to their lair with his good arm.

We’re camping by the river now. Del burned the hair off the spider legs and is currently roasting them over the fire. I am NOT eating that.

Chapter Text

Morndas, 14^th of Hearthfire 4E201

I spent longer than I should have last night trying to call up a healing spell for my leg scratches. Eventually managed it, but it left me dead-dog tired. Still have my healing scroll, but I’m saving it for an emergency. I need to get better at that spell. The way things are going I might find myself wounded without any resources or back-up. Delphine knows a few rudimentary spells, but not enough to heal a really bad injury. Avulstein knows exactly no magic at all and is very proud of the fact.

Breakfast was sad. Stale bread and apples.

Since bridges are great places to get ambushed, we forded the river this morning and followed a game trail up to the main road. Everything hurts. Bumping along in the saddle isn’t exactly great for my bruise collection, but it beats walking.

Delphine will not shut up about the Thalmor. I get that conspiracy theories about the Dominion are her obsession, but more than once I wanted to blurt out that they had nothing to do with dragons coming back now would you please stop?! Instead I concentrated on tuning her out. I started trying to remember all the lyrics to Roads Go Ever On, but my mind went blank after the first two stanzas. Tolkien fits the setting. It was a cool, sunny day. The trees are starting to turn gold on this side of the mountain.

A cart passed us at the crossroads driven by a scowling man with a deep, leathery tan. Axel’s southern counterpart. I didn’t catch his name. He had three passengers, a middle-aged couple, and a girl in her late teens. Since our horses took up pace behind the cart the girl started exuberantly blathering at us about how much there is to do and see in Riften. The couple, who had to be her parents, just sat there looking sour. It was clear they regretted bringing her. The moment I confirmed that we were also heading to Ivarstead the kid practically bounced off her seat in excitement and started asking rapid fire questions.

I tried to keep up, but after a while it was clear that the girl, Fastred, couldn’t hang on to a single train of thought for more than thirty seconds. Eventually Delphine said something about needing to hunt. I gave the cart passengers a polite goodbye before we all veered off into a small glade.

Delphine decided to take the opportunity to give me another lesson with the bow. By “lesson” I mean she made me sit in the hollow of a rotten tree stump for a couple hours waiting for game, while she and Avulstein trekked further afield with the horses. The first thing I saw was a fox, but I couldn’t bring myself to shoot at it. The morning wore on and I was starting to doze off when I heard bleating. A goat very slowly grazed its way toward my tree. It was too busy munching to notice me position the bow. I had the arrow ready, the string drawn and was just about to let it fly when a bear leapt from the brush. It startled me enough to let go of the arrow, which hit the bear square in the neck. It rounded on me with blood pouring down its chest. I had a choice to make and I had about five seconds to make it. Either try to get off another shot with the bow or use a thu’um. Knowing the full phrase by heart I unleashed FUS RO DAH at the top of my lungs. The bear tumbled backwards, landed on the dead goat, and impaled himself on the horns. I finished it off with my ax, like Axel taught me.

I heard Avulstein crashing through the woods before I saw him emerge, wild-eyed with his war hammer ready. He swore loudly when he saw me.

“I told you we should not have left her alone.” He said to Delphine, who just smirked as she surveyed the bloody carnage.

“Why? She did fine. A little overachieving maybe, we don’t need this much meat, but still…”

I tried to tell Avulstein that I was okay, but it hurt to talk. Maybe I’m not Shouting using the correct technique, or maybe it’s just a side effect I’ll have to get used to. I’ll ask the Greybeards.

As we skinned and quartered my kills it occurred to me that I used two words of power that I haven’t found word walls for yet. I knew the words already, and my dragons knew their meanings, so I guess that’s all I needed. That’s interesting, if I don’t have to go tomb hopping for every single word that will save a buttload of time.

I was relieved to finally get to Ivarstead, for about five minutes. It has that “seen better days” feel of a dried-up old tourist town. Fastred’s fascination with Riften made total sense once I saw how tiny the hamlet really is. The inn and the mill are the only businesses, everyone else seems to make their living fishing and farming. We got rooms with no trouble and handed the bear and goat meat over to the cook, who took it all with a grunt and suggested that we take the bear pelt to the mill. Delphine excused herself to do just that, though I think she just wanted an excuse to go off on her own.

To my surprise there was a letter waiting for me, just delivered by the stage from Riften. The outside of the paper read “Vilemyr Inn, Ivarstead. E. Emard” in common Tamrielic. Once I cracked open the brownish wax seal, however I saw it was written in English and immediately knew who it was from.

Ez, we are in some shit. Remember that old guy you wanted to warn down in the Ratway? (Yeah, I read the letter, you can yell at me later) He had a standing request to be informed about all correspondence, who was delivering for whom, who is asking about him, etc. The guild is also less than happy with me over my last job. The moment I showed my face at the Ragged Flagon Mercer asked to talk to me. We had a nice chat at knifepoint. All I told them is that someone claiming to be the Dragonborn hired me to deliver a letter. Didn’t drop your name, but it won’t matter if the Guild gets curious. Esbern is looking for you too. I have Aventus. Will leave Riften ASAP, drop him at Whiterun as we discussed, then go on this last assignment to shut Mercer up. Might not be there when you get back. This could also be a ploy by Mercer, so if the job goes south so will I. Catch you soon.

-A.A.

I don’t like all the unanswered questions this raises, or the fact that his note looks like it was written in a rush on horseback. He has Aventus but didn’t elaborate on how he got him out of Honor Hall. I’m going to hope really fucking hard that bribery worked.

Esbern is looking for me, but is he doing that from his hidey-hole, or did he take my warning to leave seriously? Damn. If Esbern is half as paranoid as he came off in the game, I’m not going to be able to throw him off with half-truths and a shrug. Even if he doesn’t track me down Delphine will hear about it if he’s out in the world again. Eventually they’ll find each other. Questions about how I knew where he was and that the Thalmor are after him would be inevitable either way.

And Tony going on one last job for the Guild smacks of “tying up loose ends.” He’s right to be cautious. Career criminals don’t fire problem employees, they make them disappear. I should have thought about all of this before I let him go. Just assumed he was too low-level for it to be a big deal.

STOP ASSUMING THINGS!

If something happens it’s on my head. I wish he had mentioned where he’s heading, or where he might go if it “goes south.” The fact that he’s being somewhat cagey, even though he knows only the two of us can read the note makes me think he doesn’t 100% trust me. Either that or he’s worried that the Guild will catch up to me before Esbern does and try to get the info out of me. Yeah that would suck. Now that I think about it, Mercer probably has no qualms about using torture techniques. Break your kneecaps, put a horse head in your bed mafia type shit maybe. Just because I never saw it in the game doesn’t mean it can’t happen.

Anyway, I took a little time sending short status updates to my principles. Then a reply to Tony c/o the Bannered Mare telling him to hand Aventus over to Fralia or Mette (who I informed as well). I will feel better knowing that the boy is in someone’s care and not just hanging out at an inn by himself for who knows how long.

I walked around town a bit, which took all of a half hour even meandering and stopping to talk to the gregarious elf at the mill. Like most small towns there are two kinds of people here, the ones who like the quiet and want to be left alone, and the ones who desperately want to leave, but can’t for one reason or another.

Fastred was already at the inn when I returned and pretty much invited herself to have supper with us. She kept making eyes at Avulstein. I’ve never seen him so uncomfortable. He kept shifting awkwardly and looking to Del and me for help as the girl talked non-stop and batted her lashes at him. That also earned him some glares from a snide looking young man with long red hair and a big bald dude nursing his ale in the opposite corner. Right, she has a couple romantic rivals already. Well, Avulstein is taken whether he’s admitted it to himself or not. I’m surprised she’s not into the elf who works for Temba. Crap, I just talked to him and can’t remember his name. But I like his attitude.

The locals have nothing better to do in the evenings than hang out at the inn and gossip, so the room was full of slightly sloshed people hungry for news. It fell to me to do most of the talking, though Delphine did chime in now and again. Mostly we talked about the dragon attacks. It didn’t take long for the crowd to launch into half a dozen lines of speculation, which gave me a break. My throat still hurts. The general shift of the conversation went to the ancient dragon cults, which led to the local barrow and their resident ghost and I had to stop myself from smacking my forehead in frustration. The “ghost” at the barrow, I’d forgotten him too!

Logic sometimes escapes the Nordic point of view. It’s not that they’re stupid, but they have very specific blind spots. Anything to do with Talos for example, or magic, or the supernatural. Once I started asking questions about the mage who came to investigate the barrow, I could see the figurative lightbulbs over a few heads slowly flicker on. Kind of a crazy coincidence that the guy disappeared into the barrow and then the “haunting” activity ramped up right after, huh? Did anyone think to investigate? Maybe go find the poor bastard’s body? Bling bing ding! I got to witness the birth of a search party/mob. That would have been fun, except the villagers insisted that I should spearhead since it was my idea. Delphine declined to go, but Avulstein was just as amped as the rest. I couldn’t talk them back down again, so we ended up marching to the tomb with five villagers including the inn keeper, armed with ale bottles and farming tools. Fastred kept bouncing on her toes and insisting that she get to go too. Her mother had to physically restrain her. Poor girl, she's got way too much energy for her own good. 

The whole expedition would have been a clusterfuck if Avulstein hadn’t come with. I have very little experience herding drunk people. Two villagers, Klimek, the big bald guy who was eying Fastred, and an off-duty guard named Dana, triggered booby traps, and had to go topside to get their wounds looked at. I told the others that I suspected that the ghost was just a man and not to kill him. So of course they drew their weapons the moment he popped out all glowy and crazed. It turned into a chaotic hallway brawl. I managed a weak ward to keep us from being shocked while Avulstein grabbed the elf by the hair and forced his hands behind his back so he couldn’t cast without hurting himself.

Wyndelius raved about being the guardian of the shroud, and that the treasure of the sapphire claw was rightfully his. Blah blah blah. The guy is clearly not all there anymore. I would be sympathetic if he hadn’t zapped us. Shock spells feel like a dispersed taser. Wilhelm the innkeeper caught the brunt of it before I could get the ward up and pissed himself. He punched the elf square in the jaw, and no one stopped him.  

We raided Wyndelius’ cozy little room, found his journal, and I let the others put the pieces together. The “treasure hunter” has been at this for over a year, pretending to be a specter and trying to figure out where the sapphire claw is to open the puzzle door.

Avulstein tied the elf’s hands with rope and forced him into a chair by the fire. Wilhelm went home to retrieve the claw. He said he keeps it under the bar, next to the moon sugar. While he was gone, I had a talk with our prisoner. I knew there’s a word wall at the end of the dungeon but couldn’t remember which one. So, I just bluntly told him I don’t care about treasure. He could keep it all as far as I was concerned. All I wanted was the knowledge in that final chamber. Everyone in the room, including the wild-eyed elf with his arms bound behind his back, stared at me like I was the crazy one. He agreed with a sort of suspicious sneer, saying that if I tried to cheat him out of what was his I’d never see daylight again. I smiled and pretended not to notice the very rough way Avulstein untied and stood him up once the innkeeper came back with the key.

Those puzzle doors are a bitch to move. The rings are heavy and sometimes need lubing to get into position. Beer works in a pinch. The villagers ran the moment draugr started jumping out of their coffins. The elf for all his mania knows how to put down undead. He used lightning while I blasted them with fire. Avulstein swept his war hammer through brittle iron carapaces. By the time we were done the air in the tomb was thick with ozone and ash.

It took a few hours to get to the end. The whole time Wyndelius stayed focused, never making conversation, never even giving in to a moment of fear or surprise when a new corpse rose. If it wasn’t fueled by pure, manic greed I would have been impressed.

Fighting in a dress with an oversized vest over it wasn’t exactly comfortable, especially when I had to switch to my ax when the zombies got too close. At one point, toward the end when I was getting damn tired, a draugr caught me with a blast of frost from behind, then swiped me. It didn’t get to my skin, but the ice stiffened the leather. The back of my vest sliced open under the tip of its sword and took a chunk of my hair with it. Avulstein pulled the corpse away and threw it against a wall, then Wyndelius blasted it with lightning until it stopped moving. I had to peel the rest of the vest off, it was useless.

By the time I could finally hear the word wall I was sore, dirty, and done. The elf looked like he was ready to pounce as I walked forward, then around the giant treasure chest to the wall on the other side of the room. KYNE spoke from it, this time a warm buzz flowing into me. Each word has a feel, a personality. This one was cottony, reassuring, like pulling on an old sweatshirt. I let myself savor it, since nothing was trying to kill me just then.

I’m not sure what it looked or felt like to Avulstein or Wyndelius, but after a few minutes of standing there with my hands on the wall I felt something nudge my shoulder. The elf handed me some studded armor. It was old, but well preserved from its time in the chest. I thanked him. He just nodded. He looked almost bewildered, though I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the shock of finally getting what he wanted after so long, after surrendering his sanity to it even. Avulstein and I took the exit tunnel in the back of the chamber. Wyndelius didn’t follow.

It’s well passed midnight now and I need to sleep if there’s any way in hell we’re going to start up the mountain tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Middas, 16^th of Hearthfire 4E201

Delphine made a point of waking me super early as punishment for inciting a riot. The fact that it was an unintentional riot made no difference. The residents don’t seem bothered though, in fact Wilhelm said it was the most exciting thing to happen in Ivarstead in years. And now that they know the barrow isn’t haunted, they can start using it for burials again, assuming Wyndelius ever leaves. No one has seen him.

We were gifted with plenty of food for the hike up the mountain, in addition to the provisions for the Greybeards that Klimek asked me to take up. Avulstein insisted on taking on the extra weight. He’s quickly becoming part big brother, part nanny.

As we walked to the bridge over the river, I couldn’t help but feel just a little queasy looking up at the base of the steps. The trail is too narrow for horses, so Delphine will be taking them back to Riverwood with her. When I asked her what she planned to do after that she gave me a harsh look, like I was asking her to divulge top secret information out in the open. She handed me a satchel with the horn, a black book, and a thick letter inside.

“The Greybeards can be trusted up to a point.” She said in my ear, “But read the letter once you’re alone, then burn it.”

Then she handed me a pair of leather gloves and a thick bearskin coat. “From your kill. You’re not a Nord, you won’t enjoy climbing up there in naught but studded armor and leggings.”

She let me hug her, briefly, before she waved us off and led the horses down the path along the river. That’s the round-about way to get back to Riverwood. She either has other things to take care of on the way or doesn’t really plan on going back at all. And she clearly wanted us to know that, for reasons. Paranoid, circuitous reasons.

The coat is awesome. Whoever Del got to make it did a great job in such a short amount of time. There are arm holes, but no sleeves so I won’t be restricted if I need to use a bow. Once I rearranged my equipment, we started the long trek up the Steps.

Klimek said that it takes him about half a day to get up the mountain. It took us double that time, and it was mostly my fault. Even if I hadn’t been tired and sore it would have been slow going.

At one of the little shrines Avulstein stopped and asked me what was wrong.

Heights. I don’t do heights.

“I can’t carry that for you.” He said before continuing up the path. I think that’s the Nordic version of “suck it up.”  

The further we went the worse it got, until I was practically hugging the rockface and willing myself not to look over at the completely naked edge of the trail. Not a single guardrail in sight. But I did keep going, because Avulstein made it clear that he wasn’t going to baby me through a panic attack. I spent most of the journey mumbling the Bene Gesserit mantra to myself.

It wasn’t that cold when we started, but of course the further up the mountain we got the more the temperature dropped. I would have gladly traded the bow on my back for sleeves. The pilgrims disappeared completely at about the half-way point. After that we saw our first ice wraith, one of three. Damn slippery air eels are hard to see but blasting them with fire does the trick. Worse was the troll. We had to retreat backwards to keep enough distance between us and its massive claws. I almost stumbled right over the cliff edge. It finally fell, the once grey-white, three eyed gorilla monster collapsed in a mass of blackened flesh that slid down the icy trail making a low, sizzling sound until it settled. Even with the crosswind the smell of burnt hair wafted over us. I thought about kicking it over the side for good measure, but I wasn’t sure what it would have landed on and didn’t want to get that close anyway.

“People don’t eat troll, do they?” I asked Avulstein. It seemed like a legit question. There’s a stringent anti-waste attitude in Skyrim that I appreciate, but the thought of people hunting and eating those things makes my stomach twist.

He wrinkled his nose and simply answered “No.”

By the time we finally saw High Hrothgar my legs felt like toothpicks suspended in Jell-O. The view was spectacular, though. We took a few minutes to watch the sun disappear over the vast craggy forest landscape, washed over in autumn colors and purple shadows, before finally climbing the last dozen steps up to the doors of the temple.

A dark, smokey hall greeted us populated by a single figure. The old man looked utterly serene, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, wrapped in heavy robes with his hands folded in his lap. He had to have heard us walking in, his eyes opened, but he didn’t move.

I knew he wouldn’t say anything, so I just straightened my spine and told him that I was answering the Greybeard’s summons. His watery eyes slid from me to Avulstein and back. Then he whispered. A single word I didn’t know resonated off the walls and shook the iron braziers dotted around the room. Wow. I wonder what happens if a Greybeard sneezes?

It didn’t take long for the others to walk calmly in from different directions. They had the same reaction as the first one, looking to Avulstein and then me in mild confusion. Okay, I get it, I don’t look the part!

Arngeir introduced himself and we went through the basic thu’um tests. Receiving knowledge from one of them was different. Word walls feel like an echo made of bees. Dragon souls are a rush of energy that quickly settle into the background. Coming from a Greybeard the knowledge is alive, like a growing, reaching thing. It’s more like communing with a tree than a man.

Avulstein was shown to a small alcove where he could camp out, while the Greybeards led me to their meeting room. They speak to each other using sign language. Arngeir acted as interpreter. I couldn’t really get a read on what they thought of my already having the horn of Jergen Wind-Caller. The meeting took hours. I stuck with total honesty. I mean I was sitting with a group of ancient pacifist hermits, who the hell are they going to tell? They didn’t seem particularly surprised to hear that people are being yanked through the space time continuum by Daedra. What did visibly upset Arngeir was that the Blades, while scattered and few in number, are still active. That gave me an in to mention that I know about Parthurnaax and so do the Blades. I also made it clear that I have no intention of harming him or their order.

Once the grueling debrief was over Arngeir said that they needed to deliberate amongst themselves and with Parthurnaax. I was shown to a narrow room furnished with a dusty mattress and a tiny dresser with an earthenware water pitcher on top. I’ve seen recreations of monastic cells that were cozier. It was a relief to get out of my armor, it pinches in all the wrong places. Avulstein loaned me a tent of a shirt I can wear with my leggings, so I don’t scandalize the geezers.

I was just tying the hem of the shirt into a knot at my waist when I heard what sounded like an angry rockslide. Avulstein and I stumbled out the back doors to find the Greybeards standing in the moonlight, speaking in resonating Dovahzul at the Throat of the World. Parthurnaax’s replies shook boulders the size of my head loose along with drifts of snow that rolled downward, then parted like the Red Sea at the gate before it could reach the patio. I only recognized two words: dovahkiin and Alduin.

And because it was cold as ever-loving fuck I ducked back inside in search of food. Me and Avulstein picked through our provisions, trying very hard to ignore how the building shook around us. My companion’s piety is cranked up to eleven. When the Greybeards finally finished their conversation Avulstein stood with his head bowed in reverence until they filed passed him. The old priests formed a phalanx around me and Arngeir informed me that my training starts tomorrow. That was it, they shuffled off to bed in complete silence. I guess we’ll get to the specifics in the morning.  

Chapter Text

High Hrothgar

Turdas, 17^th of Hearthfire 4E201

Opened Delphine’s letter and found the bulk of it to be a smaller, cruder copy of her dragon burial mound map. Between that and the shitty one I bought in Whiterun I’ll hopefully be able to figure out how to get places if I’m ever on my own. The letter read as follows:

The Greybeards will try to convince you that you should stand by and do nothing while the world burns. Do not listen! This isn’t about politics or philosophy, it’s about the fate of all of Tamriel! I have seen what you can do and do not doubt any longer than you are Dragonborn. However, whatever you are hiding is going to come out sooner or later. Learn what you need to be an effective fighter, then come find me. I will not be idle while you are on that mountain. I have included a comprehensive history, written by a good friend. Please read it. You know where to go if you need to contact me.

I’ll be in touch.

The book she gave me is a history on the Blades, written by Esbern of course. Flipping through it I’ve gleaned that he did start with pre-Dragon war history, so that will be very useful if only to keep current events in context. I doubt the stuff about the Blades will be completely impartial, though.

I feel like I’m being courted by cultists at every turn. I don’t want to refuse help from anyone, but I know what the Blades will ask of me in the end. And I’m not sure where the moral high ground is here. Can I ghost them after Delphine unquestionably saved my ass? Or do I take their help and then summarily dismiss them when they demand that I execute Paarthurnax? At best that would alienate Del and Esbern, at worst make them enemies, which I’d like to avoid. It’s too late to remain completely unaffiliated. Del seems to think that I will come to her for help sooner or later. I might have to accept that as an inevitability. Delphine isn’t a bad person, either. She’s a badass with conviction and I respect that, but she thinks in absolutes. I don’t have that luxury.

Spoke with Arngeir about training this morning. They will be teaching me “what they can.” The way he said it makes me think that they’ve decided there are certain words that they know, but don’t plan on teaching me for some reason. Maybe it’s the pacifist angle, Arngeir kept skirting the subject.

The Greybeards are sure that the weather won’t get bad for a few more weeks. That was very welcome news. I don’t relish the thought of being stuck up here all winter. I can understand why there isn’t a line up of people begging to be apprentices, as respected as Greybeards are they do not have it easy. They’ve gotten used to the altitude of course, not that this is an Everest-scale mountain, but they rely on the provisions from Ivarstead to survive. Klimek delivers dry grain or beans, dried fish, and strips of elk jerky about once a month until the snows set in. That means that the monks must ration everything they have left for at least four months. I’m still not clear on where they get fuel for the braziers, but I suspect they use chips, like the residents of Winterhold.

I spent most of the day listening to lectures on The Way of the Voice, the history and philosophy of the Greybeards, and doing breathing exercises, which Arngeir said will help with the throat discomfort. He also mentioned that I don’t need to scream the words at the top of my lungs. Like magic, the force of the thu’um doesn’t come from physical exertion, but intent and the depth of your understanding. He didn’t laugh when he explained that, but there was a hint of mirth at the corners of his eyes, like the look you give a toddler who frantically runs through the house only to smack right into a table leg.

That hurt, huh? You’re not going to do that again, are ya?

Shake it off. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold. It’s not that different from the exercises my RN taught me for migraines.

I’m not going to make Avulstein hang out here for weeks watching me breath in and out. While anyone can learn shouts Arngeir made it clear that for a normal person it takes months, if not years to learn a single word of power. He mentioned that their last apprentice, Ulfric Dumbass Stormcloak, had mastered the three words of Unrelenting Force in just ten years! What a remarkable feat, she thought with all the sarcasm.

I am not Elsa; I am never letting it go.

Avulstein will rest today (I had to insist on that) then head back to Whiterun tomorrow. I’m going to send a few letters with him and ask him to watch out for Aventus. I had left it open as to whether Fralia or Mette should take responsibility for the boy, whoever wants to I suppose. Mette already has one kid still at home, but Fralia is a lot older and may not feel like trying to keep up with a ten-year-old. I’ll just have to stop worrying about it for right now and concentrate on the task at hand.

Goal 1: Learn as much as possible before the first snow, then get the hell off this mountain.

Goal 2: Convince the Greybeards to let me speak to Parthurnaax before I go.

Fredas, 18^th of Hearthfire 4E201

Saw Avulstein off. It was a bit more emotional than I was expecting. He bowed to each of the Greybeards on his way out but gave me a big ol’ bear hug out front where they couldn’t see. I told him to be sure to do the same with Mette when he sees her, and he actually blushed! So cute. All the feels. Now back to work.

Morndas, 21^st of Hearthfire 4E201

I think Arngeir was holding back until Avulstein left. After that he quickly switched from breathing and diaphragm stretches to expounding on the words I already know. We started on rudimentary language lessons. He wants me to learn to speak Dovahzul conversationally, reason being, in his words: “As Dragonborn you need not ruminate on a single word as we do and will have more cause to commune with dragon kind than any other mortal of this Age. To speak fluently and with confidence will only strengthen your position.”

So here I am learning yet another new language. There’s a disconnect between the understanding the Greybeards can give me for a word of power, and everyday words that the ancient dragon priests used to communicate with their overlords. It’s hard to explain. One is intuitive, I don’t just know what a word of power means, but everything behind it, if that makes sense. Whereas figuring out how to string a sentence together is more or less like any other language. Right now I’m learning the vowels.

I’m also struggling with pronunciation. Dovahzul sounds very deep and guttural and intimidating coming from a dragon. I on the other hand sound like a prepubescent Klingon.

Loredas, 26^th of Hearthfire 4E201

Okay now I think I get why Arngeir said they would only be teaching me what they can. While the Dovahzul lessons have been going on every new word of power I’ve learned has been a non-lethal one.  

WULD NAH KEST               Whirlwind Fury Tempest

LAAS YA NIR                     Life Seek Hunt

FEIM ZI GRON                   Fade Spirit Bind

LOK VAH KOOR                Sky Spring Summer

I wonder if I could create my own thu’ums using different word combos? Dragonrend was created by people, not dragons, so why not? The only thing holding me back from experimenting right now is the Greybeard’s disapproval.

Philosophically I understand where they're coming from. The Greybeards have dedicated their lives to preserving The Way of the Voice and keeping it from being misused. Arngeir hasn’t come out and said it, but I think they’re more than embarrassed by what Ulfric did with their teachings, it hurt them. The fact that they’re going slow with me, slow for a Dragonborn anyway, is understandable. I could talk til I’m blue about how I don’t want personal power. Talk is cheap. I will have to show them that I’m better than that. Hey, there’s the silver lining I was looking for! Ulfric might be an asshat, but he’s given me a great model not to follow.

Morndas, 28^th of Hearthfire 4E201

Eating like a monk is making me cranky. I know the old adage is “eat to live, don’t live to eat” but they barely eat enough to stay alive! Breakfast is usually a watery corn mush, they don’t eat lunch at all, and then we each get a strip of dried meat to gnaw on in the evening. I still have some of my own rations, but most of the fresh stuff is gone. There is a single, wrinkly leek and a potato in the bottom of the sack. How do they not all have scurvy?? I did notice that all the Greybeards chug a lot of liquids. One morning I even caught Einarth pouring what looked like a healing draught into his tea. That would explain how they’re still so spry after all this time. Arngeir must be pushing ninety and he’s the youngest.

Lessons continue, I’m finding it hard to gauge how well I’m doing. Got super antsy today and went to play outside for a while. There hasn’t been a fresh snowfall yet, but there’s always a bit that lingers on the mountain, so I amused myself with making snowmen. I gave them names like Ulfric, Judith, and Aia before obliterating them with thu’ums. Arngeir was right, the breathing does help, though after the third or fourth FUS my throat started to feel a little raw again.

I was just scraping together another pile of snow when the mountain shook. It had to have been Parthurnaax. Arngeir confirmed for me that it was a summons. Tomorrow I’ll have to use clear skies to get up to the peak. This was one of my major goals, but I’m still nervous. I feel like I’m going in for a job interview. What if he doesn’t like me? What if he takes one look at me and says there’s been a horrible, cosmic mistake? I guess I always have the option to just go back to Solitude; after all of this though, I don’t think I would want to. If I wasn’t Dragonborn I still have my people to find, adoptees to look after; even if part of me would like to abandon those responsibilities I know I wouldn’t.

Tomorrow should be very interesting.

Chapter Text

High Hrothgar

Middas, 30^th of Hearthfire 4E201

Using clear skies makes you feel like Storm! Clouds part and the air goes still for a while, at least in the pocket of atmosphere around you. The novelty almost made up for the abject terror of climbing even higher up this damn mountain with nothing but a bit of rock to hold onto.  

Paarthurnax was waiting at the Throat, perched on the word wall. The sun bounced off the snow creating a soft glow on his scales, highlighting their olive tinge and dozens of deep, grey-green battle scars. His age is obvious even from a distance. Wings frayed and right foreclaw bent, like it had been broken and didn’t set exactly straight. Most of the spikes along his neck and head are fractured.

Without a doubt he’s the oldest dragon I’ve seen so far, but then he never “died” and resurrected. I haven’t gotten a good look at Alduin, so I can’t compare them.

He also seems slightly larger than the other dragons I have seen. Maybe it was his stillness, the calm way he sat on the wall watching me trudge through the snow with my hands shoved in my armpits.

I decided to take a chance and greet him as a dragon would, with fire.

It was a spur of the moment decision. I should have given it more thought on the hike up the mountain.

Once my thu’um puffed out Paarthurnax lowered his head, turning one misty amber eye so he could get a good look at me.

“Greetings, wunduniik.” He said finally, “By tradition the elder speaks first. Perhaps you did not know this.”

His voice filled the open space between us with warm weight. I could tell by his tone that he didn’t believe that I didn’t know about the greeting. I remembered the moment he said something and felt my face heat. Which isn’t fair. Dragons don’t get flushed or have facial tics, as far as I can tell anyway. They don’t even speak with their lips, which shouldn’t be phonetically possible. Paarthurnax barely moved his jaw, but the words still came out perfectly annunciated. Dragons either have incredibly complex vocal cords, or there’s a magical assist happening in there that I can’t see. The curious and admittedly dumb part of my brain wanted to stare down his gullet and ask heaps of inappropriate questions.

He made a sound half-way between a hum and a purr as he lowered himself off the wall like a cat, carefully positioning his claws away from me and keeping his tail high.

I walked over to the wall and let FEIM flow into me while Paarthurnax settled in the snow, acting as a wind break so I was protected from the open side. Or trapped, though I never got that feeling. Had I tried to walk away he would have politely moved.

He looked relaxed as he tilted his head slightly and stated, “You come to my strunmah expecting judgment.”

“How do you know?”

“I have been listening. The Greybeards, bahlaan fahdonne, tell me much. Too often those who come seeking tutelage do so for the sake of moro, glory, rather than enlightenment. They tell me you are a patient student, despite your foreknowledge. It is rare that one of the dovah sos should show humility in this way.”

“Did they tell you where I come from? How I got here?”

“Yes. It matters little.”

“It matters to me. I want to know how I’m here and if there’s a way back. For all of us.”

He made another humming noise deep in his throat before answering. “When the ancient heroes defeated Alduin their krongrah was incomplete. They merely crippled Alduin. The Kelle, Elder Scrolls, have often been used for prophecy, but this is only a small part of their power. Zo faas suleyk. Tiid krent. Time was…shattered here because of what the ancient Nords did to Alduin. Those wounds continue to bleed. Unchecked what started as a small puncture may grow to a great tear. Even I, wuth as I am cannot know the true extent of the damage. I do know that Alduin and dovahkiin return together.”

“What about Sheogorath? He was there, I literally landed at his feet. It was his artifact that brought me here, not an Elder Scroll.”

“Was it?” Paarthurnax sounded almost amused at that. “The Daedra are not above taking credit for events not of their own doing, none the least the Prince of Madness. Whether for pleasure or gain, it matters not. The role of dovahkiin falls only to the willing.”

“Are you saying I chose this?” I asked more petulantly than I meant to. “Even if that was true, how does that fit into the whole “chosen one” thing? It’s a contradiction! I’m not even from this universe, it doesn’t make any sense to me.”

His tail flicked languidly as he took deep, even breaths of cold air. It reminded me a bit of a mountain lion laying in the sun, conserving energy.

“Drem. Patience. I do not pretend to understand the workings of qostiid, prophecy, nor the inner machinations of this or any other universe, as you say. In my experience, however, as with most things, man and mer misinterpret the word of the ancients. Blood to a dov does not carry the same meaning as it does to the joorre. Your very existence here and now on my strunmah speaks to your destiny. Had you refused it, as others have, we would not be holding tinvaak. Who then would I be speaking to? I cannot say.”

“So, you don’t know if I can go back where I came from?”

“To travel between worlds is no small feat. To travel in Time even more so. With a Kelle it may be possible to reenter the wound from which you emerged, but when is difficult to decern.

It is well that your mind dwells on the fate of others. Temper that instinct with caution.”

We continued for some time like this, I’ll save my digits and stop here. I’m pretty proud of myself for remembering this much of the conversation.

I’ve been so fixated on that mirror in Solitude and Sheogorath’s part in my arrival it never occurred to me that there might be a completely unrelated cause for my being here. Paarthurnax’s theory certainly makes Tony’s entrance via cave make more sense. It also complicates everything. I liked it better when there was one way in and one way out in my head. Now there’s wibbly-wobbly time stuff in the equation and my brain hurts.

Am I living in an alternate universe, or a constructed one? Is this the Matrix?

And assuming that I believe in prophecy, which I don’t necessarily at all, I still don’t know why it’s me. Paarthurnax said it was a choice. I can’t wrap my head around that. I didn’t choose to be here. I didn’t walk out of my shit office job thinking “You know what would really cheer me up right now? An existential crisis!”

Sure, I’ve accepted the whole saving the world obligation, but that’s only because I’m in it now. If Alduin wins, there’s nothing to stop him from slurping my soul along with all the other poor bastards too powerless to stop him.

I needed to get my hands on an Elder Scroll any way, now I just have a little more incentive to get on with it. Should probably speak with a moth priest before trying to do any portal opening, but I’ll deal with that after Alduin is out of the way.

I enjoyed chatting with Paarthurnax. We discussed Alduin and the Blades, the old heroes, and the old gods. He talks about the divines like you would family members you haven’t seen in a long time.

When he described the past dragonborns and the great warriors they all were I couldn’t help but bring up how much I’m not like them.

“You are as you were meant to be.” He said. “Dov wahlaan fah rel. You feel it in yourself do you not? That your nature is also merciful bodes well. I am glad of it, for all things must be kept in balance.”

That made me feel better. I don’t necessarily believe it, but hey I can take a compliment. Sometimes.

We talked til sundown, when I had to leave so I wouldn’t be stumbling down icy trails in the dark. He did impart as much knowledge as I could take before I left, which left me lightheaded and giddy. There was a sense of kinship that I haven’t gotten from the others. Granted, that makes sense since the other dragons I’ve encountered I soul-swallowed like a selective succubus. When I asked if he was angry at all about his brethren I noticed his shoulders slump. Paarthurnax spent years trying to convince the others that Alduin was leading them down the wrong path. They didn’t listen, so he’s washed his hands of them, so to speak. It still makes him sad.

The Blades are wrong about him. If I had any teensy tiny doubts before they’re gone now. The way he talks about power and domination isn’t that different from how a recovering addict talks about their drug of choice.

“No day goes by where I am not tempted to return to my inborn nature.” He said.

He doesn’t deserve to die; he deserves a cake and one of those little gold abstinence coins. Not that he would know what any of that means. I just wish there was a way to explain it to the Blades, in a way that makes sense to them.

You don’t murder someone because they might fall off the wagon, you help them stay on the wagon.

It was dark by the time I got back to High Hrothgar, saturated with knowledge, and chomping at the bit to get warm at last. When I woke this morning Borri pointed to the back doors. A steady dusting of powdery snow covered the porch, the gate, and continued to fall all day. I need to get back to the ground, soon.

Chapter Text

Ivarstead

Sundas, 4^th of Frost Fall 4E201

I could’ve kissed the ground when I stepped back on to good ol’ terra firma. The climb down was a hell of a lot scarier than the way up. It was dry and I had Avulstein with me before. This time the steps were covered with several inches of snow in places and just when I thought the sunshine would last more clouds rolled in to spit sleet and pellets of hale at me. I used Clear Skies a few times out of sheer frustration. That shout may prove handier than I initially thought.

My fear of falling kept me invisible most of the journey, I think. A pair of pilgrims at the second marker ignored me completely as I passed. I was a little insulted until I noticed that I couldn’t see my own waving hand. I really need to learn better control. A major side effect of holding a spell that long, even if I’m not casting intentionally, is the energy drain. Once the adrenaline rush dissipated, I was so shaky and exhausted I barely made it to the inn.

Something I knew, but never personally experienced, is when you’ve gained notoriety in a small town people want to feed you. I hadn’t taken three steps into the building before the girl behind the counter held up a hand and told me to sit. Fish stew never tasted so good. I didn’t even mind the heads. The locals wanted to know all about what the Greybeards are up to. I stuck to broad strokes, nothing they don’t already know, except that they could really use some provisions with vitamin C and if anyone wants to donate chamber pots or cutlery that aren’t a hundred years old that would be swell. I shutter to think how much frozen fecal matter is sitting on top of that mountain.

I was given the most bijou room in the place, but it was half price. Compared to the tiny cell the Greybeards gave me it’s a six by four palace. I’m almost out of money again. Thought about going back down into the barrow to see if Wyndelius left anything valuable behind, but after finally getting around to looking at the letters waiting for me, I decided it wasn’t worth the extra time.

Mette wrote that Aventus arrived safe and chose to stay with her. Tony took off the next day on his job, promising to get back as soon as he can. I don’t think he mentioned to her, or probably anyone, what the nature of the job is though.

Idgrod sent a vampire update. I had no idea that Falion and Isran of Dawnguard fame are brothers! They’ve routed the coven near Morthal and another small pocket of bloodsuckers further north, currently looking for more. Falion and Isran have diametric ideas about what to do with vamps; Falion wants to cure them, Isran wants to slaughter them. Idgrod spent the last few months negotiating a compromise. The agreement, at least right now, is to give fledglings the option to surrender and be cured before the carnage commences. Somehow, I don’t see them getting a lot of takers, but I’ve been wrong before. Maybe the young ones who still remember their mortality will see the downsides to being a parasitic nightmare creature and take the out. Many won’t. At least they’ll have a choice.

Viarmo’s letter arrived by courier. The kid couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, grubby even after his respite while waiting for me, and wired. When I asked how he knew where I was, he just smiled and said, “trade secrets, ma’am.” Yeah, that’s not creepy at all.

Esme,

I hope this letter finds you well. I received your previous message along with your rather truncated rough draft a few weeks ago. The appeal has been re-written as you asked and submitted to the jarl’s steward, Falk Firebeard. This morning I received a cordial but discouraging reply from the Blue Palace stating that upon review General Tulius (more accurately his secretary I should think) denied the appeal.

I am truly sorry. From the reputation of Eorlund Gray-Mane and what you have told us I understand why you wish to help.

I took the liberty of making inquiries through a few acquaintances at Castle Dour. Officially Thorald Gray-Mane is being held on suspicion of sedition against the Empire. True or not calling him a Stormcloak spy gives the Thalmor free reign to keep him almost indefinitely, assuming he still lives.

A personal appeal directly to the jarl might yield better results than another written request, if you intend to pursue the matter further. Elisef is known to be compassionate. If you ever plan on returning to us I might be able to arrange a brief audience. Several members of court are avid patrons of the arts.

Please let me know that you are safe. Rumors of a dragon attack outside Whiterun have been all anyone will talk about recently. I am not certain how literally these reports should be taken; however, I will not pretend that they are not alarming.

Again, I am very sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I plan to send this letter by courier. Please send your reply as soon as you receive it, I have paid for the return service.

Yours,

Viarmo

He must be worried. I can’t think of any other reason why he would blow a hundred septims, plus however much it costs for the reply too, just to tell me that Thorald’s appeal was denied.

After reading the last sentence I looked up and sure enough the kid was still standing there, shifting from foot to foot impatiently. I quickly scrawled a reply, just letting Viarmo know that there was an attack, but I’m fine and returning now. I don’t want to address the dragonborn thing, or the trip to High Hrothgar, or any of it, not in the form of a letter. I just can’t make it work on paper without sounding like a raging narcissist or a lunatic. Or both.

The courier snatched the letter out of my hand the moment I was done and took off like a coked-out squirrel, leaving me to contemplate my next move.

There’s no getting back to Whiterun without going around the Throat of the World. I studied my maps for a while trying to figure out if going around the east or west side of the mountain would be faster. Even after asking several people around town there’s no consensus. Neither way is exactly safe. The eastern route looks shorter on the map, but bandits are more prevalent and it’s much easier to get lost on the many game trails and side roads according to the local hunters. Going south then swinging around the west side cuts through the foot of the mountains and Helgen. It’s a longer way around, but an easier road to follow.

Dana, the guard who went with us to the barrow and ended up with a broken foot, suggested that if I’m going alone the safer way is the one with fewer people. She said while bandits do sometimes set up ambushes where the west road turns uphill and bottlenecks, the wet weather and infrequent travelers makes it less likely this time of year. Before Helgen was destroyed a stage ran between the two towns, but the driver was killed in the attack and no one sees any reason to take up the route. I’ll have to go on foot.

Maybe I shouldn’t be taking advice from someone using her cast as a beer cozy, but no one else could give me a better reason, so west it is!

It’s been raining off and on for the past two days. I plan to leave tomorrow whether it clears up or not, I can’t keep freeloading on these people.

Riverwood

Tirdas, 6^th of Frost Fall 4E201

Traveling alone seemed like a good idea when I was warm and safe indoors. My confidence evaporated with the first bear sighting and it only got worse from there. The coat Del gifted me has a hood and is somewhat water resistant, as are the leather leggings Fralia gave me, but it doesn’t keep the rain from running down my arms or into my boots. I’m going to be very annoyed with myself if I come down with pneumonia.

Once I got to the foothills the road turned mostly to cobbled stone and gravel. Pro: there wasn’t a lot of mud to slog through. Con: it’s very hilly and wet rock is slippery. I could have used Clear Skies but decided against it. If there’s one thing I learned from my time with the Greybeards, it’s that Shouts are loud, and dragons have exceptional hearing. The whole point of going the west route was to be as inconspicuous as possible, like Frodo and Sam sneaking into Mordor.

I miss Avulstein. For all their hospitality not one person in Ivarstead volunteered to go with me. I guess I can’t blame them. All the farmers are finishing with their harvesting and everyone else is busy with winter prep. Even Fastred was too busy to try to invite herself along.

After about an hour I made it to a flat area at the top of the first big hill where the road took a sharp turn. Great place for an ambush. There was a shallow rock outcrop that provided a small amount of shelter and a narrow view up the next hill. I hunkered down, squinting through the rain, and listened for a while. I thought I heard shuffling noises, maybe footsteps. After several minutes nothing appeared coming or going. Eventually my teeth chattering became too violent to ignore and I was forced to continue walking.

Try as I might I couldn’t remember the area from any of my playthroughs. It’s weird and terrifying, not knowing exactly where I am or what’s around the next bend. I’ve gotten spoiled the last few months. The further up into the crags I ventured the more the rain turned to sluggish snowflakes that clung to my hood and melted down my front. And the noises continued. At first I told myself that it was goats or tree limbs creaking, something natural and harmless. It was nothing distinct, just the odd shuffling sound, like someone losing their footing in the accumulating slush. I’d turn, listen, see and hear nothing else and keep going. This went on for a while. It did occur to me that I might be coming down with hypothermia. Stage two or three comes with cognitive problems, but I was still shivering, so I took that as a good sign. I dismissed the possibility that someone casting invisibility might be following me after a few hours. It would take an exceptional mage to hold it that long. Exceptional mages would, I rationalized, have better things to do than follow me all day.

Still, my hackles were up before I got anywhere near Helgen. Cresting what I hoped was the final hill I noticed a cart full of garbage and broken clay jugs on the side of the road. I picked up the pace, not wanting to run into miners or anyone less savory. I went too fast, tripped, and fell forward. Hard.

I was just pulling myself up, cursing and bleeding from a cut on my chin, when I heard a loud bark behind me. A large, grey wolfhound stood in the middle of the road, looking at me intently. With the cart and what I thought might be a cave entrance nearby I took that as a sign of habitation and continued cautiously hauling ass. The dog followed. I didn’t think much of it, he wasn’t being aggressive. I thought he’d give up and go home eventually.

The snow stopped shortly after that and the road became a little more level. The outline of a town in the distance just came into view, with a blackened tower and chunky wooden walls, when I heard a voice behind me.

“You know someone’s following you, right?”

I whirled around so fast that I almost tripped over myself again. Because holy fucking fuck the dog spoke. In English. With a distinct Brooklyn accent.

“Barbas?” I squeaked.

“Yeah! Great, you know already, that will make this easier. I tried talking to the other one, but he became a little hysterical and ran off.”

“The other one?”

“One of the other candidates. You all have a distinct scent, which is good, it makes you easier to find! This was a happy accident, though. I was visiting my master’s shrine, trying to convince him to take me back. It didn’t go well. Anyway, you should know that there’s an elf following you. He’s in the bushes over there.”

My eyes darted to a clump of spikey shrubs just off the path, but I couldn’t see anything.

“You know what, you look like you could use a little help. Allow me!” The dog’s voice rang in my head.

Barbas turned and plunged into the brush. A second later a foot materialized in his mouth, followed by the rest of a howling Dunmer struggling to stay vertical while the dog dragged him out of hiding. The oiled leather pack strapped to his shoulders threw him off balance and he fell on it with a painful crunch.  

It was Wyndelius. Because of course it was.

“He smells like a thief!” Barbas said excitedly. “Want me to rip his throat out?”

“No!” I balked.

Barbas let go of the elf just in time to avoid a vicious kick. With Wyndelius struggling to roll off the pack on his back he looked like an angry turtle, one that had been chugging invisibility potions all day long judging by the dozens of tiny vials that tumbled out of his pockets.

I pulled out my axe just in case. “Why have you been following me?” I demanded, putting a little thu’um at the end for emphasis.

He cringed and rolled onto his side before scrambling back to his feet. His hands trembled, I noticed, but didn’t reach for the knife at his belt. Blood red eyes narrowed on mine and for a few seconds we just watched each other’s breath puff out in clouds.

“You shouldn’t be traveling alone.” the elf mumbled finally. “I waited. You shouldn’t be here. Alone.”

I glanced at Barbas, who just tilted his head. Helpful.

“Why. Are. You. Following me?” I overenunciated. “Give me an actual reason.”

Wyndelius hunched his overburdened shoulders and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“You made this possible.” He said, gesturing at his pack. “I had forgotten. Lost track of time and…everything. I need…I need purpose. They took my home. You can give me purpose, but only if you stay alive.”

There commenced a war in my head for a few seconds. Sort of a devil on one shoulder, angel on the other argument. Devil me was quick to point out that this guy is a few cans short of a six pack and might decide to flay me in the night and wear my skin as a stylish wrap.

Angel me suggested that everyone should be innocent until proven guilty. Sure, he had gone crazy being alone so long and that’s why he attacked us at the barrow, but he was calm now and asking for help. Rejecting that plea would go against every value I was ever taught.

On the other hand listening to my conscience got me forcibly hauled out of Solitude and started this whole messy chain of events.

I turned to the dog again. “What do you think?” I asked him in Tamrielian.

“Hey, you know more than I do. You two sound like you got history. Go with your gut.”

Okay so maybe trusting either of them is stupid. Consciously I know Barbas is a Daedric construct, or something along those lines, and therefore way more dangerous than he looks. But dammit I can’t bring myself to think of him that way. Barbas was always my favorite tank. It’s also very comforting to hear a voice that could be from home, even if it’s only in my head.

I turned back to Wyndelius and asked “Do you even care where I’m going? Or why? I know you were alone for a long time, but don’t you have a family to go back to?”

“No.” he said flatly.

“No to what part of that?”

“All of it.”

Ouch. That was too sad. I may end up regretting it, but I decided to give them both the benefit of the doubt. I figured Barbas could have mauled me on the road and if Wyndelius had been tracking me from the start he had dozens of opportunities to sneak up and shiv me. Clean kill, no witnesses, Morag Tong style.

I agreed to let him come with me as far as Whiterun, we’ll see how things go from there. My only stipulation was that he hand over the rest of his invisibility potions. He gave me a look like I’d just asked him to surrender his balls, but begrudgingly yanked four still stoppered vials the size of my thumb from inside his jerkin and handed them over.

With him being somewhat cryptic getting a bead on what he’s really after is going to be tricky. He did admit that after we cleared the barrow the local guards made a point of letting him know that he wasn’t welcome in Ivarstead. Dana getting injured probably had something to do with that. It was also just an embarrassing situation all around. The townsfolk were tricked into thinking the place was really haunted and Wyndelius spent the better part of a year looking for a claw key that was literally sitting a hundred yards away next to Wilhelm’s good whiskey.

If he feels ashamed about any of it he’s not letting on. In fact, he seems sort of dazed most of the time, like he’s half here, half somewhere else. I don’t think he was being hyperbolic when he said he needs purpose. He just lost the thing his whole life has been about for who knows how long. Coming to terms with that can't be easy.

We made it to Helgen at dusk. I thought there would be bandits in the ruins, maybe a few scavenging wolves. I wasn’t prepared for utter desolation. The walls I saw in the distance proved to be charred, skeletal planks of wood sticking up at odd angles and collapsing in on themselves in places. The only building that was spared from the fire, somewhat, was the keep.

We spent a good hour picking through the rubble, but there wasn’t much of anything left and no sign that anyone had moved in yet. While we didn’t see any corpses out in the open, I’m sure there are still bodies stuck under the heaviest debris where no one could get to them. The smell was sickening, like rancid barbeque and burnt hair. It started to sleet again, and I was still somewhat water-logged and very tired of being cold, so we locked ourselves in the keep. I would have preferred to sleep anywhere else, but it was the most fortified area and there was no way we could get to Riverwood before dark.  

I’ll give Wyndelius brownie points for being courteous. He climbed up what was left of the stairs and looked out the giant hole in the wall while I stripped and hung up my things. Barbas on the other hand sat on his haunches and had to be told, less than gently, to stop staring. Thankfully, the shirt Avulstein lent me was still shoved down into my pack and still dry or I have no doubt that I would have gotten sick.

It was a quiet, tense evening. I wanted to ask Barbas about what he had said before about the other “candidate” but having a one-sided conversation with a dog in front of a mentally unstable elf seemed like a bad idea.

Instead I did my best to make small talk, getting only occasional monosyllabic responses until I gave up.

Wyndelius didn’t have a bed roll. His pack was stuffed with all sorts of things pilfered from the barrow, but no personal items, food, anything like that. He insisted that he was fine sleeping on the floor, but we all still woke up in a pile this morning. Barbas and I formed a T on my bedroll with my head on his belly and I found Wyndelius hugging my legs with his feet in the dog’s face. I can’t remember ever being so stiff. Nothing inappropriate just…awkward.

We got to Riverwood today around mid-day. Del is gone, no one seems to know where. I can’t afford a room, so once Wyndelius finishes at the Trader we’ll keep going. Should get to Whiterun sometime this afternoon.

Chapter Text

Whiterun

Turdas, 8^th of Frost Fall 4E201

Avulstein disappeared two days ago. Everyone is freaking out. It’s my fault, I should have listened to Fralia and made him stay home out of sight.

I was so happy to be back. As we passed the Whiterun stables, I noticed Ferris standing in the yard munching on soggy feed and was looking forward to seeing Axel.

For the first time I was able to stop at the Khajit camp by the outer gates. Wyndelius still had a few things from the barrow to trade, I just stood back and ogled the weapons wracks and textiles. Their tents smell like mint and cardamom. When I have money again I might go to them for material, something that would work for casualwear like a nice cotton. Leather chafes like crazy.

When he was done Wyn refused to enter the city. He looked deeply uncomfortable when I asked why and would only say “it’s been too long.”

I left it at that. The Khajit didn’t seem to be bothered when he walked a few paces from their fire and squatted there, rearranging the things he acquired in his giant pack. I’m not going to lose any sleep if he decides to go his own way after this. He’s a grown ass man. Elf. Whatever. He can do what he wants.

Barbas followed me into the city. While Wyndelius had been stoically silent the whole journey from Helgen, Barbas was a regular chatterbox, but I couldn’t openly reply to him without looking like a loon. Once we left the elf behind, I slowed my pace and quickly filled Barbas in on the arrangement I have with the Gray-Manes.

“So, you’re a charity case.” he concluded.

“No, I’m…okay maybe sort of, but-”

“These people give you food and board and you don’t pay them, correct?”

“I’m trying to get their son out of prison, which is more than anyone else is doing for them. Just be nice. Don’t get mud on the carpet or anything, okay?”

Olfina was the first to spot me climbing the stairs to the Wind District. She ran past the garden gate and threw her arms around me. That’s when I knew something was wrong. I found the whole family gathered in the main room, Eorlund, Axel, Eorlund’s brother Vignar, and a balding man I didn’t recognize stood around the dining table arguing loudly. Fralia sat crumpled in a chair, puffy-eyed and rung out.

I barely had time to drop my bag by the door before Vignar came at me. He crossed the room and dove into a string of accusations. I was an Imperial spy, a Thalmor agent, a foreign witch who uses her wiles to lure men to their deaths, and so on. Set aside that ridiculous bit at the end I was primed to believe that I was responsible for Avulstien’s disappearance and duly horrified. Olfina and Axel jumped to my defense. The group once again erupted into noisy arguing, too much to hear anyone properly. Eorlund had to call for quiet by slamming one of his forge hammers against a pewter serving tray.

Once the room settled Olfina pointed out that Avulstien had been sneaking off to see Mette every night since he returned from Ivarstead. Anyone could have seen him coming and going. That made me feel slightly less guilty. Still, what if he thought he would be safe because he’d gone gallivanting around with me? What if it gave him a false sense of security once he was home? As if he read my mind that was the next point Vignar made against me.

Axel huffed, “If the boy was fool enough to think that then he deserved to be captured. More like his wandering pecker set him astray.”

“If not for this chit filling his head with rubbish you would still have one of your boys! Avulstien knew the danger he was in and snuck out anyway. He knew the Battle-Borns, curse them, have been waiting for their chance to put another Gray-Mane in Thalmor hands. They won’t be satisfied until our clan is wiped out!” Vignar spat under his mustache.

“A Nord takes responsibility for his own actions.” Eorlund countered gravely. “I will not blame my son’s behavior or his disappearance on a family friend.”

“And what makes this one a friend, eh? Because your wife’s idiot brother says so?”

“Mind yourself, you bloated old horker!” barked Axel.

Fralia pulled herself out of her chair, yanked the hammer from her husband’s grasp, and banged the tray on the table so hard that the metal cracked.

“This. Solves. Nothing.”

Dang she scary. After a short, tense silence Fralia straightened and took a deep breath.

“I’ll not sit in mourning for the living. Olfina, would you go extend an invitation to supper to Mette and her boys please? Esme, help me in the kitchen when you’ve changed out of your gear, there’s a love. The rest of you will cool down on the porch. If I hear another word spoken in anger, I shall cast you from my house!”

Her tone brooked no argument. Olfina retreated through the door behind me. The men shuffled through the sunroom and out onto the small outdoor sitting area off the garden. Eorlund grabbed a pitcher of something, probably ale, and kissed his wife’s forehead affectionately before joining them. 

I followed suit, grabbing my bag off the floor, and climbing the stairs to the little guest room I’d used before. It was as I had left it except for the fresh set of clothes draped across the end of the bed.

Barbas plunked himself down in a patch of deep, golden sunlight.

“They’re a fun bunch!” he said cheerfully.

I scowled at him and turned away. This was not the state of things I was hoping to find when I got back. We’re off script. Avulstien isn’t supposed to get arrested, yet it happened and it’s my fault. I changed things too much. I made him a follower when he was never meant to be one. I encouraged him to leave the city and to pursue Mette.

“I can hear you beating yourself up.” Barbas accused while he enthusiastically rubbed his back into the carpet fibers beneath him.

“Vignar is right. If I had never come along Avulstien would still be here.”

“Yeah, maybe but what’s done is done. Are you going to waste time feeling sorry for yourself or are you going to do something?”

He was right of course. As I peeled off my leathers and washed, I tried to formulate. Viarmo’s offer to get me an audience with the jarl was encouraging, but by no means a guarantee of getting one brother out of prison, let alone two. There needs to be a plan B. I know Thorald was sent to a fort guarded by Thalmor, but that’s all I remember. The worst-case scenario if diplomacy fails is finding that location and arranging a jail break. I can only hope that Avulstien isn’t locked up somewhere else.

I decided that talking to Mette was the next logical step. While it would be an incredible coincidence that Avulstien’s disappearance was unrelated to his brother’s I still felt like taking it for granted was the wrong move. Assumptions get me in trouble. If Mette was the last person to see him, she might have noticed something helpful.

It also made no sense to me, when I stopped to think about it, that no one noticed a large man with easily identifiable silver hair being forcibly dragged out of the city. Twice. Just because no one came forward when Thorald was taken doesn’t mean that no one saw anything.

I left my muddy things in a corner and changed into the set of clothes Fralia had laid out. Warm woolen underthings this time, with leggings, a blue tunic, and leather jerkin with a diamond pattern tooled down the back.

Fralia was trimming the silverskin off a slab of red meat when I entered the kitchen. I got to scrubbing potatoes. There’s no water pump, so I used a cupful of water from a basin on the counter to remove the dirt. She lightly grilled the meat, then braised it in stock with marrow and onions. The potatoes were boiled, smashed, and fried in butter. It felt like old times helping in the kitchen at the bard’s college, except for the tension that hung over the whole household.

Mette brought an herb tart and a bottle of wine when she arrived with Olfina and the kids.

The first time I laid eyes on Aventus was heartbreaking. He sat with Mette’s youngest son, Bjarni, looking around wearily, as if he expected to be beaten at any moment. The kid’s traumatized. No wonder he tried to put a hit on his former caretaker. Mette said later that it was worse when he first arrived. Bjarni is a good influence on him, though, an older brother he can look up to and feel safe with.

He has his father’s dark hair and eyes, but is built like a Nord, which only makes his malnourishment more evident. His cheeks are too gaunt, bones jutting out without any of the baby fat I’m used to seeing in children his age. When we all finally sat down to eat everyone, including Vignar, pushed extra helpings onto Aventus’ plate.

We caught up over supper but refrained from discussing Avulstien until the boys went outside to play.

Mette was candid about what they had been doing. Good for them. I maybe wouldn’t have gone into some of the more delicate particulars in front of my SO’s entire family, but to each their own.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the last night they saw each other. He made a habit of turning up late after her shift was over and always left well before daybreak. They thought they were being careful. 

When I asked if anyone had questioned the guards on duty that night Mette gave me a “well duh” look over the rim of her wine glass. Of course she interrogated the entire regiment, and the beggars who sleep near the Bannered Mare and the smith’s forge, and Commander Caius. No one saw a damn thing.

“What about the Companions?” I asked, directing it at Mette, but with my eye on Vignar, who bristled.

“Every member of the Companions knows the situation. They are family. Someone would have come to me if they’d seen anything.” he said indignantly.

“If they knew what it was they were seeing.” The balding man, Brill, commented.

Eorlund frowned, exchanging a pointed glance at the other two men. None of them are Companions, but Brill and Vignar live at Jorrvaskr. They know the comings and goings of the place. The shadow that fell over Vignar’s expression told me the wolves were roaming that night.  

“I will speak with Skjor and Aela.” Brill said as if to confirm my suspicion. He squeezed Vignar’s hand lovingly before excusing himself.

I couldn’t let on that I know there are werewolves in the Companions, so we continued spit-balling ideas while he was gone. Axel reminisced that during the great war one of the tactics the Altmer became known for was the “reeducation” of key prisoners. Torture, brain washing techniques, that sort of thing. If Thorald and Avulstein were labelled as potential assets, then it’s likely that they’re both still alive. That also means that we need to get them both the hell out of Thalmor custody as soon as possible.

Mette will not sit at home waiting for news. She wants to put in for a few weeks of leave again to spearhead a scouting mission to find the fort the Thalmor are using. No one will deny her. She puts on a brave face, but I can tell she’s just as devastated as Fralia, maybe more.

A while later Brill returned, not with Skjor or Aela, but a walking wall of a man with dark hair down to his shoulders and smears of war paint around his eyes. Farkas, AKA my second favorite tank.

He stood silently at the foot of the table with his arms crossed.

Brill’s synopsis confirmed, without coming out and saying it, that Farkas had been out hunting in wolf form the night Avulstein disappeared. Three figures were dragging what he’d thought was game bagged in burlap away from the city along the canal that leads to the river.

“You didn’t think to mention this before?” Eorlund asked, not unkindly.

Farkas didn’t look embarrassed, or cagey, in fact I couldn’t put a label on his expression if I had a hundred years to try. “Didn’t seem that odd at the time.” he said, “People poach, they don’t want to get caught. Wasn’t interested in getting shot at in the dark over a deer.”

“Could you see who they were?” I asked. “What they were wearing, or their weapons, anything like that?”

Intense, icy blue eyes fixed on me and the wine I’d had at dinner ran up my neck and into my cheeks.

“It was dark. Cloaks over light armor, I’d guess, they didn’t make the sort of ruckus an amateur in plate would make. Didn’t see their weapons. Didn’t hear anyone calling out; if I had I would have gone to help.”

“He was drugged, then.” Olfina said firmly. “Or paralyzed if there was a mage among them.”

Vignar confirmed that in the early days Whiterun’s sewers were built specifically to be an emergency exit should the city ever be sacked, but the tunnels and passages were fitted with a series of locked gates. Commander Caius, Jarl Balgruuf, and Proventus are the only ones with keys.

Axel snorted. “Keys can be replicated. Locks can be picked.”

"Doesn't matter now, we all know who the culprits are." snapped Vignar, who settled a bit under Fralia's withering glare.

We formed a two-pronged strategy from there. I will go back to Solitude to see how far I can get with Jarl Elisef. Meanwhile Eorlund will send inquiries to his Stormcloak contacts to the west. Mette, Farkas, and any other Companions they can convince to go will zero in on the fort once we know where it is. If Thorald and Avulstein aren’t released within a fortnight they will hit the prison.

I don’t have a lot of faith that I can get the jarl to grant a pardon, or even submit one within that timeframe, but waiting isn’t an option. Thorald has been in custody at least a month. God knows what they’ve done to him already.  

Vignar also wants revenge on the Battle-Borns. The younger ones have been taunting him in public, trying to get his famously hot temper to boil over. That’s the main reason I ended up sneaking into the Battle-Born house in the small hours of the morning. It was a calculated risk. I really wanted to avoid it, but I knew if things stayed as they were there would be blood in the streets. It’s also a lot more efficient to know where the brothers are ahead of time if legal channels fail.

I popped one of Wyndelius’ invisibility potions just to be safe. It tastes like dust and makes my ear lobes itch. Shoeless, without a jerkin or coat, I crept through the kitchen door, which was unlocked. I couldn’t believe it! They probably thought no one in their right mind would think about trying to rob them. I could see why. Their clan is much bigger than the Gray-Manes. I had to be careful not to step on the several children asleep on the floor by the fire pit, or the serving girl curled up in the pantry. If they had dogs I would have been screwed.

Every room was crammed with people, except one. The inner study off the main bedroom had the only locked door in the place. It took a while to pick the lock, I had to work slowly and stop a few times when someone turned or whimpered in their sleep. The room was dark and empty when I finally cracked it. Had to close the doors behind me, roll the rug up to block the gap, then conjure up a tiny flame so I could see. The Imperial missive took some digging to find. It was tucked into a ledger in a stack of books on the desk.

One of the kids almost caught me on the way out. A little girl, who couldn’t have been more than three or four, sat bolt upright from the bed as I reopened the study door. Her mouth hung open and she looked like she was staring right at me. I just froze, unsure in that moment if I was still invisible or not. All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears as I held my breath and waited. She crawled over legs and tangled blankets, slipped over the side of the bed, and toddled out into the main room where I watched her settle between the other children. When the house was still again, I moved. Heal to toe in wool socks back through the kitchen, out the door, down the lane and back to the Gray-Mane house as quick as I could. I collapsed against the door out of breath, my heart pounding.

Axel just about died laughing. He was still up, sitting by the fire with Barbas and a bottle of something that smelled like paint thinner. He stopped when I showed him the missive.

It has come to my attention that inquiries have been made as to the whereabouts of one Thorald Gray-Mane. It is my duty to inform you that Thalmor agents have taken possession of the prisoner and have escorted him to Northwatch Keep. I don’t think I need to elaborate. It is in everyone’s best interest if the matter is dropped entirely. I trust there will be no further inquiries as to this matter.

Gen. Tullius

“Tullius.” He spat. “That two-faced, honorless dog. This is proof enough to get those-”

I had to stop him there, he was getting loud. “Not yet.” I whispered, “If it gets back to Tullius, or the Thalmor, that we know where the fort is, they will move the prisoners and we’ll have to start over again.”

Comprehension dawned on his road map of a face and we grinned at each other. “Let them think they’ve won.”

I nodded, “Then demand the release of prisoners they don’t have any more.”

“Public, messy, everything Imperials don’t like.” Axel sat back and gave me an appraising look. “You would have made a fine little infiltrator. If I was only twenty years younger…”

“I leave tomorrow. You hang onto this, give me a few days, then let the others see it before Vignar does something stupid.”

He drank deeply from his bottle and hummed with satisfaction. “I can do that. Jervar can handle my route, his father will be glad to be rid of him.”

We sat together for a little while, mostly so I could come down from the conspiratorial high. After the last few rather lonely weeks it felt good to reconnect. Axel mumbled through a story about the great war when he was sent with a small group to retake a stronghold built into the side of a cliff. He'd scaled the walls with nothing but bare hands, a length of rope tying him to another man who could have dragged him to his death if he'd lost his grip. They forgot their terror the moment they cleared the battlement. That, he said, was a time when he still felt nothing but the glory of battle, when he reveled in victory and believed in the cause. Jarl Hoag treated his men like brothers and that was how they saw each other. Family, defending what was theirs. 

“Is it like the old days now?” I asked, staring into the dying fire. 

“Better. Hoag had a face like the ass end of a Hagraven with a temper to match. This is going to be fun.”

Chapter Text

Whiterun

Fredas, 9^th of Frost Fall 4E201

Finally had that heart-to-heart chat with Barbas. We got out of the way his expectations about being reunited with his master. I have no intention of dealing with Clavicus Vile in any way, and frankly I don’t think Barbas should go back to him.

“I’ll tell you what,” Barbas said, “you’re the closest thing to a ringer I’ve got right now. I’m gonna stick around until you change your mind, or I find someone else.”

“Why do you want to go back to him anyway? Didn’t he treat you like crap?” I asked.

His big brown puppy eyes drooped a little. “We have a complicated relationship. It doesn’t really matter how he treats me, he’s part of me. I’m incomplete on my own. So is he, but the stubborn jackass can’t admit it to himself. It’ll work out. If there’s one thing I have way too much of it's time.”

Sleep wasn’t happening last night, so I was sitting cross-legged on the floor by the firepit, listening to Axel snore in his chair. It somehow seemed like the most appropriate setting to carry on a conversation with a magic dog. I finally got to ask Barbas what he meant when we first met about “candidates.”

He snorted, which I suppose is the closest noise to laughter he can make.

“It’s part of a game they play. Well, some of them do, a few Aedra pretend that they’re too good to meddle with mortal lives, but really, they’re just not powerful enough. Or they don’t care.

“Every new age requires a new Dragonborn. It’s a natural certainty, like a volcano erupting or a tidal wave. Swarm of locusts, you get the idea. There’s always more than one candidate, I’m not sure how many, it varies. Cosmic insurance.”

“Who decides that?”

“No one, that’s the beauty of how Mundus was created. As far as what triggers the new age or why some people are chosen over others, that I don’t know. Remember, I’m just a piece of Clavicus. Before I was a dog, I was an imp bartering with Orcs. Before that I think I was a spleen.”

“Okay, so the Daedra aren’t creating candidates, but they choose them? For what?”

“Ever bet on a horse?”

“They’re gambling on us?!”

“Yeah. You say that like it’s news.”

No, not news, I have wondered before if I was in the middle of a game within a game. I just hoped it wasn’t the case.

“Any idea how a person from another world could get transported here? I touched a mirror, someone else I know fell through a reflection on a salt flat. Why didn’t everyone, all the other tourists standing there with Tony come through too? Or the other hundreds of people over the centuries who had to have brushed against that same mirror? And why was Sheogorath there?”

Barbas cocked his head in thought. “Like I said, I don’t know everything. But you’re sure it was Sheogorath?”

“Positive. Obnoxious older gentleman with cataracts and a Scottish brogue. Penchant for making no sense. Never far from a cheese wheel.”

“That sounds about right. The simplest answer is that you’re probably his horse. Sorry.”

“What do they get if their…horse ends up being the Dragonborn?”   

“Whatever was bet. Like poker, you get the pot. What that is I can’t say, I’ve been out of the loop too long. It’s usually acolytes or souls. Sometimes relics, bits and pieces of themselves, when things get really competitive. They also get bragging rights and a potential Champion, but that’s a different game.”

“What are the odds that they’ll leave me alone?”

“Slim. You’re a commodity now. Just remember they can’t make you do anything, no matter how hard they try to convince you otherwise. Daedra use coercion, threats, promises of power, but you have to agree to their terms. Those are the rules. It is weird that Sheogorath would choose someone like you, though.”

“Someone like me?”

“You know…eh…rational! That’s the word. I’d say he’s up to something. Or maybe he thinks you could be improved by insanity and he’s going to start working on you. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Barbas yawned, sticking his tongue out and letting out the tiniest whine, just like a real dog.

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re doing great! But maybe take what certain deranged elves say with a grain of salt.”

“You think Wyndelius could be an agent of Sheogorath?”

“Maybe, in the past he’s thralled the insane. But that’s the question isn’t it? Is your new follower insane or something else? I wouldn’t trust him either way.”

Dawn birds started singing. As much as I wanted to keep picking the dog’s brain, I needed sleep more.

Lorredas, 10^th of Frost Fall 4E201

I have nothing against Imperials in general. In fact, if I had to choose a side in the civil war I’d back them over the Stormcloaks, because I know they’re playing the long game. The Aldmeri Dominion is the bigger picture. Without the Concordant the Empire would have eventually collapsed, and the only reason the Dominion made the deal was to minimize their own losses before what they see as they’re ultimate victory. And being the supremacist shit weasels they are ultimate victory means total domination and an end to all the human races. The only strategy the Imperials had left was to roll over, rebuild, and be ready for what comes next. The civil war is a drain on resources they don’t need, which is why the Thalmor are all for it continuing indefinitely. Why waste lives and money when you can just wait your enemy out? Supposedly elves can live up to a thousand years. Long game. Not months and years, but decades and centuries.

I get it, but it’s easy to forget when I’m surrounded by Stormcloak supporters who just want their people back.

Part of me wanted to show Fralia the missive, but the fewer people who know the name of the fort the better for now. Northwatch wasn’t on either of my maps, but I did find it in an old atlas tucked away in a cabinet upstairs. The keep is on the western edge of Haafingar Hold. Axel says it’s a rough road, probably seven or eight days to get there from Whiterun on foot in good weather. I need to make a stop in Morthal on the way, so I’ve asked him to give me at least a three-day head start before divulging the location of the prison. I think that will work out.  

A change of plans as of last night: Olfina now insists on coming with me. Her parents are wrecked. They can’t really poke holes in her argument that a family member should be making the appeal to the jarl, that it would have more of an impact. She’s right. That doesn’t make it easier for Fralia and Eorlund to see their youngest living child walk into a political viper’s nest. Then again Thorald and Avulstien were abducted right out from under everyone’s noses. Olfina doesn’t feel safe in Whiterun anymore. I can’t blame her for wanting to do something proactive. The rest of the family will need to stay to keep up appearances and cover for the others when they leave for Haafingar.   

I want anyone watching the family to see Olfina and me go and to know why. I want eyes on us, not Mette and the Gray-Manes. Two women going off to Solitude to submit an in-person appeal; non-threatening, but just noteworthy enough to draw notice.

Elisef might try to help, maybe, but General Tulius can’t do jack about prisoners in Thalmor custody and every time that fact comes to light it makes him look weaker. Someone showing up asking loud questions will get his attention. It’s a gamble, if we overdo it and the embassy gets involved, they might put the prison on alert before the strike team gets there. They could decide to move or just kill the prisoners before things get messy, claim that they were already slated for execution on bogus treason charges and burn the bodies. I’m not sure if that’s how the Thalmor generally operate, it’s just the most evil thing I can imagine them doing.

I’m glad Olfina will be the one speaking at court. I much prefer to stay on the sidelines and after what happened to Avulstien the importance of minimizing my impact on major events hasn’t escaped me. I also don’t relish the idea of putting myself on the Thalmor radar. They don’t need to know that I’m dragonborn, just being a nuisance could land me on their hit list. But I don’t want anyone else to become a target either. This is going to be like tiptoeing on eggshells in clogs.

I thought about all of this during breakfast with the family. And while packing. And as I scrawled an English explanation about why I might be on the lam when he gets back to Tony.

I could just give up on the legal process, trust that Mette and the Companions can stealth their way across three holds and break into the prison without any subterfuge from me. The walls have ears though. Whiterun is teaming with people, it would be naïve to believe that only the Battle-Borns are spying.

In a fight against seasoned soldiers I’m still a liability, even with the thu’ums I’ve learned. What I can do is facilitate the distraction and hope like hell that the rest goes off without a hitch.

Paarthurnax said that dragons are made to dominate. If I’m being honest with myself, he’s right that I feel that draw.

“Well-intentioned and profoundly flawed control freak” that’s what should be written on my gravestone.

*Sidenote: Axel is lending us his mule. He did not find Cicero on the road coming back from his last run. The fuck? Where is that little weirdo and is this going to be a problem later?

Since we don’t have a wagon and Axel specifically told us to avoid the pass near Labyrinthian this time of year we’re following the tributary to Morthal. It’s not so much a road as a heavily trafficked game trail winding alongside the waterway. Mud crabs are numerous and annoying. They also taste nothing like crab, more like dirty crawdad meat, sort of chewy and minerally. That was lunch, roasted mud crab legs with wild greens.

I didn’t notice Wyndelius following us when we left Whiterun. In fact, I didn’t see him at all until we stopped, and he appeared behind me like a goddamn ninja! The guy makes no sound. Olfina almost stabbed him. Sigh. I had to calm everyone down and encourage her to go foraging so we could have a talk.

I asked Wyn what he was looking to get out of this arrangement.

“Arrangement?” he asked.

“You know, following me around. Wandering the province like my second shadow can’t be your life’s ambition. What is it that you want for yourself?”

He looked confused. Wyn isn’t much taller than me, so I got a good view of his grey brow furrowing. He’s pale for a dark elf. I’m not sure if that’s just his natural skin tone, or a result of spending the last year or so mostly underground.

Finally, after a few moments of eye darting and narrowing his purple lips in thought he said, “I have been trying to remember who I was before…and can’t. There is…nothing. I have read through my journal many times, but I cannot recall writing the entries and the last one…disturbs me.”

“Why?”

“The date makes no sense, for one thing. It is frantic and angry. Is that who I was when you found me? A madman?”

“You don’t remember that either?”

“Not clearly. I was…I must accept that I was not in my right mind and that I may still not be. I remember pain and purpose. Then when we entered the final chamber, the sound that filled it when you approached…it was like waking up.”

“You didn’t say anything before.”

“It’s taken me this long to organize my thoughts. Everything…nothing feels real. I’m awake, but I’m someone else now. I will…leave. If you wish.”

I feel bad for him. Wyn chooses his words so carefully. He wants so much to be understood. I can’t ask him to go. He’ll just end up getting into trouble and I don’t need that on my conscience.

I told him that eventually his memory will come back, but I don’t really know that. It’s not soap opera amnesia, no dramatic gunshot wound or bump on the head will suddenly make him all better. I’m not even sure if it was isolation or some other combination of factors that did this to him. He might have developed some sort of dissociative disorder due to trauma, but it could also be congenital. It’s not like there’s a qualified psychiatrist he can talk to in Skyrim. That’s what he needs. All I can do is be someone who listens. In turn Wyn agreed to be a little more communicative, which I think will make things easier on everyone. Just a “good morning” or the occasional “I’m still here” would suffice. If that doesn’t work, I might put bells on his shoes.

We could see the spires of a temple from where we stopped. Just the top of a stylized stone dragon head peaked over the rocky crags above us. Rannveig’s Fast. It’s on my map thanks to the heavy annotations Axel and Eorlund made. There’s a shortcut through the mountains up that way, but the climb would be hard on Ferris, so we’re sticking to the longer, slightly easier way around. Tried to be careful breaking camp again, Barbas said he could hear people up there. It’s right off the trail so I’m sure it’s a popular rest stop. They saw us anyway. It was probably the fire; that and the fact that they had a high ground POV.

I wasn’t sure what happened at first. One minute I was holding Ferris’ reins while Olfina adjusted the saddle bags, the next Barbas started barking like crazy. There were five of them. They looked normal from a distance, dressed in leathers like hunters or bandits. Of course, the fact that they were rushing us from the hillside with weapons drawn got my attention. It only occurred to me afterwards that they didn’t make any sound. No war cries or demands or threats.

Barbas did what a good tank does best, he jumped headfirst into the fray and didn’t come out again until his target was down. Olfina is all technique. While I struggled to keep Ferris from bolting, she deftly threw her dagger into the face of one attacker. The man just kept coming, with a blade firmly lodged in one eye socket. The wound didn’t bleed, and a distinct, unpleasantly familiar blue glow emanated from the uninjured eye. Olfina drew her short sword and sliced off his head in one clean motion. The body dropped to its knees. The head rolled a little, then stopped when the knife handle lodged in a tuft of grass, propping it up like a kick stand. For a few seconds I watched the man’s mouth move and twitch. Whatever he wanted to say disintegrated along with the rest of him. The same happened to the rest. After only a few minutes our little camping site was littered with piles of greasy ash.

I felt pretty useless. Didn’t even get to use a thu’um. We all agreed that it had to have been the work of a necromancer and climbed up to the wide stone portico in front of the temple doors expecting to find a mage, but there was nothing. Some rudimentary tents had been set up, the firepit was cold, and a few putrid bones had been left to rot. No other sign of people. As we approached the doors however two ghosts with spectral swords appeared. My first siting, if you can call it that. They were barely visible in the sunlight. The tip of a blade stabbed through the leather padding at my shoulder before I even knew it was there. I Shouted on instinct, which sent both ghosts stumbling backward as if the laws of physics still applied to them.  

They were easily killed…or exercised or whatever you call it when you kill something that’s already dead. I don’t understand how a ghost is able to inflict any damage at all. What are they made of? I vaguely remember Phinis saying something about spirit blades being composed of ambient energy compressed to a greater density than its natural state, but frankly I had no idea what he was talking about at the time and just nodded until he went away.

So, the soul complete with clothes and weapons is transparent, but still corporeal enough to interact with the physical world. Huh. I really should have paid closer attention to conjuration lectures at the mage’s college.

The cut I received wasn’t very deep but bled down the inside of my clothes, so I got to contend with being sticky and then crusty the rest of the day. Joy.

After the initial shock of seeing me use a thu’um for the first time wore off Wyn contended that the necromancer responsible was probably hiding inside the temple and that we should go kill him. Can’t argue with that logic, but Olfina rightly pointed out that we’re on a tight schedule. I had to decide.

We weren’t going to make it to Morthal by nightfall anyway, and the thought of leaving whatever dickhole had enslaved those spirits free to do it again did not sit right with me. Olfina and I looted the ash piles for anything useful: total take was 22 gold, an Orcish dagger, and a battered silver ring with an empty stone setting. We all agreed not to touch the food. Wyn tied Ferris to a pillar with a pile of cabbage and rubbery carrots at his feet.

I could remember exactly nothing about the location from the outside. The doors were massive, but we didn’t have to move them. There was a smaller entry to one side, something I don’t remember ever seeing during a playthrough. It makes sense, though. Dragon temples had to have entries big enough to accommodate their lizard lords, but they also needed to have an easy way for servants and priests to get in and out. The main chamber was empty and overgrown with ferns and weeds. Several chunks of masonry were missing from the ceiling, letting in some light and probably a good amount of rain over the years. I was a little worried about it coming down on us.

Wyn was unofficially put in charge of looting. He’s the one with the giant pack after all. Standard stuff, some burial urns with a little gold, some jewelry. Olfina took out another ghost with her bow. Instead of ash something like an oily puddle of kinetic sand formed and slowly seeped into the cracks in the floor. What jogged a vague memory was that it spoke before it disintegrated. It said, “I’m sorry.” That rang a bell.

It didn’t take but a few minutes to get to the word wall chamber. Whoever moved in had already killed the draugr and replaced them with highly repentant ghosts. Poor bastards. Once I walked up to the dais and noticed the very obvious trapdoor, I remembered this dungeon. More specifically I remembered feeling like an idiot for stepping into the trap on my first playthrough. I had to grab Wyn before he went for the empty chest. The wall gave me Drem, Peace, which had a pleasant, feathery quality like jumping into a down mattress. I should practice my dovahzul. Arngeir gave me a book, but I haven’t looked at it since I left High Hrothgar.

Anyway, I pointed the trap out to the others, then we snuck around the side entrance, dispatched the other enslaved spirits, and got to the main horror show. A thrall stood by the central cage with her back to us. Without warning she turned, throwing a fireball that caught Olfina’s fur cloak. I shot fire back at the same time Wyn unleashed an arrow into the woman’s neck. She went down like a wet sack of gravel. Olfina was only lightly singed, but it pissed her off enough to go kick the thrall’s dead body. She stopped mid-motion. When I asked what was wrong, she looked back at me with a horrified expression.

“Someone cut out her tongue.” Olfina swallowed thickly.

The mage wasn’t there. We checked every cell, and all the chambers. There were seven bodies in various states of decay, probably tomb robbers. I don’t know if there are adjectives in any language sufficient to describe the smell.  I had Wyn pocket the stone of Barenziah and whatever else he cared to pick up while I gathered all the papers, books, and journals I could find before we left. We don’t have time to stake out the place until the necromancer comes back, assuming he does. I’ll inform Idgrod when we get to Morthal. The temple falls under her Hold’s jurisdiction after all.

Hit the road again in a somber mood. There were only a few hours of daylight left, but none of us wanted to camp there. Instead, we stopped on the driest bit of ground we could find near the Hjal river. Barbas went off in search of small game while Olfina speared a few fish and busied herself with cooking. It seemed to help her calm down.

I studied the journals and papers I took. Sild is the warlock’s name and he’s another sick fuck. What has me worried isn’t the journal entries describing how much he loves torturing his victims, but the stack of letters I found tucked in a copy of Horror at Castle Xyr. Four distinct sets of handwriting, some signed, others only initialed. The first was from someone named Lucilla describing a lovely trip to Morrowind where “we found another one.” The other one she described in the letter as a “healthy human male of fair complexion” whose language and origins could not be determined.

“The man wandered in from the hills west of Narsis and was being held for violent behavior when approached by members of the local watch. Upon inquiry we were told that he spoke no language the magistrate or priests could understand, wore clothes of a wholly alien style and material, and bore upon his person no weapon or token that could be readily identified. This, you will have guessed, brought my dear brother to raptures! For is this not the very same description our mutual friend imparted all those years ago? We have acquired him by a moderate sum of gold. A small sacrifice to be sure. I have also informed M, who will no doubt be enthralled with our success in acquiring a new specimen. We will of course provide regular updates as to our progress.”

And did they ever. Reports in Lucilla’s handwriting and another more masculine hand described the effects the “subject’s” blood, skin, and other “harvested tissues” had on various alchemical and enchantment experiments in nauseating detail. The same thing that apothecary at Helgen did to Tony. The masculine entries were initialed C.C. and I’ll bet my left kidney it stands for Calixto Corrium. The earliest letters are dated seven years ago, when his sister Lucilla was still alive.

I’m not sure who M is yet, but I’m pretty sure it’s a woman based on the handwriting. She’s a bitch whoever she is. The note is a brief, curt reminder that Sild owes her for “that unfortunate business in Markarth” when she had to call in a favor for him. It’s a pay up or I’ll break your kneecaps letter, basically. The rest are from someone named Arondil. They’re swapping notes, things that work, things that don’t. It’s a fucking necromancer club. People are “subjects” and “raw materials.” They talk about them like baseball cards. You have a Redguard? Well, I got my hands on an Earthling! My Babe Ruth beats your Lou Gehrig. Thinking about this is actually making me ill.

We’ll get to Morthal tomorrow early, I hope. I want to talk to Idgrod about all of this. She’ll have perspective, maybe even have heard of some of these people. They need to be stopped.

Chapter Text

Morthal

Sundas, 11^th of Frost Fall 4E201

I tried to sleep. I really did. We set up a single tent and piled in together to stay warm, but I still woke up with a cold, streaming nose and someone’s foot poking my back. There’s no point laying wide awake all night on a lumpy bedroll. Olfina also snores like a jackhammer. It’s clear out, both moons shining so bright I don’t need a lamp to see.

What the hell am I going to do? It was bad enough when I imagined other displaced people wandering around Tamriel looking for help. Like Sarah, trudging through the snow and mud in her flimsy canvas sneakers. Did she have any idea where she was when Calixto found her? Did she try to get away? This is fucked.

I hope they all fought tooth and nail for their lives. Maybe a few are still out there. Now that I know we’re all being hunted…well shit, it puts everything into a sharper focus. There’s so much I need to know, so much ground to cover. Alduin can fucking wait. Once this business with the Gray-Manes is resolved I have a score to settle with some necromancers and a wide-spread covert humanitarian outreach effort to organize. I have no idea how yet; I’ll figure it out as I go.

****

Morthal hasn’t changed. I thought maybe the passing seasons would have done something more than turn the leaves brown, but it’s still the same wet, grey hub between the marshes and uplands.

I sat up thinking til dawn. It’s good to stop and process. The many-headed hydra of anxiety isn’t going to be leaving me alone any time soon, so compartmentalizing seems reasonable. There’s the DB thing, and the prison break, not to mention what to do about the Blades, Tony and the Thieves Guild, figuring out how to eventually get to Alduin without flying (I am NOT bare backing a dragon up to that eyrie, I will puke and pass out if I try. Find an alternative!) and oh yeah, the whole being hunted by a group of asshole necros thing.

I also completely forgot to ask if Aventus ever made it back to Windhelm, so I don’t know if the Dark Brotherhood is in play.

Idgrod, bless her, let me unburden myself over copious amounts of watered wine while we caught up. She showed me to her sitting room, away from the Imperial captain’s quarters off the main throne area. The real changes here have been happening behind the scenes, mostly involving the vampire problem, and she has no interest in getting the Imperial army involved. Isran came through a few weeks ago to discuss discreetly turning Morthal into the northern base of operations for the Dawnguard while they rebuild. He and Falion bicker like fishwives apparently, but Idgrod eventually got them to agree to work together. Falion refuses to leave Morthal or participate in any missions, however. He does have a kid to look after, so it’s understandable. Locally, Benor was recruited. After being rejected by the Companions he was thrilled to get an offer and takes his new position very seriously. He’s currently checking out a coven somewhere near Rorikstead.

Idgrod hasn’t heard of any of the necromancers mentioned in the pile of correspondence I found, but she agrees that it should be investigated. They’re still short on people, so maybe Benor can check Rannveig’s Fast out on his way back. Falion thinks he may have heard of Arondil from his college days. Conjuration students tend to disagree with the way Savos runs things and leave to pursue their own interests. Maybe there are admission records or something? I’ll write to Tolfdir.

Falion asked if I’d read The Doors of Oblivion as he’d instructed. Whoops. He didn’t mince words; the book was written by the apprentice of a mage who found a way into Oblivion and trapped himself in Apocrypha due to his own lust for knowledge. It really bothers me how many cautionary tales about knowledge being a bad thing there are here. No wonder most Nords don’t take education seriously.

Falion is concerned that if I try to go back through that mirror the same thing might happen to me. I could get stuck in the Shivering Isles with Sheogorath. I appreciate his concern, but two things:

1. If Barbas is right and Sheogorath bet on me to be the DB it would make no sense for him to keep me from that purpose. I can’t defeat Alduin if I’m stuck in his realm. Granted, he might try to drive me crazy before letting me out, but he would let me out.

2. I don’t think the mirror leads to Oblivion, or even can. Doesn’t he say to the player that they’re inside the mind of Pelagius II? If that’s the case would you really be inside his head or in your own? Either way the risk is still mental rather than physical.

Am I stable enough to withstand the kind of mental attacks he can throw at me? Maybe. I think it’s a solid maybe. I’ll sit on that for now, since Falion refuses to help any further on moral grounds. He worries. The townspeople need to stop giving him shit, he’s really a decent guy.

In other news the Skyrim rumor mill is all abuzz with dragon talk. Most of it is horseshit, and this pleases me to no end. Some people are saying that the dragon in Whiterun was taken out by the local guards, others say that it was a mysterious mage who died in the attack. The majority, at least among the people Idgrod has heard from, don’t believe that it was really a Dragonborn who showed up. Maybe an impostor, but certainly not the real thing. Halle-freakin-luja for small favors!

After a few hours of talking and getting nicely toasted Idgrod grabbed my hand and insisted we go for a stroll. Ended up on the walkway along the water where most of the newer houses are. No one wants Alva’s old place. She’s dead, for real now, wiped out along with the rest of Movran’s followers. So, since Idgrod owns the property she’s going to rent it out to me officially, with the understanding that passing Dawnguard will use it as temp housing. If anyone asks it’s my place. Cool, I have a house! A house with several months’ worth of dust and a coffin in the basement, but hey for ten gold a month it’s a bargain. I spent a little time after Idgrod handed over the keys stripping the beds and tossing all the spoiled food and garbage stinking up the place. Opened all the windows and doors to let it air out.

The basement is a great place to practice thu’ums, or at least better than doing it out in the open where people can stare and point. The coffin has been reduced to kindling. I managed to make myself ethereal and walked right through the dais it was on. From a practical point of view, I am not sure how useful that Shout is except to keep myself from getting hit by something I can see coming, but it’s fun. Makes you feel like you’re being held together by static cling, kind of…floaty but not.

Barbas agreed to stand guard while Olfina and I trotted off to supper at the lodge with Lami and Idgrod the Younger (who I think I will start calling Idgie to see if it sticks). Wyn disappeared right after we arrived this morning and just turned up after dark, somehow knowing we weren’t at the inn. He said he was scouting the area for “anything of note.” Ninja creeper. If he wasn’t Morag Tong in his past life, I’m a club-footed unicorn.

We’ll leave for Solitude at first light. I’m not crossing that damn swamp this time, so we’re taking the road to Dragons Bridge. It’s a slight detour, but a necessary one. That road should be relatively safe to travel once we get past Fort Snowhawk.

Solitude

Morndas, 12^th of Frost Fall 4E201

It was still dark this morning when we left Morthal and stayed dark most of the day. I half expected a bandit attack as we passed the fort, so much so that I almost didn’t see the pair of chaurus slink out from the sunken portion of the keep behind us. Their mandibles make a distinct clicking sound I remembered from my first foray into this area. Good god, how many months has it been now? Fortunately like most things they shy away from fire, so I managed to avoid getting bitten. Wyn caught venom across the chest through the openings in his armor. While the rest of us finished the damn bugs off he stripped to the waist and went running for the nearest water. Poor guy. That shit burns like a motherfucker. He rode the rest of the way to Dragons Bridge with a nasty rash across the nips. I gave him my bearskin and a healing potion that didn’t do much but help scab it over. Once we reached the village Olfina whipped up a stronger potion and a gloppy paste that took care of it. I begged her to teach me the recipe, it didn’t even scar!

Dragons Bridge has a military atmosphere, likely because of the Penitus Oculatus headquarters. Most of the residents are watchful and visibly tense. Everyone at the inn eyed us like a bunch of off-duty cops. I didn’t like it at all.

Wyn still looked sweaty and sick but insisted that he didn’t need a rest, so we hit the road right after lunch. It was no surprise that, just like Whiterun, he refused to enter the city proper. I’d wager that he’s got a bounty on his head in a hold or two, he just can’t remember exactly which ones. Who keeps records of that sort of thing? There must be a magistrate or something? I’ll look into that.

Olfina opted to stay at the inn. She says bards make her uncomfortable (I wonder if Mikael had anything to do with that?). Barbas followed me to the college. It was cold today and the wind smells like snow, so the streets were emptier than usual. Or maybe it just seemed that way. I knocked on the kitchen door, the same door Bendt ushered me in all those months ago when he decided he was sick of seeing me sleeping behind the cabbage barrels. It was Alda who answered. The moment she saw me she threw her arms around my shoulders and started babbling excitedly about how they’d been expecting me for weeks.

Weeks. Weeks? What the hell has Viarmo been telling everyone?

The kitchen still smells like smoked fish and sage. So does Bendt. He and Evette were arguing over the consistency of a soup when I stepped into the doorway, just soaking in the atmosphere. Alda announced my return the only way she knows how to do anything: loudly. Pretty soon a steady stream of familiar faces started bounding down the stairs as word went around. Lisette brought the little lap drum I used to play and insisted that we would have a jam session after supper. Ildi shyly welcomed me back.

“Aia and Jorn graduated.” she whispered conspiratorially, as if it was a juicy secret.

Jorn did exactly what he said he would do, joined the Legion as a drummer. Aia somehow fenagled her way into the position of court bard to the jarl of Falkreath. If he’s half as smarmy as I remember they deserve each other.

Bendt and Evette are finally talking about getting married. They’ve only been together for the last decade, so I guess it was bound to come up sometime. Evette insists that I attend the ceremony at the Temple of Mara when they set a date. Bendt grumbled about having to go all that way when they have a perfectly serviceable temple in Solitude. Half the room looked scandalized for Evette. I get the vibe that tying the knot at the Temple of the Divines is the equivalent of going to the local courthouse in your work clothes instead of having a big church wedding. It’s not like either of them haven’t been married before, but I have no doubt he’ll fold if it makes her happy. Grumpy old people in love are adorable.

I don’t remember being quite as popular before, but then when I first arrived in Skyrim, I couldn’t string two words together and spent most of my time scrubbing the floors. We’ve come a long way, baby.

Viarmo wasn’t kidding when he wrote that my letters have become entertainment for the students. My life is like an old radio serial, one that they’ve been speculating about and embellishing this whole time it seems. Ildi actually asked me in an awed, hushed voice if Ulfric Stormcloak “ravished” me before riding off ahead of the Imperial pursuit. Oh lord. I had to kill that fantasy with truth. Several of the girls, and Giraud, looked disappointed, but I’m not about to let rumors of a post-murder swamp fuck with my kidnapper run rampant.

Speaking of Viarmo he appeared at my side and stayed there through supper, while students and teachers came in and out to talk and eat like they always did. No podium is safe. I was obliged to repeat a few stories several times, especially the one about how I got the scars on my hand. They’re impossible not to notice. I’m just going to have to accept that that one is going to haunt me forever. Viarmo doesn’t seem to mind. After the fourth or fifth time telling the ice wraith story, he sandwiched my hand between his and kept it perched on his knee til the kitchen finally cleared out and Lisette made good on her threat to drag me upstairs to perform.

At first, I just did my backup drum thing for Lisette and Pantea. After a couple dozen bottles of wine had gone around, they managed to convince me to sing. I knew I couldn’t carry a tune in Tamrielic, my accent is way too thick, so I launched into the only song I could remember in its entirety at that moment: For What It’s Worth by Buffalo Springfield. Why that particular song came to mind I have no idea. Maybe because it was a childhood favorite. I loved the Muppet Show version with the forest creatures. Muppet possums hiding from muppet hunters firing their muppet guns in the air. The anti-war message didn’t click until way later.

Managed not to cry. I had to play it off as a song in the native dialect of…Betony. Sigh. I got a few “good tries” and “that was unique!” comments before Lisette took over again. Only Barbas knew what I was singing. He didn’t say anything from the corner he’d curled up in, but I got the impression that the scene amused him.

Viarmo discreetly pulled me away from the group. He led me through the main entry to the west wing. I thought for a panicky second that he was going to try to get me alone in his rooms, which I was not prepared for in any way, but he steered us into the little conference area off the hallway they use for meetings. Once we were alone, he let his Headmaster façade drop, wrapping me up in a fierce hug and burying his face in my hair.

“You’re a terrible singer.” He mumbled.

We both burst into laughter. The hug loosened but neither of us broke away. Maybe I should have told the whole truth right then, to be sure he knows what he’s getting into. I’m not just a weird girl who fell into misadventure, I’m a goddamn dragonborn off-worlder.

I couldn’t do it. I can’t give up being a person yet, I’m not selfless enough. We spent the rest of the evening listening to the echoes of the party and talking about the people I’ve met and the agenda I’ve adopted for the Gray-Manes. Everything but the bits I’m not ready to tackle yet. It was the longest in-person conversation we’ve ever had, and it was damn enjoyable. We settled on a settee where I could plaster myself to his side and put my ear to his chest so I could hear the rumble as he spoke. He didn’t once try to cop a feel, the classy bastard. His hands did rove over my arms, gently raking up and down and…I am in serious trouble. 

After a short silence he dropped the pebble: “What will it take to keep you this time?”

I was getting sleepy and shook my head. “I have…obligations.”

“But not to me. Not to Solitude. Once your business is done with these friends of yours, you’ll leave again, won’t you?”

“And come back again. You tour, how is it different?”

He sighed. “When I tour it’s a few weeks out of the year, not months. And that was before there were dragon attacks and a worsening civil war to deal with. Not to mention the bandit raids, necromancers, and whatever else you’re not telling me about.”

“You could come with me.” I offered. I knew it was hollow, so did he judging by the sardonic noise he made.

“I have obligations, too.” He started playing with my hair, pulling the section that had been lopped short by a draugr’s blade between his fingers. “When reports from Whiterun started coming in I immediately thought of you; if you were whole and what I would do with myself if you weren’t. I decided that I can wait. For news, for a letter or a token. I can wait.”

Well, that was just too sweet for me not to make a move. His beard was scratchy, but I didn’t care. It smelled nice, spicy, and he tasted like wine. And GODDAMMIT in barged Giraud and Ahtar with their hands down each other’s pants! Helgi and some of the other apprentices stumbled drunkenly after them, like cheerleaders egging them on. When they saw into our alcove they started hooting even louder. Viarmo went scarlet and hopped up like he’d been snake bit. He resumed his Headmaster cadence and ordered them all to bed, then glared at Giraud, hissing “Your own room next time!”  

The moment was gone. There’s always tomorrow, but the day will be primarily taken up with preparations to go to Court. Patience is a virtue I keep reminding myself.

Chapter Text

Solitude

Tirdas, 13^th of Frost Fall 4E201

Sleeping in the dorms again was almost nostalgic. Opened my eyes to pre-dawn darkness with a pounding headache and cotton mouth. Hydrate next time, woman! Barbas had snuggled up against my side at some point in the night. I found Helgi and Fjori both passed out next to the bed, pretzeled around each other on the cold, hard floor. Instead of banging my boots together over their heads for interrupting…whatever that was last night I decided to be nice and tiptoed past them as quietly as possible on my way to the water closet. Which is just a closet with a chamber pot and a wash basin in case posterity wishes to know. Alda did take my suggestion to put grain alcohol in the wash water. A small step to avoiding a myriad of diseases, but you have to start somewhere.

I remembered that my stuff is still stashed deep in the cellar and went scurrying off in search of pain killers. I’ve yet to find a good substitute for extra strength ibuprofen. My backpack was still wrapped in a burlap sack behind a massive stack of wine barrels. I dry swallowed a couple gel caps, then rummaged through the brightly colored office supplies and books I haven’t seen in months. I’d like to bring my notebook with me when I leave, but it’s still too risky to have anyone see it. Couldn’t find my lighter. Probably way down at the bottom, I’ll look for it later.

I found Bendt up and opted to help him finish the baking. Soul of brevity that he is there was no small talk or gossip. He did say as he pulled the loaves out of the oven that Viarmo still has a standing breakfast order and asked if I wouldn’t mind bringing it to him. I thought I caught the faintest glint of mischief in his eye when he said it, but that could have been his glaucoma.

Barbas followed me up the stairs once I had the tray loaded. Poor Miko is scared shitless of him. He won’t come out from under Bendt’s chair.

No one else was up yet. I’m absurdly grateful for that, if I’d been seen going in or worse out of Viarmo’s rooms it would have been a whole day of awkward speculation and giggling behind my back.

I had to knock with my foot, since my arms were full. Eventually I heard an exasperated sound, feet hitting the floor followed by a yelp; the door swung open to a disheveled, irritated elf. Viarmo is not a morning person at the best of times. His expression softened when he saw me, though. He took the tray and ushered me in, leaving Barbas outside. I’m sure I heard an indignant chuff right before the door closed.

As soon as we were alone, Viarmo started falling over himself apologizing for “endangering” my reputation. The very idea that he’s worried about sullying my good name after one kiss and a little cuddling at a college party is so sweetly absurd, I almost can’t wrap my head around it. The things my undergrad friends did at the parties they used to drag me to would have scandalized him into a coma! I had to stifle a fit of laughter imagining all the bards last night doing Jell-O shots and playing beer pong with ox horn cups. Medieval rager, ya’ll! Can you play dubstep with a lute and drums? I’m sure it’s been tried…

I assured him that I was not overly worried about it and he shouldn’t be either. We’re all adults here! In fact, he could very well be old enough to be my father, I’ve yet to find a delicate way of asking.

We had breakfast together and discussed the upcoming day. Thane Bryling is the one Viarmo reached out to and she’ll be the one championing the appeal at Court. All Olfina has to do is make a heartfelt plea to the jarl. She can do it; she loves her brothers, and the jarl will see that.

Viarmo doesn’t want me to go with her. He pointed out that it will be a long, drawn-out affair full of all the ‘pomp and ceremony one should expect of nobles with Imperial ties.’ Point taken; I know literally nothing about Court etiquette. I wasn’t going to really participate, though. I was going as emotional support, and if I’m honest to be sure nothing goes sideways. What if something unexpected happens? Would Olfina know what to do? Would Bryling be able to protect her? There are too many variables and I just don’t know if removing myself will help or hurt their case. Every instinct I have tells me to stay in control of the situation. I can’t be in control, even up to the point that’s possible, if I’m not there.

There’s also the matter of the Pelagius Wing. Now isn’t the time to go running off to the Shivering Isles, I realize that. If Falion is right and I can’t get back…I really don’t know what will happen. Alduin isn’t going to stop what he’s doing because I step off the grid for a while. It would be an irresponsible risk. BUT! That maid who saw me the very first night might know something about other displaced people. I couldn’t ask her questions before but I sure as shit intend to now.

Naturally, I didn’t tell Viarmo about any of that. I did press the emotional support angle. Olfina is my friend and the Gray-Mane clan has been extremely kind to me. I can’t just send her in there alone.

Eventually he conceded and dropped the subject. I like that he can do that. Viarmo doesn’t get angry when you argue with him as long as you have a point. What annoys him most is waste. Money, time, things that should be put to good use and aren’t infuriate him. I think I understand better why he used to get so frustrated with me when I couldn’t speak the language, I was spending precious time trying and failing to pantomime ideas instead of learning how to properly convey them. When I applied myself and showed improvement, he started to see me in a better light.

He held the door open for me, checking the hallway first to be sure the coast was clear, and kissed my forehead before letting me slink back to the kitchen. Barbas followed, asking inappropriate questions in my wake. He finally stopped when I asked him if he was familiar with the word “neuter.”

Bryling was expecting us in the afternoon, so that gave me some time to drink a whole jug of water and take a sponge bath. If I was in charge of the college my first order of business would be to put in a real bathroom with a tub and everything. I get that it’s a huge luxury when resources are far from limitless, I do. I will also probably never stop missing hot showers and the absolute decadence of indoor plumbing.  

Stop dwelling. Stop it! Moping over the things you don’t have anymore is pointless!

Ildi, who was somehow completely unaffected by last night’s revelry and I envy her deeply, agreed to run a message to Olfina at the Winking Skeever. She met me and Viarmo in front of the college, looking around nervously like she was afraid someone was going to jump out and forcibly serenade her. (Mikael is getting a lecture about boundaries and consent the next time I’m in Whiterun!)

Thane Bryling is…intense? I can’t think of a better word. It’s not like she’s aggressive, but there’s a no-nonsense efficiency about her that all but demands respect. I’d bet she had at least some military training before she took over her family estate. She and Olfina get along famously, which is great. She also doesn’t think it’s necessary for me to go to Court with them and that’s less great. Viarmo shot me a “I told ya so” grin from across the table when she suggested that I stay at the college. It was distracting. The man should smile more often, he has very nice teeth. I’m not even sure how that’s possible. Maybe dentists exist in the Summerset Isles.

Eventually we came to a compromise. Begrudgingly. I might have pouted a little. I’ll stay in the servant’s area while they go up to the gallery to wait their turn to speak with the jarl. That will allow me to track down that maid without actually being seen by any of the important people. And if something goes wrong, I’ll be close enough to know about it quickly.

The jarl won’t hear the appeal until tomorrow. Cutting it close. I figure if Axel did his part Mette will have left Whiterun by now. That gives us about a week before they get to the fort. And I have no way of getting word to them out in the field if something goes wrong, so the outcome from here is largely out of my hands.

After the meeting with Bryling we walked around the Market, picking up a few small things, because I’m forever strapped for cash, before heading to the Skeever for dinner. Lots of familiar faces. I thought I saw someone who could have been Malborn, but he disappeared behind a group of merchants before I could get a better look.

Tomorrow is a giant question mark and it’s got my imagination working overtime. I wish I could turn it off. I don’t want to think about all the things that could go horribly wrong, they just pop into my head, unbidden, one after the other until I’m a worried wreck. What if a Thalmor agent recognizes Olfina? What if the appeal is not only denied but they produce a warrant for her arrest on the same supposed Concordant violations that they got her brothers with? What if they accuse us both of being Talos worshippers? What if the appeal goes through but Mette still attacks the prison because the Thalmor don’t release Thorald and Avulstein soon enough? What if Avulstein is being held at a completely different location than his brother?

Aaaaaah!

Viarmo picked up on my anxiety and started massaging my neck. We were sitting side by side with our backs against the wall, partly hidden in shadow. The rest of the table, and the other patrons in the room, were giving their full attention to Lisette, who was raking in the tips. I had almost forgotten how good she is at working a crowd. Viarmo kept his eyes forward while working down my vertebrae, applying pressure til the knots I didn’t realize I had loosened.

Damn. Well educated, for Tamriel anyway, with pretty eyes, nice teeth, and magic fingers…how is he still single? And if he’s not, if he’s got an estranged wife and kids somewhere, do I care?

Yes. Yes, I do. That would be a deal breaker for me. I’m not a prude, but I’m not a homewrecker either. Still, I won’t pretend that I didn’t enjoy the contact.

So far, the feelers I’ve sent out about his past, before he was headmaster, have been gently redirected to other subjects. I can’t really be mad about that; I do the same thing when my past comes up. I’ve decided not to push. Let whatever wants to happen happen naturally. And if there’s something he needs to tell me he can do it when he feels comfortable.

Olfina reluctantly agreed to save her money and come stay with us at the college. Viarmo looked a little disappointed but shrugged it off and hugged me before going off to attend to the business he'd neglected by spending the day out.

Us girls camped in the dorm for a while, swapping stories with the other apprentices and pretending that tomorrow isn’t going to be nightmarishly stressful.

Chapter Text

Dawnstar

Middas, 21^st of Frost Fall 4E201

Where the hell do I even start? I’ve been sitting here, staring at this blank page for what feels like an eternity, trying to organize the last eight days in my head. How do I turn all of this into something constructive? Something that isn’t just me screaming my fury into the Void?

And I am thoroughly pissed off! If I don’t get it out it’s going to harm me, psychologically. Probably already has.

Okay, let’s start at the beginning.

On the 14^th Olfina and I left the college and met Bryling at the palace. Just as we’d discussed they went upstairs to the gallery to wait their turn to speak to the jarl and I broke off to the kitchens. I thought just wearing plain clothes and blending in with the staff would keep me relatively safe and unnoticed. Oh, past Esme, you naïve fool.

I was immediately recognized as “that woman Ulfric Stormcloak took hostage” and soon had a little mob of servants around me. Upside though, Erdi, the maid who kicked me out that first night was among them. It took some coercion to get her alone so I could interrogate her. I interrogated asked very nicely if she knew whether anyone else had come out of the Pelagius Wing like I had? Meaning, confused, and probably frantically speaking a foreign language? She was reluctant to say anything until the head housekeeper, Una, came in. She’s a friend of Evette’s and doesn’t mince words. That got the ball rolling.

Part of the lore of the Pelagius Wing, other than it’s haunted, is that periodically people just appear out of there. Over the centuries it’s been investigated. Every exit except one was long ago bricked up, blocked, or collapsed. Still, at random people will just show up, stuck behind the locked door, calling for help.

The solution the staff decided to go with, probably a hundred years ago or more, was to keep that damn door locked and deal with the newcomers as they come. Since Una started as a girl, trailing her mother who had been the housekeeper before her, a total of seven people have come out of that wing, including me. Two are dead for sure. Una was sent in there to do the monthly quick clean about a decade ago and found the corpse of a woman who had presumably fallen down the stairs in the dark and broke her neck. The second was a man who was stabbed in the gut by a frightened guard when he rushed out of the door. That was about four years ago. Una deadpanned that the guard resigned and became a blacksmith after that. The murdered man was buried in the palace garden without ceremony or an investigation.

The other five were treated very much as I was, given some clothes and shoved out the door. ‘We don’t want to deal with you, get out and best of luck.’ What a fucking compassionate policy.

I was the last one. When I asked if anyone had thought to have a mage check the Pelagius Wing for magic doors or portals Erdi looked like I’d just broached a taboo subject. Una lowered her voice to a dark whisper and said it’s been tried. Early jarls sent groups of mages to check the wing time after time, but they always retreated in horror before they could even get to the second floor. Some disappeared altogether. In her mother’s time Sybille Stentor, the jarl’s court mage, ventured into the wing to investigate. She was gone for hours. When she emerged she had changed.

“We do not speak of it.” Erdi said with her eyes trained to the ground. Even tough, acerbic Una shifted uncomfortably and kept checking the doorway to be sure no one was listening.

So that was enough for me to conclude that Sybille is a vampire. That puts a new spin on things. What the hell happened in there that resulted in her contracting vampirism? Isn’t Molag Bal the one who created vamps in the first place? There’s a chance I’m misremembering, but I don’t think so.

There’s no record of the other Displaced who came before me, except for Una’s memory, and her descriptions were vague at best. All human, duh, of various sex, race, and age. Ya don’t say.

Una started working with her mother about fifteen years ago and the frequency of newcomers started to increase around the same time. Some of the older, superstitious staff tried to blame Una for it even. She was treated like a pariah for a long time and she’s still deeply bitter about it.

Erdi started asking her own questions about what I remember from my emergence. Did I see any ghosts? Where was I before? And so on. Una looked like she was going to smack the girl, saying that they don’t talk about it for a reason.

“Bad things happen to curious people.” She scolded.

I would have argued with her, vehemently, if not for the absolute terror in her eyes. It was clear then that Erdi shut down and while Una has probably seen way more than she was willing to say I wasn’t going to get anything more out of her.

I decided to hang out and wait for Court to adjourn. Once the novelty of my appearance wore off, I was pretty much ignored by the throng of servants working to get the midday meal ready. I should have gone back to the college then, but I wanted to be there when Olfina finished her appeal. The kitchens, storerooms, pantries, and larders in the palace are an extensive honeycomb of rooms bustling with people, so I figured it was safe enough. I sat quietly in a backroom nook away from the chaos, mulling things over.

A thrum of magic sounded from somewhere to my right. It only took a few seconds for my whole body to go completely rigid, I couldn’t stop myself from slowly sliding off my seat to the ground. I felt gloved hands on me, but I couldn’t move my head to see who it was.

Another spell rang out, hitting me in waves. I’m not adept enough to identify the spell, but it felt familiar. Maybe invisibility, that would make sense, because even with the black hood they put over my head I could hear the chorus of the servants from the kitchen, doors opening, I could feel the breeze outside. I was being carried out into the city, so either they were using a super-secret route that bypasses all the public walkways, or we were invisible. And I couldn’t do a damn thing.

I think there were two of them. One hauled me over their shoulder in a fireman’s carry, but I’m sure I heard two sets of footsteps. The bag over my head smelled like gingivitis and old blood. It was probably better than the smell of whatever sewer they used to get me out of Solitude, though. There was an echoey squelching sound of boots trudging through watery muck. The one trailing behind made a gagging noise.

When I started to twitch, they stopped just long enough to bind my hands and feet, but that didn’t stop me from struggling as my muscles started to obey again. It seemed to surprise them that the paralyze spell wore off so fast. In movies people smack the victim in the back of the head to get them to pass out. This dick licker put me in a sleeper hold. Woke up with a sore throat, outrageous headache, and a tight pain in my left eye that I think might have been a burst vessel.

Pain and disorientation gave way to the awful realization that I’d been gagged at some point. The hood was still over my face and I couldn’t make out any light sources through the cloth.

I won’t pretend that I wasn’t scared shitless. Fortunately, in a way, my abductors were in no rush. That afforded me time to calm down and assess the situation. I was laying in straw, probably old straw judging by the dusty consistency, with my hands bound with the same rope that held my ankles, so I was in a sort of forced fetal position. That meant I couldn’t cast either, not without hurting myself. The room was relatively quiet. Now and then I caught the sound of wood floors creaking from somewhere above me.

For all of three seconds I blamed myself. Kidnap me once, shame on you, kidnap me twice shame on me. But no, this wasn’t like before. I just happened to be in Ulfric Stormcloak’s path when he grabbed me. This was deliberate. Someone had to have been watching me, following me. And they got me in the palace, surrounded by people! That pointed to a certain level of professionalism, people with no fear of getting caught either by virtue of skill, or legal immunity. Like the Thalmor.

My suspicions were confirmed when the hood was finally yanked off. A very bored looking Justiciar bent down, grabbed my chin, and examined my face. What he saw made his long, golden nose screw up in distaste.

“It hardly seems worth the effort.” He drawled. That’s when I realized he wasn’t alone. Another Altmer stood on the other side of my cell bars, glancing over a stack of papers in her hands.

“Just get on with it, Rulindil.” She said without looking up. I recognized her as Elenwen from the emo eye make up and dark purple blush she used to accentuate the hollows of her cheeks.

Rulindil removed the bit of rope tying my hands so he could haul me up and put my wrists in rusty cuffs bolted to the wall. I’ll admit to having a fleeting moment of satisfaction as he grunted and struggled with my dead weight. DB is THICC. I hope he strained his back.

When the gag was removed, I thought about Shouting him away from me and making a break for it, but if I’d tried it Elenwen would have incapacitated me before I could get out of the cell. Instead, I tried to situate my legs in a comfortable-ish position and waited. The thought had occurred to me while I was still in the dark that the necromancer group, maybe even Calixto, had caught up with me. Faced with elf-supremacists I was torn over which would have been worse. Calixto is crazy, but he has a singular, morbid goal. With the Thalmor I just couldn’t figure out exactly what they could want except to know more about my connection to the Gray-Manes, that is until Elenwen finally lowered her papers and pulled a small, familiar object out of her pocket. Bitch had my grandad’s lighter!

I lost three days of my life to torture and interrogation.

At first, they concentrated on the lighter, where it came from, how I had come to possess it, who had made it, etc. I stuck with a mostly true story. My grandfather gifted it to me when I was eighteen. I don’t know who made it exactly. We lived in Betony, but he’d been a soldier and picked it up on his travels before I was born. All true, just replace Betony with Illinois. She didn’t need to know that he’d had it since Vietnam or that the figure etched into the side was the Marlboro Man. I explained how to refuel it (leaving out safety tips in the hope that they would burn themselves).

When they were done with that Rulindil pulled my backpack out of a trunk (who THE FUCK ratted me out??) and they began grilling me on every single item in it, down to the multi-colored Post-Its and elastic hair ties. Though Elenwen was very good about keeping her questions laser focused her torturer was less subtle. They thought I was a spy; they just couldn’t figure out whose.

I got a small electric shock for every answer they didn’t like. My notebook and novels they saved for last and it was clear those were what Elenwen was most interested in. She wanted to know what the script was and a detailed translation of everything. I flat out refused. That earned me a much more powerful shock. It went from a quick little static zap to what I imagine being tasered is like. Un-fucking-pleasant.

I knew that there was no way they’d accept the same Betony story for everything. Only a complete idiot would believe that a backwards farming community on an island once occupied by Orcs could manufacture ball point pens and perfectly shaped paper clips. Telling the whole truth was never on the table, though. If the Dominion knew about the Displaced, they would be targeted. I won’t allow that. I can’t.

I recited a detailed synopsis of the plot of Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, and Agnes Grey. I had to, I had to say something. I would not translate my journal entries. Talking about the books kept my tongue wagging, which somewhat satisfied the urge of my lizard brain to say anything to make the pain stop, but it also frustrated Rulindil, who looked like he very much wanted to commence with the real torture. I could see his toys on full display around the room through my cell bars. They had set up a table full of tools next to a rack. What looked like a crude Iron Maiden stood in a corner with its doors wide open so the spikes and manacles inside were visible from almost every angle. All intentional scare tactics of course.

Elenwen eventually left with an order to be informed when I broke, like it was an inevitability. After that Rulindil produced a set of thin skewers from a shiny case inside his robes. He started with my feet. As I squatted there screaming in that cell with my arms shackled over my head and bits of wood splintering under my toenails, I felt my dragons stir for the first time since I took their souls.

Mirmulnir, Sahloknir, and Sindugavonkrah woke up almost simultaneously. They were angry. They were insulted on my behalf, I could feel indignance, pride, a rising sense of icy resolve.

Dragons do not submit. Submission is for joore.

They helped me endure it, to sort of zone out, concentrate on them instead of the pain. I could hear them if I blocked out everything else. I was still in control, they were…in the background, whispering.

We will bide our time. We will lull the enemy, then we shall strike.

I lost track of how many times I passed out, only to be roused by either a bucket of water to the face or the smell of food kept just out of reach. They dragged a skinny blonde man in soiled trousers from another room and shackled him up in the cell next to mine. He was just a kid. Rulindil started working him hard. He didn’t even ask questions, just kept beating and then healing the man over and over. The kid just kept blubbering that he didn’t know anything! It was to get a rise out of me, because Rulindil wasn’t getting the responses he wanted. The bastard kept looking over at me as I watched, and I’m sure I did look horrified.

Time is hard to track, especially in a windowless dungeon. Guards rotated in and out, but they all looked so similar I couldn’t tell how many there were for sure. At least four, I guessed. I only know three days passed in retrospect.

Rulindil would come and go randomly. That last day I thought I saw bags under his eyes and wrinkles in his robes, like an insomniac who forgot to change out of his day clothes. After a while he took a break from pressing hot coals into the boy’s palms, yawned as if the whole exercise had been quite tiresome indeed, and climbed the stairs, leaving a single guard.

Another guard briefly stepped out of the doorway on the landing, stood there for a while, then left again. I listened for the clunk of boots on wood. Thalmor suck at stealth. I thought I heard a dog or wolf howling. Night noises. The second guard did not come back.

When I was sure it was clear I quietly annunciated FEIM ZI GRON to become ethereal. And here I thought it would never have a practical use! My hands slowly phased through the metal bindings as I pulled them forward. They were numb and discolored when they eventually came loose. Maybe the Shout increases the amount of space between molecules, that might explain the staticky, barely held together feeling.

With that done I sent the biggest gout of fire I could straight up. Like I said, the ceiling was wood. Sparks caught at cobwebs and the beam above me turned black and started to smolder. It got the guard’s attention. He irritably stomped to the cell, raising his hands to cast through the bars and opening his mouth to sound the alarm at the same time.

He managed a single syllable Ahh before I Shouted IIZ SLEN NUS and froze his ass solid. That was satisfying.

I’m not sure if it killed him or not. Maybe. I was in too much of a rush to check his pulse. He fell almost out of reach and it took some shoulder-popping contortion to pull him close enough to swipe the keys off his belt. I took his boots and dagger, locked him in the cell, then freed the other prisoner and gathered up my stuff. No way was I leaving anything behind. While rummaging I also found a pile of papers and dossiers in the desk drawer. Those I shoved in my bag without reading, there was no time.

The kid, Etienne, was in bad shape. He could barely walk. Rulindil had left half his face so black and swollen he couldn’t even see out of his right eye. Still, he managed to haul himself up, murmuring thanks as he clutched my shoulder, and we made our way to the body dump. The pit below the trap door stank of decay and the ladder was slimy. I risked a small flame, so we didn’t plummet off the rock ledge, which had a good eight to ten-foot drop from what I could tell. Etienne rummaged through the bones and garbage around us for anything useful. The boots I stole were too big for me, but he refused to take them. Instead, he pulled black robes off a desiccated corpse laying near the edge of the drop, ripped the hem into strips and used them to wrap his bare feet. Despite the smell and the dusty bits of rotten skin clinging to it he pulled the sleeves on and tied the cloth around his otherwise bare chest. Dude’s not squeamish.

We only found enough sturdy-ish cloth to tie into about a four-foot-long rope. Etienne knotted it around the bottom rung of the ladder and immediately swung down into the dark. He dropped with a grunt and a dull splop sound. It surprised me that he didn’t take off after that.

“It’s disgusting, but you won’t hurt yourself. Come on!” he whispered impatiently.

Adrenaline overrode my fear of falling and I followed him. The bottom was littered with garbage, bones, and layers upon layers of shit. Not sewage, not run-off, shit.

(The Shawshank Reclamation. Cool Hand Duke. Escape From Altmertraz! Poopillon. Oh Brother, Where Shart Thou? Puns are fun. If I don’t turn something about this into a joke it’ll get way too heavy for me to deal with.)

If not for those ridiculous golden boots I’m sure I would have contracted a staph infection. I was worried about Etienne, but we couldn’t stop to heal him until we got the hell out of there.  

We groped our way up out of the muck, passed the cave troll sleeping in a heap to one side. Etienne is very stealthy and I’m not half bad. It took longer than I would have liked to find the cave exit, but when we did it was fucking glorious! Still dark, probably very early in the morning, moonless, cold, and clear. Neither of us was interested in getting caught on the road. We followed the salty smell of the seashore, trudging through the snow, trying to cover as much ground as possible before the manhunt started.

Solitude wasn’t safe. Heading west also wasn’t an option, that would bring us further into territory where the Thalmor patrol regularly. We scoured the shore until we found a leaky canoe and made do with pine branches for oars. It was incredibly cold, slow, and nerve wracking staying on the north side of the many islets. Etienne desperately bailed the boat til his hands were frostbitten. He wouldn’t stop until the outline of Solitude disappeared completely. Around dawn when it was light enough that I could see just how much water was in the boat, we were about a centimeter away from going down, I made the executive decision to steer us to shore. It was already cold as ever-loving hell, being wet on top of that would have killed us both.

A wrecked ship propped up on the rocks caught our attention. We pulled the canoe out of the water so we could hide it out of view and trudged toward it. The word Brinehammer was etched on the side, just barely visible under layers of lichen and barnacles. It was infested with mudcrabs, which are a lot harder to kill with just a dagger, but we managed. I’ve said I’m not a fan of mudcrab, but after three days of starvation that briny leg meat with raw clams and snowberries was amazing! We risked a fire to cook and melt snow with. I also couldn’t take my own stink a moment longer and furiously scrubbed with sand and salt water til I felt at least relatively clean. Etienne was my look out, then we switched.

While we sat drying off by the fire, I did my best to try to heal his hands and face, but there were several fractures I couldn’t completely mend. His nose will never be straight again. While I worked, he turned and spat a tooth out. He kept apologizing and staring.

I moved on to healing my very swollen feet and asked him what his problem was.

“You used a thu’um, didn’t you?” he asked. “Like Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Oh. I should have realized before that he was scared of me, probably only stuck around because he was injured and didn’t know what else to do. It didn’t seem prudent to tell someone I’m pretty sure has ties to the thieves’ guild my whole story, so I just told him that I trained with the Greybeards for a while. He sat there prodding his tongue at the bloody gap in his gums, seemingly lost in thought before asking why the Thalmor were interested in my stuff and not my ability to thu’um.

I tried to laugh it off by saying they didn’t know of course. The guard looked pretty surprised, eh?

“Anyway, what about you?” I deflected. “Why would they drag you all the way from Riften? Seems like overkill.”

He gave me a funny look. “How’d you know I’m from Riften?”

Shit. Fix it! Fix it! Fix it! “Guessed by your accent.” I said, hoping it sounded authentically innocent.

Etienne shrugged. “The Thalmor aren’t exactly beloved in Skyrim. No one would have given them a place to conduct the sort of business they had with me, or you, in Riften. It’s a shady town sure, but even Maven Blackbriar won’t cater to their kind.”

“What did they want?” I asked, then quickly corrected when his eyes narrowed, “You don’t have to tell me a thing! Just curious.”

His hand went up to the side of his face I’d tried to heal, touching the yellow-green bruises around his eye with his fingertips. “All I know is that old Esbern disappeared from the warrens a few weeks ago. Left his door wide open. The other beggars cleared out what he left. No one saw where he went, least of all me, but the Justiciar didn’t believe me.”

That got him talking all about Riften, which I encouraged. It distracted him from asking me more personal questions. It’s funny, for a hotbed of crime and debauchery people have a lot of good things to say about Riften. Filthy, but fun. Bustling and prosperous, but you might also lose your shirt. Like Vegas in the 60’s.

While we rummaged through the ship for anything useful, we debated whether it was safer to continue together or separate. I wanted to go back to Morthal, where I have allies and a place to hide out, but I wasn’t sure if whoever sold me out knows about my ties there. The last thing I want is to put Idgrod in an awkward position. Being a jarl doesn’t mean she can’t be accused of Concordant violations or harboring a fugitive. Etienne wants to get back to Riften but doing it on foot will be slow and dangerous. We decided to stick together for now and head east to Dawnstar. It’s really the perfect the place to hide out from the Thalmor. The jarl is an unapologetic Stormcloak supporter, and it’s a port so people are always coming and going.

There was surprisingly little in the ship to scavenge. It had probably been picked clean long before we got there. I did find a trunk with someone’s winter wardrobe shoved in a sack, some cookware, and a couple pairs of leather boots. We burned our clothes in celebration. I’ll take an oversized tunic perfumed with the smell of mildewy bilge over troll feces any day.

Etienne and I walked into town at different times, so it wouldn’t look like we had arrived together. I hocked our salvage plus the stolen elven boots for fifteen gold so we could get a room.

So yeah, I’m shacked up with a strange man, but it’s not as weird as it sounds. More like sharing a room with my little brother, really. It took all night traveling by slivers of double moon light (which still creeps me out) and most of the morning to get here. Etienne signed on to work in the silver mine. It’s hard work, he needs healing every evening, but it’s not like there are a lot of jobs to choose from. I spent the first day wandering from shop to shop only to realize pretty quickly that the only skill set I have is the ability to read and write. Half the population of this backwards Hold can’t even spell their own names. So, that’s what I’ve been doing, writing and reading letters for money. I also sent out my own correspondence, cautiously. Tony got a letter in English explaining the fuckery that has befallen me. I also wrote to Lami under the name Alva Wintergreen, in the hopes that no one will intercept it, and that too was just a quick rundown of things, with the exception of my current location. She’ll tell Idgrod what’s going on. I won’t risk writing to Solitude or Whiterun yet, not until I know more about who turned me in, and why, and what the outcome of the Gray-Mane appeal was.

I’ve had a chance to go over the papers and reports I stole from Rulindil’s desk. The dossiers on Ulfric Stormcloak, Delphine, and Esbern are just more detailed versions of what we got in the game. That’s excellent, I can use them as leverage if necessary. Less great is that there’s one on me. It’s thin, but the fact that it exists and Elenwen probably has another copy is unnerving as hell. It doesn’t say who turned in my stuff, only that an “informant” brought the possibility of a foreign agent in Solitude to the Thalmor’s attention nine months ago, so shortly after I arrived. At the time the matter was classified as low priority. Elenwen’s note reads: “Agent instructed to observe and report any suspicious activity, per usual procedure.”

My kidnapping was noted, then my reappearance in Whiterun. Based on the smattering of reports the Thalmor seem to think I’m trying to run some sort of scam by pretending to be Dragonborn in order to “sow chaos for the benefit of an as yet unknown group, political power, or entity.”

“Subject has been seen in the company of Delphine, known Blades member and person of interest.”

Well shit. Suddenly Del’s paranoia seems slightly more reasonable. This still begs the question: who the hell reported me in the first place? It had to have been someone at the college. Either someone I know, or someone who has access to the building and found my stash. My bag was still there when I checked it, but Elenwen probably already had my lighter. So, the rat bastard, cock-sucking son of a shit turned in the rest of my stuff while I was out with Viarmo, Olfina, and Thane Bryling. My first suspect would be Aia, but she’s in Falkreath. Isn’t she? What if Ildi was wrong? I just can’t think of anyone else who would turn on me like that. Bendt would never. Not in a thousand years. Lisette was working at the Skeever, Jorn is marching with the army. I suppose it’s possible one of the apprentices or even a teacher is a Thalmor agent, Alda did say that bards are known for making good spies. But who?

There’s no mention of Idgrod or my time in Morthal in the reports, but my connection to the Gray-Mane family was noted in a perfunctory way:

“Subject may be attempting to curry favor with locals by inciting unrest. Until the motive behind these actions is made clear treat subject as an unknown.”

“Abduction by Ulfric Stormcloak, jarl of Windhelm, may have been staged.”

I laughed so hard when I read that. Based on what evidence, you morons? The Thalmor seem to think that everyone is just as devious and underhanded as they are. That’s good, I might be able to exploit that. Misdirection seems like a viable option. It’s too late to stay anonymous, but maybe I can drop a few breadcrumbs, distract them with this idea that I’m part of a bigger conspiracy while I conduct my real business. One complication that may arise though is that if the guard I froze didn’t die, he’ll not only tell his superiors that I’m a mage, but that I can Shout.

I wish I could talk to Paarthurnax. When he said I am as I’m supposed to be, I took it as an empty platitude, but now it really does seem like me not looking like a DB is doing more to keep me alive than I thought. Even if the Thalmor believe the Dragonborn legend is a bunch of bullshit their Nord spies might have taken the reports from Whiterun more seriously if I looked the part. I don’t really want to think about what they would have done to me if they knew and believed I’m the DB. If I were them, I would try to get that person on my side. That would do a lot to demoralize the enemy, turn-coating one of their cultural icons. If that didn’t work, and I was evil, I’d find a way to shame and disgrace that person before making sure they came to an untimely demise. All bad, very no.

My dragons are still awake but settled. Like a panel of judges sitting in the back of my head, right next to my conscience and the disappointed voice of my mother. As long as I stay in control I don’t really mind. I murdered them, the least I can do is be a good host, ya know? I wonder if it works on the same principle as soul gems, where I’m the gem. Meat gem. Fleshy, squishy soul holder. Eh. Brain hurts, so tired, gotta wrap this up. I’m going to bed, Etienne already crashed on the floor, but he’s taken all the pillows.

Chapter Text

Dawnstar

Loredas, 24th of Frost Fall 4E201

Gotta love waking up to nightmares. If it wasn’t me bolting upright out of bed it was Etienne moaning in his sleep on the floor the last three nights. He left yesterday, and it’s so much worse alone.

I can’t stay here. Dawnstar may be relatively safe but I’m running out of money. What I can scrape together doing chores and reading letters to bumpkins is just barely enough to pay for a room. Living on table scraps is not a long-term solution. Mining isn’t going to work, even if I had the upper body strength the foremans won’t give me a chance. 

It’s infuriating how slow news travels! All I’ve been able to glean from sailor gossip, which is the best gossip, is that Thane Bryling kicked up a fuss over the disappearance of a servant while at the Blue Palace. Ugh. I’m grateful for the concern, but jeez they might as well say “The help has gone missing! Most inconvenient!”

I can’t get too butthurt about it really. I wanted to be “normal.” They only know me in Solitude as a former member of the college staff and that’s it.

There’s zero talk about a jail break, but I sort of expected that. I’m about 98% sure that the fact that the Thalmor have a dungeon at the embassy isn’t supposed to be common knowledge and even if it was, I just don’t see them publicly admitting that they lost two whole prisoners. Either way I’m not going back to Solitude any time soon. Winterhold is also off the table right now, because as far as I know the Thalmor still have agents lurking around the Mage’s College. Windhelm might arguably be the safest city for anyone trying to avoid the Thalmor, but it’s also a longer journey and I’d have the same money problem. That leaves Morthal or Whiterun.

Morthal wins by virtue of being closer and having my own place to crash once I get there. That’s assuming the whole town isn’t swarming with Thalmor. Do they have the manpower to swarm? I really have no way of knowing. I hope not, but like Grandpa Jay used to say “Hope in one hand, crap in the other. See which one fills up first.” Dammit I miss him. It really bothers me that his lighter is still at the embassy.

I gave Etienne the elven dagger I took off the guard when he left. On foot it will take him more than a week to get to Riften, so he needed it. I’m going to have to rely on thu’ums and magic to keep my ass out of trouble. Also stashed my old pocketknife and Mace in my ratty ass coat. Cat’s out of the bag at this point anyway, I’m not about to get caught unprepared. Some of the female minors still talk about several women who disappeared after dark a few months ago. They walk together in packs with their pickaxes and rock hammers on display. Just one more reason I need to leave. That and I’m hungry.

The weather is cold, but the sailors all agree that there shouldn’t be any winter storms the next few days. I’m going to grind today, make as much money as I can, then set off tomorrow.

Dawnstar

Sundas, 25th of Frost Fall 4E201

I got back to the inn well after dark last night after mucking horse stalls for the garrison. They paid a measly five gold. I was going to ask the innkeeper if I could work off the rest.

The place was packed with droopy-eyed, irritated locals complaining about nightmares. I’ve been so preoccupied with dealing with my own that I forgot this was a plot point. I might not have put two and two together if not for the dark elf making what I’m sure he thought were subtle rounds from table to table dropping hints about being able to stop the nightmares if only someone would help. The priest robes did nothing to ingratiate him with the surly minors and sailors so sleep-deprived one poor kid fell face first into his soup. They were all too tired to even chuckle. An Argonian with grey and white feathers sticking out of his head yanked the boy up before he drowned and hiss-growled the elf away from their table. It was like the sound an alligator makes when it’s ticked off. Neat. And scary.

Thoring scowled at me when I asked if he had work and said if I couldn’t pay hard cash I could get out. So, with six gold on me and nothing left to hock I had to decide: sleep in the stables or kick my sorry butt into gear and start acting like a goddamn dragonborn.

The elf, Erandur, looked perplexed when I approached him. This is my life now. Look me up and down, skeptical eyebrows, yada yada. He only accepted my help because literally no one else in town was going to volunteer. He was also very confused as to why I wanted to go up to Nightcaller Temple right then, in the dark, through the snow, until I emerged from the room I’d been kicked out of with all my worldly goods strapped to my back. Understanding and pity dawned on his face. Homelessness notwithstanding, I could do without the pity.

Erandur pulled a torch and pack from a storage barrel at the back of the inn and lead the way. It wasn’t a short walk. We trudged through about six inches of snow long enough for me to wonder if I was going to lose a toe. I was woefully underdressed for the windchill coming off the sea, but there was nothing I could do about it. I kept my hands in my armpits and my head down the whole way. Almost bumped into the priest’s back when he stopped at the door, where I noticed a few bulgy, multi-legged lumps covered in snow outside the entrance. Erandur said he’d been squatting there for a while. When he arrived in Dawnstar his initial plan had been to cleanse the temple himself, but he soon realized it was going to be more than he could handle alone.

There was a brazier and some old benches to burn, so we took some time to thaw in the entryway before he magicked the statue so we could get in.

There was no sleeping in the tower. I could actually feel the nightmares pressing in, like pressure behind my eyes. Erandur felt it too. We rested for a little while, talked strategy and what to expect inside, but didn’t sleep.

I remembered there was a Daedra involved with this side quest, but the details escaped me. Fortunately, the notes I made all those months ago when I first arrived are back in my possession. There isn’t a lot to go on but it’s better than nothing:

“Tower near Dawnstar- evil dream skull- don’t kill the elf!”

Okay then, past self, I’m trusting you on this one. Erandur’s cagey and a little too fixated on Mara, almost to the point of absurdity. Like he thinks if he says how devoted he is to her often enough it’ll make it true. I never got a villainous vibe from him, but he’s definitely lying, mostly to himself I think.

The whole point of this side quest was money. I wish I could pretend that it was more noble than that, take the humanitarian credit for saving the people of Dawnstar from nightmares and all that, but really it’s money. I’ve been homeless and destitute before and it blows.

In my sleep-deprived little head, I thought I remembered it being a fairly easy mission. Barbas’ reassurance that Daedra can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do also helped bolster my confidence a bit, until Erandur recounted the reason the residents of the temple were all asleep. When it hit me that we would have to fight and kill living people I felt my stomach drop. He must have noticed me go green as we stood there on the landing looking down at the swirl of magic around the Skull below.

Erandur pulled a small bottle and a bit of hard tack from his pack. There was that look of pity again. He called the stuff in the bottle a restorative, but it just tasted like floral sugar water. I knew it would make me crash later, but it was either that or gnaw on the moss hanging from the ceiling. The moss would have been easier on my teeth than the tack at least. Almost a year of brushing with little bits of fabric on sticks and rinsing with alcohol when I can get it hasn’t been great for my oral hygiene.

When I was done, I pulled a rust-spotted mace off a wrack in the hall. I figured it was the closest thing to the short axe I’m used to.

The miasma may have kept the residents of the temple in stasis for years, but the building around them was slowly falling apart. The fire in the library spread a fine sheen of soot all over everything, which in turn had absorbed all the ambient moisture so that every surface was covered in a fine, slick layer that made me lose my footing more than once.

We snuck under collapsed support beams and chunks of fallen masonry, avoiding the bodies on the floor. I thought I remembered them rising up like it was nothing and going right back to fighting in the game. In reality it was a slow process and probably agonizing based on the sounds they made. It smelled like every priest of Vaermina and Orc shat themselves in their sleep. God, what a horrible way to wake up!

It wasn’t until Erandur explained that we needed to find one of the cult’s books to make the torpor that I started to get nervous. In my head it was going to be like some sort of acid trip, where I was spirit walking in someone else’s body. I wasn’t looking forward to that.

An orc managed to pull himself up while I was digging around in the library. He swayed on his feet, threatening something unintelligible, or maybe it was just his native language, I’m not sure. I felt horrible for Shouting him off the landing, but in my defense, he was coming at me with a very big, rusty maul in his hands. The orc landed on a broken shelf, which splintered under his weight and startled a priestess laying on her stomach and moaning. Sparks flew from her fingertips in random directions as she sputtered into a pile of yellowed papers beneath her.

For a priest seeking redemption for abandoning his comrades Erandur embraced mercy killing pretty readily. Priest robes do not a saint make. As I peered down I got a clear view of him taking his dagger to the throat of every prostrate body below. Some jerked and twitched, some just lay there bleeding. I hope they didn’t feel much. When he was done he caught me peering through the clouds of burnt dust rising up between us.

“They’ve been locked in a never-ending nightmare for too long.” He explained sadly. “There’s no saving their minds.”

All I could do was nod. I noticed the Dreamstride out of the corner of my eye, balanced on a scorched podium. It seemed to glow blue and vibrated with malice. I didn’t like touching it and handed it over to Erandur as soon as I could get back down to the ground floor. He found the section in the book he needed readily enough, then we had to go find the temple alchemy lab. Trapsing through the halls and damp rooms wasn’t fun. Not that I thought that it would be. But holy crap murdering dozens of confused people felt shitty, like slaughtering a whole ward of coma patients who all woke up at the same time. That’s just fucked up. 

A woman in the hall had fallen sitting against a moldy cabinet with a staff in her hand, so she was in the perfect position to shoot a fireball right at us the moment she opened her eyes. Erandur managed a ward, but my back was hit as I tried to turn away. My coat went up and I had to quickly pull it off and fling it away. I forgot about the Mace in my pocket. It made a loud popping sound when it exploded and while the fabric kept any shrapnel from flying the cloud of chemicals enveloped the attacking mage. Erandur hit her with lightning, then finished her off with a quick stab between the ribs. I still have some hair but…well I’ll deal with that later.

The torpor was…interesting. Drinking something with the consistency of rubber cement that’s been sitting in a bottle for decades isn’t a good idea generally. It didn’t feel like I had a choice though.

I remembered, eventually, that I’d be present in Erandur’s past self, but it didn’t really prepare me for the second-hand panic as I rushed through the same hallways we had just cleared. One minute I was him, absolutely terrified and racing to the miasma release, then I was me again standing in the same spot. That makes no sense. Really nothing about it does, like how do you know who in the past you’ll be piggy-backing? I can kind of see it as a spirit journey, where it’s all happening in your head, but I moved physically. I was him, with full agency. I could feel the sweat dripping down his back, smell the ozone and blood from the pockets of fighting as I ran by. Did using the torpor create a wormhole that pulled me to the exact spot the Dreamstride stopped? Or teleport me somehow? Erandur said that I just disappeared and rematerialized on the other side of the barrier. His surprise that it worked was not reassuring. He kept side-stepping my questions too.  

I actually didn’t make it all the way to the release. It was close enough, but I’d almost venture that the potion ran out of steam prematurely. Maybe it was its age. Had to whirlwind sprint past an orc blindly charging at me. I need to use that Shout more often, it’s an effective way to breeze right out of danger for a few seconds. The orc got my mace to the back of the head. A spike lodged firmly into the soft spot where his neck began, but the wound didn’t start gushing until he gripped the handle and pulled. He howled in pain, still trying to advance as blood showered his shoulders and down his back. I heard the hefty smack of his body hitting the stones behind me as I ran.

Though I remembered how the quest went once we got there, mostly, I didn’t like how lucid the last two priests in the Skull chamber were. Erandur said everyone in the temple was mental and I was clinging to that idea so I could make it through, but there they stood very cogently calling him a spineless traitor. I followed my own notes and didn’t kill the elf, but I didn’t help much with the priests either. Just wards, let him get his redemption if it’s that important.

The Skull of Corruption was revolting. You just don’t see cyclops with quadrilateral jaws and goat horns these days. At least I hope not. If that thing originated from a real creature, I don’t ever want to see one in the flesh. Vaermina spoke directly into my head much like the Augur of Dunlain. But where his voice had been a gentle nudge hers was forceful and saccharin.

“He is deceiving you.” It said. “He will continue to deceive you if you let him live. Kill him, take the staff for yourself. It is the only way. You cannot hope to defend yourself in this world without the power of the Daedra. Embrace it and this world will kneel before you.”

I don’t remember if it was the same as the game, I think not, but I just can’t trust my memory at this point.

When it was over the room fell silent. Nothing about it felt like a victory. I was just left numb, but that’s better than falling apart I suppose. A tower full of dead people is a less than great place to have an emotional melt down.

Erandur too didn’t look relieved. I commenced my looting, since that was the main reason I agreed to help him in the first place. Exchanged the mace for a short, well-balanced Dwarven axe. It’s nicer than my old one. The major finds were in the priest’s dormitory where the chests with all their personal things were. The driest ones still had some robes in good shape, and despite the cult affiliation I really like the purple color.

Total take: 122 septims, 3 silver rings, 2 gold wedding bands (probably enchanted, not sure yet), leather alchemy gloves, purple robes, white shift, wool stockings, underwear (I’ve gone commando long enough, don’t judge me!), breast band, Song of the Alchemists (I think Lami was asking for a copy?), glass dagger, and a handful of possibly out of date potions.

Erandur offered his services as a follower, but the pity was still there as he watched me ransack his former friend’s trunks for fresh underpants. I told him he shouldn’t feel obligated, he should do what’s best for him. That actually got a laugh out of him.

“I’ve done what’s best for me for the past thirty years. I thought I was ready to come back here and face everything I tried to turn away from. Mara help me, if you hadn’t been here I would never have gotten through this.” He said.

“Because the torpor only works for the unaffiliated?” I probed.

Erandur blanched and turned his eyes down. “I um…may have exaggerated…”

“You didn’t want to go back there. I understand. I felt your fear.” A thought occurred to me then. “You can make it up by teaching me how to make the torpor myself.”

He started sputtering that that would be dangerous, and the knowledge must not fall into the wrong hands, the torpor is something the cult of Vaermina kept for centuries, and so on.

I was packing up the loot and held up the glowy blue book. Once the Skull was destroyed it stopped feeling evil. “We just wiped out the cult of Vaermina. You’re not an acolyte and neither am I, but that doesn’t mean that we should let all their alchemy knowledge die out.”

Erandur took the book, running a hand across the embossed cover. He handed it back to me with a nod. “I suppose not. I’ve given up that life though. You’ll be selective about who you show it to?”

I agreed, pulled my pack on, and heard my stomach grumble loudly as I stood. Aside from the snack he’d given me when we arrived, I hadn’t had a meal in two days.

My Kingdom for a Polaroid! Thoring’s face when I came back this morning was almost worth the guilt tidal wave that came later. Erandur wouldn’t take any of the credit for stopping the nightmares. I’m sure he thought he was being humble, giving me all the glory, but I don’t need the notoriety.

I would have liked to sleep the day away at the inn, but no one was going to leave me alone long enough for that. After a heavy breakfast we hopped the stage to Morthal.

We did a good thing. I know that destroying the Skull was good, and that we helped a whole community…but it did nothing to stop my nightmares. I slept for a while in the back of the wagon, which is more of a testament to how tired I am than the quality of the ride. Erandur sat up on the seat and made small talk with the driver. 

I don’t remember my dreams normally. Now they’re hyper focused images of golden-skinned Justiciars shooting lightning from their fingertips, and mages with blood-shot eyes all coming at me like a zombie hoard. This shit is going to linger. Just have to make it to Morthal, and if the coast is clear, get to my place so I can have a proper breakdown.

Chapter Text

Morthal

Fredas 30^th of Frost Fall 4E201

Another recap. I needed a mental health day. Week. It’s almost been a week. And I think tomorrow is Halloween? If time is the same, and it might not be, then Frost Fall is their October.

On the wagon ride from Dawnstar I slept off and on, which didn’t really make me feel rested, I just kept waking up with a progressively worse crick in my neck. With the driver and Erandur chatting away about old men things I had plenty of time to appreciate the landscape and zone out for a while. No plotting. No worrying. I felt like Vaermina sucked my brain juices dry and the nightmares I’d had initially were the last bit leaking out. Ew. Leave it to me to come up with the grossest metaphor possible.  

My comfortable numbness was shattered by a Thalmor sighting. As the wagon passed, I could hear Altermi accents cursing the slush on the side of the road and felt every muscle in my body clench in fear. I pulled the musty purple hood of my robes low and tried to smush myself between the two flour sacks I’d been propping up against. Bless the weird ass bio-chemical magical whatsit that makes me go invisible when I’m scared. The ornately clad soldiers and their sour faced Justiciar just kept walking, goosestepping to clear the snow drifts, expressions full of unfocused disdain. I flipped them the bird. It was a pointless, immature thing to do, but hey it made me feel better.

Erandur wasn’t phased when the wagon finally stopped, and he noticed I wasn’t in the back. He cast what I’m pretty sure was Detect Life, shrugged in my general direction, and walked off toward the center of town. I followed, glancing in all directions for flashes of gold.

A group of mud-spattered children scurried past us after a plump Skeever at the end of a tether. Looking around like he was tying to get his bearings Erandur asked, “Are you hiding from anyone in particular, or...?”

“Yes and no.”

“Right. Well, I don’t know Morthal. Where to?”

I nudged him towards my house, not knowing what to expect. Walking slowly, I realized I was sneaking along heal to toe, stalking. From the outside it looked normal, same weathered wood, bare porch, slightly crooked steps. What made me keep going until we were in front of Falion’s place were the deathbell and nightshade flowers out front. Something had knocked the snow off them.

Falion came to the door with a scowl. “What in Oblivion is it now? I have work to do!” he snapped.

“And I’m sure it’s very important.” I said from Erandur’s side. “But I’d love to know if any of your brother’s minions are in my house before I go in there.”

When he recognized my voice his expression didn’t change, but he did step aside so we could come in. “Still can’t get a grip on that spell, eh?”

“Shut up.” I grumbled.

Falion begrudgingly put his work aside long enough for brief introductions and to give me a Dawnguard update. He said Benor threw himself wholeheartedly into his new role and had been regularly sending a small stream of recruits through town on their way to Isran’s headquarters in the Rift. Lots of ex-bandits, deserters, people looking for something worthy to be part of outside the stalemated civil war. The last of them left that morning.

“The jarl will want to talk to you.” Falion smirked in the direction of the overstuffed chair I’d claimed. “There have been more Thalmor passing through the last week or so, asking questions. Something upset the hive.”

I groaned and rubbed my invisible hand across my face. “Are you enjoying this?”

He shrugged. “The first Justiciar waltzed into town expecting us all to lick his boots. It was refreshing to see the community come together against someone other than me.”

My laugh mixed with his dry chuckle, leaving poor Erandur sitting back with his tea probably feeling like a third wheel.

Falion sent a message to Idgrod and loaned me a lock pick, since my key was in the pack I’d left at the college. I couldn’t help the disgusted noise I made when the door swung open. Those Dawnguard recruits are complete slobs! Empty ale bottles littered the floor, which was stamped with muddy boot prints, they’d left half eaten food on every horizontal surface and the beds were a tangle of dank stains. Good God, it was like walking into my first apartment after the roommates split. Except there was no dead guinea pig in the toilet. I checked all the chamber pots to be sure.

Erandur surveyed the scene placidly as I swept bottles up into a basket, mumbling obscenities. Some people can sleep surrounded by garbage. I am not one of those people.

I’d finished tossing rock-hard chunks of bread into the fire and was about to tackle the problem of how to get melted cheese out of a bedspread when someone knocked on the door. Erandur answered before I could say anything. It was little Agni, Falion’s…apprentice? Ward? I’m not sure what the proper nomenclature is now that I think about it. She didn’t bother to ask where I was. Falion probably told her about my invisibility…problem. Ugh. All she did was announce to the room behind Erandur, where I had frozen holding up a corner of the bedding, that the jarl wanted to see me and it had to be “right now, or it won’t work.”

Idgrod does love being mysterious. I asked Erandur to stay put while I slunk off to the long house. And there, standing before Idgrod in all his haughty glory was the Justiciar we’d passed on the road.

It was a little thrilling sneaking up, listening to my friend politely destroy the elf with protocol. The gist of the conversation, without all the flowery bullshit, was that the Thalmor wanted to know if I’d been seen in Morthal. No, I had not. The Thalmor wanted to know if the jarl was aware that I was a criminal and a traitor. No, she was not. From his tone they’d done this song and dance before. He tried laying out the Concordant violations I was accused of. Idgrod countered his argument like a seasoned legal badass ‘til the Justiciar had been thoroughly dressed down for having no case. Tears streamed down my face from suppressing waves of laughter. The pointy eared jack-hole eventually ran out of steam and dismissed himself.

Idgrod rose as soon as the Justiciar left, told her steward not to disturb her, and retreated to her private chambers, holding the door open long enough for me and Idgie to slip in after her.

I just about died. Idgie snickered demurely while her mother poured herself a glass of wine.

“I’m glad you both find this so amusing.” She deadpanned, “These insufferable henchmen are determined to bore me into an early grave.”

“I think you did fine.”

“High praise, Dragonborn. Now, talk.”

And talk I did. Talking led to hysterical laughter and more tears until I was emotionally exhausted and on my second glass of alto wine (which is just a red blend). In another life, on another plain of existence, Idgrod would have made a fantastic therapist. When I was done, she didn’t launch into a lecture. She kept her comments gentle, succinct, and irrefutable.

I’ve been avoiding dealing with my own displacement since I arrived, fixating on other problems so I don’t have to face my own. My PTSD over recent events just made it worse, which is probably why I was still invisible.

Hence, the mental health days. Because as always, she’s not wrong that I haven’t given myself permission to mourn my old life.

Modern conveniences and my single-minded degree focus be damned. I miss my mom and my sibs. I miss our four-way calls on Sunday mornings and how mom and Elize always gloated about how nice the weather in Arizona was while I was stuck in Chicago snow drifts. Ellis will have graduated from high school by now. He was so excited to study abroad. I can’t remember where, maybe Korea? Or Japan, one of those. Elize was talking about getting engaged to that poly-sci major she was seeing. And I regret cutting dad off. I should have reached out, made an effort. Now it’s too late.  

As much as I want to believe that somehow things will work out and I’ll get out of here…I might not. I might miss everything. And they’ll never know what happened to me, I’ll just be one of those people who disappeared off the face of the Earth. A black hole where a person used to be. A fucking statistic.

I was invisible for almost three days straight while I…processed. The mana drain made it feel like I had the flu on top of everything else.

But I’m all about those silver linings. For one thing, Erandur, who looked after me like a goddamn saint the whole time and makes a mean Skyrim monte christo (grilled cheese with thinly sliced smoked mammoth, dipped in egg and pan fried in butter. OMFG!) said that I must have exceptional mana endurance to hold the spell that long without tiring myself into a coma. So that’s cool.

And you know what? I’m good at this whole saving the world one side-mission at a time thing. The Gray-Mane brothers? Both alive and well. Mette and the Companions hit the prison disguised as Stormcloaks, which is fucking genius! Why hadn’t I thought of that? By the time word got back to Solitude Jarl Elisef had granted their pardon, only for the ambassador to have to admit through General Tullius that the prisoners were no longer in custody. Mmm, the salty-sweet taste of public embarrassment! The attempted cover-up was completely spoiled by other prisoners who’d been freed along with the brothers. I can’t really account for why someone who just got out of prison would go straight to the nearest watering hole, get shit-faced, and spill their whole story in front of a tavern full of people, including guards, but…well some people just aren’t that smart.

Thane Bryling is now firmly in the ally category. Olfina stayed with her after I vanished and helped with an inquiry. I’ve let them all know that I’m okay. Inquiry’s still on though, Bryling took the whole affair as an insult to the honor of the Court and lobbied Elisef hard to put more restrictions on Thalmor access to the Palace.

Does this mean that the Thalmor are royally pissed at me and my adapt-a-fam? Yep. But I’m over being worried about it.

Viarmo hasn’t written to me himself, but I got a second-hand account of the state of the college through Olfina and…he’s predictably not taking the situation very well. In a turn the place upside down, ban you from the bard’s guild (a thing) until the end of your days if I find out any of you had anything to do with this, kind of way. Very drama, much spectacle.

Initially their prime suspect was Wyndelius because he was nowhere to be found after I disappeared. He actually showed up on my doorstep with Barbas yesterday. It was Barbas who filled in the blanks on that day in Solitude for me. He’d been hanging out near the servant’s entrance and smelled my passing along with two Altmer. So, yeah not Wyn. Dark elves smell citrusy, he explained, where Altmer have more bitter, spicy notes to their BO. Humans smell gamey, except me and the “others” we smell like wet dirt with a hint of copper. TMI but whatever. He tracked me, but couldn’t get into the embassy, so he went looking for Wyn, who had been scouting caves on the coast.

Wyndelius massacred the Blackblood Marauders. For fun. And profit because holy crap he had loot and a new pair of what I took to be alligator skin boots at first…yeah...I’m not gonna pry. I have enough to deal with. 

It’s good to have Barbas back. Fair or not he’s a favorite and I love the sound of his voice.

Finally got a letter from Tony, I was beginning to wonder if something had happened to him. Something kind of did, but at least he’s not dead! Win?

Mercer sent him on the Goldenglow mission. From his account it went really, really badly. The island was swarming with mercs. Tony had a fuck it moment and decided to torch half the estate, including all of the beehives, just to create a big enough distraction to get away. He did manage to get to the contents of the manor safe and hauled ass back to the guild. That of course wasn’t enough for them to let him go, Maven was royally pissed off about the hives. While Honningbrew isn’t competition (what with it being a smoldering pile of ashes and all) she can’t swoop in and take it over for resources either, so she’s out for blood. Karliah’s plan is probably still a go regardless. Now they have him going off to Solitude to chase down a lead on the “mysterious buyer.”

Christ on a cracker I really dropped the ball here. I let my only living Displaced ally walk right into a questline that could get him killed. I shouldn’t have let him go back to the guild in the first place. He needed to be warned about Mercer, warned about doing any more jobs for them. At the time I was just dealing with a lot and I forgot. I just fucking forgot!

It’s too late to get him to stop at Morthal on the way to Solitude, so I hired the courier Jonna uses to find him. Thirty septims. Better be worth it. The letter ended up being five pages long, detailing everything I can remember and why he needs to get the hell outta Dodge.

I want him to meet me here before he gets himself any deeper. Maybe if Mercer is left with no choice but to go face Karliah by himself her plan will work, and she can…force him to confess? At least I think that’s what she was planning to do? I know it had something to do with clearing her name.

Letting Tony become the de facto Dragonborn surrogate to the thieves guild quest line isn’t fair. He deserves to know what he’s really getting into. Frankly I would rather leave them to their own devices, but he should be making that call. He’s the one who has history with them.  

*****

I was feeling better today. More centered. Visible too, which improved my energy levels. Idgie lent me a small hand mirror, reluctantly, after I caught some curious looks at the tavern. Yeah, I’d forgotten about that fireball that caught me in the back at the temple. Half my hair was singed down almost to the scalp. It’s a rough look. Post-ice age crackhead chic. There’s no fixing that much damage so I convinced Lami to shear it off. Never again will I joke about shaving my head and starting over when I’m having a bad hair day.

We were loitering in front of Lami’s shop, taking turns rubbing at the quarter inch of stubble left on my head, when Benor marched back into town. With a prisoner. Idgie saw him first, in Dawnguard gear crossing the bridge with a filthy mage chained up in front of him like Clark Griwald’s boss at the end of Christmas Vacation.

He catches my eye, smiles a big, yellow grin, and heads right for my house. Goddamn it.

As soon as I saw Benor I went to get Falion. Idgrod needs plausible deniability when it comes to Dawnguard related stuff, so I left her out of it. The mage was already chained to a chair in the basement when we got there. Without preamble Benor smacked his prisoner upside his ginger mohawk and started debriefing us all. This was the necromancer we’d missed at Rannveig’s Fast. The one who murdered, enslaved, and thralled probably dozens of people, whose letters had tipped me off to the modern Earth person hunting club in Tamriel. Just for that I owe Benor a beer.

Sild the Warlock is perhaps one of the nastiest human beings I’ve ever seen in person, who wasn’t also a shambling corpse anyway. He probably hasn’t seen a bar soap since the last lunar eclipse. His fingernails were solid black, with a putrid goop holding his hair in place, and dirt caked into every wrinkle and pore. Dude’s a walking Petri dish. As Benor talked his prisoner glared at us all with bloodshot eyes, straining to curse through his gag til the veins in his neck looked like they’d pop.  

The gag eventually came off and with it a new wave of stink came rolling into the room from his rotting teeth. Sild raved for a while. It reminded me a bit of how Calixto reacted when he was finally caught. He talked about how his work was transformative and couldn’t be stopped, how he and his “brethren” had made discoveries our tiny minds could never comprehend. The necromancer wasn’t giving us anything we didn’t already know. Benor was all for a little light torture and looked to Falion for permission. Falion deferred to me, pointedly calling me Dragonborn so Benor would catch on to the hierarchy, whether I wanted it or not.

I was sorely tempted to take my frustrations out on Sild’s miserable ass. No one would have stopped me. My dragons stirred for just a moment at the thought.

I stood there thinking about every torture technique I’ve ever heard of. Water boarding, skin-flaying, electro-shock, playing The Macarena on repeat until the prisoner tries to swallow their own tongue. It’s easy to rationalize, I mean he is a murderer and he’s helped capture and torture my own people. Hard not to take that personally.

Timing is a funny thing though. If they’d arrived only a few days earlier, I might have given in to the urge for revenge. Today I just felt…sad looking at him. Everything Rulindil did to me came rushing back. I pictured Etienne’s blackened, swollen face, the mutilated bodies in the pit we escaped through. I forced myself to recall the glint of glee in the elf’s eye when he finally got me to scream.

I won’t be that.

At the same time, I do really want Sild to sing like the tapeworm-infested canary he is.

After some thought I looked up at Falion and simply stated “He needs a bath.”

Benor looked confused, but Falion caught on. Is involuntary hygiene considered torture? You’d think it based on how Sild howled like the Wicked Witch of the West when soapy water touched his skin.

I’m melting!!! Meeelllltttinnggggggggg!!!!

Benor was less than pleased to be assigned that chore, but to his credit he didn’t complain in front of his prisoner. It’s not like we’re turning a high-powered hose on him (though that would be easier) and there is a brazier in the basement, so he’s not going to freeze. We did burn his clothes. I swear the colony of lice living in them screamed and popped as they went up.

I don’t really have a plan here. Kill ‘em with kindness, I guess? I’m not sure yet if he’s crazy or putting on a manic act. Sild was smart enough to use a booby trap to get his victims, but aside from that he hasn’t shown any other signs of being particularly clever or talented. All the shit he’s spewing might literally be him reciting what he’s heard others in his group say. Benor said that he tried to raise a few corpses against him at the ruin, but other than that he hadn’t managed any other spell, defensive or otherwise, to keep himself from being taken prisoner. One-trick pony. If we wear him down enough, I think he’ll give something away. I want to know who “M” is and I want locations on all his buddies.

We’ll see what the next few days hold.

Chapter Text

Morthal

Loredas 31st of Frost Fall 4E201

Sild has proved uncooperative. He won’t talk or eat. And he spits. Leaving him in time-out for the rest of the day.

*************************

I decided it’s Halloween. Got some gourds and misshapen pumpkins cheap from a tiny farm outside of town. Once I showed Agni how to make a jack-o-lantern she took it upon herself to teach the other village children. It caught on fast. By dusk every porch was bedecked with glowing, hollowed out squash, some hung up from tree branches and rafters. People came out to admire the lights.

Jonna saw a business opportunity, set up a refreshment table on the main street and managed to convince the orc bard, Lurbuk, to play his lute but refrain from singing. I think the villagers were looking for a reason to let loose. The wood cutters brought out a box drum and mouth harp to accompany the lute and it was the children who started dancing. There is nothing cuter than a bunch of six-year-olds spinning each other around and giggling to music.

The one good thing the Dawnguard recruits left behind was a large cask of ale, so I rolled that out. They ruined my mattresses, so I gave away their booze. Justice.

At full dark parents ushered their little ones to bed, that’s when the real fun began. Jonna probably made more money tonight than she has in the last month just selling beer and baked apples (also with faces!)

Maybe I shouldn’t be starting any traditions here, prime directive rules and all that, but the Nords already have a sort of remembrance day for the dead. All I’m introducing is pumpkin carving, how much cultural damage could that do? Maybe boost gourd and squash production a little bit? You’re welcome, farmers.

No one really understood Halloween when I tried to explain it, but it didn’t matter. Everyone was having fun for once in this bleak, wet little town.

I lost count of how many times the candles had to be replaced. Guards wandered by with torches to be sure no one was getting too rowdy, and to sneak a drink now and then. The evening turned brisk, but of course the Nords didn’t even notice. Benor and most of the townies were in the middle of a drinking contest. Idgrod had retired for the evening. Idgie and Lami were helping Jonna clean up. Erandur and Falion were debating something called the Soul-flesh threshold. From what I gleaned it’s a necromantic principal that basically says you can reanimate a body, or you can enslave its soul, but not both.

I huddled up in my purple robes, idly wondering how much it would cost to have a full set of thermal underwear made, when I heard distant barking. I looked around.

Wyn and Barbas were missing.

I couldn't tell where the barking was coming from, so I wandered back to the house. The front door had been left open, just enough to make me uneasy. The hearth sat cold, all the lamps and candles had gone out. I felt the tickle of invisibility roll over me as I unsheathed my dagger. By the light of a small, conjured flame the room looked exactly as it had when I’d left, but somehow that made me even more anxious. There was no sign of Barbas. The barking abruptly stopped before I reached the house and though I listened as hard as I could it didn’t pick up again.

I decided to check the basement. I’ll blame the wine I’d had earlier for the judgement error. I should have gone back, gotten help. Even if it was nothing, I should have asked someone to go with me. But I didn’t.

Slowly, heal to toe, trying my damnedest not to make a sound I took the stairs and braced myself for what might be behind the door.

The brazier hanging from the ceiling splashed orange light across the rafters. Sild sat tied to the chair we had left him in, head bent forward, too still. I grabbed his limp ginger mohawk and pulled his head back, only to gasp and jump back in horror. His eyes and mouth were open, slack and unfocused. A long, deep slit exposed his trachea and dribbled sticky rivulets of blood down the front of his shirt.

I should have checked behind the door. But I didn't.

My gasp was enough for the assassin to pinpoint my location. A rough, taloned hand shot around my neck from behind. I lashed out instinctively with the dagger. All I managed to hit was her arm, but the blade went right through her armor, forcing her to slacken her grip enough for me to kick and shimmy out of her grasp. I moved back, using Sild’s corpse as a shield. Unfortunately, that left me with a pissed off Argonian blocking the only exit.

“Die with honor or behind the worm, it makes no difference to me.” She rasped behind her mask.

The angry rhythm of a spell crackled between her delicately scaled palms. I summoned a protective ward, expecting fire or a bolt of lightning, something primal to match the sound. Just as the song of the spell reached its full strength the Argonian’s back went rigid. She made a strangled, hissing noise, hands moving to claw at something I couldn’t see. She shuddered and fell forward. Behind her Wyn stood in the doorway with a dripping ebony blade in each hand.

He moved so fast that I couldn’t help but flinch. A grey skinned hand caught my wrist and held fast while I shook. How he could tell where my hand was I’m not sure. It even seemed like he was looking me in the eyes.

“Concentrate.” He intoned. “Control.”

It took me a minute to calm down. Many deep, uneven breaths later I felt the invisibility spell dissipate, like water evaporating off my skin.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Wyn smile before then. It was a thin, small thing, but it was there. After a few more breaths to get my blood pressure under control I managed to squeak “Thank you.”

When he was satisfied that I wasn’t going to collapse Wyn turned to search the body. Besides several blades all she had on her was a short letter:

“As instructed, you are to eliminate Sild the Warlock by any means necessary. The Black Sacrament has been performed- somebody wants this poor fool dead.

We’ve already received payment for the contract. Failure is not an option.

-Astrid”

Right. Well, it’s nice to know that some things don’t change, I guess. Better Sild than me. I know that’s a shitty thing to think, but it’s true. The last thing I need is the Dark Brotherhood on my ass too. Question is who put the hit on Sild?

It’ll have to wait, the immediate problem of what to do with the dead people in my house took priority. I fled upstairs to try to clear my head.

It wasn’t long before Barbas scratched for entry at the front door. I hugged him fiercely, then demanded to know where he’d been.

“Easy!” Barbas whined. “I knew your elf would take care of the lizard, so I went after her partner.”

“And?”

“And nothing, c’mon you don’t think I can outrun a human? Must have been a new recruit, he went right into the marsh. Easy ambush. How’d it go here? You know your neck is bleeding, right?”

Correct, magic demon dog, my neck was indeed bleeding, because Argonians have claws and I didn’t register it ‘til he said something. Before I could start freaking out about infection Barbas shoved his nose into the wounds, I mean right up in there and snuffled them good.

“You’re lucky there’s no poison.” He said cheerfully. “Now what are you going to do with the bodies?”

“Is the party still going?”

“The drinking contest devolved into street brawling. Benor is sleeping it off in the guardhouse by the way, so he won’t be any help. Give it another hour and everyone will probably be in bed. But there are always a few guards on patrol.”

I slumped into a chair, feeling very tired all of sudden. All I wanted at the start of the day was to do some innocent pumpkin carving, get a little drunk, and crawl into bed, but noooo! Esme can’t have nice things!

I was trapped in a house with two dead people and one way out. Next door to the guard's barracks no less! In a tiny swamp town where everyone was in each other's business...

And that is when I had an idea. It was one of those rare “hold the fuck on, I just remembered something” moments. Barbas’ tail started wagging furiously. He looked at me expectantly, like he could see the plan forming on my face.

“Go get Falion.”

Barbas snorted an acknowledgement and took off. I turned to Wyn, who stood in front of the basement stairs, staring.

“What?”

He looked thoughtfully after Barbas, then continued. “You understand each other.”

“Magic?” I ventured.

“Or madness. I do not feel…qualified to say which.”

Was that a joke? It might have been a joke. I couldn’t honestly tell.

The nicks along my neck itched. I sat there rubbing at them with a cloth when something else occurred to me. Sild’s throat was cut, not clawed. Why hadn’t the assassin pulled the knife on me? Even invisible she’d caught me easily. She had me by the throat. Why not bleed me out and get it over with? I couldn’t remember if I’d even seen a weapon in her hands when I faced her. Did she drop it so she could cast? If so, why didn’t I hear it hit the floor? And why would she turn to magic at all if she was already armed?

Almost involuntarily I looked up at Wyn. He stood guard in an expressionless, unmoving pose. A half-formed accusation died on my tongue. The letter from Astrid was real, I’m sure of that. And the Argonian was wearing the iconic black and red leathers I remember from the game. I don’t know. I feel like I’m missing something.

Falion and Erandur both arrived not long after Barbas left to find me digging through every chest and drawer in the place for spare clothes. When I explained what I wanted to do the mages were less enthusiastic than I was hoping. No one else had a better idea, though.

There’s no way to know who is watching my place. Thalmor spies, guards, nosy whoevers. Someone was bound to notice if we carried a pair of dead bodies out of the house. So, my plan was to have the bodies walk out on their own. We draped an old black set of robes over Sild and put my Vaermina set over the assassin. Farewell pretty purple robes, you’re serving a higher purpose now. The tail was going to be a problem, but Wyn took care of that. All it took was my axe, a bit of rope, and a can-do attitude. We probably should discuss his penchant for mutilating lizard people in the future.

Falion cast the spell with a grunt of disgust and within seconds a pair of cloudy-eyed zombies stood in the middle of the room. I can’t emphasize hard enough how disturbing they were. Nothing like any zombie movie. Worse than draugr even. No breath, no nerve response, just a slab of slowly discoloring meat held upright by magic.

It was late, moonless, the only light came from the torches the guards carried. I could see two spots of yellow glowing in the distance, one walking away toward the inn, and another standing stationary by the long house. Up with the hoods and off the living dead shambled into the dark. From the guard's vantage point he would only see the backs of the figures exiting the house. Falion directed them down the boardwalk toward his house, then they veered off behind the building and into the swampy wild. When the spell wears off they'll disintegrate. The crabs can have whatever is left.

I hate that that was the best plan I could come up with. I feel like such a fucking hypocrite.

I’ve tried to rationalize that this is how Sild would have wanted to go, but…well that's just a lie isn't it? 

Sundas, 1st of Sun’s Disc 4E201

Took hours to clean up the basement. I’m burning that chair.

Slept late. Migraine. Have mail. Eyeballs hurt, will read later.

Morndas, 2nd of Sun’s Disc 4E201

When the pain fog lifted I finally got around to looking at the letters waiting for me. One from Tony, telling me he was on his way, only to have him appear at my door asking why my house smells like old beef, and one from Tolfdir. We’ve got a general location on Arondil! After he was run out of Dawnstar he was seen heading east, somewhere between the lighthouse and the icefields surrounding the college.

Tony brought my bag with him from the college in Solitude, so I have my keys and map back along with everything else. Erandur cast a dual carry weight and increase capacity spell on my leather pack. Should I have asked someone if that was a real thing earlier? Yes. Yes I should have. My old backpack is falling apart. Plastic and flimsy canvas aren’t designed for this environment.

Finally got to sit down with Tony and lay out the bullet points I remember from the main thieves guild storyline. It’s been a long time coming. He could have taken it better.

“You’re telling me all this now.” he said incredulously when I'd finished. “After Goldenglow and getting my ass chewed out by Mercer and Maven Black-briar and having to go all the way to Solitude just to strong arm a name that you already knew.”

“Well, it sounds bad when you say it like that.”

“Ya think?!”

“In my defense I didn’t know that Mercer would want you to do all that. In the…visions…it’s the Dragonborn, so I thought if I stayed out of Riften it would be okay. But the rules just don’t make sense.”

“That’s because there are no rules!” he snapped. “And I don’t believe for a second that you’re getting all of this from some prophetic vision, but you know what? It doesn’t matter. You’ve been right about everything else, which makes it worse that you didn’t trust me enough to just tell me about this shit! Now Mercer expects me to come back with a name-”

“Karliah.”

“I remember! And you’re telling me that as soon as he puts that last puzzle piece together, he’s gonna use me as a human shield, ditch the scene, and run back to the guild to rob the place blind. Correct?”

I nodded. He was turning red, but I decided it was better to let him get it all out.

“You realize that my kid is in danger now, right? If I don’t go back Mercer will target him. If I do go back Mercer will try to kill me, not to mention destroy the lives of people I've been calling family for a decade! This is so fucked. We're the only two people on this planet who speak English, why couldn't you just tell me everything from the beginning?"

"Because I didn't know what would happen!"

We argued like that for quite a while. Lots of circular talk. I’ll concede that I should have mentioned Goldenglow but I honest to God didn’t think that the questline could happen without the DB and once we established that that’s apparently me and not him, I didn’t think any more of it.

Now I have to wonder, if we were both “candidates,” but I’m the one that chose to be Dragonborn (unintentionally) what does that make Tony? A spare? He can still trigger events so if there are others it stands to reason they can too. For all I know there’s a candidate for every major side mission. Some guy from Pakistan or Tokyo could be standing in the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary listening to Cicero rant right now. One of us might be at the colleges already, or Markarth making a nuisance of themselves.

Pro: if I’m right that might mean I don’t have run around this continent for the next billion years trying to do everything myself.

Con: people are unreliable. Oh. Tony has a point about me having trust issues.

He’s got a right to be angry. And of course I feel bad about putting a target on Aventus’ back! I wanted the poor kid to have a better life with his dad, not wind up worse off than he was at Honor Hall!

On the sixth or seventh revolution of the argument, I lost track after a while, I noticed Wyn had slowly positioned himself behind Tony with that look. The “say the word and I’ll shank him” look. As handy as Wyn is to have around I am not encouraging this.

I switched tactics. Tony can walk away, hold a grudge against me, that’s fine. But it doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t save lives. Jaded as he is Tony cares about the people here, maybe not in a broad altruistic way, but still. Pissed off as he was he acknowledged that we’ve got bigger things to worry about.

First, we need to make sure that Aventus is safe. I drafted a letter to Mette telling her to take him with her to Windhelm ASAP. She should be back from her little excursion now and was going to leave Whiterun anyway, since Avulstein can’t go back while the civil war is still on.

Secondly: the guild. This we talked about the longest. Going into hiding isn’t really an option, because when does that ever work out? Also, if Tony doesn’t go back Mercer will eventually figure out Karliah’s involved and make some other schmuck go with him. At least now Tony knows more or less what to expect, so he can go into it an informed schmuck. All he has to do is not be in the way when Karliah shoots. I say that as if dodging arrows and pretending not to know that your boss is secretly a horrible traitor who will throw you under the bus at the drop of a hat is an easy thing to pull off. I’m making him take plenty of cure poison potions. Even though he can’t tell his allies in the guild about Mercer, not without risking letting the cat out of the bag, I think it might be safe to tell one person and have them spread the news the moment Mercer leaves. If Etienne made it back to Riften he’s the guy for it. He owes me a solid.

While he’s, hopefully, saving his peeps I’ve got a nest of necromancers to hunt. Barbas and Wyn will go north with me to track Arondil.

Erandur will be staying, he’s having the time of his little Dunmer life researching vampires. I think he might have found his real calling. He hasn’t mentioned “Blessed Mara” in days.  

Chapter Text

Morthal

Middas, 4^th of Sun’s Disc 4E201

There’s a thick sheet of ice on everything, especially the boardwalks right by the water. Slipped twice just trying to get to the outhouse. Waiting for the freezing rain to stop.

I’m taking the time to get ready for the trek north. Based on my annotated map I think Arondil is hiding out in one of the ruins near the coast west of Winterhold. Tolfdir’s letter confirmed the general region, but he couldn’t get more specific. They haven’t busted into Saarthal any further, so that’s good news, but Ancano still has his nose in the college’s business. That means right now Tolfdir can’t leave, and I can’t go back.

I do need to get the lexicon from that crazy mage camped out in the ice fields. It’s the only way I’ll be able to get the elder scroll out of Blackreach. Wrote to Onmund about maybe making that little side trip for me. It would certainly save me some time, assuming he can convince the nutter to hand over his key.

Since Erandur is staying I asked him to go over how to make the torpor with me. The Dreamstride is written in an archaic Atmoran dialect that took some doing for even him to translate. I’ve never seen a more complicated potion recipe.

Ingredients: netch jelly, fly amanita, ancestor moth wing, and briarheart.

“In a vessel of pure and clean silver add you a laup of freshly harvested essence of netch. Simmer gently above the coals of a duramen fire. Tend a constant heat and do not stir until the liquid reduces and a salt crust forms. Carefully remove the salt. The resultant jelly should be faintly blue in color. A purple or pink jelly has been overheated and will render the rest of the mixture useless!

Remove the stems of fly amanita sufficient to equal, but not exceed a vette. Cleanse thoroughly, then parboil the caps for one minute. Remove the caps and throw out the water. Repeat the parboiling a second time. Drain, rinse with fresh water, then pound into a smooth paste.

With pestle of good quality macerate four ort of briarheart and one vette ancestor moth wing to fine powder. Sift through Dwemer mesh into the netch jelly. Then add the amanita paste. Gently fold the ingredients until incorporated.

Store immediately in a sanitized container and stopper well.”

If I’m remembering the weights on Arcadia’s scales right, I think an ort is close to a gram. A vette is smaller than that and a laup is the largest measurement.

Fun fact: Erandur says that netch salt is a delicacy.

Lami looked at the ingredients list and laughed in my face. Buying these things would set me back a small fortune. Fly amanita isn’t that hard to find, but ancestor moths only exist in sacred glades and I’d have to travel all the way to Solsthiem to find a netch. Putting a pin that for now.

Hroggar’s wife, Thyra, is making me some clothes. I’ve never had anything tailored for me specifically. It’s weird having someone measuring all your bits. She gossiped the whole time, using a thin rope with knots to measure my shoulder and wrist, talking about how much her daughter enjoyed the “hallo-een.” Then she was wrapping it around my waist, my butt, and thighs. Oh, how much fun, do you hold a festival every year where you’re from? Then my crotch and down to the knee. The weather has been dreadful the last few days hasn’t it?

She’s really a sweet lady, but I might have felt a little less self-conscious if I hadn’t been standing on a stool in the middle of the room in my underwear. Barbas has a bad habit of staring. Sometimes he’ll say inappropriate things, usually when I can’t tell him to knock it off, just to try to get a rise out of me. I got my revenge when I suggested to little Helgi that the puppy would look so much better with pink ribbons on his ears. She was thrilled. Barbas, not so much.

Thyra is sewing me a set of wool underarmor, which is the closest thing to thermals I’m going to get here. She’s also modifying a set of second-hand robes, so they not only fit and have loads of extra pockets, but also leather inlays across the chest, back, and sides. Less effective than proper armor, but infinitely more comfortable. Hroggar is making the leather boots and leggings.

I am out of money again. But at least I’m supporting the local economy.

Tony is sticking around until the weather breaks too. It’s given me a chance to mend fences with him. I pretended not to know how to play chess so he could teach me. He’s got a nice hand-carved set he made himself out of wood and soapstone. Of course, it’s easy to pretend not to know how to play when you’re absolute garbage at a game. I had major flashbacks to when dad used to trounce me. “Think three steps ahead of your opponent” he used to say. Never did explain how you do that, though.

By his third win Tony was gloating into his ale mug and a lot less prickly. I think we’re going to be okay. We might never be friends per se, but partners in a sense. He is essentially taking on the role the dragonborn would have taken with the thieves’ guild. Now that I’ve had time to think about it, that’s probably for the best now that things are in motion. Sneaking is one thing, it’s fun in fact, but I’m no thief. Tony knows the guild, has for years. He and Vex were briefly a thing even. From what he’s told me Delvin is like a father figure. Am I capitalizing on that personal investment to get him to do my dirty work? Maybe. A little. But mostly I just don’t see myself waltzing into Riften and wowing them with my amazingly adequate lock picking skills.

Turdas, 5^th of Sun’s Disc 4E201

Holy crap it’s cold. Winter is setting in fully, which means heading north is going to be a bitter slog. Falion is showing me how to put resist frost enchantments on my gear. For the record I still don’t like enchanting on principle, because of the soul gem thing, but I also don’t want frostbite. Those pictures of gangrene from high school health class haunt me to this day. He assures me that all the souls he traps are animal, mostly mud crabs and chaurus, so that’s not as horrible as using a person’s energy to power the spell. I still don’t like it. When he enchanted a pair of gloves the petty gem he used cracked. It screamed at the same time. Two sharp sounds overlapping. Falion said I imagined it, but I swear it screamed.

Fredas, 6^th of Sun’s Disc 4E201

Since I have my Dovahzul book back I’ve been studying. Arngeir would be so proud. Practicing shouts in the basement where I’m least likely to hurt someone. I was right that I can create my own shout combinations, the problem is controlling the outcome. It’s not always clear what effect the words are going to have when you put them together, a bit like throwing ingredients into a recipe to see what happens. I tried AO DAH KEST thinking it would be a badass force-push lightning burst a la Emperor Palpatine. It just creates a fog bank full of static electricity. Not exactly deadly. I guess you could use it to confuse and annoy enemies?

JOOR GRON MIR on the other hand could get me in a lot of trouble. Erandur wandered down to see what I was doing and got caught in the shout’s wake. He went catatonic for about five minutes. I thought that “Mortal Bind Allegiance” would get me close to Bend Will, but Erandur said his mind just froze up...and that if I ever do it again he’ll find a way to turn me into a skeever.

Several of these words I haven’t found word walls for, so maybe it’s just my imperfect understanding that’s keeping them from doing what I want. It does something though so that’s worth exploring.

If I can figure out the Dragonrend shout on my own I won’t need the Elder Scroll for that will I? I still intend to get my hands on it, but if I can use it to open a portal through Space instead of peeking through Time that might be a way home. Maybe. I could also go blind and launch myself into a Skyrim future where the Dominion has taken over everything and humans are kill-on-sight. Or I might go so far into the past that everyone I know hasn’t been born yet. It’s not a perfect plan.

Loredas, 7^th of Sun’s Disc 4E201

I love my new gear! For the first time I’ve got a set of clothes that fit! Are they pretty? Not particularly, but Thyra didn’t have much to work with and function is the goal here. It’s mostly a collection of earth toned wool and leather that will keep me warm and dry. Every piece has been enchanted and faintly glows dark green if the light hits it just right. Falion assures me it won’t do that if I’m using invisibility.

The word from Whiterun is good. Mette is packing up the kids and heading to Windhelm under the guise of transferring to a different guard post. Avulstein and Thorald have probably already signed up with the Stormcloaks. I wish them luck with that, I really do. I hope they get assigned to some boring post where they can stay out of trouble.

Maybe I can convince Ulfric to call a truce if I show him his dossier. I haven’t decided if it’s worth the risk yet. On the one hand it’s a damning piece of evidence and he’d be a complete idiot to ignore it. Then again, his pride could keep him from seeing it that way. He might just use it to fuel his hatred of the other races, especially elves, which could make life in his Hold very difficult for a lot of people. My opinion of him is colored by the whole hostage thing. He also put me in prison. I am not the best person to try to get into the guy’s head.

Also heard back from Winterhold. Onmund and Breylna have agreed to go find Septimus and ask him for his lexicon. If they can get the key they’ll meet us at Nightgate. He wants it inscribed so he can get into that Dwemer vault thing anyway, so hopefully he’ll cooperate. I have no intention of giving it back of course. If things go the way they did in-game Mora kills him once he opens the vault. Nope. Not letting that happen. And I’m not doing any deals with that slimy ball of…slime.

Leaving at dawn with Barbas and Wyn. Tony will be heading to Riften at the same time. I’m nervous for him but giving that away won’t make him feel any better. Fingers crossed; wood knocked.

Chapter Text

Morndas, 9^th of Sun’s Disc 4E201

If I had balls they would have frozen over and fallen off by now. I’m not knocking Thyra’s sewing abilities or Falion’s enchantments, it’s just that fucking cold.

Left Morthal yesterday in relatively good spirits. Tony took the road south, so we said our good-byes at the bridge after breakfast. I had half a mind to send Barbas with him, but since he can’t understand him it wouldn’t do much good anyway.

Barbas and Wyn have reached some sort of understanding. They watch each other, but the mistrust Barbas once had has been replaced by something else. Respect maybe? I’m not sure and neither will elaborate, which annoys me, but I’ve got other things to worry about right now.

With Aventus safely on his way to Windhelm Tony can concentrate on taking down Mercer without worrying about putting his son in danger. I trust Mette to take care of him. And hopefully keeping the kid from doing something stupid like summoning the Dark Brotherhood…that still worries me. It’s been in the back of my mind for a while. Not just the suspicion that someone will eventually put a contract on me, but that Cicero will find his Listener like Mercer found his scapegoat. In that respect Tony may be right: there are no rules.

The recent sleet and ice storms gave way to snow. Chicago winters are still worse in my opinion. The temps probably drop way lower here, especially in the north, but they’ve got nothing on that skin-ripping wind coming off the lakes. That said, travel is a nightmare without road crews. I’m glad Thyra convinced me to go for tall boots, despite my absolute conviction that my calves are too thick to pull it off. They’re tight but do keep my socks dry.

A Thalmor patrol appeared around an hour outside of town. Just looking at them made me nauseous. I started shaking and broke out into a cold sweat, which is a bad thing in this kind of weather. The snowfall made it easy enough to hide, though Wyn and Barbas wanted very much to rip them apart. I wouldn’t allow it.

When they had passed Wyn got the closest to angry at me I’ve ever seen him, asking me why I would let them live after everything the Thalmor have done.

That quote from LOTR keeps popping into my head every time I consider revengening.

“Many that live deserve death. Some who die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then don’t be so quick to deal out judgement.”

The quote might be a little off, but that’s how I remember it. And it’s 100% true. If they were NPCs it would be different. If I knew for sure that I’m really in a coma or a padded cell and all of this is happening in my head those Thalmor would be bear food right now. But they’re people. Racist, brain-washed supremacists sure, but still people until proven otherwise.

Casually butchering four men who aren’t attacking just doesn’t sit right with me.

When I told him that Wyn he looked at me like I had grown a second head.

“That’s Dwemer talk, and you know what happened to them.” Barbas chimed in.

Were Dwemer more altruistic than their modern brethren? That’s a conversation we’ll have to have later. It’s easy to forget how ancient Barbas really is, he probably knew a few Dwemer back in the day before they disappeared.

By midday the gentle snowfall turned to a baby blizzard. It slowly got worse, to the point where well before dusk visibility was pretty much restricted to our hands in front of our faces. Only Barbas’ superior nose found us shelter. In a crypt. A crypt full of bandits. My plan was to sneak right passed them, get to the last chamber where there is always a back door, and squat there until the storm let up. It was a solid plan, a good plan, I was proud of it. For all his giant slobbery dogness Barbas can be stealthy when he wants to be and Wyn has gotten back his invisibility potion privileges. These bandits were very on-edge though. Huddling around big fires in what had probably once been the embalming room I caught whispers about “the boss.” The boss was being a hard ass about a sword he found. The boss wasn’t having anything “the cat” said about putting the sword back. Something about it tugged at a memory, it was on the tip of my brain, but I just couldn’t quite get there.

I was grateful that there were no draugr or creepy crawlies. The place had been cleared, probably so the troupe could winter there, at least temporarily. I thought we were going to get through the whole place without violence, I really did. One woman smelled Barbas (fair, he smells like wet dog, how could you not notice that?) but Wyn managed to get her into a sleeper hold and left her slumped in a dark alcove, still breathing.  

Mostly the tunnels were empty. The further down we ventured the more tree roots and shaky pebbles dislodged from the ceiling, making us all freeze and wait for a cave in that never happened.

The buzz of the word wall didn’t so much echo as it vibrated down the hallways, under my skin, pulling and pushing at the same time. The final chamber opened up into a wooded grotto. It was beautiful, cold and damp but sheltered. A mix of pine and petrichor scented air swirled in and out of my lungs like it wanted to be a part of me. Like it was alive.

I didn’t really notice the altar at first. I went right for the word wall. The word for statue, NUS, flowed into me and tucked itself into the empty spaces of my understanding; a heavy, seeping feeling, like water disappearing into the earth.

My hand still rested on the wall, relishing the feel of it, when voices echoed from the entrance. I couldn’t see them through the trees but picked up on the angry cadence and immediately willed myself invisible. Have I said how proud of myself I am for finally getting control of that? Because I am.

A scratchy, lilting voice rose over the more traditionally masculine one, but it was difficult to make out what they were saying over the sound of the waterfall in the back of the chamber. Then several things happened at once. The man screamed, a white light burst like a pocket of fog from the altar, and a khajiit came running forward brandishing a large black sword.

“The banshee!” I called to Wyn and Barbas.

I used Whirlwind to sprint down from the wall and get behind her just as the Lady materialized. Slashing at it with my axe was like fighting a hologram. Most of the form was made of cloud stuff. Where the heart should have been was a solid core and that did seem to do damage when my blade connected. It also made her mad. A blast of frost hit me hard and almost made me stumble back into the water.

Barbas dove headfirst into the fray like he always does. Wyn attacked the whisps that split from her while I concentrated on the main form til the core finally cracked like a walnut.

Even after the banshee disintegrated the khajiit kept frantically swinging the huge longsword at where he thought we were. I tried to talk to him, to tell him we were trying to help. He lunged in the direction of my voice. I rolled out of the way and took refuge behind the altar.

“Just put the sword back already!” I snapped at him.

Another lunge, this time the tip of the sword caught the fabric under my ribs. If not for the leather reinforcements sewn into my robes it would have sliced right into my side. I shouted him away from me. He spun back into the water, only to jump out exactly as fast as you’d expect a cat to, fangs out, claws and sword ready. As he overextended himself, I moved to the side and brought my axe blade down on the khajiit’s wrist in one swift motion. The sword fell still clutched in his severed hand. He dropped to his knees before the altar, shrieking and clutching his arm in agony.

Goddammit, why couldn’t he just calm the fuck down and put the sword back?

Wyn held him down while I dug the healing scroll Collette gave me all those months ago out of my pack. Good thing I still had it, he might have bled to death otherwise. Not that he’s grateful or anything.

Barbas trotted to the entrance only to come back a minute later to report that the other man was very dead and somehow no one had heard all the screaming. Either that or they had decided to ignore it until someone came back alive. They are bandits, after all.

Once the nub on the end of the khajiit’s arm healed over and stopped bleeding, I nudged the hand off the hilt with my foot and picked up the sword. It was absurdly heavy. He sat on the flagstones, breathing rapidly, and watching as I hefted it back onto the altar. More of a symbolic act with the banshee already dead. I just wanted to illustrate how easy it would have been.

I’m not sorry that I cut off his hand, because it was better than killing him, but I was and still am angry that he made me do it. Stupid. So pointless and stupid!

It was too dark and blizzardy outside to leave. Barbas watched my back while I dragged the dead Nord away from the entry and into the upper tunnel. I stacked rocks next to the body, so if anyone came to move him the dog would hear. Wyn was talking to the khajiit, Ra’jiir, when we came back. I only caught part of the conversation.

“…should have let this one die.”

“I felt lost when the dragonborn spared my life. Now I think there must be…purpose behind it. The House of Troubles come together to…see some greater work done.”

Ra’jiir scoffed. “This one worships gold, and a one-handed thief is a poor practitioner. You may keep your Houses. Ra’jiir has no tribe and Eisa will abandon him when Kyr’s body is found. What else is there but to die in this frozen place.”

They fell silent. I bit back my anger at the cat and climbed up to the word wall to set up my bedroll. He lost a limb, it’s natural to get depressed about that. To give up entirely though, that’s just a waste.

I never sleep well while camping. Even with Barbas curled up next to me it was too cold to get comfortable, so I just sort of lay there and drifted. Ra’jiir remained slumped against a tree, staring at his stump dejectedly. After a while I felt Wyn settle at my side. I don’t mind, he never gets grabby. He didn’t sleep either, more out of paranoia than comfort. I know this because I woke out of an almost doze to the sound of Barbas growling and Wyn already up, daggers ready, facing the entrance to the grotto. Within seconds Ra’jiir came stumbling through the trees, fresh wounds bleeding freely. Two bandits, an Orc and a female Nord, chased after him. Out of the cacophony that erupted from the skirmish I picked out two words clearly: “murderer” and “traitor.”

The Nord made the mistake of targeting me while the Orc, who was built like a tank and brandishing a double-sided battleax, went after Ra’jiir. I was still on the stairs, so I had the high ground, plus a clear shot to unleash a FUS RO DA at her. The force of the Shout knocked her backwards. I knew that I’d overdone it almost immediately. Heavy smacking, cracking noises accompanied her all the way down to the landing.

Ra’jiir took up the sword from the altar in his left hand while Wyn dodged the Orc’s swings and Barbas bit at the back of his exposed legs from behind. The khajiit wasn’t much help, not being used to using his weaker hand his swings were meant to distract rather than damage. It might have worked to tire a human enemy, but it only fueled the Orc’s rage. He kicked Barbas so hard the dog went flying several feet into the air with an awful yelp. Wyn tried to land a blow, but the reach of his daggers couldn’t match the battleax. Ra’jiir quickly found himself disarmed, on the ground, seconds away from getting his furry head lopped off.

I unleashed a second thu’um, my own creation JOOR GRON MIR. The Orc had his arms raised over his head but paused in mid-motion. The effect was the same as it had been with Erandur. All the rage disappeared, replaced by a vacant sort of stupor. Unfortunately, in the heat of the moment I hadn’t considered that in that state his muscles would relax. The tight grip he had on the battleax above his head loosened and gravity did the rest. It came down squarely on top of his head with enough force to split his skull like a melon. A small spray of blood and bone fragments spirted from around the edges of the lodged blade before the Orc’s body fell in a heavy heap on top of Ra’jiir’s legs.

For a long, tense moment we all stood in silence, catching our breath. Barbas didn’t sustain any permanent damage. Still, I was furious. I turned back to the base of the stairs where the Nord lay prone and checked her pulse. There was none. She likely broke her neck. Fuck. It shouldn't be that easy to kill someone and I did it twice in one evening.

After some deep breathing I forced myself to address Ra’jiir. He sat in the dirt splattered with blood; golden eyes wide as he stared up at me.

“Did they find you, or was it the other way around? Don’t lie.”

“Ra’jiir thought to explain why he killed Kyr. The whispers told Ra’jiir to return the sword, yet Kyr refused to heed him. This one is maimed; the others would surely see that it was self-defense.”

“But they didn’t.”

He bowed his head. A low, miserable keening sound escaped him as he clutched his stump. “No.”  

I turned to Wyn. “We’re leaving.”

We packed up quickly, ignoring Ra’jiir because frankly I was too pissed off to care what he did at that point. There was no way in hell I was going to hang out and wait for more bandits to senselessly hurl themselves at us. I have enough blood on my hands.

Outside dawn just broke, a few snowflakes fell but it was relatively calm. A good two feet of accumulation stood between us and where Barbas smelled the road. It was a slow, high-stepping march away from the crypt.

“He isn’t following.” Wyn observed.

I realized then I’d been clenching my jaw and made an effort to relax the muscles. “Good.”

The snow crunched under our boots like loose styrofoam. Barbas happily leapt through it several yards ahead, bounding down into a drift, popping his head up a second later with his tongue hanging out.

“You’re a good person.”

“Why? Because I only maimed Lion-O back there? I killed two people without even trying.” The bitterness in my voice shocked even me.

He grabbed my shoulder, so I’d stop and face him. “Survival. Not judgement. I think I…understand now. You’re afraid that being what you are…the power…will corrupt you over time. It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“A tyrant doesn’t question himself. You do. Every day I’ve known you…always that question in your eyes. It holds you together. Keep asking. I didn’t…and I lost myself.”

My throat closed. He just summed up what’s been eating me better than I ever could. It would be so easy to go dark. To stop listening to my conscience and let the dragon's voice take over 'til there's nothing left but dominance and power.

I’ve never been one to admit that I need anyone’s validation. I'll admit it here though. I needed to hear it, that I’m not on the road to becoming a kill-happy psycho.

All I could do was squeeze his hand on my shoulder and nod.

The rest of the day’s journey was uneventful. Peaceful really. There were no other travelers, and the wildlife was scarce. I’m so tired. Set up a tent at the base of a rocky hillock. We’re all huddled up for warmth and the moons are out.

Decided not to swing by Dawnstar, we’re supplied well enough. The seashore is over the next ridge, we’ll follow it in the morning and see if we can find the right ruin. Might be a needle in a haystack. The lighthouse is somewhere in this general area, I think? The detour would be worth it if the family there is still alive. I’ve already warned Wyn and Barbas that there will be chaurus, lots of them. Wyn groaned and rubbed his chest where the last one burned him. I have a theory I want to try out. He’s skeptical, but I know he’ll go along with it. I’m going to try to get some sleep.  

Chapter Text

Turdas, 12^th of Sun’s Disc 4E201

Chaurus have officially overtaken skeevers as my most hated creature in Skyrim.

The last two days have been messy. We found the lighthouse easily enough, however the family were already in a state of panic when we arrived. Ramati was still alive to answer the door with a carving knife in one hand and her daughter held behind her with the other.

“How long has your son been missing?” I asked without preamble.

I really didn’t feel like going into a long explanation. It was either the son or the husband who disappeared first, I couldn’t remember which, but I had a 50/50 chance of being right.

The poor woman shook uncontrollably, barely holding back tears. “What do you know about-”

“We’re here to help. How long?”

She and the daughter started frantically talking at once, but I got the gist. My journal notes on this side quest are short and sad: “Lighthouse between Dawnstar and Winterhold? Family massacred-chaurus, falmer, spiders-cave system-DB doesn’t save them.”

Ramati said they’ve been hearing noises for weeks, since they moved in, but her husband dismissed it as skeevers. He left that morning for town to get traps and almost immediately the sounds escalated from scratchy clicking to loud banging in the cellar. Her son, Mani, went to check it out and hadn’t returned. They were scared to open the door but had been contemplating it when we arrived.

I didn’t have much hope of saving the boy, but Ramati and Sudi were still alive, and I planned to keep it that way. With Barbas watching the cellar door I helped them gather warm clothes, furs, food, and water and set up a little area on the roof for them to hide.

I gave Ramati very plain instructions. Lock the cellar door behind us, leave a note for your husband to join you on the roof when he returns, and to the lock that door behind him as well. Don’t come down until we get back.

My theory about chaurus venom wasn’t exactly wrong. I’ll give myself an A for effort. My thought was, since the stuff is corrosive, it is probably an acid. If it’s an acid, then a base would neutralize it.

We made crude ponchos out of some spare deer hide the family had in storage and shields out of barrel lids. Those proved more effective than pouring potash over the venom. It helped a little, but it’s not fast enough. The skin underneath still gets rashy and I’ve got the welts to prove it. Maybe something with a lower pH would work better.

Before heading down there I brushed up on my Shout notes and it was a good thing. Animal Allegiance makes Barbas uncomfortable, literally, he says it makes him itch worse than fleas, but it proved very useful.

I took point. The stairs were clear and opened up to a wide, round space full of ransacked provisions and packed snow. Before they could spot us, I unleashed a RAN MIR TA at one of the chaurus milling around the gaping hole in the foundation. My knowledge of this shout is only based on what my dragons have imparted and the dovahzul I've learned, so I wasn’t sure how effective it would be. When the giant bug turned on its nearest neighbor, I counted it a success. The others turned on the affected one, carnage ensued. A metallic scent filled the room that I suspect was a chemical trigger to the others, like when you crush an ant.

The smell preceded us, making any hope of sneaking through the tunnels, and quietly dispatching the rest of the nest impossible. At least with giant bugs, or whatever they are (like the spiders I don’t think they’re insects biologically, but I could be wrong) I don’t feel guilty about killing them. At all.

It quickly turned into a slash-n-dash. We were clipping right along until I saw a Falmer for the first time. They were on alert; the enzyme smell is hard to ignore even without a proper nose. One took shelter in a hut and blasted spears of ice from her staff at us from the doorway. A gout of fire followed by a thrown dagger to the chest finally took her down. At least I think it was a female.  

I couldn’t help it; I had to stop and gape. In person they look like a race of Nosferatu. Luminous, blue-veined skin with piss yellow scales on their hands and the pads of their feet, long dirty nails, tiny barracuda teeth, and of course sightless, milky marbles where eyes should be. I know they used to be snow elves, and that’s sad, because there’s nothing sympathetic or relatable about them.

As much as they creep me out Wyn seems to actively hate Falmer. He thoroughly checked every nook and cranny to be sure we got them all. I had to stop him from cutting ears off the corpses. I don’t care if it’s an alchemy ingredient, there are limits.

We did pocket as many chaurus eggs as we could carry because they are valuable. They’re also very satisfying to step on. Schmoosh-pop! Like a water balloon made of keratin.  

By the fifth or sixth Shout my throat was getting raw, so I switched back to fire. It seemed like the most efficient way to destroy the eggs we couldn’t harvest. There were thousands! Piles upon piles stuck together with some sort of sticky secretion that mingled with the yokes as they popped and oozed in the heat. Fortunately, only the adults spit venom. A few freshly hatched larvae tried to crawl away from the flames. Those were a nasty surprise. I would have remembered house cat sized maggots with miniature mandibles if they’d been in the game, I’m sure of it. I did recall the winged ones. Hunters? Or Reapers or something like that, IDK. The heat was enough to compel one to burst out of its cocoon, but like most things that have just been birthed out of a gooey piñata it wasn’t so great at the flying thing yet. It wobbled on its hind legs, jabbing sharp mantis arms stupidly at each fireball I tossed. Barbas managed to get behind it and ripped into its soft backside while Wyn went for the legs.

Mani’s body wasn’t hard to find. He’d been dragged into one of the pens. I burned my fingers checking for a pulse. Several layers of venom had been applied to his skin, maybe to break him down, make him easier to eat. Ugh. Poor kid. He reminded me of Ellis a little bit. Same age, same rounded cheeks, and thick brows. I had to push that thought aside and focus. The last thing I need is to get weepy over my little brother-who is fine, he’s fine back home-in the middle of all this.

Not that I was expecting a parade or anything, but it would have been nice to get a slightly warmer reception from Habd when he returned from town. He’d ignored the note his wife left and followed us down into the cellar. One minute I was scorching any egg piles that didn’t look quite burnt enough, the next I had a blade pointed at my throat and a grief-stricken father staring me down. He demanded an explanation, which is understandable.

To my surprise, it was Wyn who answered.

“The jarl of Morthal has visions.” He said calmly. “She…sometimes sees things that are to be. The Dragonborn is in the jarl’s confidence…and told her of this place. We came to help.”

Habd had no idea what a dragonborn is because why would he? He’s from Hammerfell. He had heard about Idgrod’s reputation as a clairvoyant through local gossip. The half truth was enough to make him put his sword down and attend his family. We found Ramati on the stairs sobbing uncontrollably, clutching her stunned daughter.

It would have been callous to tell them that it could have been a lot worse, that they all could be dead, so I kept my mouth shut. I was torn between a sense of relief that at least those three were safe and guilt that we were too late to save Mani. Ultimately it doesn’t matter how I feel. This is their tragedy, not mine.

We helped clean up and retrieve the body. Habd wrapped his son in the deer hides we ruined and closed him up in the tool shed covered in snow, which will have to work as a morgue until he can properly prepare the body and a vault. I hadn’t realized before that Redgards mummify their dead. Habd intends to turn the cleared tunnels into a family crypt. Which means, after all of this, he still refuses to leave the lighthouse. I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified by this.

Stayed the night camped out in their kitchen. Tense hospitality, they were keen to be rid of us. Habd confirmed that the ruin we’re looking for is probably on the large island just east of Dawnstar. The townsfolk are complaining of women still disappearing, even after Arondil was run out of town, and a few fisherman reported seeing smoke coming from Yngvild. He also mentioned, looking at my heavily marked map, that there’s an Imperial camp west of the lighthouse. He often trades with the quartermaster there. Out loud I thanked him for the information, inwardly I noted that we will be avoiding that camp like the plague. I won’t risk being sighted by some overly observant soldier and it getting back to the Thalmor that I’m in the area. I rather like the idea of Elenwen privately tearing her hair out.

Something occurred to me after clearing the tunnels. At the barrow in Ivarstead when I first encountered him, Wyn used shock spells liberally. Since then, I haven’t seen him use it once, even when it would have been very useful. Say, by stunning a rampaging Orc, or a hoard of Falmer. I asked him why. He looked genuinely confused and said he doesn’t know that spell.

Huh.

The more I think about it the way he spoke and behaved that first night and how he fought is completely different than the man I know now. At the barrow he had been manic and vicious. He’d barreled through draugr, zapping anything that moved, running head-first into every new room with single-minded focus. I chocked it up to madness at the time, but that’s too simple. Did he forget how to use that spell along with everything else? It doesn’t seem likely. He absolutely remembers how to fight. That elf is deadly with just about any weapon you put in his hands, especially daggers. Is magic really that different? If he’s gaslighting me it’s an Oscar worthy performance.

That awful feeling that I’m missing something just keeps growing.

Chapter Text

Fredas, 13^th of Sun’s Disc 4E201

I’ve never been superstitious, but today’s date certainly fits recent events.

The crypt wasn’t hard to find. The same huge, distinctive dragon era stonework that mark all these sites can be seen from the shore in just about every direction. It must have been impressive once. Based on the amount of fallen masonry I think there was an upper complex that collapsed into the sea, which we used to get across the narrow channel without getting wet. Only the cave system underneath remains intact, mostly. It was full of ghosts and enthralled draugr, all females.

I thought I was mentally prepared for this. I was not.

The draugr weren’t particularly hard to get passed, they were slower than the ones I’ve faced before, and dumber. Maybe that’s an effect of being enthralled, any trace of their own will had been supplanted. I take some comfort in that thought. If the part of them that comes back, their soul or whatever it is, has been completely replaced then there’s nothing left of them to suffer. The ghosts on the other hand wept as they attacked. One kept chanting “no-no-no-no” as she rushed at us with a spectral sword.  

They didn’t ask for any of this. Most of them were barely out of their teens. I swear one skinny little girl in peasant garb couldn’t have been more than thirteen. That one stood guarding the frozen tunnel to the main chamber, sobbing and holding what looked like a cleaver in both hands. Wyn picked up on my hesitation and quickly cut her down. It’s disturbing how ghosts just fall apart. The ectoplasm and whatever else held her together splashed heavily into the permafrost under our feet like oily gelatin.

By the time we got to Arondil, sitting on a throne like the King of Perverts, I was so angry that I nearly Shouted him to death. Nearly. His being Altmeri didn’t help matters, but I did manage to stop short of turning him into a greasy smear on the chamber floor. Without his thralls and ghosts to protect him he quickly ran out of mana, fell to the ground, sobbing and pleading and bargaining in quick succession. The snooty high elf accent made all the begging extra pathetic. He volunteered plenty of information, I barely had to ask questions.

What a craven piece of shit.

Over the past six months or so he’s killed a total of fourteen women for the sake of “research.” Specifically, he’s been trying to break the soul-flesh threshold and recently succeeded thanks to his old friend, Calixto. I just missed the fucker! After his jail break from Windhelm he gathered up his “materials” from wherever he’d been hiding them and hauled ass to his buddy’s hideout.

They defiled the crypt in every conceivable way. Each icy nook was packed with bodies and body parts; every stick of furniture absolutely glistened with ectoplasm. One listless ghost lay in his bed, another just sat in a chair, too weak to move. I damn near puked when I stumbled across the make-shift kitchen. 

More disturbing was what I found in the secret room in the back of Arondil’s chambers. Not just bodies that he was saving for…Christ I don’t want to even think about what, but there was one last ghost. She was curled up in a ball in a corner. Blueish and transparent like the others, but I recognized her clothes immediately.

Sarah. She responded to her name by jolting upright, eyes wide, begging for help. The Welsh accent threw me at first, but once she calmed down we understood each other well enough.

Arondil’s notes very clinically describe the process of preserving bodies while also capturing the soul. Without all the mage jargon not only was Calixto’s plan to Frankenstein his sister a success, but it was successful because of Sarah’s unique physiology. We Earthlings are somehow more resilient to being torn apart and put back together again than Tamrielians, but only if the soul remains bound and intact. The necros still aren’t sure why that is.

Neither Arondil nor Calixto could get her to obey them as a ghost, but they needed her to keep Franken-sister’s parts fresh and in a “state of autonomous animation.” So, they corralled Sarah into that room and clearly meant to leave her there indefinitely. Despite being a ghost, she can’t phase through the wall, or wander far from the soul gem they bound her to.

Normally when a mage captures a soul it’s stored in the soul cairn and tethered to the gem for later use. With an Earthling the tether holds the soul to the gem, but the cairn won’t accept them. Again, the necros aren’t sure why, but they’ve figured it out by experimenting on every one of us they could find over the years. Arondil’s journals and correspondence are thorough and nauseating on that point. Since she’s far more solid than a normal ghost Sarah can’t pass through things, but she can inflict more physical damage than the others. The first time Arondil tried to touch her she attacked him.

She was still very confused about what the hell was happening and where we are, I did my best to explain.

She’s justifiably furious.

Once free Sarah immediately went for the mage but stopped short as if yanked back by an invisible rope. She quickly returned to a bowl full of crystals sitting on Arondil’s bedside table, pulling out a deep purple chunk of quartz. She said she could feel that it was hers. The way she describes it is like having a web of elastic strands attached everywhere, the further they stretch the more pain she experiences. By trial and error we figured out she can get about ten feet away from the gem before it starts to pull her back.

Convincing her not to kill Arondil was a hard sell.

I let her throw things at his head. We found a fully charged staff and took turns shocking his mana down and smacking him in the shins. Barbas pissed on his robes.

With Wyn holding him to a low stool I translated everything Sarah had to say, verbatim, while she raged around the room. My favorite insult was “limp knobbed corpse-wanker” and I got to learn a couple Welsh words: corris and cachu iar which means “cunt” and “chicken shit” respectively.

We are going to get along just fine.

By the time Sarah got it all out of her system the mage was a whimpering black and blue puddle.

I confiscated all the journals and papers, anything that appeared to be relevant. There was so much I had to shove it all in a separate bag.

We bound Arondil and marched his sorry ass to Dawnstar. Sarah waited outside of town, so as not to scare anyone. We hadn’t walked two paces passed the inn when a small mob formed to pelt the mage with rotten vegetables and verbal abuse. So much verbal abuse.

Jarl Skald sent a group of volunteers to Yngvild to recover their dead and record the state of the place. That seemed to be a formality. Unlike my experience with the steward of Windhelm my testimony was taken at face value. I was shocked to learn that necrophilia is not a crime in Skyrim. Murder and conspiracy to murder they do frown on, however. Arondil was chained in what I assume were magic-negating restraints judging by the blue sheen on them and locked up. Skald paid 200 gold even though Arondil didn’t technically have a bounty on his head.

Thoring is still too much of a cheapskate to give away rooms, but he did comp dinner (clam chowder) and drinks were on the mob in exchange for story time. Karita hung on my every word. I have no right to judge her abilities as a bard, since I don’t have a musical bone in my body, but it’s clear that she’s untrained. I offered to write her a letter of recommendation to the bard’s college, just to be nice, but she took offence for some reason. The gesture considerably thawed Thoring’s attitude, so I guess it wasn’t a total waste. I left the letter with him.

I didn’t want to leave Sarah waiting for us all night, so we took off not long after that. Camped behind the miner’s cabins. We stayed up late talking. I skirted some of the details about seeing her dead body in Windhelm. She doesn’t need to picture that. It’s hard enough for her to know that somewhere out there right now is a stitched-up golem wearing her face, doing who knows what.

Her recollection of getting here was interesting. She didn’t encounter a mirror like me or Tony. It was a gold button. Still a reflective surface, so the pattern holds?

Sarah had been helping her grandparents dig out a pond on their property. A shape in the dirt caught her attention, a flat, rounded disc with two holes in the center. She washed all the dirt away, saw it was made of gold and got super exited. People had been known to find Bronze Age artifacts in that area from time to time, or so she’d heard. When she picked it up dirt free, she said she got lightheaded and must have passed out. She woke up in a pool of water at the base of a statue of a snake lady holding a sword, surrounded by barbarians and dead bodies on pikes. Naturally, she freaked and ran. It was dark, so she just sort of stumbled downhill for a while looking for lights, or a road with cars, normal signs of civilization. What she found was a snowy wilderness. And as I feared just when she thought she’d found a real city, with people, Calixto got his hands on her. He must have used magic because she doesn’t remember her death. Everything went dark and she woke up feeling weird. He left her alone in what was probably a room in the catacombs beneath the city judging by her description. And while he couldn’t force her to do his bidding, which I’m sure annoyed him to no end, Calixto led her by the soul gem, using shock spells to get her to comply. That must have been right after he broke out of prison three months ago.

Tomorrow I’m dedicating to reading through everything I couldn’t get to from the piles of books and papers I liberated from Arondil. He said he met Calixto and his sister about ten years ago. He knows of Sild and M from their correspondence, but claimed he never met them in person. There must be more clues.

Dawnstar

Loredas, 14^th of Sun’s Disc 4E201

Calixto left Ynvild eight days ago with his newly minted sister according to the journal entries. He told Arondil that he was heading south. If that fucker intends to beat it back to Cyrodiil he’s got a good head start. Dammit. Maybe Tony or Etienne can put out a guild APB on them. I can give a fairly accurate description of Calixto and the sister now anyway. Sarah was pretty, even mostly transparent that’s easy to see, with a pale oval face, fluffy brown curls, and big dark eyes. A shifty Imperial in his 60’s traveling with a much younger woman, probably trying to hide a whole hell of a lot of scar tissue, shouldn’t be that hard to spot.

The dilemma: Onmund and Brelyna are meeting us at Nightgate in three days with the lexicon. I need the lexicon to get the Elder Scroll and to get the Elder Scroll I need to get into Blackreach. To get to Blackreach I’ve got to go through one of the dwemer ruins somewhere in this general area. I really don’t want to start a wild goose chase south only to have to travel all the way back up here again. Nor do I want that corpse-jacking spunk nugget disappearing across the border.

I’m going to have to prioritize saving the world over a vendetta. Not that I’m letting this go. I spent a good couple of hours this morning writing letters to everyone I can think of south of here who might be able to help. I wrote to the Palace of Kings c/o Jorlief in case they care at all that their escaped prisoner might be traveling through Eastmarch. Then there’s the thieves’ guild, if they can spare the resources, and the Dawnguard and the Vigilants of Stendar, or what’s left of them. Who better to go hunting for an undead construct?

I did my best to impress all the gory details in each letter to be sure they understand why this is important. It’s not just that Calixto has murdered who knows how many people. He could use his recent necromantic break-through to rally followers. The promise of bringing the dead back indefinitely, not just for a short while as a mindless thrall, is a powerful recruitment tool. The uptick in corpse theft alone would be cause for concern.

My own people are at risk too. Any of us left out there, including Tony and possibly Aventus if it’s ever discovered that he’s half Earthling, are targets. Like rare ingredients; walking, talking commodities.

There is one bit of good news. From the notes I’ve read it seems like without the necromancer’s amulet, which was taken from Calixto and is presumably still in the court mage’s possession at Windhelm, he can’t properly complete the dual ritual necessary to bind both the soul and body. That was a key component, one that he’d already made use of before his arrest. Which would explain his whole “you can’t stop what’s already in motion” villain rant while we were in jail together.

The most recent entries about the reanimation process read clinical, but there’s an edge of fear Arondil was trying to suppress. Before his sister’s death Calixto had managed to capture her soul but couldn’t completely preserve her body. At the time he’d lacked the materials and resources to keep it fresh. In addition to the parts he had already harvested from Sarah he’d also needed soft tissue from several of Arondil’s freshest cadavers to complete the body. While the transfer had been a success, Lucilla’s soul had to essentially be grafted on to make it stick.

The connection was “imperfect.” He recorded slow reactions, no powers of speech or fine motor skills, and she was prone to unpredictable angry outbursts. Sounds like brain damage to me.

Calixto spent more than a month working with her, while Arondil pretended not to be revolted. And that’s coming from the journal of a man who likes screwing zombies. It put a strain on their friendship. Reading between the lines it seems pretty clear that Calixto left not because Franken-sister is all better, far from it, but because the two mages were getting on each other’s nerves.   

So, the way I see it Calixto had two options:

A. Haul ass back to Cyrodiil, where necromancy is way more tolerated, as fast as he possibly can.

B. Get Franken-sister to another safe-house where he can continue to try to rehabilitate her.

Either way “south” is broad to say the least, assuming Calixto even told Arondil the truth about where he was going. All I can do is send out feelers and hope someone notices something.

As far as the rest of the “club” Arondil might have been telling the truth when he said he only knew Calixto and Lucilla personally. They definitely all knew the apothecary at Helgen, he might have been the founder in fact, but it’s unclear whether he survived the dragon attack or not. The last letter from him, signed Kjor, is dated three years back.

Whoever M is they’re very careful about their context clues. I still think it’s a woman, but beyond that I’ve got nothing. Every letter from them is brief and to the point. There are no symbols on the paper, no ink blotches or residue; nothing to give the vaguest hint about who they are. Barbas did pick up on the faint odor of mead. That’s not a huge help, practically everyone in Skyrim drinks the stuff.

Heading south to Nightgate at first light tomorrow. I’m not exactly looking forward to getting into Blackreach, but I do want to get it over with. My hope is to be able to figure out the take-down shout on my own, so I can use the scroll to get us home instead. Paarthurnax said there might be a way to reenter the “wound” with it. But then I’d need to figure out how to get it to send me back to Earth, rather than the point when Alduin was banished through time. Baby steps. I’m not getting my hopes up, just looking for every option possible.

***Noticed a heavy amount of smoke to the north-east this evening. The recovery party returned to Dawnstar around dusk with a cart full of their dead. Yngvild has been burned out of existence. 

Chapter Text

Tirdas, 17^th of Sun’s Disc 4E201

Winter sucks. Arrived at the inn last night too tired and cold to do anything but toss my money on the counter and collapse into the nearest bed.

I woke to the sound of guttural screaming. Opened my door just in time to see an Orc in swanky duds falling over himself and nearly into the firepit. Meanwhile Sarah’s gleefully cackling from a dark corner. She enjoys scaring people a little too much. I chastised her, but she only shrugged.

“I can’t taste, smell, or properly feel anything like this.” She said, indicating her spectral body, “I’ll have a laugh when I can, see if I don’t.”

It took some convincing to get the innkeeper and the one other patron besides the Orc, Fultheim, to put their swords away. The Nords stayed well away from me when I explained that Sarah is “haunting” me and not the inn. The Orc stormed back to his room in the basement.

I’m not entirely sure what would happen to Sarah if she were attacked. I’ve “killed” ghosts before, but she’s unique.

She’s also clearly going to be a pain to travel with. On the road it doesn’t matter, she practically goes invisible in the snow glare. Indoors, or really anywhere with people, they’re going to react very much like the inn’s occupants this morning. Mortal terror or instant aggression, or both.

Breylna and Onmund arrived not long after that. The mages were a little more tolerant of my companions, though Onmund kept glancing nervously between Wyn and Sarah as if he couldn’t figure out which is more dangerous. Honestly between the two of them it’s the elf I wouldn’t want to take in a fight.

I was not previously informed that they were bringing J’zargo. Aside from being a tiresome narcissist I have nothing against him, but I hadn’t planned on having an entourage this large heading into Blackreach. They all want to go.

News from the college is that there isn’t any. The Saarthal dig is still highly restricted. All Tolfdir will let the students do is clean and catalogue pottery shards. They’re bored, restless, and no amount of wheedling will dampen their scholarly enthusiasm. It’s an inconvenience. We’ll need extra provisions. I have no idea how long this trip will take, and I don’t like the idea of living off the land. From what I remember it’s a spore carnival down there. Stocking up on cure poison potions and clean bandages that can double as face masks will also be crucial. Having a few extra hands on deck couldn’t hurt though. 

The Dwemer lexicon is much smaller than I thought it would be, about the size of a Rubik’s cube and very dense.

When I asked if Septimus mentioned where to enter the ruin Breylna pointed at a tiny square on my map behind the inn. There’s a dwemer elevator there. When I asked how we were going to get through the gate around it all three of them stared at me like I’d just said something unbelievably stupid.

“There is a release handle inside.” J’zargo pointed out, his whiskers twitching. “If you are not skilled enough to use magic to pull it perhaps your mongrel will fetch you a long stick.”

Burn.

Barbas growled. “Oh ho! Someone’s gettin’ a special present in their bedroll before this expedition is over!”

“Please don’t.” I mumbled under my breath. 

The innkeeper asked us to kindly vacate the premises after the mages turned up, so I bought all his spare tack and dried fish, which wasn’t much, then regrouped outside. Sarah doesn’t need to eat. Neither does Barbas, but that doesn’t stop him from using those sad puppy eyes to get tidbits every chance he can. Still, we just don’t have enough food for five people. I didn’t want to add an extra trip to Windhelm on the docket, but it was either that or risk a subterranean Donner Party situation.

Some days start off shitty and stay that way and there’s nothing you can do about it.

No one wanted to stay behind, so off we all trudged to my least favorite city in Skyrim.

A pair of dark elves, a dog, two humans, a khajiit, and a ghost walk into a bar…and a dragon attacks. That’s it, that’s the punchline. I hadn’t finished saying hello to Elda when a roar shook the building.

Outside a russet-scaled dragon swept low, breathing fire down on the gates before alighting on a wall near the temple of Talos. He perched there with his tan wings half extended, chest platelets rippling as he breathed, posturing. Soldiers poured out of the alleyways and took positions on the walls, firing arrows at will. The dragon spat a gout of fire at them as he launched himself off the wall, which sent massive chunks of masonry and several guards tumbling down onto the courtyard stones. While the soldiers regrouped the dragon made lazy circles above, just out of range.

I really need to think before I act in the future. Well, no I did think, but it was a rash two-second kind of thought. I’ve really been trying to improve my dovahzul lately and here was an opportunity to practice. The problem with that, in hindsight, was that I Shouted in full view of every guard and fleeing citizen in Windhelm.

Using DREM YOL LOK was also probably not the best choice after the dragon had burned down half the city gates. It’s a classical greeting, my dovahzul book says so, meant to convey peaceful intentions and respect. The dragon visibly balked mid-air. His wings tipped so he could make another pass at the courtyard, very clearly aiming for the spot I stood. My group scattered. Someone grabbed my robes in time to yank me back into an alcove ahead of the flames. On the bright side the dragon flew low enough that the archers left on the walls managed to get several good hits into the dragon’s wings and neck. They caused enough damage that he couldn’t quite gain enough altitude, forcing him to skid a landing. Barbas immediately rushed in, aiming for the undercarriage, followed by Wyn. The mages and I shot lightning and ice spikes from a distance, weaving for position so we didn’t hit any of the guards hacking away at the dragon’s sides.

A few warrior types came out of hiding once the dragon was down, probably local mercenaries judging by their armor. One huge bald Nord used a pair of pickaxes in each hand to climb up the dragon’s back. He jogged along the spine and launched himself at the dragon’s head with his full weight. The force of the fall buried the tip of his axe right through the nasal cavity. It was not an elegant kill. One last puff of hot breath escaped its jaws before the dragon collapsed into ash and bone. It felt bitter as it rushed into me. Betrayed and maybe a little embarrassed. Once it settled, I realized that every single person in that courtyard had their eyes on me.

The merc who made the killing blow rolled out of the ash and took a knee, intoning Dragonborn! until half the crowd followed suit. All of a sudden I really wished that I was in a deep, dark hole full of Falmer. That would have been less awkward.

I patted the merc’s shoulder and told him that he did all the work before turning to take a head count of my group. Wyn had a shallow, nasty looking cut on his forehead. Everyone else was dirty and tired, but otherwise okay.      

Sarah stood pressed against a wall across from the inn a good twenty yards away, staring at the pile of bones scattered around us.

“That was a dragon.” She said as I approached.

“Yes.”

“That was a fucking dragon!”

“Yes, it was.”

“It disintegrated and it was a dragon!!”

“I did tell you about them.”

 She shook her head in disbelief. “Seeing it is different.”  

Concentrating on comforting her and healing Wyn helped me shove down my discomfort at all the open adoration. Until Jorlief showed up. He walked right passed the men hauling the bodies of the fallen into Helgird’s cart. They lost one civilian and two guards. One of them, I found out when I went over to help, was Juni. The helms of the dead were removed so they could be identified. I noticed her bright blonde braid first. She was one of those who had been blasted off the walls, half her armor was badly burned and both legs were broken. Her lips were already blue.

The fact that Jorlief strode out of the palace with an honor guard after the battle was over did nothing to soften my opinion of him or his jarl, who was nowhere to be seen. And the pompous ass had the audacity to address me formally with a request to the palace, which I declined.

He looked like I’d just slapped him. “Dragonborn, perhaps I was not clear-”

“No.”

I didn’t want to talk to him. I sure as shit didn’t want to talk to Ulfric.

Jorlief tried to explain that the jarl had left on an important incursion and would likely be back tomorrow.

Don’t care, walking away.

“The court wizard believes he has some insight into the necromancer you helped apprehend.”

Crap. That got me to turn. I agreed to come speak with Wuunferth after the clean up was done. There wasn’t a lot I could really help with, the bodies were already on their way to the Hall of the Dead and most of the fires had already been put out, I just didn’t want Jorlief to feel like he’d gotten the upper hand.

He made a show of congratulating the soldiers for valiantly defending their city, barking a few orders at the captains, yada yada yada, before retreating again without lifting a finger himself.

Most of the damage was done to the already ancient stonework on top of the walls and the stairs leading to the palace. Breylna and J’zargo helped levitate some of the chunks back into place and swept away the remaining debris. Even so the distrustful glares the Nords cast at them were hard to ignore.

I was in no hurry to get to the palace, so we did what we came to do, stocked up on provisions, mostly at the Grey Quarter shops. One benefit of being literally the lowest place in the city is that none of the aerial devastation touched the dark elves’ homes or businesses. Interestingly a large portion of the Nord citizens took refuge there.

After that I went looking for Mette. Eventually I found the house she’s renting. The boys were home alone, scared but unharmed. Tracked her down to find she was on duty, wearing Stormcloak colors like the rest all gathered around what was left of the massive city gates. One side partially came unhinged, and the wood was severely charred, so they were pulling it down for repairs. We didn’t have time to talk, but it was good to know that she was alright.  

The mages offered to help clear the rubble around the gates, but the soldiers refused. I will never understand that. Magic is a thing here. A thing anyone can pick up if they try hard enough, I’m living proof of that. Everyone’s lives would be so much easier if the Nords would just accept magic instead of giving in to this pervasive toxic macho bullshit attitude towards elves and mages. They’d be better off in so many ways! Public works that should have taken days would take minutes. Their economic position could expand. Health and life expectancy would go up. Not to mention general hygiene would probably improve too, which would make me happy. Ugh.

By dinner time I had run out of ways to procrastinate. Left my entourage, except Barbas, at a boarding house in the Quarter with plenty of septims for rooms and a meal. Wyn did not appreciate being left behind. He’ll just have to get over it. Getting in and out as quickly as possible was the goal, so the fewer people the better.

I was admitted to the palace without ceremony, presumably because they’d been expecting me for hours, and ushered into the main hall by the same tired looking woman I dealt with all those months ago when I was trying to get Calixto arrested. The one who made sure I got a pee break. I remembered to ask her name this time. Kiri Swift-Runner, Jorlief’s assistant and niece. Good to know nepotism is alive and well.

The Hall bustled with activity. An army of courtiers, runners, and servants crowded on either side of the long table in the center of the room, which was still being elaborately laid out. Children no older than Aventus scurried from the door to the kitchens and back again with plates of finger food for the fancy dress folks chatting together like their city hadn’t just been attacked.

When I realized that Kiri was leading me to Jorlief and not Wuunferth I got a little annoyed. I told her I just needed to speak with the mage and then be on my way. She sighed and scratched the side of her nose with the quill on her clipboard.

“Look, the old man just wants to be seen talking to you in front of them.” She gestured at the finely dressed group milling around what looked like a wine bar across the room. “The moneyed merchant class almost exclusively fund the war. Some do this out of patriotism, but most hold out hopes that when Ulfric becomes High King he will reward them with favors. Land and the like, you see? It will look good if they think the jarl’s steward is on terms with the Dragonborn.”

“Not good terms.” I grumbled. Being forced to participate in a PR campaign sounded neither fun or helpful or quick.

She waved that off.

“Doesn’t matter. Help me out, have a glass of wine, string a few sentences together, then I’ll sneak you upstairs to talk to Wuunferth. He takes his meals in private.”

“Smart man.” Barbas observed.   

I mentally agreed with the dog, but let Kiri lead me to the back of the room where Jorlief sat in his chair by the throne. Aside from the same rust-brown hair color I never would have thought they were relatives. Jorlief is just an old soldier who landed a job in politics by being a stand-up guy to the right people. I’m not even sure that he knows how to read. Kiri on the other hand is savvy. I want to stay on her good side, so I let the steward say his piece. It was just a rehearsed sounding thank you for services rendered, but if the intended effect was to give the rich people something to whisper about while they pretended not to eavesdrop, I guess it was a success.

Awkward pleasantries out of the way, I had my eye on the second floor exit when the main doors burst open and in strode Ulfric Stormcloak and his generals. So much for Jorlief’s ETA. I can’t tell if the man is incompetent or just a liar.

They all looked like they’d just come from the field. Mud-splattered, foul smelling giants scowling into a gold-plated crowd. The juxtaposition was almost funny. They ignored everyone and headed right into the war room, where Jorlief hastily excused himself as well. Several of the wine bar people started indignantly talking amongst themselves, others looked resigned. Kiri took the opportunity to prod me through the nearest doorway. As promised, after going up more staircases and corridors than I expected ‘til I was thoroughly lost, she took me to Wuunferth’s chambers. The old mage hunched in a chair with his dinner balanced in his lap. He was using his enchanting table as a sideboard.

Kiri made a quick introduction before hurrying back down to the Hall. She left the door open and Barbas stretched himself across the threshold, so it would stay that way.

“The steward said you have some insight on Calixto Corrium?” I asked, assuming that he would be the type who would want to get right to the point.

To my surprise he was more interested in my back story. How did a mixed blood not-mage end up taking on the role of a Nordic mythical savior? That’s pretty much how he put it.

Usually I get along with old people, but Wuunferth has no tact and an inconvenient amount of curiosity. My fictional history lacks a few details, but I’m normally able to use vague language and let people fill in the blanks themselves. That part’s easy because people want things to make sense. If something doesn’t quite fit in with how they know the world should work they’ll make concessions, up to a point, until it does. Wuunferth however doesn’t care about things making sense, I realized. Serving his jarl keeps a roof over his head, but I suspect it’s the pursuit of knowledge that gets him up in the morning. Any knowledge.

He eventually picked up on the fact that I wasn’t going to drop details about myself and did start talking about Calixto. In the months since he escaped from the Windhelm jail Wuunferth has been investigating, combing through everything Calixto left behind, talking to everyone who knew him. My letter to Jorlief piqued his interest. We exchanged information, enough to get a better picture of who Calixto was before he came to Skyrim. His family was apparently a big deal in Cyrodiil at one time but had been on the decline for years before Lord Corrium died. Calixto and his sister took their inheritance and abandoned their ancestral holdings to travel Tamriel. Now because of his status as a fugitive there’s an on-going property dispute between several distant cousins, since people with criminal records that haven’t been expunged by the Emperor aren’t allowed to own Imperial land. So, assuming Calixto knows about the dispute and his own status, and how could he not, he would be a fool to return to Cyrodiil.

Wuunferth didn’t have any useful insight into the rest of the necromancers Calixto has dealt with over the years. He also has no idea how he managed to get out of a locked jail cell with no witnesses or signs of tampering.

By the time we were done talking I was confident that dinner downstairs was over (Wuunferth didn’t once offer me something to eat or even a chair) and decided it was time to get back to the boarding house. When I turned to leave the old letch grabbed my ass. I glared at him but knew by his smirk that if I said anything it would only delay my escape. If I retaliated, he could just use magic or call a guard. Assault charges against the court wizard would only land me in prison again. If I verbally berated him, he would have just argued back and more of my precious time would have been wasted. So, I just left.

Barbas took a massive dump in front of his door as soon as I banged it closed it behind me.

“Do you feel better?” I asked as we sauntered away.

“You know what? I really do.”

A creaking sound followed by a grunt of surprised disgust echoed from behind us.

“Have I told you lately that you’re the best?”

“Aw, don’t make me blush.” He quipped as we rounded a corner.

Even with Barbas’ sense of smell finding our way out of the maze of corridors and back to the main level was a challenge. I couldn’t remember the route we’d taken from the Hall. I suspect that Kiri did that on purpose to keep me as long as possible. Like I said, she’s savvy. The place is huge! And intentionally designed to be confusing, it seems. We did eventually find a staircase heading down with a door at the bottom.

Instead of exiting back into the Hall we found ourselves in the war room being stared down by half a dozen armed men in full kit. Ulfric stood in the center, bent over the map table.

“For the love of Talos!” one of the older men exclaimed, putting himself between me and the jarl. “Can’t you people leave him be for five bloody minutes!? Get Jorlief in here!”

I instinctively put my hands up and stepped backwards. My first thought was to retreat up the stairs and find another way out. Then Jorlief came running in and started rapid-fire explaining who I am and why I was there. Because the Universe hates me.

“It’s fine. We’re done for now.” Ulfric said. “You’re all dismissed.”

Everyone filed out, mostly looking relieved, though the older man spared a look of disapproval over his shoulder at Ulfric and then me. Like I’d planned any of this.

“I apologize for the intrusion, Jarl, I’ll be on my way.” I said doing my best Nordic noble impression, hoping it would cover my accent a little.

“I dismissed them, not you.”

His tone made my eyebrows involuntarily jump to my hairline. My dragons shifted indignantly. Usually they’re quiet, I can ignore them to the point that I forget they’re even there, until matters of pride or survival come up.

Back in the day when I was working customer service and care giver positions, I would have plastered a fake smile on my face. Yes, sir you are correct, sir. I am a doormat for hire, sir. Please do tell me how I can serve you, sir.

That’s not me anymore, I don’t think it ever was it was just a mask I had to wear in exchange for a paycheck.

Still, I’m not stupid enough to think I can blatantly insult a man with an army at his disposal in his own house and get away with it scott free.

I met his eyes, crossed my arms, and waited.

It was the first time I’ve had more than ten seconds to get a look at him. Just your typical tall, broad, blue-eyed Atmoran ancestry at work. Like Delphine he looks his age, with silver streaking through dirty blonde hair, and signs of sun damage. There were deep creases across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes and mouth and his nose has been broken at least once. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I confess, I always pictured the Dragonborn as a great Nord warrior, not a mage.”

Oh, he was not coming strong out of the gate with that shit. I tried to look neutral and didn’t answer. Wuunferth would no doubt fill him in later anyway. I’m not much of a mage, but if the shoe fits…

He cleared his throat and straightened into a more formal stance. “How long did you study with the Greybeards?”

“Three weeks.”

He scoffed. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to demonstrate what you learned?”

I made myself ethereal. It’s the least violent Shout I could demonstrate. Ulfric attempted to push my shoulder only to watch his hand glide right through me. I see why Sarah gets a kick out of scaring people, the look on his face as he lurched back was priceless. I struggled not to grin.

From his reaction I guess that’s not a Shout the Greybeards ever bothered to show him. I wonder what else they left out of his education.

“So, then,” he said once he’d regained his composure, “how many dragons have you killed?”

“Technically, none.”

His brow furrowed in confusion.

“I never made the killing blow.” I explained. “I’ve always had help. But if your question is how many dragon souls have I absorbed? Four.”

“The first being the dragon that attacked Whiterun?”

I nodded. I was getting a headache and just wanted to go. He did not catch on. You’d think that someone raised to be a Jarl would have gotten lessons on how to read body language. Maybe he just didn’t care. He kept me answering questions, all about my Dragonborness, at least as long as I’d been with Wuunferth. Then he finally stopped beating around the bush and bluntly asked me where I stand on the war.

With everything I’ve seen, from the incompetent steward to the perv court mage, Ulfric is zero for three. Even if I thought his politics were sound, I couldn’t bring myself to support the Stormcloaks. But then I don’t agree with his politics.

“Since I am not a Nord, as you have already pointed out, I will keep my own council.”

That was as close to “fuck off, I’m Switzerland” as I could get without being blatantly rude.

Ulfric has got to be at least six-nine. He towered over me with his hands behind his back, eyes locked on mine. When he finally sighed in defeat, I almost couldn’t believe it. Did I just win a staring contest with the Jarl of Windhelm? Go me.

“If you ever change your mind speak with my house karl, Galmar. Now, if you will excuse me.” he gestured to the door.

I just nodded and started to leave. Let him save face and pretend that I was the one wasting his time.

“By the way.”

Oh, come on! I turned halfway.

“I never got the chance to apologize for that business in Solitude. It was not what I had planned and certainly nothing personal. Forgive me.”

Well slap my ass and call me Sally, I wasn’t expecting him to remember. My inner smartass wanted to say that it’s the Jarless of Solitude who deserves an apology, but that would have opened up a whole new line of dialogue.

“Thank you.” I said politely and finally, finally, finally got out of that damn room.

Jorlief immediately tried talking to me, I ignored him. Then his niece swept in out of nowhere.

“Kiri, I like you. I do. But if you don’t let me leave right now, I will freeze you to the floor.”

She didn’t even look offended, just put her hands up in surrender and stood aside with a “Yep.”

The Hall had mostly emptied out. There were still a few very drunk merchants at the table, and several servants tiredly waiting for them to leave so they could start cleaning up the horrible mess they’d made. I didn’t know ham could stick to a stone ceiling like that.   

It was pitch black outside and lightly snowing.

“That was fun! We should mingle with the important people more often!” Barbas said as he trotted at my side.

“I got interrogated and sexually harassed. You got to crap on the floor. Our experiences vary slightly.”

I found the Quarter quiet when I finally got back to the boarding house. Only Wyn was still awake. He saved me dinner, so he got to be the first person to hear all about what happened. Wyn doesn’t normally offer advice, but he got very thoughtful when I’d finished.

“You’re right not to take sides.” He said in his careful way. “But…the stalemate plays into the Thalmor’s plans…perhaps you should consider…an alternative?”

“Such as?”

“Supporting the Empire…leaves a bad taste because of the Thalmor…and Ulfric is not the leader you want for Skyrim. Could you not…choose a different High King?”

Holy hell, Wyn might be secret genius! If the Moot remains divided would a third candidate backed by the Dragonborn change their votes? Maybe, if my reputation spreads. Who would I nominate though? I certainly don’t want to put my own hat in the ring. It would have to be an existing Jarl. Idgrod won’t want it, I know her. Skald is too Stormcloak-y. The jarls of Falkreath and Markarth are corrupt. Riften and Winterhold are clueless. What about Balgruuf? He’s respected, moderate, and has proven that he can effectively govern.

I will sleep on this.

Chapter Text

Windhelm

Middas, 18^th of Sun’s Disc 4E201

Grey Quarter accommodations may be on the shabby side, but they more than make up for it with little magic-assisted amenities in my opinion. The basement of the boarding house doubles as a washroom because there’s a drain that dumps into the harbor. They had two big tubs set up, one for bathing and one for laundry. I’ll gladly ignore piles of dirty sheets if it means hot water and soap. Nice soap too, made with tallow and herbs. The landlady also took the liberty of “wicking” my robes, meaning she steamed them, followed by a magic squeezy-squeeze to remove the water. Weird to watch, like she was torturing my clothes. Not that I’m complaining. Being clean improved my mood greatly.

I spent most of my time in the bath thinking about what Wyn said about picking my own High King. The concept is brilliant. Making it happen will take a lot of work.

One question at a time: can I get Balgruuf to go along with this? Can I flip the Moot’s majority vote? And can I do this while not completely sabotaging myself when it comes time to get my butt up to Alduin’s lair?

I do think Balgruuf would be an effective leader overall. He’s managed to ride the line of being mostly an Imperial supporter while simultaneously allowing Talos worship right in the middle of his city without incident. That alone is pretty damn impressive the more I think about it. No one bothers that loud guy, Heimkster? Or Hemdel or whatever his name is, who raves in front of the statue of Talos morning, noon, and night. To my knowledge the Thalmor haven’t even bothered to check up on Whiterun, at least not openly like they do in Solitude and Markarth. That’s either amazing luck or good political maneuvering.

Does he want to be High King though? I’d assume all jarls have a certain level of ambition, but it’s not a given. I don’t know him well enough to be sure. For now, I’m going to go with the assumption that if he had the opportunity, he’d take it.

Flipping Elisef’s supporters will be easier than Ulfric’s. They’re mostly supporting the Empire through her, the only personal loyalty she really claims is from her marriage to Toryyg. Ulfric’s supporters are loyal to him. I gotta hand it to the guy, he’s built himself a substantial cult of personality.

I’m kind of shocked that having Elisef remarry for the sake of alliance hasn’t come up. I don’t like the idea, it would suck for her, but it makes sense. Maybe it’s too soon. The Moot was put on hold to give her time to mourn, so there’s that. Though I have also heard that the real reason for the postponement was the war. I suspect that’s the Thalmor’s influence. The longer Skyrim goes without a unified leader the more time they have to scheme.

Having her marry a jarl would certainly shut up some of the critics who only think of her as an Imperial puppet. Unless her advisors are complete idiots, they’ve already thought of this. Of the eligible jarls Balgruuf seems like the most acceptable. I think she’d rather jump off the Throat of the World than marry the man who murdered her first husband. Skald is too old, Siddgeir lacks clout and charm.   

Then again, I don’t know what they have going on behind closed doors. I also don’t really know what those kinds of negotiations look like in Skyrim.

Great, now I’m setting myself up to be a matchmaker too.

Then there’s Ulfric. His ambition will never allow him to concede the throne. In his mind it’s his by right and anyone who stands in his way is a traitor and usurper. And he’s got at least one stalwart supporter in Skald, I have no delusions about that. So, to make this work I would have to flip the other members of the Moot and find another way to get to Alduin, because Ulfric certainly won’t agree to a cease fire if there’s nothing in it for him. Then again, turning him in a more constructive direction isn’t without merit. If there has to be a war I’d rather they fight the real enemy.

I read through his dossier again. His status as an “asset” doesn’t mean collusion obviously, but it should make him rethink his actions. Should.

Playing into the Thalmor’s hands would be the very last thing he would ever want to do. On the other hand, if the Moot turns on him and he loses his bid to be High King again, what will he do? Turn around and challenge Balgruuf like he did Toryyg? History repeats itself all over again ‘til he’s the last man standing? I wouldn’t put it past him. 

How do you get a man like that to stand down? I mean shy of killing him because I’m not doing that.

I need Idgrod’s input. She’s been a jarl for thirty years and I trust her to be honest with me. I wrote her a lengthy synopsis of what I want to do and my plans as of right now. We may be down in Blackreach for weeks, so I asked her not to mail her reply until I send word that we’re topside again.

******

Mette invited me to the service for those who were lost in the dragon attack. It seemed appropriate to go, out of respect for Juni if nothing else. I wonder if anyone has gotten word to her boyfriend in Dawnstar yet. I forgot to ask at the funeral.  

I’ve never had any reason to visit the shrine of Talos, so I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect. They really do not mess around. It’s not just a chapel with a statue at one end and a few pews, nay nay. When I walked in with Mette, we found ourselves in a long, high-ceilinged space built into the oldest part of the city with huge candelabras, stubby buttresses, and an arched ceiling. I don’t know anything about architecture, but I’m pretty sure it’s a load-bearing place of worship. The symbolism is not subtle.

With every off-duty city guard and half the gentry in attendance it was standing-room only. The bodies were laid out at the base of the statue of Talos, which had to have been at least ten feet tall. They were covered from the neck down with sheets of stiff blue fabric. Juni and the other guard had their shields placed over their chests. The civilian’s body was draped with a fishing net.

I didn’t really pay much attention to the priest’s sermon. Lots of “blessed Talos” this and “Tiber Septum said” that. I was more interested in examining the space and the people. Not a single non-human in sight. Helgird lurked to one side, waiting to take the bodies away. Ulfric, Jorlief, and several of the captains from last night all sat in front. I noticed Wuunferth did not show himself. Kiri sat on the other side of the aisle comforting one of the widows. I really do like her; she might very well be the only decent person working in the Palace of Kings. She’s got a devious side that I don’t entirely trust, but I like her.

Ulfric himself gave a speech once the priest was done. I wish I could say that I found it inspiring, it was clearly meant to be. He started off okay, talking about how the dead were surely standing in honor and they would meet again in Sovngarde. That part was fine. Give the grieving families something to cling to. But it quickly turned into a tirade about Nordic pride and what sacrifice means to a true Nord and all that. I lost count of how many times he used the word “Nord.” It seemed to work up the crowd, with a few exceptions. Helgird and I glanced over at each other from across the room and exchanged deadpan looks. She was about as impressed as I was.

When it was over I waited in the aisle for the people up front to file out. As he walked forward Ulfric paused and said: “You will come to the Palace, Dragonborn.”

It was not a request. He continued on with his captains without bothering to hear my reply. Kiri swept her arm through mine and all but dragged me along behind them.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. “He expects it.”

I wanted to yank my arm back and march off to the Quarter, but that would have made Kiri’s life harder and ultimately that would be counterproductive. Mette called after me that she’d tell my followers what was happening. At least one of us was amused.

My plan was to give Ulfric his dossier before I left the city, I just hadn’t been counting on doing it in person. Good thing I had it on me. I rarely leave my stuff behind but when I do I keep my document satchel strapped across my chest. No way am I letting someone get their mitts on my journals again. Still haven’t figured out who did at the bard’s college and that irks me.

I expected a meeting in the war room, or some sort of formal posturing in the Hall. Instead, we veered off through a side door and upstairs. Like any sane person I don’t like feeling trapped and that’s exactly the atmosphere in the narrow corridors and dark rooms in that place. We ended up in what I suspect was Ulfric’s trophy den, judging by the excessive amount of taxidermy on the walls, mostly bears. Someone tried to make it cozy, with plenty of candles and a blazing fire. The light glinting off dead fanged faces and dozens of glass eyes staring from every direction hardly put me at ease though.

We sat at a round table in the center of the room, Ulfric directly across from me, with Galmar and Jorlief on either side of him and Kiri on my right. I only mention the placement because once initial pleasantries were out of the way Ulfric dismissed the other three. Galmar glowered as he rose, clearly irritated.

As soon as the door closed Ulfric relaxed a bit into his chair with an almost inaudible sigh. I think he’d been sucking in his gut through the entire funeral service. Fit as he is I know a beer belly when I see one.

“Galmar thinks you’re dangerous.” He mused.

“He’s not wrong.” Why did I say that? It’s true, but I didn’t need to say that.

Ulfric poured wine from the bottle on the table and pushed a goblet at me. It was golden and very dry. Not my taste at all.

“Do you intend to assassinate me, Dragonborn?”

“Not today.” I said flippantly.

He chuckled. Joke away the awkward, that I can do. I am forever grateful that I had time to get fluent before all this fuckery started and that cynicism is an almost universal language.

“I wanted to clear the air, before you take your leave of my fair city.”

“What about?”

“If legend is to be believed, our fate is in your hands. I’ve had my people looking into the Dragonborn reports since Whiterun. I have my spies just as the Imperials have theirs.

“Jorlief and Wuunferth gave a detailed account of everything they know now about you and your past. Care to guess what they uncovered?

Pause for dramatic effect.

“Nothing. There is no record of an Esme Emard from Betany or High Rock. Prior to last Sun’s Dawn when you turned up in Solitude you don’t seem to have a past.”

Danger! Danger! Evade! Evade!

“I fail to see how my country of origin has anything to do with my ability to take dragon souls.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Of course it doesn’t. Let’s agree not to waste each other’s time. You’ve already said that you intend to “keep your own council” when it comes to the war. I would be a fool, however, to take it on faith that you intend to remain apolitical forever.

“You are not just without country. Every report of you seems to be an infuriating collection of vague contradictions mixed with rumor, which makes you something of a mystery. Frankly, I don’t care much for mysteries. I like to know who my allies are, likewise my enemies.”   

So much for sarcastically perambulating my way through this.

I decided it was as good a time as any to pull out the dossier. When I twisted to open my satchel, I caught the tiniest flinch out of the corner of my eye. Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, the Bear of Markarth, He who would be King…is scared of me.

“I’m not your enemy.” I said as I passed the thick leather booklet across the table. “Since you’ve been checking up on me you no doubt know that I was in Thalmor custody not long ago. When I escaped, I took all the documents I could carry. This happened to be among them.”

His brow furrowed more and more as he read until his face contorted into a dark scowl. Some pages he skimmed, others he lingered on, staring as if he couldn’t believe what he was reading. A part of me, that simpering optimist forever telling me to be the better person, felt bad for him. The rest of me wondered how long I would have to wait for lunch.

I misjudged his level of interest in the DB legends. After yesterday my days of comfortable anonymity are at an end, at least in Windhelm. I may not support this man’s bid for the throne, but right now I do not need him to see me as a threat.

When he finished Ulfric slowly closed the pages and looked up at me with a stony glint in his eyes that I didn’t much care for.

“You are giving this to me?” he asked.

I nodded. “I’ve already read it. And it is the only copy if you were wondering.”

He sat back in his chair and gave me a long appraising look. “Why hand this over instead of using it as leverage?”

“Call it a peace offering. You saw the aftereffects of a single dragon attack yesterday. Imagine that happening all over Skyrim, because it will, it’s already started. Your war on top of that just makes my job harder. Fighting in the dead of winter is a bad tactic anyway, even if resources weren’t literally being burned at random on both sides.”

“I can’t call a truce unless Tullius agrees.”

“I’m not asking you to call a truce. I’m suggesting a shift in strategy if you’re willing to hear me out.”

He waved his hand in a “proceed” gesture.

“What do you know about guerilla warfare?”

That earned me a cocked eyebrow. The meeting went on for a few hours while we went over the pros and cons. I’ll admit, I was relying heavily on Grandpa Jay’s ‘Nam ramblings, snipets of history, and movies. Braveheart better not do me dirty.

My proposal in a nutshell: stop trying to hit Imperial patrols and camps head-on. Do target Thalmor patrols aggressively and in small, mobile groups.

The Thalmor don’t like mixing their ranks with Imperials. They prefer to keep separate, with their Justiciars leading a small band of four to six men max, relying heavily on magic for defense. By breaking the Stormcloaks into movable units they would no longer have to expend resources on keeping up semi-permanent camps far from their base of operations and could instead focus on precision strikes. This would also allow the Nords to take advantage of their inherent cold resistance. While the Thalmor struggle in the ice and snow Stormcloaks could swoop in (ideally with a battle mage but Ulfric was very resistant to that idea), wipe them out and zip back into the hills before anyone knows what happened. Not unlike the Forsworn.

Result (hopefully): Confusion for a few weeks. The Thalmor will lose valuable people while they sort out what to do next. Imperial and Thalmor troops will be forced to band together, which will cause tension in the ranks, if not all out descent. The elves would still have a foothold in Markarth and the embassy, but it would hurt them to lose Justiciars.

Also, how much effort will the Imperials really put into protecting their Altmeri “allies” anyway? I’m gonna guess bare minimum. At least that’s what I would do in Tullius’ shoes, just enough to show that I was doing something, but I certainly wouldn’t lose any sleep over Thalmor losses.

Ulfric seemed to think the idea was worth looking into at least. He wouldn’t budge on including battle mages, which I think is a huge mistake, but did concede that troops need to be outfitted with enchanted gear. I warned him that if he intended to go through the College for that to send messengers to Savos directly.

I feel just a little bit bad about using him like this. I mean we both want to stick it to the Thalmor but in the long run I don't think he can win this war. Even if he managed to make himself High King it wouldn’t be for long. He’d end up with his head on a pike, one way or another. Giving him false hope that I’ll eventually change my mind and back him is a dick move. At the same time, I never made any promises. I can’t safely approach Tullius to call a ceasefire with the Thalmor breathing down his neck and in the canon story the only reason the DB needs them to is so Balgruuf will agree to let them use his dragon trapper. I’m going to see if there’s a way around that. A lot will depend on the state of things when I get back from Blackreach.

I might have screwed everything up. No turning back now.

Towards the end of the meeting, when he’d relaxed some, I couldn’t stop from asking about Solitude. He said it hadn’t turned out the way he’d planned, so how did he think it was going to go?

He cleared his throat and took a long drink. Uh huh. Hit a nerve.

“I knew Toryyg would accept the challenge and I knew I would defeat him. I never intended to kill him. That was a…miscalculation on my part.”

“So, you didn’t have an exit strategy.”

“It was a fair and traditional challenge.” He bristled. “The palace guards must have been more Imperial than Nord to react the way they did. You simply got in the way. I have already apologized.”

“Yes, I remember. I have just been wondering since then. Your man at the gate was executed, you know.”

“I have plans to compensate his family. He knew the risks.”  

“I should hope so, it cost him his head.”

That earned me a scowl. “Matters of honor are of the utmost importance to a true Nord. Where are you from that you do not understand this?”

A felt a sad smile tug its way across my face before I could reign it in. “I have been in Skyrim long enough to understand your concept of honor. And since I may never see my homeland again there seems little point in comparing customs. I will simply have to learn to live with the differences.”

“You will not tell me where this place is then? We’ve already established that you are no Breton.”

“Let’s not spoil the mystery. It’s not exactly a place I can point out on a map.”

“I will find out eventually.”

“Oh, by all means have Wuunferth investigate. I would be very interested in his findings. Just keep him away from me, I don’t appreciate being grabbed by old men.”

He grunted into his goblet. “He didn’t.”

“He did. If I was a less tolerant person your court mage would be missing a limb right now.”

I couldn’t tell if the noise he made was contrition or disgust. I guess it doesn’t really matter.

Ulfric hijacked most of my day, but at least it was productive. Maybe now that he knows that it really wasn’t his fault Markarth was lost he can stop stewing over it. I think I also squelched some of his fears about what a scary foreign witch I must be. I’m only half that.

Back at the boarding house I found Onmund, Breylna, and J’zargo in the middle of a heated argument over whether Sarah is a real ghost or a free-roaming morphic vector of spirit energy. Because that’s a thing? For her part, since she couldn’t understand what anyone was saying, Sarah just lounged on a bench reading the copy of Dune I’d loaned her. The landlady was surprisingly okay with her as long as she agreed to stay upstairs. Wyn seemed particularly grumpy, but I figured it was the weather and boredom. It was a miserably cold, grey day.

The mages, especially Onmund, wanted to know all about my meeting with the jarl, but I kept it vague. We’ll get one more night’s rest in real beds tonight, then finally set out for Blackreach first thing in the morning.

Chapter Text

Blackreach: Day 1

Turdas, 19^th of Sun’s Disc 4E 201

We finally escaped Windhelm. I half expected another last-minute summons, or some small disaster to delay us again, but the city was quiet when we left at dawn. A team of local craftsmen managed to fix the main gates and even incorporated some of the dragon’s long bones as decoration, I noticed. The way was somewhat snow clogged but otherwise clear. Entered Blackreach by mid-morning. J’zargo spotted a great lift on a relatively accessible peak west of the mill. It was a climb to get up to it, but that shaved a good couple of hours off our walk. Half of us, meaning myself, J’zargo, Breylna, and Wyn were glad to get out of the weather. The rest of the group were ambivalent, which I admit I resent a little. Sometimes you just want to say “It’s fucking cold” to someone and have them agree with you without stories about how this is nothing, they once walked across Atmora in a blizzard wearing nothing but a loin cloth. Barbas will occasionally wax sentimental about his days as an imp.

I was not expecting how very long the elevator would take. All seven of us crammed into a space only slightly bigger than the average bathroom with hardly any light, descending slowly, hearing every creak and grind of the machinery…to say it was nerve-wracking is putting it mildly.

The sheer scale of the cavern is hard to describe. When the platform under us finally shuddered to a stop we all just stood there, staring. The lift we’d used opened onto a sweeping catwalk high above a massive waterfall-fed lagoon. It has to be at least ten stories up. A few columns of Dwemer metal lattice work support light fixtures topped with green flame I assume are fueled by natural gas, but most of the ambient light comes from the massive glowing mushroom structures. From that initial vantage point we could see the gold glow from the false sun in the distance, which I think marks the center-ish area of the region but I’m not entirely sure. There’s no seeing the other side at all. The dim light, spore-haze, and mist churned up by the waterfalls make visibility an issue.

Falmer almost immediately attacked, probably drawn by the sound of the lift. They’re slightly different than the ones I’ve seen before. The Falmer we fought at the lighthouse had the tiniest remnants of eyes; milky, lidless vestigial orbs sunk into their faces. The Blackreach Falmer don’t have any. There’s just thin, slightly wrinkly skin stretched over the sockets. I think these are also slightly smaller in body mass with larger ears, but I would need to compare the two side by side to be sure of that.

We’re all going to have to adjust to fighting and even just traveling down here. Noise attracts unwanted attention. Every time we thought we’d cleared all the Falmer more showed up, accompanied by chaurus and even a troll.

Slow progress today. We cleared out the ruin nearest to the lift, some sort of bartering and storage site I think, and will use it as a base until we clear a new building. There should be plenty of mostly intact structures to make use of. Crowded, but safer than camping out in the open.

Blackreach: Day 2

Fredas, 20^th of Sun’s Disc 4E 201

A thousand years ago this place must have been mind-bendingly amazing. I can’t stop myself from trying to picture it as it was then, with the ruins all put to rights and a bustling population going about their business. I imagine the Dwemer as just somewhat shorter, stockier wood elves. No real reason, and probably not the reality. My subconscious keeps trying to shove Tolkien into the mix. If Galadrial and Gimli had a baby, that’s what I keep coming back to.

Some of the mushrooms growing here are as big as redwoods. I wonder if the Dwemer used them to create dwellings like Dunmer do? Sort of a low-cost, fungus-based housing market? I mean, they had to have places for the average worker. Given the option I’d rather live in a mushroom house like a Smurf than make do with stone beds. But that’s me.

It’s crazy how much of the machinery is still functional. Some pipes have busted, and tunnels collapsed over time, but the ventilation system, gas feeds, water pumps, and whatever it is that makes that fake sun hanging over the central city glow still work perfectly. Not to mention the robots, though some of the spiders seem confused. A lot of them are fixated on digging out the blocked off sections. As we came down the catwalks (why are all of these places anti-rail?!!!) to the lower level one robo-spider was desperately trying to crack into a boulder blocking an archway. This only resulted in more rock falling from above. The spider was crushed under the weight, sending legs and chunks of metal flying. Onmund has a nasty shin bruise now. Sarah wanted to prod the remains, yanking out the soul gem and gyro from it for further study. I’m glad she’s taking an interest. With the language barrier and culture shock I was worried about how she would cope. She never played the games, too busy being a mom. She has a two-year-old daughter and my heart hurts thinking about it!

We have basic Tamrielic lessons when we can, but Sarah’s not an enthusiastic student. Barbas tells stories, mostly to keep her from dwelling, I think. I can’t imagine waking up dead. Mostly dead anyway. What a mind fuck. I may be displaced and responsible for saving a planet, but at least I can wiggle my toes. All things considered she’s holding up well.

Took most of the day to get to the “ground” level and find a new camping site. There’s no telling where the Elder Scroll is without a point of reference, so we’ll just have to do this in sections. Breylna is making a map as we go, so we can keep track of cleared areas, dangerous spots, elevators, etc.

Carefully monitoring our food. I think the water will probably be okay if we filter and boil it. I want to do a small test before we start relying on it though. Living on hard tack, jerky, and fruit leather is going to get old real fast. A Falmer camp we cleared had a drying wrack set up, so there are fish.

Huge as this cavern is it’s still become a mostly closed ecosystem. Besides each other what are all these denizens living on? Fungus and protein certainly, but how have generations survived on that? Breathing in all these spores also can’t be good for you. I’m going to be making use of the linen strips and cotton bandages we brought.

Additional observations:

Spotted a single giant wandering around. Very slow, sluggish, on the skinny side. Easily avoided.

Several white trolls, same lethargy and presumed malnourishment as above. Still aggressive.

Chaurus seem unaffected. Hunter fledglings may be slightly larger than topside variety?

Heard, but didn’t see, a dragon. Impossible to guess from what direction.

*How the hell did they all get down here in the first place??

Blackreach: Day 3

Loredas, 21^st of Sun’s Disc 4E 201

The rocks hum. At least the bluish glowy ones do. I thought I was imagining it at first, or hearing crimson nirnroot but that’s different. The sound the weeds make is localized and almost insect-like. The Aetherium, which is primarily what the dwarves were mining down here, has a lower pitch and a sort of undulating rhythm if you listen closely. Most of us are used to it already. Barbas is having a tougher time with his sensitive ears. It gets him talking though, which is interesting.  

“Dwemer were crazy bastards.” He complained as we walked past a large mineral deposit. “Always poking their noses in everything. “Better is better” they used to say. Bunch of over-achievers.”

“Why is that such a bad thing?” Sarah asked.

“You don’t see ‘em around anymore do ya? I wasn’t there for…all that, but I heard about it after. The Dwemer wanted to prove that they didn’t need gods. Fair enough. But then they got so high and mighty about it! What’s that phrase Ez likes to use? Check your privilege? Yeah, the Dwemer needed some of that. I mean don’t get me wrong, they weren’t all bad; enslaved their cousins, but hey we all make mistakes. It was messing with this stuff that really screwed them.” He jerked his head at a blue boulder.

“Imagine a network of city-states all jockeying to be the first to unlock a new kind of power. Intrigue, in-fighting, backstabbing, all of that. I think it drove them all insane.”

“What’s so special about this stuff anyway?”

“It’s tonally conscious, like a soul gem packed with creation energy.”

The ghost made a face. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s okay no one really does. The Dwemer used it as an amplifier, which is just about the worst thing you could use it for.”

“What happened to them, then?”

“They’re still here, just not here.” Barbas sighed. “It’s hard to explain. They exist in several places at once, and simultaneously don’t exist at all.”

Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff. I snorted to myself. Barbas’ explanation is probably the least cryptic I’ve ever heard, and I still don’t really understand. I never had a head for physics.

“So, I gotta know, why were just the people affected? Why are the buildings and the robots and everything still here?” I asked in quiet English.

“That’s the Aetherium. Like I said, it’s harmonically unstable, but also tonally conscious.”

“You make it sound like it’s alive.”

Dog side-eye is the greatest form of shade.

“Not the way you’re thinking. But also, not not the way you’re thinking.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“That’s about as much as I know. And more than you really should.”

We got busy trying to wipe out a nest of chaurus fledglings without making noise shortly after that, which is a next to impossible task. I can’t Shout down here. Breylna is trying to teach me telekinesis, but if my experience with other spells is any indication it will take me forever to make it work. Back to my fire and one-handed axe dual wield default then.

I’ve been mulling over what Barbas said about the Dwemer. It’s actually keeping me up right now. They vanished but didn’t. They exist, but don’t. Could what happened to them have happened to bring me here? I’m not exactly sure how, but could there be a correlation? Maybe some mineral on Earth works the same way Aetherium does under certain conditions? You’d think scientists would have discovered something like that with their sciences. Maybe it’s only a trace element, too small to detect. Or maybe I’m twisting facts to fit a theory because I want something to make a little goddamn sense. Not a lot of sense, just a little bit. Enough to let me sleep.  

Blackreach: Day 4? Or 5

Keeping track of the days down here is a struggle. And I’ve been hallucinating, so that doesn’t help.

The boil test was successful, so at least we don’t have to worry about that, though I think we should only take samples from the river. Several of the stagnant ponds and inlets seem to be teaming with critters. It’s probably bug larva, there are tiny white midges down here that swarm around broken chaurus cocoons and shit piles. Trolls and giants just take a dump wherever. It’s good that the bugs are here, they clean up the mess and in turn are probably the main food source for the fish in the lagoon. I must have been thinking about that when I ingested the mushroom. Apparently, I sang The Circle of Life to an imaginary fly I’d named David. Twelve times in a row.

In my defense I only tried a very tiny bite of the mushroom. For science! It was one of the smaller blue ones, the ones you can’t harvest in the game but are everywhere in Blackreach. Next time I’ll find a rat or something to experiment on instead of myself. The shrooms taste musty, like a basement couch cushion full of pennies and old popcorn. An hour in I was seeing light trails. J’zargo’s tail turned into a boa constrictor. I fell through the ground, into the planet’s molten core, burned to death and came back like a phoenix.

Yeah, I was tripping balls for a long while.

We had cleared out a whole tower and that’s where I woke up, drenched in sweat with my head in Wyn’s lap. Everyone else went off to scout. At least that’s what Wyn said, they probably left to get away from my singing.

The others brought back fish. I’m not sure what sort, definitely not salmon or trout. They’re about as long as my hand with wicked little teeth. That and hard tack gruel was supper…or lunch or breakfast I have no idea what time of day it is either. I wasn’t hungry, but Wyn went all mother hen on me. That’s not like him. I guess my spazzing out upset him. He didn’t want me experimenting on myself in the first place and seemed exasperated with everyone’s blasé attitude about it. I don’t know, call it hubris. I figured it might as well be me getting a tummy ache and didn’t think the effects of a bite the size of a peanut M&M would be that bad. Live and learn.

On the positive side I now know what the shrooms do. Side-effects were relatively minor once I came out of it: cotton mouth and a mild dehydration headache. The mages noted my condition with interest. They’ll be bringing samples back to the college for further study.

Blackreach Day: Screw it. I have no idea

Ran into our first active centurion. Up to now we’ve successfully skirted their stations, which is easy enough, but this one was already awake, not sure why. Staying behind them is key. If they can see you, you’re getting steamed and shot at. It was a workout constantly maneuvering to its backside, taking a shot, maneuvering again. Onmund caught a bolt in the thigh. We hit it with electricity until it slowed, then Sarah was the one who jumped up and ripped the dynamo core right out of its chest. I was so proud of her!

Onmund will be okay, but we slowed down to give him a break. Oddly, we haven’t seen any Falmer recently. We’re systematically searching around the edges of the cavern and have been traveling in roughly the same direction since we got here, so maybe they’ve caught on. If they want to avoid us, I’m fine with that.

*******

Cleared out a nest of what I’m going to dub dusty cave spiders. They’re fuzzier than the surface spiders and the grey hair makes them appear purple. Out of desperation for something different we roasted a small one. Oddly enough once you get through the blackened skin the meat kind of reminds me of overcooked frog legs. I finally busted out the hot sauce packets from deep in my pack. That made it better.

*******

Wyn has been surly for days. Something is eating him, but he won’t talk about it.

The thrill of discovery is wearing a little thin. Still no Falmer, but we’ve had to deal with plenty of guardians in the larger complexes. No sign of anything resembling the puzzle room where the scroll should be. We’ve been avoiding the central city, mostly because I know that’s not where we need to be, but Breylna and J’zargo are keen to check it out.

*******

By the amount of Falmer and their servants in the city (where the hell did these people come from?) I think they did catch on to the fact that we’ve been rampaging through their territory killing everything that gets in our way. From their point of view, we are the antagonists in this situation. However, the moment we were spotted there was no way to back out of a fight. I really hated killing the slaves. I don’t know if they’re brain washed or if they were born down here and just conditioned to do the Falmer’s bidding. Either way it’s not their fault.

Things came to a head when it was clear that the Falmer were going to lose. Most retreated to the pump station below. One in beefy chitlin armor with a bow climbed up onto a parapet. Instead of opening fire on us however he shot a single arrow right at the false sun. A loud gong sound rang out across the vast cavern. I realized too late what he’d done. The Falmer thrust his pelvis out in a vulgar victory schwing before running off to hide with the others. Dick cheese.

There was no time to get to cover before the dragon appeared. It swooped over the wall and landed right under the orb, so that most of its body blocked the entrances to the debate hall. Later we found that the Falmer had barricaded the doors from the inside anyway, so it wouldn’t have mattered.

This dragon looked rough right from the start. Vulthuryol means “Dark-overlord-fire” in dovahzul, which makes him sound like Voldemort and Satan rolled into one. He’s not that. In the soft light I could see his red scales were muted, dulled down to an almost oxblood color and painfully frayed. His movements were stiff. Once down both wings curled into a half-closed arthritic rictus.

Since he was already there, I Shouted a mild YOL to get his attention. Mission accomplished; he swerved his head to eye me. I held my hand out to my group in a “hang on, let me try something” gesture that they somehow all understood.

“Dreh ni nos.” I ventured, ready to dodge if he decided to snap at me. “Mu los fron.”

Vulthuryol was still for a few seconds, then began to laugh. Not the pleasant purring chuckle of Paarthurnax, no this was a throaty, manic sound on the cusp of a cackle.

“Dovahkiin.” He said in a higher voice than I was expecting. “I have not held tinvaak in so long, yet your accent is still offensive.”

“Krosis, I am still learning. Mindos?”

“Aan nonvul unt. Zu’u los Vulthuryol, fin vodahmin. Lost hi bo wah krii zey?”

He clearly preferred speaking dovahzul, so I did my best to form the correct sentences. Since he seemed to understand me, I assume I got most of the words right.

“Nid. Zu’u dreh ni laan wah krii hi.”

“Aazrii.”

Oh, shit, I started to put the pieces together right there. I motioned as subtly as I could for Barbas to get into bite and distract position.

“Vir drey hi ofaal het?”

Vulthuryol angrily huffed through his nostrils. The blast of hot air sizzled across my cheeks and blew my hood back.

“Grut maal tiid. An unnatural tide interrupted morokei bod and from that day my aery became this duraal gul. Lingrah lost Zu’u saraan fah gaar.”

“Zu’u nis stin hi nol daar staad. Til los nid ven tir.”

The pupil of the yellow eye watching me narrowed to a needle slit. “Til los ven.”

He attacked then, viciously whipping his tail at the mages while lunging at me. I jumped back and Shouted FEIM ZII GRON at the same time. A nasty set of dagger sized teeth phased through me with a snap.

Vulthuryol didn’t even try to take off again. I suspect it was too painful for him. The mages commenced with a barrage of electricity while he spat fire in random directions. Barbas played tank. Wyn and I darted around the dragon’s sides. I lost sight of Sarah. Then it was all over. I’d gone solid again and felt his soul rush into me with a morbid glee I never felt with the others. It was his glee, not mine, desperate and ragged. I was still glowing with it when Wyn got in my face, grabbing my shoulders, and demanding to know why I’d taken such a risk.

“I needed to know.”

“Knowledge isn’t worth your life! First you poison yourself, now this!”

I noticed that his normal careful cadence had vanished. He didn’t hesitate once.

The high of taking Vulthuryol’s soul died down quickly, settling in with the others until all that was left on the surface was an aching sadness. It must have shown on my face. Wyn’s anger melted into concern, and he pulled me into a fierce hug.

“He wanted to die.” I sobbed into his shoulder. “Dragons can’t commit suicide. He wanted me to end it; in battle like a real dovah.”

I feel like I’ve absorbed a thousand years of trauma. Because that’s exactly what happened today. We stood there for a long while before Wyn finally, somewhat reluctantly, let me pull away. I don’t have the energy to dissect that just yet.

I hate that the Falmer will harvest Vulthuryol’s bones when we leave, but there’s nothing I can do about that. J’zargo suggested burning them out. I don’t care how revolting they are, that’s an ugly death and not one I would wish on anyone. When they emerge, they’ll see that we took down a dragon. That should make them think twice about attacking.

Heading in what Barbas assures us is a south-western direction tomorrow. Covering new ground, maybe we’ll get lucky and find the scroll in the next day or two. For now I just want to sleep.

Chapter Text

Success!

Found the correct ruin at long last. It had that garbage-stewn look of a place teenagers use to party unsupervised. Hardly a fitting vestibule for an ancient relic. My heart sank when I stepped off the lift. I was so sure that we’d find the machine trashed and the scroll either gone or stuck. Fortunately, the inner sanctum was mostly left alone. Mostly. Debris and what I hope was just dirt coated the stairs and what I’m going to call the control panel, but it was intact. The light coming down from the ceiling seemed to be natural though I have no idea how that’s possible this far underground. Maybe mirrors? Or filters? It’s beautifully constructed regardless.

I had no recollection of what sequence the buttons needed to be pressed and Septimus had offered the mages absolutely no instruction either. Fiddling with the machine took forever. The many lens arms whirring around our heads made an ungodly amount of noise and showered a few hundred years’ worth of dust down on us. Eventually I got it right. The machine’s crystal Easter egg opened, and I now have in my possession a genuine Elder Scroll.

It’s smaller than I thought it would be.

As I packed it away I noticed J’zargo going for Septimus’ lexicon. All the mages looked at me like I was crazy when I told him to leave it.

“That’s thievery!” Onmund complained. “Septimus loaned us his key in good faith, and you want us to intentionally-”

“Something very bad happens if he gets it back. Put your Nord sense of honor aside for a moment to keep an old man alive. Please.”

Breylna tried to mediate. “Perhaps if you share your patron’s “visions” with us we could all decide what’s best?”

“All I know is that if Septimus manages to open the artifact he dug up he ends up dead. It’s safer if we just leave it here.”

Onmund still looked unconvinced, but said nothing, Breylna tried to reassure him that if the lexicon needed to be retrieved it would be a simple matter of coming back for it.

J’zargo purred thoughtfully, still standing next to the pedestal. “Indeed. Perhaps we should concentrate on leaving this place now that the quest is finished, no? There are many samples this one is eager to research in a proper lab.”

The elation of finally getting what we came for turned sour the moment I pointed myself at the exit. It’s not an exit anymore. Where there ought to have been a short corridor and lift going right back up to Skyrim was a pile of twisted metal and fallen rock. Well shit. I just stood there thinking that’s not supposed to happen as if it would change anything.

There was nothing else we could do. We went back out, using the same lift that brought us into the tower. As it started to move downwards a loud clunk made us all gasp. The screech of metal grinding on metal, followed by a short fall, an abrupt stop, then something snapped and the whole thing plummeted I don’t know many feet to the ground. I came to in a moaning, bleeding pile. Only Sarah and Barbas walked away uninjured. My wrist was broken. We all had fractures and a bevy of contusions. Breylna was in the worst shape. She had a broken leg, cracked all the ribs on her right side, and took a metal rod through her stomach. It was a miracle it didn’t hit any organs. Had any of the stonework come down we’d all be dead.

The three of us who know basic healing took turns working on the worst injuries, but none of us are Restoration school adepts. J’zargo actually has the most experience, go figure. We did what we could for Breylna’s internal injuries. She still couldn’t walk, so Onmund built a stretcher out of guardian struts and leather strips. I am now completely out of healing and magica potions. All I have left is one measly bottle of stamina.

Headed in a roughly eastern direction after patching ourselves up, looking for another lift. An eternity of walking later, we spotted one. The cage was already down, it had fallen so heavily that it busted through the platform, sitting lopsided in the pressure indent. Sarah climbed up into what was left of the cage and reported that the pully system inside was damaged. Not corroded, not weakened over time; the teeth of the gears had been bashed off.

We had no choice but to camp out in the open. There weren’t any other cleared structures near the lift and we were all too exhausted and hurt to keep going. J’zargo thought to set a perimeter of runes all around us, in case of an ambush. A fire would have been too conspicuous, so it was a cold meal of rations followed by huddling together in a nest of bedrolls. At least the cavern maintains a mild, if damp, temperature while topside it’s the dead of winter.

I didn’t sleep. I never really do when camping, I just sort of half doze while part of my brain stays fixed on the certainty that something horrible could happen at any moment.

Time has no meaning when you live in perpetual gloam. It does weird shit to your head. Or maybe that’s the spores, I can’t objectively know for sure. I kept hearing noises, clanging, distant hammering out of rhythm with the normal ambient sounds of pumps and hissing vents. With Breylna moaning in pain needing additional healing every few hours it was a very, very long night.

The fear I think we all had, but didn’t voice, came true when we started off again. We were retracing our steps, following our original path around the cavern so most of the structures and lifts are mapped. The nearest one was just as broken as the last. Barbas scented us a route north. There was a sense of urgency and tension in the group as we approached the next lift, set off to the side near what looked like a partially exposed sub-basement full of crimson nirnroot. A pair of Falmer were already prying the bars back with make-shift Dwemer metal crowbars to get to the machinery at the top of the cage. The fight was short. They’d done some damage, but the lift still seemed to be operational. We tested it empty, sending it up and then calling it back down. There was an unpleasant high-pitched screeching the whole way that made us all nervous.

After some debate, and hearing more banging in the distance, we agreed to split up into teams to keep the weight down. Breylna and J’zargo went up first and made it. The fingernail on a chalkboard sounds were getting to be too much for poor Barbas so Sarah volunteered to go up with the dog next. I swear it was at least a forty-five-minute trip one-way. Wyn kept trying to get me to go, but I wasn’t about to save my own ass and risk leaving anyone behind.

Next Onmund went up by himself. He’s a big guy. The screeching turned to a loud grinding. I can only hope that he made it out. We didn’t hear any screaming so that’s a good sign. The distinct smell of ozone filled the air before the sounds stopped completely. It stalled out somewhere in the shaft. The cage didn’t crash back down, but no amount of button mashing would get it to move either. Without tools there’s no fixing it, even if either of us knew what we were doing. As a group we’d already agreed that if we got separated those who made it to the surface would get Breylna to a healer in Windhelm. Meanwhile Wyn and I will make our way through the ruins. Our long, long, long way up through the ruins.

Fucking FALMER.

I’m going to force myself to take a positive from this. On our first trip to this part of the cavern we somehow completely overlooked Sinderion’s lab. It’s just chock-full of goodies. After very despondently abandoning the lift and any hope of getting out of this cavern quickly we ran into it by accident. The clanky-bangy noises came from a guardian trying to break down the door. You have to admire Dwemer craftmanship. Even after being assailed by robot arms and the giant spears I shot at it from the defensive station across the road that door held.

We chucked the bones and other garbage out (sorry Sinderion) so we can hold up and rest before trying the ruin. There’s a place to cook, and some dry “chips” to burn. I’m trying very hard not to think about what they’re probably made of. I needed the morale boost, so I raided all the edible ingredients from the lab and made a stew. Well, more like salt-herb fish mush. It ain’t pretty but it’s hot and filling.

I want pizza more than I have ever wanted anything in my entire life.

It’s weird just having one person with me again. And Wyn is still very annoyed that I won’t prioritize my own safety. During dinner I finally had enough and told him to just say what he wanted to say. He’s much more candid when we’re alone.

He put his bowl down and fixed me with a blood red glare. “I think you should consider what happens to the world if you die.” He said bluntly.

“I have-”

“No. I admire your resolve…but if you keep putting yourself in danger, I’m going to have to take steps.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A promise. I’ve given it a good deal of thought since we first met. There is surely a reason our paths crossed…and I am alive and free because of you, do not think me ungrateful for that. I will repay you in kind…even if you do not wish me to.”   

I crammed my face hole with mush to cover up the squirmy discomfort all this raw sincerity churned up.

“I can take care of myself.” I mumbled.

The tiniest smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. “Someday…yes that will undoubtedly be true. When you grow up.”

“Hey!” I bristled. “I’m grown! And I don’t want or need a nanny. The concern is appreciated but-”

“I don’t want to die.” Wyn interrupted. “I don’t want to see this world die. If you let yourself fall ill, or get eaten by a dragon who saves us then?”

“I’m not irreplaceable. There are others.”

“A ghost and a drunkard. Forgive me if I do not find that comforting.”

“I liked it better when you were monosyllabic.” I groused.

He picked up his bowl again and smooshed the spoon into the gray paste. “And I liked it better when Breylna cooked…we will both just have to make do.”

We grinned at each other and let the topic drop.

*******

Dreamt of nirnroot. It was talking to me in Vulthuryol’s voice. I can’t remember what it said, only that I felt incredibly sad. Then the dream morphed into a misty glade. An old man in loud motley sat at a dinner table. Normally I’d question how he or I got there, but dream logic being what it is I just accepted the scene. Weird. I don’t normally remember my dreams, but this one was vivid in a way that felt important.  

The old man looked up at me with milky eyes and smiled like an old friend. Because I think he is? In a way?

“I suppose you feel entitled to some sort of explanation, eh? Greedy, if you think about it.” he said playfully.

“What should we talk about then? I don’t expect you to give me straight answers, but if you plan on giving me none I can just leave.”

“Oh, don’t be like that! Be interesting! You’re a soul-sucking, dragon killing badass now, right? Don’t you feel the need to embrace your chaotic side just a little?”

“I didn’t mean to take it!” I blurted out.

Sheogorath paused for a beat, then burst into hysterical laughter. “That’s precious!” he chortled. “Being chosen and choosing to participate are different things, Pumpkin. You know that.”

The table suddenly shifted into a Thanksgiving spread complete with my mom’s ceramic pilgrim salt and pepper shakers. The only thing that stayed put was the cheese platter. I forced myself not to stare at the fixin’s.

“Being in Whiterun was a choice, I’ll grant you. But being in this universe? No, I’m not taking the rap for that. I fell through a mirror! How was that choosing? And if you have no foothold on Earth, how was that not some random cosmic event? Or something caused by an Elder Scroll, since everything else in this damn universe seems to revolve around those things!”

He wiped at a non-existent tear and shook his head. “You mortals take everything so literally. You came through because you are permeable to this world.”

“Why?”

“The Dwemer sundered themselves through Time, why not Space?” he shrugged dismissively.

“So…they made it to Earth? Are you saying I’m part Dwemer?”

“What a ridiculous idea! Preposterous really, where do you get these notions? As for choosing, everything about being Dragonborn is a choice!”

“I did not choose this!” I argued.

The jovial old man from a moment before disappeared behind an intense, almost angry glare. “You did.”

That escalated quickly. Just when I thought he would pull some godly wrath and smite my ass he picked up a cheese knife and delicately stabbed a wedge from the platter in front of him.

“Set aside the trivial. How you came to shift between worlds is so irrelevant I frankly can’t believe we’re still talking about it. NOW. Stop and think about every decision you’ve made since coming to Mundus. How many times did you decide not to run from danger? Even when you knew that you had no business poking your vulnerable human nose in it. Do you have enough fingers and toes to count them all?” he brandished the cheddar-tipped blade at me before popping it into his mouth. The cheese, not the knife.

I had to admit, he had me there. From the beginning I turned my back on so many chances to throw my hands up and go hide somewhere. Any one of my adopted Skyrim fam would have protected me. I’m just not sure now if it was my decision, or if he was saying it was his influence.  

“Okay, you have a point.” I said carefully. “Why me though?”

He leaned back impatiently in his chair. “There you go again, stuck in the same mental rut! We need to fix that.

“Why me!? Why me!? Make sense! Wear pants!” he said in a mocking tone. “For the record you were Jyggalag’s pick, not mine! I had my eye on a beautifully suicidal Russian spelunker with a diaper fetish, but no!

“Oh, but we’re all so sick of Mora and his pet Champion. It’s all Miraak this and ultimate knowledge that! Insufferable! So, we had a thought. This go-around why bet on the same old sort of mundanely impressive mortal when things could be so much more…interesting.”

I did not like the way he emphasized that word. Even dreaming I felt the hairs on my neck prickle.

“Who knew someone like you would rise to the occasion? We did. Now we do. If you hadn’t, then we wouldn’t, and the vacation continues!

“I haven’t had a player in the game since…mmm well that doesn’t matter. It’s terribly exciting, though.”

He leapt to his feet. At the same time Mom, Dad, Elize, and Ellis poofed into each of the empty chairs around the table, all looking at me expectantly.  

My sibs looked just as I remembered seeing them last, all tan and happy in summer-wear that didn’t fit the Thanksgiving scene at all. They all smiled too broadly; staring, unflinching, with their hands in their laps like Dad was about to say grace.

“That’s messed up.” I heard myself mutter, trying to suppress the shudder that ran through me.

The Prince of Madness threw his arm around my shoulders and whispered conspiratorially in my ear. “If we had time, I would show you what an interminable understatement that is, my dear.”

His breath smelled like watermelon bubblegum.

“Your mind will break sooner or later. Time, time, TIME is a weapon only a Daedra can wield with true artistry. In the meantime, get to work! Dragons to slay, wars to influence, you have so much to do! We’ll talk again soon. Soon-ish anyway. But alas! It is time to…wake up.”

And I did. I shot bolt upright on the stone bed. Even from his bedroll on the floor Wyn heard me move and shifted to my side. I buried my face in his shirt and counted breaths ‘til my heartrate was under control.

I quickly set to write everything down before I forget. Now I’m left with the question: was all that just in my head or something else? Fever dream or Daedric shenanigans? All this time down here it wouldn’t surprise me if it were a mild hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation, or breathing entirely too many spores or eating something bad from Sinderion’s stocks. I just don’t know. If Sheogorath is really messing with me he would want me to second guess myself, to not know what’s real. Shit.

*******

Packed up everything of use from Sinderion’s hut, including his journal because I want to study it later (he was some sort of alchemy genius, right?) and hit the ruin. I think, but can’t confirm until we get back to civilization, that we’ve been in Blackreach 2-3 weeks. Food is running very low. I can feel the vitamin D draining from my skin day by day.

Theory: the Falmer have their own factions and sub-factions. I’m basing this on three observations:

1. Tactile/scent-based insignia. The Falmer we encountered at the sun city had purplish chitlin breastplates with a sort of arrow shaped symbol carved into them and a musty, almost mildew-like smell. Same with the ones we caught vandalizing the lift, so that points to a coordinated retaliation effort. The Falmer inside the ruin have a slightly different symbol, the arrow has a curved tip, almost a swirl. That tribe smeared themselves in something greasy and rancid smelling. Maybe troll fat.

2. The Falmer in the ruin were not alerted to our presence and had not sabotaged their lifts. They are clearly capable of communication, so the other tribe chose not to tell their neighbors about us. Maybe due to rivalry, or just indifference between the groups. I can only speculate.

3. Physical differences aside the first Falmer I encountered in the Pale were clearly breeding and farming their chaurus on a large scale. With all the extra room in Blackreach we never came across an operation that size, or any pens suggesting intentional breeding. They were, from what I observed, exclusively free-range.

So, what have we learned? Falmer are smart, coordinated, vindictive, and not a monolithic culture.

*******

Sneaking through the corridors is much easier with only two people. There’s no covering up our scent, but if you’re quiet enough especially in an area with a lot of ambient noise from the ventilation system Falmer can be snuck up on. The sight of an open and working lift was a thing of beauty. I just wish we didn’t have to fight through a torture chamber to get to it. Alchemy is a very interesting discipline, but no amount of coercion will ever get me to use body parts as ingredients. Just no.

I was disappointed to find it was night topside, but no matter. Sky! Wind! Freezing wind that blew sharp snowflakes against my skin. We made a shelter out of an abandoned campsite complete with old pelt tents and a lean-to. It’s not too shabby. The others are a good three or four days ahead of us, so hopefully they’ve already made it to Windhelm to get Breylna looked after. We’ll head that way at first light and meet up in the Quarter like we planned.

Chapter Text

Windhelm

Middas, 6^th of Morning Star, 4E 202

We took it easy getting down from the mountains. At least I thought that’s what we were doing, following the ridge and then a goat trail. It did eventually lead us to a set of ancient stairs, right by a word wall. I was expecting a dragon. What popped out was my first dragon priest. It was still early in the morning, and I hadn’t noticed the sarcophagus in the shadow of the wall until the lid went flying six feet in the air. I won’t pretend that I didn’t damn near piss myself.

It would have been nice to have the mages with us, or even someone with a bow. The masked corpse kept floating out of the way of my fireballs while spreading its own on the ground around it like a wave of napalm. I never thought I’d be grateful for snow. The heavy drifts around us provided a little protection. It was still exhausting dodging and trying to cover Wyn, who took the brunt of the attack, the selfless bastard. I’m getting pretty accurate with fire though. We fell into a rhythm where I’d thu’um to distract it, Wyn would go for a quick slash n’ dash and that’s when I’d hit it with balls of grapefruit sized plasma. I discovered that if I really concentrate on holding the energy under pressure it causes a lot more damage on impact. The last borage knocked the damn thing to the ground in a cloud of smoking dust and bone.

The wall gave up a whole phrase. Maybe it was me coming down off the adrenalin rush, but it felt flippant and sort of lightweight, like it could fly right out of my head if I didn’t hang on.

It wasn’t until I looked down at Wyn rifling through the refuse that I realized he’d been hit. His right arm had first and second degree burns from wrist to bicep and his shoulder was dislocated. That tears it, as soon as possible he’s getting a new set of armor with all the enchantments. If he insists on running headfirst into every fight he needs something better than second-hand leathers.

Healing is something I really need to get better at. I managed to ease the worst burns, but not all the way. The skin was still an angry purple color. He popped the shoulder back in himself, which was upsetting to watch. Then he just went right back to looting.

We took the priest’s mask, staff, 124 gold, and a ceremonial dagger. Even after it’s washed, several times, I don’t know if I’ll be able to bring myself to wear the mask. I know it’s supposed to give you skill boosts but…it was on a dead guy’s face this morning.

Part of me envies that the people here have no idea what germs are. Virulent agents? Bacterial infections? What be these things? That old line about ignorance being bliss is total bullshit, but sometimes I wonder if I wouldn’t be just a little happier if I didn’t know half of what I do. About a lot of things.

Rested a while, then continued down the stairs until we got to a road running east and west. Traveling in the snow slowed us down. It looked like a herd of cattle had been driven through recently, which is probably the only reason the road was even semi-passable. The plops were still steaming. Snowfall intermittent.

*******

Way more time went by in Blackreach than I thought! A little over six weeks. I double checked with both Elda and the clerk at the White Phial when we arrived in Windhelm.

Elda handed me a stack of letters including a short note from Onmund explaining that they had gotten Breylna medical help, and she’s fine, but they decided not to wait for the rest of us. As soon as she was fit to travel, they hopped the stage back to Winterhold.

When we checked in with the apothecary, he yelled at us from upstairs. Nurelion never showed his face, didn’t have to, I could see him peeking down from a rotten gap in the boards above his apprentice’s head.

“That young lady would have died- slow- if she hadn’t come to me! What idiot thought taking a bunch of novice mages into a dangerous ruin was a good idea!?” he demanded.

Wyn coughed to hide laughter, I’m sure of it. I was smearing ointment on his arm at the time and concentrated on that instead of how red my cheeks were probably turning.

I had been thinking about showing Nurelion the research notes I uncovered in Blackreach, but not with that attitude. I thanked the apprentice, Quintus, who was nothing but polite the whole time, then left before any side quests could trigger. I don’t care about the white phial, even if it is Nurelion’s life’s work. Call me heartless but the old man is on his way to the big alembic in the sky anyway. Let someone else go adventuring for him, I’m booked.

With my hood up and head down, walking behind Wyn for good measure I managed to avoid being noticed as we crossed the market. I’m so over being summoned every time I’m in Windhelm.

The nice elven lady, Tirvise, who runs the boarding house in the Quarter that we used before was more than happy to give us a two-for-one rate. Flopping down into a real mattress after a real bath is the best, only seconded by getting a hot meal after six weeks of rations and boney fish. Tirvise served us what looked like bowls of yellow meat glop with flat bread. What it lacked in visual appeal it more than made up for in taste. I want her to adopt me. Learn me your ways, Sauce Mother, so I may spread your savory teachings!

We found Sarah and Barbas hiding out in the laundry room, much to my relief. I was starting to wonder if they got separated or run out of town or something. That was only partially true. Locals tend to react less than calmly when they see a ghost. They had to sneak in after dark through the entrance to the docks. Sarah also said that Barbas tried to convince her to break off from the group to go talk to someone for him.

I gave the dog a sharp really? look.

He tilted his head innocently. “What? You can’t blame me for trying.”

Sarah was confused until I explained exactly who he wanted to introduce her to and why that was a bad idea. She was part offended that Barbas would try something like that with her and part intrigued that there are talking statues dotted all over this continent waiting to grant cursed wishes in exchange for favors.

Barbas shrugged it off. “I would have warned her not to take anything Vile offered. He’s not as unreasonable as you think.”

Unreasonable isn’t the word, but I’m not arguing that point with what is essentially a four-legged splinter of Vile’s psyche.

I don’t want Sarah to feel like she’s stuck with me, but she kind of is, at least for now. She’s not even semi-fluent yet. What would she do on her own? Wander around Skyrim looking for ghost-friendly venues? What she wants is to find and reclaim her body…or what’s left of it walking around out there. How the fuck that would work I also don’t know. There’s no news on that front either. When I had a chance to go through the rest of my mail there was nothing from Wuunferth. I did get a very brief check-in from Tony saying he got back to Riften and was in the process of “putting things in motion.” That was dated four days after we left for Blackreach. Viarmo wrote asking why I hadn’t written to him, and Evette San sent me a wedding invitation. She and Bendt are finally tying the knot on the 1^st of Second Seed. I’ll have to ask around, so I don’t get them an inappropriate gift. That’s assuming I’m alive in five months.

Windhelm

Fredas, 8^th of Morning Star, 4E 202

Last night I had a room to myself. This morning I was sharing. I rolled over and noticed a person-shaped lump on the floor by the bed.

“Wyn?” his eyes shot open and looked at me calmly. “Did you pick my lock?”

“Yes.”

“Dare I ask why?”

“Because I’m not the only one in Windhelm who can pick a lock.”

Of course. How silly of me. Flawless logic.

“Ask next time.”

It was entirely too early and too cold for this. I wrapped a blanket around my head and dozed off again. Elda said the stage should arrive again tomorrow if the weather holds. I’d much rather go back to Whiterun that way than traipse through the snow.

How does one train a carrier pigeon? Or a raven, they’re smart. It would be cool if I didn’t have to rely on expensive couriers for fast messaging. I want to send word ahead, but since I plan on using the stage, I would get there at the same time the letter would. Definition of pointless.  

I’m not ready to use the Elder Scroll. The steps up to High Hrothgar won’t be passable until spring anyway. I hate waiting.

I should practice Shouting, some place where the citizenry won’t hear. Maybe I’ll figure out Dragonrend on my own.

It could happen.

Concentrating on the many letters I need to finish today. I think my handwriting has gotten worse without practice. I need Idgrod to start putting out court feelers regarding Elisef and Balgruuf. Bryling can speak to her, and Proventus can put a bug in Balgruuf’s ear. Progress report from Tony to request. A placating “I’m okay and very busy” note to Viarmo (the needy thread throughout all his letters is getting worrisome. Even after everything that happened last time, he’s forever trying to get me back to Solitude.) I’ll get everything mailed from Whiterun.

Windhelm

Loredas, 9^th of Morning Star, 4E 202

The weather will not be cooperating with my travel plans. It’s been snowing off and on for the last three days straight. This isn’t wimpy baby snow either. This is the chonky stuff, coming down in frozen waves and sticking fast to whatever it lands on. Two rooves and half a barn have already collapsed under the weight. I hope Axel is okay.

I’ve been trying to keep myself occupied. While Tirvise is exceedingly patient with my special brand of weird her husband, Vonoron, is a little less tolerant. To be fair I was shaking the foundations of their house so hard with my Shouts that the restaurant next door lost several paying customers, who didn’t appreciate the Red Mountain flashbacks at all.

I thought about moving into Calixto’s old shop, since it’s just sitting there abandoned, but there’s no basement and the neighbors are too close. Shouting in the catacombs under the Hall of the Dead just seems…wrong. It’s one thing to mess up a bunch of draugr in a tomb; scattering the bones of someone’s innocent grandma is on the not okay list. Helgird would probably skin me alive herself.

And I’m not going down into the sewers. There isn’t enough gold or soap in the world to make that worthwhile.

Out of options, I pulled up my big girl panties and went to see if Jorlief would let me use the dungeons. Wyn didn’t like this plan and would not be left behind. He says he doesn’t trust the courtiers not to harass me, but I have to wonder if he thinks I’m in danger of getting shanked. Barbas stayed behind with Sarah.

The hip-deep snow kept most of the fancy people home, so it was easier than normal to get an audience. The hall was cold and practically empty. Two bored looking women lounged in cushioned chairs to one side.

Kiri greeted me warmly and was courteous to Wyn. I wish I could say the same for her uncle. Jorlief cast a suspicious glare over my shoulder every so often as we talked. I could feel Wyn tensing at my back, keeping his right side hidden behind me for easy dagger access.

I rushed through my explanation for needing a solid, underground space to practice, keeping it vague and talking quietly, because the women were surely listening. I hadn’t noticed Ulfric standing in the war room door until he strode forward with a big, welcoming grin. He put his heavy hands on my shoulders and said he had just the place for me, telling Jorlief to stay in the hall and leading me himself. The older woman scowled deeply as we passed.

We breezed through the same corridor I remember taking to get to the jail cells, then veered down a side passage and a narrow set of stairs. As we went, once we were clear of eavesdroppers (except for Wyn, who he ignored completely) Ulfric started talking about the success of the targeted attacks I’d proposed. Ah. That’s why he was being so friendly. By the latest count more than a dozen Thalmor moving through the Reach and the Pale had been ambushed and slaughtered. The Stormcloaks only lost one man, and that was because he refused to wear enchanted armor.  

Great. Thalmor losses are good; Ulfric thinking this makes us allies not so much. Asking him for favors doesn’t help, I realize.

At the bottom of the stairs the corridor branched off into six vaults with arched ceilings. Probably emergency storage in case of siege. One had been cleared out except for a pair of large, dusty bear heads on either side of the doorway (wtf is with this guy and taxidermy?) a torch, and an old archery target. Ulfric proudly showed it off as the space he himself goes to meditate on and practice his thu’um.

Cool. I thought he would leave then, instead he leaned against the wall obviously intent on watching. I tried the “please don’t let me keep you from your duties” approach, but he stood firm.

“You’re saving me from being forced to grant an audience.” Ulfric said. “The women upstairs? Maven Black-Briar and her daughter. Surely you’ve heard of her, or at least her meadery.”

“Of course.” I tried to keep my voice measured. “But do you think ignoring her will make her go away?”

“No.” He scoffed. “She’ll camp in my hall until I hear her, then long after when she doesn’t get her way.”

“What does she want? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Ulfric sighed heavily. “On the surface she wants me to marry her daughter, like every other thane, merchant, and courtier in the country. All Maven really wants is power and she’ll play both sides to get it. Frankly, I’m not in the mood to feign ignorance about that.” A glint of mischief caught his eye. “I would much rather observe your technique than deal with her. I haven’t made the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar in many years. Show an old soldier how out of practice he is.”

Wyn didn’t make a sound, but I’ve gotten to know him well enough to see the shift of disapproval in his stance. He doesn’t trust Ulfric Stormcloak as far as he can throw him. Neither do I, but that doesn’t mean I can’t play nice.

I started with Throw Voice, ZUL MEY GUT, just to mess with him. Of all the Shouts I’ve learned it seems the most childish, but I guess magic ventriloquy could be useful one day. After warming up with a few elemental words I almost forgot anyone else was in the room and focused on my own combos.

AO DAH KEST. Fog full of zappy static. Woe to all who wear wool socks in my presence!

NAHLOT KLO MEY. Muffle? It seems to make the effected person partially deaf for a little while.

SIL YOL AUS. Severe indigestion.

TIID DREM FRUL. Everyone takes a nap for a minute. I like this one. Ulfric snores.

Comparing the words with the effect I’ve concluded that my intent has a lot more to do with the outcome than the actual phrase. Though the sequence does seem to matter. SIL YOL AUS gave Ulfric and Wyn heartburn, while YOL AUS SIL produced a heart-shaped plume of flame (that’s fun), and AUS YOL SIL had no demonstrable effect at all. Would the effects change if I were using it on someone I wanted to hurt? My going theory is probably yes.

I was starting to feel like I was getting somewhere when Ulfric came to and commanded me to stop. It’s difficult to take a man with drool in his beard seriously, but I did make an effort.

Ulfric found the whole experience unsettling, I think. Not just the effects of the thu’ums I was playing with, but the number of words I’ve got under my belt now. The Greybeards would not approve of me experimenting with the Way of the Voice either. For all I know they’re all listening from their mountain, thoroughly cheesed off.

Sorry not sorry.

Despite that he’s giving me free reign to use his practice room whenever I want. I intend to do just that while I’m stuck here.

I have no doubt that Ulfric’s generosity hinges on his desire to stay on my good side. What happens when things go bad? The Thalmor will regroup, and with that the Stormcloaks will have to change tactics. If he comes to me for advice again, I’m not sure if I’ll have any. I mean I could pull something out of my ass and hope it works, but that’s not a great strategy.

For now, I plan on practicing as much as I can while I’ve got the time. As soon as the roads clear enough for the stage to get here I’ll go back to Whiterun and hunker down until spring.

It’s weird to think that almost a year has gone by since I got here. But then time is weird, isn’t it?

I’m not sure how long we were in the practice room, maybe an hour or two. On the way back up to the first floor Ulfric stopped by a side staircase in the main corridor meant for servants.

“Go ahead, I will take the back way.” He said tiredly. “If they see us coming out together, they will assume something illicit is going on between us.”  

Ulfric grasped my forearm before darting up the stairs. Wyn stared daggers after him.

When we stepped into the main hall Maven and her daughter were still waiting, languidly sipping from wine goblets, equal parts frustrated and bored. The older woman fixed on me with laser focus.

No, no, no…walk away! Get out of here before-

“You! Explain to me how you merit a private audience with the jarl while I am left to languish! Speak up girl!”

Oh my god the over-the-top imperious accent! The heavily painted brows! The artificially blackened hair and the way her nose steadily rose as she spoke! I wanted to laugh in her face so hard. People are intimidated by this lady? Really?

Wyn had the good sense to hang back. Having an elf get in her face would have just made things worse, though I’m sure it would have been hilarious. I tried to picture what we look like to her. Wyn with his shabby armor and good knives and me in heavily tailored, but still non-descript brown robes and two-inch pixie hair. Mercenary upstarts. Maybe ex-Winterhold students gone rogue.

For once Jorlief came to the rescue, just dripping apologies before I could put my foot in my mouth. Kiri mouthed “run” at me over his shoulder. I giggled the whole way back to the boarding house. Wyn was not amused. But come on! It’s too ridiculous that Ulfric is hiding from an old lady with a corn cob wedged up her butt. Is Maven dangerous? Sure, I don’t doubt that she’s had people killed and doesn’t feel the least bit bad about it. Everyone knows about her methods, but she has money and influence. No one wants to mess with her. If things go well with Tony and the Guild her luck may turn soon. Nothing would make me happier than to see Maven taken down a peg and not having the Thieves Guild in her pocket anymore would be a huge blow.

After supper Vonoron helped us drag an extra mattress into my room. If he had an opinion about what it was for, he kept it to himself. People have probably made far weirder requests.

Wyn went quiet, that specific sort of tense quiet when something’s bothering him. I could practically hear him grinding his teeth as we moved his gear into my room.

“You’re brooding again.” I accused.

“I’m thinking.”

“If you think any harder, you’ll pop a blood vessel. Talk to me.”

Wyn scowled down at his open pack, rearranging things as he spoke. “He is too…familiar with you.”

“Who? Ulfric? He just wants me on his side. And to run interference with Maven. Did you see her daughter? She’s so not interested in him.”

He hummed darkly.

“I don’t trust him either.”

Wyn looked up with a calculating expression. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” I didn’t even have to think about it, the answer just flew out of my mouth.

I don’t know how to describe the look on his face. He froze for a moment, but I couldn’t really parse out why. Of course I trust him. Whatever issues Wyn has I know he values what I’m trying to do too much to let anything happen to me.  

“I need to walk the Quarter.” He said suddenly. “Stay here.”

Before I could ask why he wanted to go out at night in three feet of snow he was already gone, leaving me with Sarah and Barbas, who had been curled up by the brazier listening to the whole exchange.

“You know,” the dog began, “for a smart woman you can be pretty dense about some things.”

“What?”

“That elf worships the ground you walk on.”

“He wants to keep me alive long enough to save the world, we talked about that in Blackreach.”

“It goes deeper than that. He’s not willing to come out and say it and you’re not willing to listen. It was kind of entertaining at first, but now I’m starting to feel bad for the guy.”

I turned to Sarah to get her reaction, she just nodded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Am I that oblivious? Or are they reading more into it than there is? Dammit I suck at this stuff. Why can’t people just say what they’re thinking? No, I know why, the same reason Ulfric can’t tell Maven she’s not going to bully him into a political marriage, so she can kindly fuck off back to Riften. The reason Quintus didn’t tell his master that he was being rude. The reason Kiri has a job at all.

I’ve stayed up as late as I can hoping to catch Wyn coming in so we can talk, but the moons are setting and he’s still out doing whatever it is he does when he disappears like this. I guess it will have to wait, I keep nodding off.

Sundas, 10^th of Morning Star, 4E 202

Wyn didn’t come back. No one in the Quarter remembers seeing him. That’s not surprising, the dude is a ghost when he wants to be. Barbas traced his scent through the snow to the docks, then lost it.

Guards and dock workers didn’t see anything, or so they say. Checked in at the palace, he wasn’t arrested. Neither Jorlief nor Ulfric seemed particularly interested in helping find a dark elf. Kiri was sympathetic but can’t really do anything.  

If he’d been attacked there would be blood, signs of a struggle, something. I can’t think of a reason why he would leave on his own, it’s possible but just…why? All he took with him were his daggers, why would he leave everything else? Nope, doesn’t add up. Someone got to him, someone stealthy. We’re going to check the city walls, see if Barbas can pick up on anything across the river or at the stables.

It’s going to be a long day.

Chapter Text

Whiterun

Middas, 20^th of Morning Star, 4E 202

This will be a recap. I’ve been too busy and pissed off to journal the last week and a half.

The morning Wyn disappeared kicked off a day-long search, using Barbas to sniff out his trail, and Sarah to check the bottom of the harbor (it is insanely useful that she doesn’t feel cold or need to breath.)

With the snow finally clearing up most people were digging out their doorways and helping clear walks and roads in and around the city. After talking to anyone who would listen, I was getting frustrated. I was recognized by half the people, even ended up giving out several autographs which was beyond bizarre, but when I told the Nords I was searching for a dark elf their eyes just glazed over and I was directed back to the Grey Quarter.

Finally, around sunset Mette sent word that an elf’s body had been found in the snow behind the stables. I walked the whole way feeling like my stomach was eating itself. I know Barbas was talking, but I hardly heard him as we caught up to the small crowd milling around, waiting for me. Helgird stood by with her cart and nodded as I passed her. Mette and two other guards stepped back to let me get close enough to see. Someone had shoveled a path to the back of the stalls, probably so they could muck them right into the hole. A body lay still partially encased in crimson slush, the skin almost blue in contrast. I knelt down, heart hammering, and wiped the face clean. It was a dark elf, but not one I recognized. I remember letting out a long breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, then called Barbas over.

“Dead maybe a day.” the dog said between sniffs. “Wyndelius’ scent is here, but it’s faint. He’s probably the one who slashed this poor bastard’s throat.”

“But why?”

He sneezed and looked up at me with watery blood dripping off his nose. “Look at his forearm.”

I tilted my head, so the image tattooed on the man’s arm was right side up and felt all the blood drain from my face. A black handprint. The lines were shaky, probably done by hand with a needle, but it was recognizable.  

“I think you should go look through Wyn’s things.” Barbas suggested.

I agreed and went to thank Mette for looking out. I’d been reluctant to rifle through Wyn’s pack, even though it seemed like he left it deliberately it felt like a violation of trust. It’s not like he hasn’t disappeared before. He’ll be gone for hours, only to turn up after “scouting” somehow knowing exactly where I am. This time felt different though. Too sudden, too enigmatic even for him. The body in the snow was the clincher.

Back at the boarding house I wasted no time dumping the whole pack out. It was full of crap we hadn’t had a chance to pawn yet; Dwemer gears, soul gems, a big pouch of dried shrooms, rolls of leather, and at the very bottom a crumpled bit of parchment. The writ was worn and stained, but legible:

“As instructed, you are to eliminate Esme Emard. The Black Sacrament has been performed- the client wants the body retrieved intact.  

We’ve already received payment for the contract. Failure is not an option.

-Astrid”

Two assassins. There were two assassins that night in Morthal.

Suddenly it all clicked in my head. Sild’s slit throat. The Argonian’s lack of weapons. She was trying to fulfill the contract, to kill me without damaging my body. Wyn had appeared behind her out of nowhere, Barbas said he’d chased the second one into the swamp.

I looked up at the dog then. He sat on his haunches, waiting for me to piece it all together.

“You knew?”

He nodded. “You were already dealing with enough. When the elf didn’t say anything…I just went along with it.”

“How many have there been?”

“Five since Morthal, that I know of.”

So, he went out to deal with the assassin behind the stables, then what? The contract still didn’t explain what happened after that or why Wyn left his stuff behind. He might have been ambushed, but then there would have been some sort of sign of a struggle, more of his scent on the body.

The uncertainty gave way to anxiety and then flat-out anger. He should have told me what was going on! I was just as upset at Barbas at first, but after some time passed it tapered off. He feels bad, but at the time he thought it was the right thing to do. Fine. I get it. I don’t agree, but I get it.

With no evidence, witnesses, or even a trail to follow all I could do was wait for Axel to finally show up. Windhelm is a piss-hole. I never want to go back. If Wyn is out there doing clandestine shit he’ll just have to figure out where I am if he wants to rejoin the fold. If I let him. I haven’t decided.

I had to wait two more days. Visiting the Market became a nightmare, too many people recognized me, and I wasn’t up for slapping on a happy face for them. Mostly I killed time in Ulfric’s practice room.

Avoiding Maven was like a game of ghost tag, except she was always It. She became an almost permanent fixture in the Hall while she waited for the roads to clear enough to travel. As Ulfric predicted she didn’t let up after he granted her the meeting she wanted. Every time I walked into the Hall there she was, jabbering away, conducting business, ordering people around like she owned the place. Her poor daughter looked absolutely miserable.

I invited Ingun to practice archery with me (I needed a break from Shouting) which she accepted gratefully. We found that we have a lot in common. We both like alchemy and boiled crème treats and lore. Neither of us are particularly good archers. Between the two of us we broke a dozen practice arrows and one of Ulfric's mounted bear heads has a loose eyeball now. 

As I thought, Ingun doesn’t care about Ulfric or becoming a jarless, that’s all Maven. Ever since Honningbrew meadery blew up Ingun said her mother has been obsessed with “stabilizing her interests.” Right, because even though the meadery is no longer competition she can’t buy it out for resources now either. Tony burned all the hives at Goldenglow, so Maven is running out of local sources for honey. On top of that the civil war and dragon attacks are hitting trade hard and someone made off with her best breeding stallion (hehehehe).

I suppose using your only daughter as a political tool just makes sense to someone like that. Ingun is surprisingly resigned about the whole thing. She said Ulfric would have to be an idiot to accept the alliance now. Staying single this long has given him something to dangle in front of the nobles (we both giggled at that).

“So, you’re not worried at all?” I asked her on my last day over a game of chess.

Ingun just shrugged, moving her fingers back and forth between her knight and rook indecisively. “Not really. If he keeps saying no mother will eventually have to go back to Riften and I can resume my life of study while she screams at her underlings. If he says yes, well that would mean that I’m to marry a fool. It would get me away from her though.”

“But then you’d have to…you know…”

“Sleep with him? Only to get him heirs, the rest of the time I suspect he would spend with Galmar.”

I felt my jaw go slack with shock. “You don’t mean in the ‘jarl talking strategy with his house karl’ kind of way, do you?”

Ingun smirked and shook her head. “I overheard the servants talking about how Galmar is often seen leaving the jarl’s rooms early in the morning. It’s been going on for years.”

That was certainly enlightening. I wished that Wyn was there to hear it, so I could say ‘I told ya so.’ His absence hurt more than I wanted to admit, more than I really want to admit now if I’m honest.

Ingun won the game. I ended up eating supper with Ulfric in the war room, more to put a bookend on the visit than to supply any real insight. I had none. Winter is a bad time to fight, even for Nords. All he can do is stay the course and wait for the Thalmor to make a move. Meanwhile he assured me that Wuunferth is spearheading the search for Calixto. How very reassuring.

Axel showed up the next day. I wasn’t the only person who ran out to enthusiastically greet him, but I was the only one who got a big bear hug from the old man. He’s just as leathery and terse as ever. We had a farewell party at Mette’s place. It’s good to see Aventus looking healthy. He still eats like someone is going to snatch the food off his plate, but he seems happy roughhousing with the other kids and cracking dirty jokes when they think Mette isn’t listening.

The Gray-Mane brothers are both doing fine. Thorald is running around with one of the mobile units, no doubt gleefully wiping out Thalmor, and Avulstein is holding the Pale with his regiment. It’s a little heartbreaking to hear how wistful Mette gets talking about the day when Avulstein will come back, and they can start their life together. I’ll be there with bells on. Regardless of how the civil war ends they’re good people and I want them to be happy.

Axel brought news from Winterhold. The Thalmor have dug themselves in, but so far Savos has kept his word about maintaining strict control over the Saarthal dig. The mages got back in one piece, however J’zargo went off on a “sojourn” to environs unknown not long after arriving and hasn’t been seen since. I’m not sure yet if that’s cause for concern or not. Knowing him he’s probably off experimenting with all the shroom samples from Blackreach so he can keep any breakthroughs for himself.

We left for Whiterun the next morning. Slow going in sub-zero temperatures. It made me a little homesick; all the sparkly, snow covered trees and frozen lakes and whatnot. I’m bummed out that I missed Thanksgiving and Christmas. They don’t even celebrate the new year here, at least not like home. I should change that. Any excuse to get shit-faced is an easy sell, I know Axel liked the idea.

Currently I’m staying with the Gray-Manes and trying not to be a burden. Sarah has gotten very good at being inconspicuous. While her language skills have a long way to go, she’s gotten the phrase “I am a good spirit, please do not attack me!” down. Eorlund cocked an eyebrow at me when she said that and Fralia chuckled about the interesting company I keep.

Olfina is seeing Jon Battle-Born on the down-low. Like Romeo and Juliet, without the preteen melodrama and pantyhose. If I had popcorn, I’d be sitting by with a big buttery bowl just enjoying the show, they’re that adorable.

Pre-Spring To Do's:

-Continue practicing thu’ums (not sure where yet) &  dovahzul.

-Sarah: language lessons and ghost powers? She can stay underwater, what else can she do?

-Elisef and Balgruuf (sitting in a tree) 

-Figure out what is going on with the thieves guild.

-Calixto (probably put the Dark Brotherhood contract on me. Eat a ball sack, you elusive honky psycho.)

Chapter Text

Whiterun

Sundas, 24^th of Morning Star, 4E 202

There was only one letter waiting for me in Whiterun. Idgrod isn’t sure if my scheme to get Elisef and Balgruuf together will work, mostly because it’s difficult to talk to Elisef without going through Tullius, Elenwen, and Falk Firebeard first. Thane Bryling is our ace-in-the-hole. She has a prime seat at court and the jarl likes her. Meanwhile Proventus and I had a long pro-con talk yesterday and he seems to be on board. Balgruuf doesn’t want to do anything to destabilize his position, but he’s not going to completely dismiss a chance to be High King. The tricky part is keeping it quiet.

Whiterun hasn’t changed much. I noticed that most of the rubble from the meadery explosion has been cleared away. As we passed the site half a dozen peasants waved at Axel before going back to digging through the snow for whatever is left to salvage. Rumor has it that Maven was outbid for the land by an anonymous broker out of Riften. I wonder if she knows yet.

I had all the negative expectations when I arrived back with a ghost in tow. Pitchforks and flying cabbages. Just goes to show I would have made the universe’s worst fortune teller. Fralia loves Sarah. And Sarah is so happy to have things to do! The first morning after we arrived, I found her in the kitchen halfway up the chimney flue, muttering about fire safety. She grew up on a farm, one of those old school peat-brick heated, up at the crack of dawn to milk the cows kind of set ups, so none of this is that weird to her.

Not to say that everyone is thrilled with her stay here, or mine for that matter. The Battle-Borns have a burr up the ass about me supposedly siding with the Stormcloaks. It’s led to a few drunken brawls at the Bannered Mare in the last few months, mostly between Vignar and Idolaf. Trust Vignar to pick a fight with a man half his age.

You give a guy one piece of tactical advice and rumors start flying! The Dragonborn’s “involvement” with the Stormcloaks is the latest tavern gossip. I’ve lost track of how many stories there are now. Ulfric and the Dragonborn are engaged, they’re already married, they’re in an undeclared alliance and I’m going to start leading his troops into all-out battle come spring. One fun bit of fiction floating around has it that the Dragonborn is Hoag Stormcloak’s bastard daughter come back from exile to claim my birthright. Which would make me Ulfric’s half-sister. *fart noise*

Don’t think I didn’t try to refute some of the stories. It doesn’t seem to do much. Actually the more I try to deny the more people seem to believe the rumors, so I started a few of my own about how the Dragonborn is really a seven foot tall shield-maiden who can shoot lightening from her eyes and sprout wings from her back. Sarah suggested a tail as well. Barbas wanted her to have a forked tongue and scales below the waist. Lol. Why not? 

******

The other day I was going through my packs, organizing Wyn’s stuff, and felt a pang of…something. I don’t know, regret? Guilt? If I had stopped him from going out that night or if I had paid closer attention to what was going on earlier, then he might be here and not wherever the hell he is now. In a ditch, on a murderous rampage, both are plausible, and I don’t know which to root for. Neither. Not that it matters. I’m sure he thinks he’s doing the right thing by going after the Brotherhood, but he knew I would never sanction something like that. He knew and he did it anyway.

I fucking hate this! I keep coming back to the thought that if I had never interfered Wyn wouldn’t be running around killing anybody; that every person he murders in my name is fucking up this whole universe and how their story is supposed to go. He’s supposed to be dead. Sarah’s supposed to be dead. I’m supposed to be in Chicago, stressing out over my master’s thesis like a good little over-caffeinated academic.

Barbas keeps telling me to stop overthinking it. Gosh, why didn’t I think of that?

Middas, 27^th of Morning Star, 4E 202

Got mail this afternoon. Finally heard back from Tony! As follows:

Esme,

Hope you’re okay. You need to stop hanging out with Ulfric Stormcloak. People are talking.

There’s no news about Franken-psycho, sorry.

I guess it won’t surprise you that I’m a Nightingale now. And before you get weird about it remember that you got me into this.

Mercer did exactly what you said he would. I wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way, but at least I’m not dead. Etienne had already warned everyone that something was up (he says hi), and it got the whole Ragged Flagon so riled that Mercer didn’t have a chance in hell of sneaking into the vault. Sapphire and Rune caught him in the act. Stupid motherfucker tried to blame me, but when I showed up with Karliah and Gallus’ transcribed journal (that was a huge pain in the ass by the way!) it was all the evidence anyone needed. He tried to fight his way out after that. It didn’t end well for him.

Karliah is head of the guild now. I have no business being in charge of anything. I was surprised enough when they asked me to be the third Nightingale. You left that part out, but I know that you know that I know you knew. Don’t tell me how. For real. Leave me out of whatever tarot card, voodoo shit you’re into.

What I do want you to do is ask your friend if she can take care of Aventus a while longer. I still have fires to put out. Riften isn’t safe for him. I might have also forgotten to mention that I threatened the head of the orphanage at knifepoint to get him out to begin with. She took it personally. And Maven is mega pissed about her guild privileges being revoked. So as of right now I’ve got bounties on my head in three different holds. I also can’t go back to Markarth. Don’t ask.

I’ll keep in touch. If you’re ever in Riften hit me up. The guild owes you.

-A. A.

I knew he was being cagey about how he got Aventus out of Honor Hall! The rest of this is mostly good news though. Karliah won’t let Maven use the guild as her own personal goon squad anymore. I plan on encouraging them to rob her blind when I reply. I don’t want her in any kind of position to seize control of Riften if the opportunity presents itself. If she thinks she can make a deal with Ulfric she’ll back him at the Moot and that’s a complication I don’t need down the road. I want her distracted. I want her so preoccupied by her increasing financial woes that politics take a back seat. The satisfaction of taking the bitch down a peg is just a bonus.

I noticed he didn’t offer to pay Mette anything for fostering. I’ll ask Fralia what would be considered appropriate and send it in my next letter to her. It’s not fair to ask her to raise another kid out of the goodness of her heart on a guard’s salary.

Aventus is almost old enough to start apprenticing, so he could be earning his keep like most teens here. Sad that Tony has missed his son’s whole childhood. He may not see it that way, which is doubly sad, but there’s nothing I can do about that. 

Turdas, 28^th of Morning Star, 4E 202

Since we got back to Whiterun I’ve been working with Sarah a few hours a day. Language lessons mixed with ghost testing shenanigans to make it less boring. She likes tinkering with things, figuring stuff out by reaching right in and yanking on it, so to speak. Book learning isn’t her thing.

After setting- accidentally! -the dining room table on fire by having her complete a potato battery circuit with her fingers Eorlund suggested that we experiment in the training yard at Jorrvaskr. Most of the Companions aren’t there anyway.

And that’s how I pissed off Vilkas. In retrospect, it’s funny, because blatant cliché. Not the sexy kind though. The kind that marches at you in full plate armor with a sword and a bad attitude.

The first three days we used the yard was no big deal. No one came out to bother us. We weren’t trying to be quiet either, mostly messing around with Dwemer parts that we picked up in Blackreach. Sarah thinks that Dwemer robots probably aren’t that different from the kind of machines we had back on Earth, but instead of an operator or a computer telling the robot what to do it’s the soul gem that powers and controls them. That suggests that they have at least some intelligence. Maybe even some awareness?

On day four Sarah was conjugating Tamrielic verbs and trying to attach her own soul gem to a centurion dynamo to see if she could get it to spin when we both heard the door to the patio behind us slam. Vilkas stood there looking like he wanted to cut us both down. He didn’t like us using the yard without getting official permission, I guess. That could have been communicated with 100% less chair throwing.   

Two words: anger management.

Sarah wasn’t having it. She walked right up to him and called him an ingrate in his own language, which filled me with pride as a teacher, but also made my sphincter clench when he looked like he might raise his sword to attack her. Instead, he clenched his teeth and suggested we take our disagreements to Kodlak.

NOPE! No. All the no, all the time! I am not getting roped into another side quest. Absolutely not!

I started spazzing with half-formed apologies. Gathered up our things as fast as I possibly could, grabbed Sarah’s arm and practically dragged her back to the Gray-Mane house. Eorlund saw the whole scene from the forge.

“Vilkas tortures himself.” He said that night at supper. “Pay him no mind, he has restraint enough not to murder an unarmed woman.”

“What is problem?” Sarah asked.

“What is his problem.” I corrected.

“What is the problem?” she countered.

Eorlund just grunted into his ale mug and shook his head. Of course, he can’t tell us that all the members of the Circle are werewolves, including Vilkas. I understand that. Sarah doesn’t. I’ll have to clue her in, quietly just between us, before she says or does something careless.

Loredas, 30^th of Morning Star, 4E 202

Delphine showed up in Whiterun last night. She knew where I was but of course being the same ol’ paranoid Del she couldn’t just go to the house and knock on the door. She paid a street kid to bully another street kid to come tell me to talk to Arcadia at her shop, so she could tell me to ask about renting the basement room at the Drunken Huntsman, so that the elf at the Huntsman could direct me to an empty room upstairs.

Del was hiding in the rafters like Batman.

She had plenty to catch me up on, once I stopped hyperventilating. Since I saw her last in Ivarstead she tracked Esbern down and they located Sky Haven Temple. It took them a while to convince the Forsworn to agree to a truce.

“That’s impressive, how did you manage that?” I asked. 

“Esbern promised to share some ancient knowledge with their matron hagraven. We had nothing else to bargain with. The point is we have the complex cleared, all the boobytraps are deactivated, we just need you to open the doors. The ancient Blades spelled them so only the blood of a Dragonborn can open them.” 

“Can’t I bottle some blood for you to take? I can spare a vial.”

“No. You need to be there. Esbern says it won’t work otherwise, and there’s information in the temple that will help you defeat Alduin.”

I couldn’t tell Del that I already knew about the prophecy wall and Shout the ancient heroes used. Nothing at the temple can tell what that shout actually is so going all the way to the Reach would be a waste of time. 

She wasn’t going to take any tacit explanation either. Any excuse I tried she expertly countered with a growing suspicion, until I finally caved. My only real incentive is that maybe Esbern, brilliant scholar that he is, will have some insight that never came out in the game. An alternate route to Alduin, a possible weakness to exploit maybe? IRL we can brainstorm. 

I’m not crazy about traveling again, but Del is anxious to get back to Esbern. We’re leaving in two days for Rorikstead, then we’ll have to swing south through Forsworn territory. I sincerely hope it’s warmer down there. 

Chapter Text

Rorikstead

Middas, 3^rd of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202

Before leaving Whiterun I had an attack of conscience thinking about what will happen to the Companions. It’s Vignar’s fault. After supper he and Eorlund sit around the fire some nights talking. And I like to listen. The night after Del turned up again was one such evening, I was sitting at the table jotting down notes for the upcoming venture south when Vignar started going on a tangent about Kodlak. Everyone in the Circle is worried about him.

“You remember what he was like just a few years ago.” Vignar growled at his brother. “Always out in the training yard, looking over the new whelps, keeping up with the Circle. Now he doesn’t even take his meals with the rest. Isolating himself. It bodes ill, you mark me!”

Oh, just fuck my life.

The next morning, when I should have been planning for the trip and obsessing over how to get the Blades to agree to leave Paarthurnax alone, I followed Eorlund up to Jorrvaskr. All I had to do was tell him that I had something important that I wanted to discuss with Kodlak. He just took my word for it without question.

I’d never actually been inside the mead hall before. It’s like a frat house with barbeque pits built into the floor. The long room was empty, except for the elderly maid who looked like she was putting out a breakfast buffet. The smell had 4^th of July vibes. Instant homesickness. Though there was an odd musky undertone that suddenly made Barbas’ complete refusal to come with me make more sense. I’ll bet werewolf smells to him the way wet dog smells to me.

Eorlund walked me down to the living quarters, and I had to pretend that I had every right to be there as we passed a few young warriors emerging from their dorm rooms, openly staring. At the end of the corridor he stopped, knocked respectfully, and in a moment the old Harbringer filled the doorway wearing nothing but a quilted robe and fur boots.

“The Dragonborn needs to talk to you.” Eorlund said without preamble before turning away.

I couldn’t help but feel a little bit abandoned watching him walk off, scowling the “whelps” upstairs to breakfast so they didn’t eavesdrop.

The sheer size of most Nords makes me feel like a Hobbit at the best of times and this was no exception. Kodlak peered down at me with an expression of tired bemusement before stepping into the hall so we could sit at the little table outside his rooms.

“I was wondering when you would turn up.” he said.  

“Oh?” I tried to sound casual, wanting him to elaborate.

“The Dragonborn and the Companions have historical ties. Ancient by any reckoning. In danger of being forgotten. I thought perhaps you would come sooner, for council, but then maybe you already know everything, eh?”

I rapidly searched my memory for Companion history. They were established by Ysgramor…but he wasn’t a DB it was too soon, he was first era, so what ties…?

“I didn’t think the Companions would want to bring up the ancient dragon cults in their history.” I ventured.

The old man’s face lit up.

“The uneducated may see it as a stigma, but while Ysgramor was a high-ranking member of the dragon cult so were all his contemporaries. I do not see it as a mark of dishonor. And of course, the dragon cults and the emergence of the Dragonborn are all connected. One cannot study one without the other.”

“If we do not understand our past, we are doomed to repeat it.” I quoted.

A small, indulgent smile broke across his heavily tattooed face. “You must talk with Vilkas sometime, he is meant to take over as our historian when I am gone.”

“Oh, he may not like that-”

“I heard about the misunderstanding in the training yard. Forgive him. The boy is under a great deal of pressure. It makes him surly.”

I nodded. “That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about. Although, you might not want to have this conversation out in the open.” My eyes darted to movement at the end of the corridor. Someone had ducked into a doorway; I wasn’t sure who.

“There are precious few secrets among us, but every Companion is bound by honor to keep our affairs our own.” He said a little louder than he needed to.  “Likewise, anything you have to say will be kept in confidence. You have my word.”

“I’ll get to the point then. I’m not sure how much Eorlund has told you about…the things I know…”

Kodlak gave me a steady look that gave nothing away. Okay then.

“I know you’re looking for a way to cure yourself.”

That got the barest flinch. His hand on the table balled up just a little tighter, but he made no sign to stop me.

“And I know Aela and Skjor have been provoking the Silver Hand. If they keep it up, I know it will result in an attack on Jorrvaskr and your death.”

His ash and bone eyes darkened. “Go on.”

“I know what the cure is. It’s possible to cleanse yourself before you die. To ensure your soul passes into Sovengarde.”

Kodlak tugged his beard thoughtfully.

“I wasn’t sure it was you until this moment. So unassuming…” he muttered, then rallied to his previous calm, straight forward tone.

“I dreamt of Sovengarde some weeks ago. I saw the Harbringers who came before me in ranks of splendor, split from the path of our founders to wander dark and endless hunting grounds. A figure appeared at my side, but I could not see their face clearly. I only knew in the way of dreams that this person would be my ally.

“I only just received word that my son is dead. The Companions are all the legacy I have now. I cannot abide the thought of failing them by leaving our blood tainted as it is. To be denied Sovengarde…it is an intolerable fate.”

Only a flicker of despair passed over his face when he spoke. He caught it, crushed it, and used it to strengthen his resolve. It was a complicated expression; one I can’t really do justice to.

“Tell me what to do.” He demanded.  

I laid it all out, the Glenmoril witches and their difficult but not impossible to sever heads. Reforging Ysgramor’s battleax, the whole ritual in his tomb. And more importantly keeping the wolves far away from the Silver Hand until the deed was done. Kodlak assured me that at that moment Aela and Skjor were hunting in Eastmarch. I scratched out a bounty for him to send to them:

Dead or alive (preferably alive): Calixto Corrium, an Imperial Necromancer in his late 50’s to early 60’s. Average build, grey haired with a widow’s peak and hazel eyes. Likely in the company of a petite brunette woman in her early 20’s, with heavy facial and body scars. The woman is wanted alive.

Hey, they need to stay busy away from the Hand, and I need that corpse-thieving sack of shit caught already. Two birds, one stone.

As for the witches, Kodlak is sending the twins after them. I also suggested handing the pieces of Wuunthrad over to Eorlund instead of leaving them tacked up to the wall out in the open. Just in case. He’ll need to figure out how to put it back together anyway and he can’t do that without all the pieces.

When we were both satisfied that we’d talked through everything that needed to be done and why I started to get up and leave. Damn my curiosity. I turned and asked one final question:

“What was his name? Your son?”

“His birth name was Asmund, but I’m told he started going by Arnbjorn. He never told me why. We have not spoken in many years.”

My throat suddenly went dry. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” I croaked.

He nodded gravely and bid me good day.

‘Arnbjorn dies in the game.’ I tried to reassure myself as I exited the mead hall. ‘He always died, no matter what. Saving him would have been a long shot under the best of circumstances. And you can’t save everyone! He’d already pledged himself to Sithis, so he wasn’t going to get into Sovengarde with dear ol’ dad even if he had been cured.’

But what if I had changed things? I’ve done it for others, I saved Helgi in Morthal and Ra’jiir and Wyn and…

Jesus Christ. Wyn…what have you done?

I didn’t really think he could wipe out the Dark Brotherhood. He’s skilled, absolutely, but they’re an ancient order of assassins in an underground sanctuary guarded by a spelled door. If it was him, how the hell did he get in? Or did he? Damn it, there’s too much I just don’t know. Axel never found Cicero, so I have no idea if he even made it to the Falkreath sanctuary. If he did would the Night Mother choose someone else as the Listener? Another candidate? Was Arnbjorn killed by Cicero like it always happened in-game or did Wyn get to him first?

I was so preoccupied with the new set of problems Kodlak presented that I hadn’t noticed the housekeeper, Tilma, on my heals. She followed me all the way outside.

“Dragonborn!” she called to get my attention.

I cringed and turned. Still not a fan of being called by the title. It sounds weird and wrong, like when someone calls you “ma’am” before you’re even thirty.

“Forgive me, the Harbringer didn’t…I knew Asmund…er Arnbjorn. He was not the easiest boy to get along with, but Kodlak always hoped to reconcile their differences. He will not ask, so I must ask for him. If on your journeys you happen to pass through Falkreath, that is where Arnbjorn met his end we are told, if it is possible to return his body-”

“I’ll look into it.” I assured her. I hate seeing little old ladies cry and she was on the verge.

Tilma gave me a watery thank you and went back inside.

Damn it all to hell.

I spotted Del standing at the base of the stairs in a heavy hood and went to stand next to her.

“You heard?” I asked, following her gaze up at the dead tree in the courtyard.

“Not all of it. If that man at the base of Talos doesn’t shut up I may not be responsible for my actions. I did already hear about Falkreath. Word is that some sort of hideout was burned right out of the ground. Probably Brotherhood, which means the jarl’s men won’t go near it.”

“Will the Imperials?”

Del made a face. “Assuming that they weren’t the ones who lit the torch? I wouldn’t hold my breath. Easier to leave the dead where they lie.”

“I’ll tack it on my list of to-dos after we’re done at Sky Haven, then.” I muttered. Just thinking about it was giving me a headache. “You know, there was a time in my life when all I had to worry about was myself. How I was going to get me through the day. I miss that.”

“Get over it. There’s work to do.” She said pitilessly, bumping her fist into my shoulder before stalking off toward the Market.

Left for Rorikstead the next morning as planned. Sarah and I had a long talk about the state of things over the course of those last few days in Whiterun. She has no interest in getting into more fighting, like Blackreach. I can’t blame her. Going off on her own isn’t really an option either, so for now she’s decided to stay with the Greymanes. After some wheedling, she agreed to keep her experiments small-scale. No electrifying the cows, no setting any of the buildings on fire, and for the love of all that is good and holy no annoying the Companions!

Am I being an overbearing authority figure? A little, yeah I acknowledge that, I sounded just like my mother. But if the ghost I brought to town blows up Dragonreach who gets blamed? Me and the Greymanes, that’s who.

I gave Barbas the option to stay behind too, but he turned it down.

“Who will call bullshit on the Blades? Or take a dump on your enemy’s doorsteps?” he snarked. “No, no it’s better if I go.”

I think he’s just bored.

Rorikstead is only about half a day’s walk from Whiterun. No horses this time, Delphine wants to stay as inconspicuous as possible. She waited ‘til we were on the road to start in about getting myself captured by the Thalmor. 

“I’m not saying it was your fault, but you need to be more careful! That said, siccing the Stormcloaks on those Altmeri bastards was a brilliant move. They weren’t expecting Ulfric to break tradition and attack in winter.

“My informants tell me that behind closed doors the Justiciars flat out refused to patrol after the fifth or six attack until after the spring thaw. Now they’re all huddled up together at the Embassy and their headquarters in Markarth. Like rats in a warren.” Del chuckled darkly.

My take-away from that is that if Del knows targeting the Thalmor was my idea, it’s probably become common knowledge by now. Hell, Ulfric might have spread the word around to make it look like we’re real allies, the ass hat. Still, no regrets, the Thalmor had it coming.

I should get some spies. Everyone in Tamriel worth their salt has spies. I guess I could just ask the bards for help, the ones who aren’t already working for someone else, that is. Viarmo can tell me who can be trusted and who can’t.  

For now, I want to take advantage of the fact that the roads are clear of Thalmor. They’re not clear of anything else, but I’ll take what I can get. I figure we can start hiking south tomorrow, Del says it will take probably two or three days to reach the temple because of the terrain. Then I can unlock the door for them, have my meeting with Esbern, and move on to Falkreath. The Blades get their precious temple back, I get to be proactive, everyone’s happy.

Arrived in Rorikstead a little after midday. There is something very weird about that town. It’s like an energy field. And I don’t mean in the hippy bullshit kind of way, I mean like standing in the rain while licking a 9-volt.

We only stayed long enough for Del to check in with a contact. Not only was I not allowed to meet with them, but Del seemed anxious that I shouldn’t talk to anyone in the village. Very sus. Her excuse was the more attention we draw to ourselves the more likely some clueless local will report our departure to anyone who happens to ask. Okay, fair but with the Thalmor patrols on hold who does she expect to follow us? She would only say “Anyone curious for the wrong reasons.”

Hiking in the snow is stupid and I hate it. Made it to a ridge with a partially collapsed tower at dusk. Del won’t allow a fire, so we’re huddling in our tents with snow packed around the outside for extra insulation. She’s also being weird about going into the ruin. We need to have a talk in the morning about how I am in fact an adult and should be let in on what’s really going on. Because this cagey shit needs to stop.

Tirdas, 4^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202

Woke up to the sound of a dragon shouting fire onto what I would have sworn in the moment was a velociraptor. We scrambled out of our bedrolls in time to duck into the snow to avoid the flames. Tents are toast, along with most of our supplies. And like an absolute dumbass I took my boots off before going to bed.

In the dark and the chaos that ensued it took me a minute to realize that whatever it was that the dragon was after was perched at the top of the ruined tower and shooting fire right back at him. There were other figures in the dark I couldn’t really see, three shadows wielding shafts of lightning every time the dragon swooped. Del managed to save her bow (I think she had been sleeping with it) while I hopped around trying to simultaneously shoot, stay out of the line of fire, and not cut my feet up on the rocks hiding under the snow.

The dragon fled for higher ground eventually, but not before bashing into the top of the tower with its hind legs and tail. The raptor thing screeched; masonry collapsed. Del, Barbas, and the shadow people ran off after the dragon. I knew that if I tried to follow in nothing but wet wool stockings I’d end up hurting myself, so I took a minute to find what was left of my boots before hoofing it up the ridge after them. All the noise and fire made it easy. This particular dragon was very vocal, with a deep lilt to his voice that belied the insults he was throwing. Nikriin joore lir. Nid balaan mey! He was being a real dick. But we were all trying to kill him, so…fair?

The sun came up behind me. As I crested the hill morning light swept over, hands down, without question the most beautiful dragon I’ve ever seen. Autumnal colors on the undersides of his wings contrasted with shimmery blue-green scales. His body type reminded me of a greyhound crossed with a horny toad; deep chest, thin limbs, all covered in sharp black spikes.

I could also finally make out the other people fighting with us. Forsworn, of course, in ratty leathers that couldn’t possibly keep them warm, armed with tribal bows and staffs. One woman lay still and sprawled on the rocks like she’d been flung from the dragon’s mouth. Further up the hill Barbas and a male Forsworn attacked from the sides, which distracted the dragon long enough for me to sneak up next to Del where she hid behind a boulder, getting ready to line up a shot. We both broke cover on opposite sides of the rock. Del shot a black arrow into its neck and I released a ball of flaming plasma at the head. I don’t really want to know which killed him.

Nahagliiv. The name buzzed in my ears as his soul joined the others. It’s old news to Del and Barbas, seeing me absorb dragon souls, but the Forsworn stared. The third one, who I hadn’t seen before hiding behind a gnarled tree, gaped in horror, shaking and clutching at a deep shoulder wound. They asked no questions, made no comments. I couldn’t make out much of the male’s face behind the grotesque antlered headdress he wore. What really drew the eye was the fist-sized hole in his chest. Behind a crisscrossed cage of cured ligaments sewn into his skin pulsed what looked like a red and green artichoke. A briarheart.

The man collected his injured counterpart, letting the blood splattered girl lean her weight on him and lead her away. Every so often she glanced anxiously over her shoulder at me.

Del collected a couple small spikes from the bone pile and we slowly walked back to the ruin.

“You took your time getting up here.” She grumbled.

I gestured at my charred, frayed boots. My feet were upsettingly wet and cold.  

“What do I look like when I take a soul?” I asked when the Forsworn had gotten far enough ahead that I didn’t think they could hear me.

She scratched her nails through her dirty hair and puffed a tired breath.

“Has no one ever described it to you?”

I shook my head.

“You glow. From the inside. Like the blood in your veins is made of fire. When you thu’um too, just for a few seconds.”

Up ahead the Briarheart paused long enough to snatch the arm of their dead friend and dragged her corpse while still supporting the other girl as if they were both weightless. The ruined tower and smoking remains of camp came into view.

“Their fear shouldn’t bother you.” Del continued sternly. “They should be afraid. Whatever their elders and their hagravens tell them, the Old Gods are dead and they’re not coming back. Yoke their strength and you’ll have an army ready to die for you.”

I am a fucking idiot.

Christ on a cracker, how did I not see this before? I’m not just on my way to go open a door, Del wants to use the Forsworn to rebuild the Blades with me as a figurehead. It’s so completely off script that I was genuinely shocked.

“She’s not wrong.” Barbas chimed in. “But you know you’ll either have to kill or ally with Madanach to make it work.”

I didn’t answer. I needed to think.  

The Forsworn got to camp before us. The man emerged from the tower with a dripping lump in his hand, which he handed off to the injured girl. Then they trekked south without a backward glance.

I went into the tower just to defy Delphine. All the wood and stonework from the second story fell when the dragon hit it, so that it was completely open to the sky. What sounded like a screeching dinosaur when I was half asleep was of course a hagraven. She lay mostly buried under chunks of mortar and wood near the bottom of the collapsed staircase, the only part not crushed under debris was a long, thin arm pocked with pinfeathers. The corpse the Briarheart dragged back lay nearby, missing its heart. I couldn’t leave it, I grabbed a charred pelt from the mess outside and draped it over her exposed chest. There was no time to bury the body, it seemed like the only decent thing to do. 

Picking through what was left of camp didn’t take long. My document satchel is scorched, but mostly intact, along with my axe. The tents, bedrolls, and food were unsalvageable. Del led the way through a rocky ravine that turned into a downhill wash with dense pines at the bottom. The sun shone directly overhead when she started talking again. Talking at me, not to me, I might add.

“If you want to paint me as a villain, go right ahead.” She said, eyes scanning the scruffy thickets of juniper around us. “But I am only looking out for your best interests. How do you expect to defeat The World Eater without resources? You need men, weapons. Gold wouldn’t hurt either.”

“The Forsworn don’t have enough of any of those things to be worthwhile.” I countered.

Delphine snorted. “Snob. A single Briarheart warrior is worth ten Nords. You’ll come around when you see what they’ve built at Karthspire.”

I was starting to regret this whole damn trip. I regret not asking more questions, I regret not being more assertive, and I regret that I left my extra socks behind in Whiterun.

Without food, water, or a map I realized that I was very much at Delphine’s mercy, so I didn’t argue. I switched to “get through this alive, then be angry” mode, concentrating on foraging snowberries and looking out for water sources, always letting Del take the lead.

I won’t pretend that it wasn’t a miserable day. There’s less snow in this region, but the wind is constant. And if the cold and all the climbing wasn’t exhausting enough, I had to regularly cast healing over partially exposed feet to keep frostbite at bay. 

Del pushed hard, allowing few breaks. When the sun started to go down, she pushed even harder. I hate traveling off-road at night. One of the moons waxed over us, so it wasn’t pitch black, but my nerves were in shreds when we finally got to the top of the last hill and saw the lights of the Karthspire camp below.

She presented herself to the Forsworn and said something to one wearing a feathered headpiece and bird skull earrings that made them lower their weapons.

I had to flat out refuse to go on to the temple. Esbern will survive one more night. Del disappeared into one of the big tents with some of the important looking Forsworn. I found the warmest spot I could, a forge on a high platform with a rock wall behind it, rummaged a couple apples out of a storage barrel and I intend to stay here until morning whether I actually sleep or not. Probably not. Barbas followed me and is currently snoring in my lap.

Tomorrow’s agenda:

-Open temple

-Talk to Esbern

-New boots

-GTFO

Chapter Text

Karthspire

Fredas, 5^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202

Del woke us up with the promise of food. It was still dark, windy and my back ached like hell from leaning against the side of the forge. Do I even need to say that I was in a piss poor mood? She led the way down to a large bear pelt yurt with a straw covered floor. I could see and hear the river beneath us through gaps in the wood platform. Who decided on this location? Is this a magic river that never floods? Because if it’s not they’re going to get flooded right the hell out come spring.  

Breakfast consisted of blue tea and mud crab potage. Gritty and bland but looking at how malnourished these people are it was probably more food than most of the Forsworn get in a day. At least it wasn’t snakes and monkey brains. Ha. Indiana Jones references sooth my soul.

The meeting with the Forsworn elders was tense and brief. There were three; a man and two women, in black robes and white clay markings painted all over their faces. They all seemed annoyed, bordering on insulted, that Del wanted to talk about anything further. Aside from whatever it was that Esbern promised to share with their hagraven, the elders are only interested in making use of the cleared tunnels and caves leading up to the Temple. Considering how ramshackle their little village is I don’t blame them. The canyon outside is a great place to bottleneck incoming enemies, but for day to day living it’s not ideal. Though from their perspective I’m sure every little bit of the Reach they reclaim feels like a victory, even if it’s just a cave or a rocky hill.  

I respect the shit out of Delphine, but her stubborn streak is affecting her judgement when it comes to this whole Blades/Forsworn scheme. She might believe that building the Blades back up will help me defeat Alduin, but behind that I think she just very much wants that part of her life back. Maybe she even believes that it would be best for the Forsworn. They don’t. The only point all of us could agree on was that we’re none of us fans of the Thalmor.

I wish I could remember more about the big Markarth quest. I know there’s a lady in the market who gets killed by a Forsworn, and that kicks off a whole investigation that eventually leads to the mine prison and the Forsworn king. I can’t remember any names, though. And the harder I try to remember what the whole point of the scheme was the less sense it makes. I’m pretty sure the Silver-bloods are using the Forsworn to do their dirty work in order to do…something. Beyond that I can’t remember a damn thing except eventually you get imprisoned and the king (rag king? King of Rags?) help you escape. My notes from last year, though far from comprehensive, continue to come in handy.

Markarth was never my favorite city. It’s possible that I would feel differently if I ever set foot there. Someday maybe that will happen, when I don’t have a laundry list of other things to do first. So, this leaves me in a quandary. I don’t want that lady in the Marketplace to die, but I don’t know how to save her. If I go in person, it’s very unlikely that the universe will just align itself with my arrival. Luck can only get you so far. I could send an anonymous tip, but to who? About whom? For all I know she’s already dead. The Forsworn aren’t exactly chatty about current events.

It’s tricky letting on how much I do know. Nords like Kodlak and Eorlund accept almost anything I say on pure faith. The Forsworn have no reason to do the same. Even if I could name-drop, they’re more likely to see me as some sort of spy than anything else. I would.

On the other hand, there’s always merit in sticking it to the Thalmor. Bringing this up brought on an interesting backlash from the elders, who have heard of my involvement with the Stormcloaks. One of the women, I think her name was Wicremmod, accused me of “playing at war” without declaring my allegiance, like an “outlander politician, waiting for Skyrim to tear itself apart.” Yikes.

Is it honorable to play both sides? No. Being a great and honorable personage has never been my goal, though. My goals are to stay alive, save the world, and get me and my Displaced brethren home someday, all while saving as many people as I can without upsetting the universe. That’s the thing I’ve struggled with almost since day one. How do you know you’re effecting positive change? Saving one person’s life is big enough; major changes and alliances that never happened in the canon story will have major, unforeseen consequences. Are the Forsworn supposed to die out? Will allying with the Blades do anything to save them? I have no idea. For now, with that in mind, the Forsworn will make their own decisions without any interference from me. I just wish Delphine would do the same.

After essentially being told that she was imposing on their hospitality (there was an implied threat that their matron hagraven, referred to as “Hyl,” would be called down on us if she persisted) Delphine eventually took the hint and trudged up to the cave entrance. The outside is overgrown and craggy, but the moment you walk in it’s clear that the place is mostly man-made. Several witches and a Briarheart stood around a table near the entrance, methodically disassembling a Deathlord by torchlight. Draugr tend to be dry and dusty, but this one was still a little bit…juicy. I should really be used to this sort of thing by now, but the smell hit me. Breakfast almost came back up. Booked it to the next chamber.

Queue the Raiders of the Lost Ark theme right about here. It wouldn’t surprise me if somewhere deep beneath Sky Haven there’s a pocket of magma or an ancient geyser. I thought I smelled a hint of sulfur in the air. A good deal of thriving plant life makes you forget it’s still winter outside, with moss and ivy obscuring most of the stonework. The booby traps were already deactivated, so it was just a matter of winding our way to the upper entry. Esbern’s campsite took up a small corner of the immense space. We found him sitting by the fire, cross-referencing a book balanced on one knee and a pile of notes on the other. He didn’t notice us come in. Every now and then he’d mark something on a page with a lump of charcoal, muttering to himself.

Delphine cleared her throat til he looked up. I’ve seen that expression before. I’ve made that expression before. Cramming for a test or putting the finishing touches on a paper, only to look up and realize that it’s 6 AM already.

Del had to have described me to him, he didn’t give me the head-scratching sort of appraisal the Greybeards did, but there was still surprise, maybe a hint of disbelief, on his face. But maybe I imagined it, hard to say.

“You’re here!” he exclaimed like an excited little boy.  

Esbern tried to hop up faster than his knees wanted him to and Del had to grab his arm to keep him from toppling. All those years hiding in the dark warrens under Riften haven’t done him any favors health-wise. He pressed on though, going into a long explanation about Akaviri wards as he hobbled to the massive face of Reman Cyrodiil carved into the far wall, blocking the entry into the temple. Basically, the Akaviri used moon cycles to renew wards, so even though the place has been abandoned since the 3^rd era the magic keeping it sealed just kept auto-renewing. That sounds insanely useful. Sadly, Esbern doesn’t know how they did it, only that they did. Hm.

He also explained that while my blood is the key, it’s not really the blood doing the unlocking.

“Blood carries the signature of one’s lifeforce!” Esbern explained. “It is that energy which disrupts the ward. It must flow directly from vein to seal to be effective and, in this case, it must belong to a Dragonborn.”

Del wordlessly pulled a dagger from her hip like she meant to cut me herself, only to flip it with a fancy little twirl and sharply smack the handle into my palm. She’s still a little miffed about me not backing her up with the Forsworn.

I kind of wished she had cut me. After sanitizing the blade with fire, it took a while to get the job done. When I’d sliced the side of my hand deep enough to get the blood flowing (ouch) it only took a few drops on the floor seal to break the ward. The stone head pulled back to reveal the entrance. Esbern eagerly went first with several books and loose papers clutched to his chest and a torch held high. A dull, yawning silence swallowed our footfalls as we climbed the stairs and entered the temple itself. Stale air met us, the smell of dry decay and dust. Dishes and goblets still sat on the long stone tables in the main room, as if the Blades left in the middle of a meal. I touched a bowl with my fingertip. The wood disintegrated. Del hissed a warning; I stepped away and watched Esbern reverently approach Alduin’s Wall.

The old man needed a moment. He was getting emotional. I do sometimes feel like a creeper, knowing all these personal details about people. We just met, but I know this had to have been one of the biggest days of Esbern’s life. He’s dedicated everything to The Blades and finally recovered one of their most important sites and relics. After so many years he probably thought he’d never live to see it.

Esbern studied the wall at length while Del and I cautiously snooped around. I didn’t remember any more traps in the temple itself, but it doesn’t hurt to check. Most of the junk left behind is rotten or rusted out, though Delphine did find several sets of Blades armor in amazingly good condition. Probably enchanted. A very faint sound emanated from the pieces, a sort of strained chiming like the spell was struggling to keep itself together. If the spell isn’t renewed, I suspect it will unravel with handling. I prefer my comfy robes, but I will be taking the smallest pair of boots. (Still too big, had to stuff the toes with tundra cotton.)

We moved Esbern’s campsite upstairs into the main hall. He was well provisioned, thankfully, otherwise we might have had to beg supplies off the Forsworn. Best we can tell the Blades used to get water two ways: outside there’s a stone run-off system for channeling rainwater into containers built into the terrace, and there’s a cistern on a lower level inside the complex. Unfortunately, the rope and pully system used to haul water up from the cistern is probably rotting ten-to-twenty feet down, best guess. The whole thing needs to be replaced. As for the terrace, the containers were built into the massive garden planters to keep the plants alive. Once we pried off one of the capstones, we could see a terracotta interior with pipes leading off into the planters. High tech stuff for Skyrim. The gardens are overgrown of course, but it has potential. I love this sort of thing. Domestic problem-solving feels like a step toward normalcy. Del can’t stand it. How she managed an inn for years without losing her mind is beyond me. Waiting for Esbern to complete his wall analysis left her looking for things to keep busy. By nightfall we’d scoped the water situation, catalogued supplies, ransacked every nook and cranny in the complex, and set up new defensive wards outside the entrance (in case some of the Forsworn decided to get a little too close). While I made grits for dinner (Esbern had cornmeal and salt! Sadly, had to make do without butter) Del paced back and forth, waiting for him to cough up answers.

Esbern shoveled his food down, then proceeded with his explanation of the bas relief, in detail. The Akaviri he calls a “subtle” people. I think they were intentionally cryptic. The stylized DB character with giant pecs is kind of a slap in the face. Though I guess if they knew something about the Dragonborn being one of many different people…well I don’t know if I should give them props for leaving the character semi-ambiguous or call them out on some first-rate fuckery for not letting anyone know that.

Call who out, Ez? They’re dead. Get a grip.

Anyway, big reveal: the Tongues used a Shout to “defeat” Alduin.

I suppose I just felt obligated to get all of this out of the way. Call me a completionist.

The moment I’d been dreading for days finally came, Delphine’s theory that the Thalmor brought back the dragons. There is nothing, and I mean NOTHING, that will ever convince me to willingly get within a thousand yards of that fucking embassy ever again! Not for a mammoth’s weight in Swiss chocolate.

Weirdly, the Thalmor already seeing me as a “person of interest” in a big way saved me from trying to convince Del that I have no business sneaking into their little soiree. Funny how these things work out sometimes. I didn’t even have to mention it. She has her contact ready to go and hired an “infiltrator” to get the evidence she wants. Wouldn’t tell me who, because “the less I know the better.”

“The infiltrator will be able to blend into the crowd without causing any suspicion, I assure you.” Del explained. “They have been told only to gather information assets, discretely, from the office of Ambassador Elenwen, and the offices of the Second and Third Emissaries if possible. If they’re caught, they understand the consequences, but also won’t be able to tell the Thalmor anything. I made sure of that.”

The smart thing would have been to keep my mouth shut and let it happen. Let her go through with her plan, and hope that whoever she hired is good enough to get out alive. Ugh. I did not do the smart thing.

“If the Thalmor aren’t involved at all you’re sending some clueless hireling to their death! Or worse to a dungeon cell to be tortured!”

Delphine rounded on me with a shrewd gleam in her eyes. “They’re involved. They have to be, it can’t be a coincidence that the Imperials had Ulfric Stormcloak on the block only for a dragon to show up and save him! Only the Thalmor benefit from the civil war continuing.”

“Plenty of people benefit from war, what no one benefits from is giant lizards burning down towns for the hell of it. Ulfric Stormcloak barely made it out of Helgen alive. I saw him on his return to Windhelm, he looked like death warmed over.”

“Forgive me, I don’t mean to question the Dragonborn-” Esbern said tentatively.

“But?”

“You seem very sure that the Thalmor are not at fault, at least when it comes to the dragons, what evidence do you base this belief on, may I ask?”

A scholar first. It’s a little inconvenient, but he’s just so damn polite I can’t help but like Esbern.

“On the lack of evidence that there is any way a mortal, mer or otherwise, could bring dragons, including Alduin himself, back from the grave. Paarthurnax mentioned that the ancient Nord’s victory over Alduin was incomplete. They didn’t kill him, but rather banished him forward in Time. Now we know they did that using a Shout, thanks to the Wall. And before either of you start lecturing, I know the Blades’ stance on Paarthurnax, and I do not agree. He’s not a threat, not anymore.”

Delphine made a disgusted noise and returned to pacing.

“That may well be, however his current reforms do not excuse centuries of tyranny. He was Alduin’s lieutenant, responsible for unspeakable atrocities during the Dragon Wars. A dragon’s very nature is inherently evil. By human standards, that is. He will return to it, sooner or later.” Esbern patiently replied.

“I understand that, but I’ve also spoken to him, and I believe his regret is real. He’s waited thousands of years to make it right, to help me. If that’s a long-con why build a passivist cult to keep the Way of the Voice alive?”

“To protect his scaly hide!” Delphine snapped.

“Then why teach me how to thu’um when I’m the only person on this fucked up planet who can permanently kill him?”

Del turned to Esbern in clear exasperation. “I told you! She’s like a child!”

“I wouldn’t go that far. There’s logic behind these arguments. Do not deny that simply because you do not agree, my dear.” He said diplomatically. “That said, the Dragonborn does not have the authority to expunge a dragon’s past wrongs. As Blades we are bound to the ancient oaths of our forebears.”

“I’m not a Blade.”

“No, you’re a naïve little girl who wants her way, damn the consequences.” Del rejoined.

Shots fired, bitch. Shots fucking fired.

I clamped my mouth shut to keep from saying something I’d regret in the morning.

Esbern sighed, looking abjectly uncomfortable.

We all came to the unspoken agreement that we were not going to get over our respective philosophical differences in one evening. Esbern fell asleep by the fire with Barbas draped over his legs like a furry afghan. Del is currently sharpening her new Blades katana as far away from me as she can get.

Well, shit. Tomorrow’s going to be awkward, huh?  

Sundas, 7^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202

We’re all focusing on getting the Temple cleaned up. It’s a lot more proactive and less unpleasant than rehashing the same debate over and over again. I may not agree with their anti-Paarthurnax agenda, but Sky Haven means a lot to the Blades. Let them take it back, make it livable. It’s better than leaving it to ruin or letting the Forsworn take it over. Del is frustrated, but to her credit she is making an effort to be civil.

Esbern is a little bit more forthcoming than I’d feared. Over the last couple days we’ve had plenty of discussions about history, recent events included, while working on this place. He had quite the adventure getting out of Riften in one piece. When I asked if he’d gotten my note he guffawed and pulled it out of his shirt. At first, he said he thought it was a trick. Vekel used to supply him with food, books, etc. at a criminal mark-up (ha) and though Esbern paid the premium he would never trust a thief to keep his secrets if a better deal came along. So, when an unsigned warning showed up in his latest sack of consumables, of course he was suspicious.

“The Ratway is sadly where the lost and broken of Riften end up.” he said. “I grew used to the rantings, in fact I relied on some of my more stable “neighbors” to bring me news of the outside world. Not long after that note arrived a new fellow turned up in the warrens. These old ears can still pick out the sounds of a bad actor. It was the way he hid his accent, the questions he asked. A Thalmor spy if ever I saw one. I knew if they had found me no number of locks on the door would keep out a team of determined Justiciars, so I fled.”

I asked what happened to the spy. Esbern grimaced.

“He found himself at the wrong end of a roasting spit. It is, generally, unwise to provoke the insane. I trust you can fill in the gory details on that point without further description?”

***Note to self: when in Riften go vegetarian for a while. Same with Markarth.

Esbern had an emergency exit all planned, of course. There are smaller drainage pipes leading outside the city, under the lake. He crawled through one and exited in the basement of a farmhouse, covered in filth but alive. Delphine found him about six weeks ago hiding out with a group of Vigilants in an undisclosed location.

I’ve been wondering about that. The Vigilants are still active, then. No word, at least so far, about any of their outposts being overrun. Maybe because the Dawnguard are already taking out vampire cells? I’ll need to check in with my Morthal crew for an update soon.

We did all the cleaning and repairs we could by around mid-morning today. More supplies are needed. Rope, wood, nails, basic tools, water buckets, etc.

The Forsworn don’t have much to barter. What they do have is largely stolen from anyone who happens to cross paths with them. Khajiit caravans, Imperial patrols, Stormcloaks; anyone not Forsworn or a “named ally” is fair game. I can’t say that I’m comfortable with buying stolen goods, but it’s not my call or my money. If Delphine wants to spend all her gold on “reclaimed” supplies that’s her business. While she haggled with the Forsworn’s version of a quartermaster Esbern and I were urged by elder Wicremmod to speak with the camp hagraven. This, I gathered from his thinly veiled expression of utter contempt, was something the old man had hoped to avoid for a while longer.

There are no children, no traditional families, at Karthspire. It’s very militaristic. Everyone has a job to do, whether that’s pulling fish out of the river, or stretching pelts, or making arrows. From the outside it seems like a joyless existence. I know I shouldn’t judge their culture. It’s so hard not to though…

We wandered for a while. Esbern had plenty to say about the history of Karthspire and I figured there was no harm in letting him procrastinate. When we got within sight of a smaller camp with a tall, open-faced yurt protected by sheer bluffs I barely had time to register the spiky twin swords that whipped out of nowhere and stopped a hair from my favorite neck. I couldn’t even try a Shout or raise an arm in defense it was so fast! If the hagraven hadn’t screeched at him the Briarheart would have taken my head off. I don’t want to know what they would have done to my corpse. Good God, a Briarheart Dragonborn…no, there’s nothing good about that. All wrong, all bad.

Hyl the hagraven is…gross. She’s gross. No other adjective fits. She shuffled up while I stood frozen with my hands up, eyes flicking from her to the Briarheart standing by. She has no choice but to shuffle. Walking isn’t a thing she can do any more, her body is so bent and mutated. I don’t get the appeal. In a world brimming with ways to gain power becoming part bird seems like a raw deal. I know it’s tied to their religion, but is it worth growing talons so big that you can’t wipe your own ass anymore? For me, the answer is no. Clearly Hyl made other choices.

Her breathing was so labored it ruffled the ragged collar of the dress hanging off her shoulders. I use the word “dress” loosely, it looked more like three long, greasy pelts laced together with leather cord. More cords hung around her neck, jangling with all sorts of nasty keepsakes; little bones, teeth, claws, a variety of round and pointed ears, one with a small gold hoop piercing splattered with blood. Never in my life have I had to concentrate so hard on keeping my gag reflex under control.

“Pretty meat.” Hyl rasped.

Not exactly what I hoped to hear, but it’s better than “Off with her head, so I can eat it.”

The Briarheart stepped back into guard position. The two elders and witch standing behind her relaxed.

Esbern recovered from the momentary shock and hastily apologized for the interruption.

“Promises. You stay, trade as promised.” Hyl said to Esbern, then turned liquid black eyes on me. “Dragon killed Ilrila. Dragonborn kills dragon. I will line my nest with pretty scales. Go now! Kill more!”

I didn’t need to be told twice. My curiosity over what Esbern promised to share with her isn’t worth pissing off the entire camp. I involuntarily kept my gaze locked on the Briarheart, half expecting him to stab me. Even though I couldn’t see his eyes I’d swear he stared right back. The walk to the cave entrance felt like the longest of my life. The oversized Blades boots I’d borrowed practically thundered with every step. They have no reason to hurt Esbern, but Del is still worried. Between her constant paranoia and the village of deranged mountain folk below I’m getting stressed out. More than usual anyway. 

I need a nap.

Tirdas, 9^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202

Basic repairs are mostly done to make Sky Haven habitable. It’s not exactly the lap of luxury, but the water problem is sorted and there are clean spaces to eat and sleep. The rest will be up to them. I plan on leaving tomorrow morning for Falkreath.

I’ve picked Esbern’s brain clean of every scrap of information pertaining to Alduin. There might really be an alternate route to him! One that won’t require me to fly. Or broker peace deals. Or trap and extort a dragon.

After hours of staring at ancient and modern maps, cross-referencing the vague hints in the few surviving histories, and good ol’ fashioned guesswork we’re sure Alduin’s main temple complex, Skuldafn, is somewhere in the Velothi Mountains. Big, hairy problem is the Velothi Mountains stretch almost the whole eastern border, so it’s not exactly a small area to survey.

There’s some debate among modern historians about how the temple was built. Some think that it was primarily through magic so that any route from the ground would have been impossible from the start. Esbern doesn’t agree with that theory, though. At the time Skuldafn was constructed dragons ruled with an iron fist. He doesn’t believe that the possibility of rebellion was considered or taken seriously by the cult, so why would they bother with the inconvenience of keeping the temple off-limits to their own servants without the use of magic or having to hitch a ride? Logistically, it would have been much easier and faster to use Dwemer roads up through the mountain to get workers and materials to the site when it was being built. If Esbern’s right, however that doesn’t mean that those roads are still open. It’s possible that they were destroyed during the Dragon War, or just collapsed over time. There are also no records of where those roads might have been accessed if they did exist.

More guesswork. There are two Dwemer ruins still standing in that region: Mzulft and Kagrenzel. We’ll start looking into those first. Esbern helped me draft a letter to Calcelmo in Markarth. If anyone in Skyrim knows about those ruins, it’s probably him. I just hope he deigns to answer. I’ll mail that when I get to Falkreath in a few days. There’s an inn on the road there, but Delphine specifically forbade me from stopping at Old Hroldan but won’t say whyyyy. I’m getting just a little bit tired of her telling me what to do.

Chapter Text

“Ya win at life by gettin’ people to like you, ‘cause ain’t nobody wants to help an asshole.”

-Grandpa Jay

Fridas, 12^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202

My last night at Sky Haven Temple I spent mostly mending fences with Delphine and trying not to get too introspective. Booze helps.

She came back from hunting and traded half the meat, plus head (trying very hard not to think about why they wanted that so badly) to the Forsworn for a large sack of potatoes and several bottles of alto wine (which I noticed had Altmeri labels. Del stood by the info that she received about Thalmor patrols being halted).

Truth universal: people with full stomachs are far more reasonable than not.

After talking things out over the course of a few hours and catching a nice buzz we came to something of an accord. If she wants to recruit for the Blades I don’t have a problem with that, as long as she doesn’t do it in my name. Any recruits should sign up only as dragon slayers, not Dragonborn acolytes.

She’s not going to stop working on the Forsworn, no matter how resistant they are to the idea. Maybe she’ll get a few takers, eventually. In the meantime, while I’m dealing with the problem of getting to Alduin, Paarthurnax is off-limits.

We will never totally agree about some things, but that doesn’t mean we have to be enemies. The Forsworn will probably never be allys either, not the way Del wants, but the fact that she managed to broker a peace deal is still impressive. It’s more than any jarl or thane has been able to do in the last thirty years, anyway.

I also suggested that they concentrate on infiltrating Markarth over the Embassy. If they can somehow liberate Madanach from prison without bloodshed that might change the Forsworn’s attitude. Esbern immediately started dissecting the logistics, because no one escapes Cidhna mine. Del was more interested in how I know for sure that the Forsworn’s leader is still alive. I told her she’s not the only one with informants. Two can play at the “you don’t need to know how I know” game. We’ll see if it pays off or not. I never thought Madanach was a great character, he’s certainly got just as many flaws as Ulfric, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to die in prison. And if launching a sneaky jail break disrupts the Silver-bloods’ dirty dealings, all the better. Then again, I can’t really remember why Madanach hasn’t already busted out. He has people in the prison protecting him, and in the city waiting to do his bidding, right? And didn’t he already have an escape route planned out? So…he’s just biding his time? For reasons? IDK, maybe Delphine’s contacts can dredge something up.

After some mild pestering Esbern eventually admitted that what he traded with Hyl was a very powerful paralyze spell. That confused me until he explained that hagravens excel at the ancient equivalent of Destruction magic, but know next to nothing about Alteration, which I think is ironic as hell. Another bottle of wine into the evening I convinced him to teach me. Just like invisibility and telekinesis I got the basic gist down, but it will take a lot of practice to get good. Still, I managed to make Barbas’ back legs go numb for about thirty seconds. He pouted the rest of the night.

I can’t say that I’ll really miss Sky Haven Temple. It’s very neat, garderobe and neighbors notwithstanding, but I don’t feel the connection to the place that Del and especially Esbern clearly do. I will miss the old man. Esbern is a natural teacher and I love listening to him. That’s one thing Del and I have in common. She puts on a tough front, but then hangs on his every word. I don’t think they were ever involved, it’s more like a father-daughter relationship. It’s sweet (when Del isn’t being overbearing) and I’m glad that they’ve got each other.

The morning I left Del imparted warnings about the route. No stopping at the inn, no going up to strangers on the road, no deviating from the path. The road along the river is easy enough to follow until it forks, that’s where she emphasized that I should take a right and then it pretty much turns into a game trail. Very easy to get lost, don’t stray, etc. For all her warnings she was firm about me making the journey alone. This is her way of teaching. 

It’s not that I wasn’t taking her seriously. Things always seem more manageable when you’re planning rather than doing. Once we hit the road the length of the trip really dawned on me. A full two days at least of backwoods travel, on foot, just me and my Daedric dog…what could go wrong?

Loaded up with shabby (probably stolen) gear I did my best to slink away early and unnoticed. The Forsworn’s pact is with the Blades, not me so the possibility of being followed and attacked seemed plausible.

Frozen rain slicked up the path. I tried to be reasonably stealthy, but after a good hour or so of being smacked in the face with little wet pellets of ice I lost my patience and released a Clear Sky Shout. In a universe that makes sense any wild animals would have run away from the sound. Instead, within minutes I found myself facing off a vicious gang of…goats. It sounds scarier if I call them angry, demon-eyed quadrupeds ready to fuck some shit up. But they were just goats, and I didn’t really want to murder a family of them. Dressing one animal is a tedious chore, doing it half a dozen times when you’ve already got forty pounds of junk strapped to your back is just silly. Kyne’s Peace did the trick. Had to keep renewing it because the little buggers wouldn’t stop following us. Not long after that an old lady in rags, who had been walking towards us, joined the gang rambling about not disturbing “master” while he’s on vacation. WTF? Has Sheogorath been waiting for me to be on my own to pull this crap? I wouldn’t put it past him. 

In the distracting din of bleats and semi-frantic ranting I didn’t hear the patrol behind us. What got my attention was Barbas’ howl of pain when a bolt of electricity skipped across his back. A web of white-hot sparks arched through the goat herd, killing most of them. If they hadn’t been there, I would have conducted the brunt of the blast.

“Patrols have been suspended” my ass. It was a small party, but they were unmistakably Thalmor; one robed Justiciar with two armored guards.

The old lady launched herself at them like a missile of crazy, which forced me to jog and roll into a position where I could Shout without hitting her. Managed to take one of the guards out with Ice Form. The beggar and one remaining goat tanked the other guard right into the river. They all disappeared into the rapids within seconds. That left Barbas against the Justiciar, who didn’t seem to know any spell other than lightning. A stray bolt zapped my right arm. That shit hurts like a sonofabitch and left me on the ground with the wind knocked right out of me. I couldn’t Shout, so while he built up another shot, I blasted fire into his face. The robes were not very flammable. His long silver hair on the other hand went up like a roman candle in a flour factory. Odd that such prolific magic users wouldn’t know an extinguishing spell for occasions like that. It must happen now and then. He went for the water, and I unleashed a stun at his back. Down he went, face first onto a boulder. The impact crushed his nose bone right up into his brain.

The guard I’d frozen remained where he fell on the road. When I could pick myself up again, I checked for vitals and found that he’d stopped breathing. I suspect if the effects of the Shout aren’t countered in time the victim suffocates. I sat on a rock, one eye on his face slowly going grey, the rest of my attention of the searing pain in my arm. It responded to healing, but the ache still hasn’t gone away and there’s a vivid pink network of scars branching from my thumb to just below the elbow. Yay.

Logically I know that they didn’t leave me a choice. They attacked first. They saw a couple of travelers with livestock and decided the best course of action was to shoot first, ask questions later. That’s on them. Still, I wish it hadn’t gone the way it did. If I had been more prepared, less distracted, maybe I could have just stunned them…but then what? Tie them up? Hope they learn the error of their ways and run off to become nirnroot farmers? Sure, that’ll happen.

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

It's not vengeance. I won't let it be. I may never be able to look at an Altmer without feeling queasy, but hanging onto a vendetta doesn't punish anyone but me. 

I dragged the bodies behind a rock formation, stripped of anything of value. Kept the pawnables (glass dagger, black soul gem, and a tap root), balled the clothes and armor up and shoved it all into a mud crab den. It should look like a bandit attack to anyone who happens by.

The orders the Justiciar had on him aren’t very interesting. They were just supposed to march from Markarth to Falkreath, pick up a prisoner, and take him back to Markarth for questioning. They weren’t even looking for me. What I do find weird is the lack of a name. Why the hell would the Thalmor tell their men to go pick up a prisoner and not tell them who they’re supposed to be picking up? Even if there’s only one sorry bastard in the Falkreath jail wouldn’t they want to be sure they’ve got the right guy? Doesn’t make any sense to me.

I did stop at Old Hroldan for lunch and a rest. What Delphine doesn’t know won’t kill her. It’s not the worst inn, but it does have a distinct air of neglect. I’ve gotten used to straw on the floor and bad booze and weird smells. The ghost came as a surprise. Did I ever play this? I can’t remember. There’s nothing about it in my notes. Eydis, the innkeeper said that he just appears from time to time but never does any harm. It was pretty cute watching her kid puff out his chest, ready to battle for his momma’s honor with his little wooden sword and missing front teeth. The spirit remained oblivious.

I didn’t see any reason to bother him.

Greasy stew consumed we continued heading south-east until the aforementioned fork. It was cold, but clear and utterly devoid of other travelers. The rocky cliffs and scrub slowly became greener, mostly dense pine forest. I see what Del meant by it being an easy place to get lost. We camped in a little hollow hidden from view. Nothing was dry enough to burn, so no fire. All I’d been able to trade off the Forsworn was a roll of oiled buck skin with a bear hide sleeping bag. Bear Grylls may have exaggerated the benefits of using tree branches as a make-shift shelter. Or maybe I’m just not a very good survivalist.

Day two was a soggy slog through the woods. Barbas’ nose kept us on track and mostly away from anything dangerous. Toward the end of the day we stumbled onto a cairn. His warning about the spriggan inside almost came too late, I felt a wash of magic prickle my skin right before a clump of human-shaped woody vines came charging out. A swarm of glowing bees shot out of its body cavity, which I instinctively countered with fire. That glow might be the spriggan’s spirit or life force or something. Doing damage to the body didn’t seem to hurt it, but when I focused on that glow with Kyne’s Peace and a Fus combo it did eventually back off. I didn’t want to kill it. The buzzing mass retreated back into the cairn and when I was sure that it wasn’t going to come back out again I decided to leave it alone. I figure if spriggans are one of the favorite targets of hagravens they must be good, in their way, and therefore the more I leave to do whatever it is they’re supposed to do the better. I’m just not sure what I did to piss it off in the first place.

Freezing rain started up, off and on, for the rest of the day. I much prefer snow, at least you have some traction instead of slipping around on icy grass and mud.

Without Barbas I probably would have passed right by the Sanctuary. From the road there’s nothing to see. Turn about ten feet to the left and squint, it’s a different story. The small pond and ground around the entrance was a mess of boot-churned mud and blackened debris. The door looked like it had been blasted right off its hinges. In the gloam just after sundown the entrance looked like a gaping black hole. Even the rocks hiding it from view were discolored from smoke. It was getting dark, so we decided to press on to Falkreath and come back to do a proper investigation tomorrow.

With Cyrodiil right over the mountains the town has a slightly more cosmopolitan feel than I expected. Just as gloomy as Morthal, but with more services. My room has a bathtub! Hot water costs extra, but who cares? Bathtub! Tomorrow I’m going to try to get an audience with the jarl, so not looking like a hobo is necessary. Maybe he’ll surprise me and be less smarmy than I suspect. 

Falkreath

Loredas, 13^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202

It’s easy enough to catch up on the local news by just sitting quietly at the inn listening to people talk. The Caerellia's little girl was killed by a werewolf about two months ago. He was jailed and escaped a few days later, no one knows where he went after that, and the locals still fear he’ll come back. What happened to the Sanctuary is murky to say the least. There were no eyewitnesses and as far as anyone knows no survivors, not that the jarl or the townsfolk checked. They seem very happy to forget the place even exists.

Casual inquiries about who might be in the town jail also didn’t give me much to go on. No one local. The best description I could get was “some wretched thief” who stole something from the Legionnaire’s office in the long house and tried to make off with it across the border.

Spent most of the morning trading and making friends with the local vendors. I sold the glass dagger and soul gem I got off the Thalmor and am having a fitted pair of leather boots made by the smithy, Lod. These oversized Blades boots look cool but they’re absolutely killing my arches.

I really like Runil, the priest of Arkay, and Zaria, the apothecary. It was Zaria who advised me not to even bother approaching the jarl til after noon, because he sleeps late most days. She’s very frank, which I appreciate. Dengeir wasn’t any better as jarl, she said, but he’d become incredibly paranoid and prone to angry outbursts in his old age. His nephew hasn’t been in charge a year and has proven himself to be patently useless though. With that in mind when I finally wandered over to the long house it was with low expectations.

I’d forgotten that Aia squirmed her way into Jarl Siddgeir’s good graces until I walked into his long house and saw her lounging behind the throne, tuning her lute. After a beat she recognized me and zeroed in with an unsettlingly wide grin. She introduced me to the Altmer steward, Nenya, as a “particular friend” of the headmaster of the Bard’s College who had been “adventuring with all sorts of colorful characters” according to the gossip circuit. Her tone oozed innuendo. Why do people do this to each other? Especially women; this backhanded pecking order bullshit? I've never understood it, life is hard enough without being a card-carrying bitch just to make yourself feel superior. 

Since standing on ceremony is generally seen as a very Imperial trait most Skyrim natives shun, the rules Nenya made me go over were surprising and slightly absurd. No one is allowed to speak to the jarl without being spoken to first. No one is to approach him without getting permission through the steward. No one is allowed to eat or drink in the jarl’s presence unless it is a feast day and only after the jarl has first been served. The list goes on. 

Initially I’d hoped to sweet talk some information out of him, maybe even get a little help extracting Arnbjorn’s body from the Sanctuary so it can be sent back to Whiterun. Five minutes into the audience it was clear that he wasn’t interested. What he wanted was someone to perform an assassination for him. I guess he just assumed that I’m some sort of former bard merc for hire. The topic was broached in a ham-fisted way, yet his tone implied that he thought he was being smooth and discrete. Seriously, I felt embarrassed for him. He admitted to working with bandits and now he’s butt-hurt that they cut him out of their deal. If I cared about becoming a thane, I might overlook that. Unchecked bandits in any area are bad news, but I’m not dropping everything to go kill a guy just to get on Siddgeir’s good side.

I have to hand it to Aia and Nenya, between the two of them they’ve got their feckless jarl right where they want him. Nenya runs the Hold, makes all the important decisions, and Aia manipulates from the sidelines. All Siddgeir need do is sit on his ass and look pretty, which appears to suit him just fine. When it was clear that I wasn’t going to play ball Aia swept in to gossip and flirt with the jarl. I’m not sure if she was offering the distraction for my benefit or simply to get more jabs in while I was there. The former seems more likely. She started talking about how far I’ve come from the “coarse and illiterate” servant I’d been in Solitude.

“And you’re not nearly as fat as you used to be, Dear!” she cooed. “What excellent exercise you must be engaged in these days!”

I would love nothing more than to punch that woman in the face.

The meeting, if you can even call it that, ended with Nenya needing Siddgeir’s signature on some things and a hasty invitation to supper. I had no intention of going but…well we’ll get to that.

Since I was there, I tried talking to the other two residents in the side office. Housecarl Helvard seems to be a decent man, and not bad looking either. Too bad he’s got the personality of a wet shoe. Legate Skulnar was polite, but firm about not being able to disclose what the thief had stolen from him, which is fair. I wasn’t about to play the “do you know who I am?” card. Anonymity is a far more comfortable state to be in than whatever you want to call that solemn hero worship thing Nords do when they find out I’m Dragonborn.

Back to business. As it was at that point abundantly clear that I’d be getting no help from anyone official in Falkreath, I resolved to go poke around the Sanctuary by myself. Runil loaned me a cart and tarp. Zaria suggested tying a bandana soaked in strong mint water over my face to help with the smell. That turned out to be good advice.

Barbas went in first, sniffing thoroughly and stopping often to listen. After a while he stuck his scruffy head out to sound the all-clear. It was horrible inside. Even with the cold weather flies and beetles swarmed the neglected carcasses. By the weak mage light I managed to conjure it seemed that whoever set the fire used a lot of accelerant. There were no barrels or obvious signs like I’d expected, though. Whatever they used thoroughly scorched everything from floor to ceiling. I have no idea what could cause that. Gas? Magic?

The first body lay stretched across the stairs to the main chamber, like they had been cut down while trying to escape. By the scraps of clothing left I’d guess he was Brotherhood. Most of the back chambers were collapsed, so who knows how many more bodies are buried in there, but we found five more in the main room, plus a bulky stone sarcophagus laying half submerged in water- empty.

Not one of the corpses wore Imperial armor, so either the Legion removed only their own dead after the attack, or they hadn’t had any part in what happened at all. As disfigured as the dead all were Barbas could at least tell me what species they were by smell. One dark elf (female), a pint-sized vampire (Babette?), four humans (one female, three male), all adults and one with the scent of a werewolf, so that must be Arnbjorn.

That potentially leaves the Argonian and Cicero unaccounted for. My first guess would be that it was Cicero who took the Night Mother’s body; anyone else would have left her moldering Unholiness to burn.

There wasn’t much left in the way of evidence, but I thought at least Cicero’s journals would be in his dungeon of a room. No dice. Most of the furniture and items back there were unburned, just covered in soot, but no signs of any papers or journals. I also couldn’t find any sign of a Sacrament site anywhere.

Off script again, that doesn’t bode well.

That left the final unpleasant chore of the day: figuring out how to move Arnbjorn’s body. The fire didn’t cremate so much as barbeque him. It probably wasn’t hot enough. And it probably wasn’t even what killed them all. Barbas pointed out that there was a gaping wound from the base of Arnbjorn’s neck down between the shoulder blades. The body on the stairs on closer inspection had an arrowhead lodged in each calf muscle. Head injuries and lacerations for the others, a wooden spike to the heart for la petite vampire.

“This was personal.” Barbas commented, sneezing several times. “The Brotherhood has always had enemies, but this…"

All I could do was nod and swat the flies away from my eyes. I’m not a fan of assassins, especially ones who’ve been trying to murder me for the last four months, but getting slash n’ hacked, then left to suffocate while your home and family burns around you…that’s fucking sick.

Dammit, having a conscience is so much extra work. I’ll bet psychopaths look young and vibrant because they’ve never given two shits about “doing the right thing” by anyone, living or dead.

I didn’t have a shovel, but I figured moving them all into the back room would be about as good as putting them in a crypt like the Nords do. Runil wouldn’t give someone pledged to Sithis a burial by Arkay anyway. Started with the little one. Basically, I just used the tarp to encase and lift the body. I wish I’d thought to get gloves. Loaded Arnbjorn into the cart and covered it for the trek back to town.

I bought a cheap pine box and Runil’s assistant helped me load and secure it. After that it was just a matter of paying for it to be delivered to Whiterun. Cost me 165 septims total. Broke yet again. I spent the last of my gold to hold my room at the inn and get some hot water so I could scrub my clothes and myself raw.

And that is why I showed up at the long house this evening. Because I’m too poor to buy my own dinner.

Siddgeir had a whole room in the back, used for storage in Dengeir’s day, remodeled into an Imperial-Nord fusion mead hall complete with gold-threaded tapestries and a large painting above the door. Of himself. He talked about the renovations ad nauseum while I discreetly stuffed bread rolls into my pockets. Also in attendance were Aia, Nenya, a middle-aged merchant named Hamlof, and several very pretty women I’d seen at the tavern earlier who were there as his special friends.

The conversation mostly revolved around politics, investment opportunities, and a lot of boring crap I couldn’t give less of a shit about. Then they started talking about the civil war. Although the Stormcloaks gained ground by launching sneak attacks on the Thalmor they’d grown overzealous (Nenya’s word) in moving south. Word has it that Ulfric hoped to push all the way to Riften, but his men were forced to retreat when they met heavy resistance outside Shor’s Stone.

Hamlof snorted into his wine (props to the lady next to him who managed not to gag at the sound). “If Elisef would simply stop dragging her feet and convene the Moot I’m sure all of this would be settled within months.”

“You’re so sure she will win the majority?” Aia asked innocently.

Siddgeir started toying with her hair. “Of course. Only Dawnstar and Winterhold will stand by Ulfric, out of an idiotic sense of loyalty. The rest of us see the necessity to hold fast to the Empire if Skyrim is to thrive.”

“What of the rumors that the Dragonborn supports Ulfric?” I just couldn’t help myself.

“Oh, that.” Nenya said dismissively. “Supposedly some woman killed a dragon in the middle of Windhelm. Then she swallowed its soul and pledged her service to the jarl on bended knee. Very like the sort of sensationalist, over-blown tale of heroism Ulfric loves to spread about himself. I doubt there’s much truth to the story. There are also those who say she’s a giantess with the body of a snake.”

*Internal cackle of glee*

Stuffing my gob with free food while listening to absurd folk tales about myself in a room full of tools. What a way to spend an evening. I declined to stay for the after-dinner amusements. Waddled back to the inn with about six pounds of pilfered food under my robes. Barbas appreciated the salmon cakes.

I need to go make some money tomorrow. Zaria will barter potions off of me, but I’ll need to forage for ingredients if a profit is to be made. Barbas thinks we should head up the mountain. He said this whole area is littered with unmarked caves and caves mean loot. It’s a little risky, but that’s the point. If the locals don’t go up there, then that means more unspoilt spots to check out. Once I don’t have to worry about where my next meal is coming from I can focus on bigger things.

Sent out a few letters. I plan on staying in Falkreath for a week or two, build up my reserves, wait for spring before heading north again. Once I get replies and have a better idea of what’s going on at large I’ll figure out the best time to climb up that damn mountain again to use the Elder Scroll. It’s been nestled in the bottom of my document satchel since Blackreach. I’m a little paranoid about losing it. No, it’s more than that. There’s a dangerous, niggling hope in the back of my mind that using it will somehow reset everything; time and space and whatever else conspired to bring me here. Completely irrational, I know. Of all the things that could happen when I get back to the Throat of the World opening a portal home is about as likely as summoning Zuul.

Concentrate on not dying in this world, then worry about the rest.

Sundas, 14^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202

As planned Barbas and I went trekking up the mountain. Not exactly my favorite activity, but hey if you don’t grind you don’t progress. There’s a lady living up there. Angi looks every bit the hermit, but she’s friendly enough. We swapped stories and shot a few targets. She gave me some surprisingly useful archery tips. Apparently, my grip is garbage, and no one thought to tell me until now!

When I mentioned that I was out looking for caves she said she’d looted most of them, except one with a spriggan guarding the entry that wasn’t worth the risk alone. She tagged along. It’s a good thing too, even with Barbas’ superior sense of smell I’m not sure we would have found it all the way up the peak without Angi’s help. And there were three spiggans. I tried to freeze and paralyze them at first, but they shook it off like it was nothing. I feel bad for killing them. They’re not evil, they just wanted to protect the glade. Which, in my humble opinion, might be the prettiest place in Skyrim. That I’ve seen so far anyway. Hot springs bubbled over tiered pools with pink flowering trees and a mini-Stone Henge at the bottom. It’s clear that it was mostly man-made, but I’m not sure for whose benefit. The big round stone in the center seems to be a focal piece. Tiny scraps of paper with completely illegible writing scrawled on them littered the ground around the stone, topped with coins. Took the money, left the prayers.

Lots to forage: flowers of various colors, including yellow which I haven’t seen before, mushrooms, lavender, and the biggest damn moths I’ve ever seen. Several random items were left scattered on top of staircases and rocks, either as offerings or maybe leftovers from people the sriggans have killed over the years. Found an ebony helmet and matching one-handed axe (I’ll be keeping that), some empty potion bottles that can be reused, shitty iron long sword, a spell tome on fire runes, and an elven bow with a snapped string.

We split the gold. Angi didn’t need any of the gear but did offer to restring the bow for me. She said I really ought to have a ranged weapon if I’m going to be traveling. She has a point. It’s a solid, light-weight thing and it won’t hurt to have a back-up weapon. I really should practice shooting more too. Angi became visibly uncomfortable when I asked if she wanted to come back down to Falkreath with us, so I dropped it and we parted ways back at her little shack.

I need to get someone to enchant my new pack; hauling around loot is going to give me sciatica. When I got back Lod had finished my boots. Sooo much better! Sold off the heavy Blades pair, helmet, old Dwemer axe, and the sword.

Total funds after re-rented room: 240 septims.

I plan on staying in the rest of the evening, eating grilled cheese in bed, and reading that spell tome I found. Nice and quiet and boring. This was a good day.

Morndas, 15^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202

I am kicking myself for not checking the guard house sooner. No name on the Thalmor orders. I knew it was weird!

With money no longer a pressing issue, at least for a little while, I decided to do some more follow ups today and the prisoner pick-up was one loose end. The guards were blasé about it, saying pretty much what I’d already heard from the towns people. A thief who failed to get across the border. A thief who had declined the city guards’ and Legate Skulnar’s best persuasion tactics to disclose his name, or anything else for that matter. Well, after they told me that I simply had to meet the man. I told them that I’d been robbed on the road and wanted to know if it was the same person. They let me right in. Compared to the Windhelm dungeons it wasn’t that bad, almost homey really; rugs on the floor, furniture for the men on duty to eat and play cards at, all they’re missing is a foosball table. It’s the damp that really reminds you that it’s a prison. I noticed the back walls of the cells I passed glistened with wet streaks of slime. The smell of mildew and sweat made my nose crinkle.

All but one cell was empty. He sat in the middle of the room, cross-legged on a bit of straw as if meditating. Of all the ways I imagined seeing Wyn again, this was not one of them. Still stoic, his expression betrayed nothing, not even that he recognized me. He’s thinner; they’d given him nothing but ragged trousers to wear, so I could see every rib sticking out, every bruise and cut.

Neither of us spoke, it was too risky with the guards nearby. After a while one of them, I think his name was Haljirn, asked if I recognized the “thief.” He spat the word from behind his helmet and gripped the handle of his sword like he couldn’t wait to use it. Wyn never broke eye contact. After a moment I was the one who had to turn away and tell the guard that no, I sure don’t know that elf. Never saw him before in my life.

I glanced over one last time before leaving and could have sworn the corner of Wyn’s mouth lifted just a fraction.

I hope we understood each other.

Now I’m going to have to figure out how to break him out.

Chapter Text

Falkreath

Tirdas, 16^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202

One thing you can’t say about Legate Skulnar is that he’s lazy. His rotation is tight, his men disciplined. Eventually word will get back to him that the Justiciar meant to come pick up his prisoner is dead. Time is not on my side, but if I’m going to get Wyn out of prison without casualties and without implicating myself I can’t rush the planning phase. I need to know every guard and their habits on duty, the jail layout, the best time to avoid civilian detection, and most importantly I’ll need an alibi.   

Goddammit. If Wyn had talked to me instead of going rogue, if he’d chosen to be honest about the assassins from the beginning, none of this would be necessary. No sense complaining. There’s no way I can leave him in there. I did let myself think about it for about thirty seconds. He’d never tell the Thalmor anything. Even under torture Wyn would keep his mouth shut right to the end. A stone-cold survivalist would look at the risks and walk away. I can’t do that. I just can’t. Good thing I’ve got plenty alchemy ingredients.  

To work!

*******

Skulnar keeps prison guards and “wall” guards on separate teams. Four men in the barracks, and four who patrol the streets. Patrols are predictable, very visible. I’m going to focus mostly on the prison crew.

Barracks Guards

Seghe

Shift: 4 bells to 12 bells. Former Legion, uber loyal but not very bright.

ID: grey hair on the arms, wears hand wraps, likes to whittle.

Gorm

Shift: 12 bells to 8 bells. Reserved. New baby at home – exhausted.

ID: weaves slightly while walking, smells of sour milk. *Off duty for the next three weeks.

Haljirn

Shift: 8 bells to 4 bells. Aggressive and bored. Closet Stormcloak?

ID: dent in lower right of helmet grill, heavy scarring on both hands, never wears gloves or gauntlets.

Maliles

Shift: ????  Covers every other shift on rotation, newest guy on the job = shit hours.

ID: youngest, olive skinned (Imperial), Florida-shaped grease stain on hem of surcoat. 

Middas, 17^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202

Gorm’s wife, Bila, likes to talk. They’re both locals, grew up together, married less than a year and already have a baby. Skulnar granted him leave, so the others will be covering for him the next three weeks. Maliles is taking up most of the slack. Best time to do this will be when he’s on the graveyard shift, he’ll be tired, easier to get past, and the others will all be catching up on their sleep.

Most townspeople either go home after sundown or congregate at the inn and stay late. Making a habit of chatting up the regulars, going to bed around midnight. Having a routine and being seen at the right time will be crucial to establishing my alibi later.

Wildcards:

Boland and Haljirn are buddies, they play cards at the inn some nights when Haljirn is off duty.

Delacourt is usually at the inn, however sometimes Siddgeir makes him come do duets with Aia at the long house (ha ha they hate each other). Keeps odd, late hours. Has been on again, off again with Valga the innkeeper.

Dengeir is very changeable and moody (early signs of dementia?) he might be the one I need to watch the closest. The slightest thing will set him off. He will be sitting quietly at the inn, then all of a sudden announce that he’s in danger and Tekla has to wrestle him home. He’s also completely deaf on the left side.

Fredas, 20^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202

I’ve heard back from the housekeeper at Jorrvaskr thanking me for retrieving Arnbjorn’s body (come to think I’m not sure who told them that he was there? She told me that they’d gotten word he’d died near Falkreath, but didn’t say who told them? Look into that later.) If Kodlak or any of the other companions were confused about why a corpse was shipped to their Hall no one bothered to send me a letter of complaint. Yet.

Sarah wrote a barely legible note in English. She thinks she’s making real strides with Dwemer parts. I’ll see if I can send her some more stuff to experiment with if I happen across anything. Still waiting to hear back from Calcelmo. I think they would get along.

Idgrod sent good news: Elisef has called the Moot for the 10^th of Rain’s Hand, which has some sort of historical significance, I guess. It will be held at Whiterun - closest thing to neutral ground. Idgrod was stingy with details, but implied that negotiations between Elisef and Balgruuf have been going well and so far, neither the court (excluding Bryling) or the Embassy are the wiser. I’m both glad to hear it and extremely nervous. The seed of the idea started with me, well with Wyn, but I was the one who decided to go with it. If Balgruuf manages to become High King it will change things in ways I can’t predict. The consequences will be on my head, regardless.

*******

Skulnar sent a runner to Markarth yesterday. It won’t be long before word gets back, someone has surely found the bodies by now. I need to move.

Siddgeir won’t let the whole bandit contract thing go, so I’ve decided to use it as part of my cover. The bandits he wants dead stopped communicating with him weeks ago, so he only has a vague idea of where they are. Gives me an excuse to take my time. Most of their activity has been to the north-east. Once I find them, I will at the very least have to kill the leader, unfortunately. Unless he's willing to skip town and let me borrow a little something to show the jarl. If I take off around the same time as a prisoner escape and never show up again to claim the bounty it will look suspicious. Siddgeir may not notice, but Nenya will.

His jarlness is throwing another party tomorrow night. I’ll need to make an appearance at the long house; be sure it’s well known that I plan on leaving the next day and then be seen in the morning. Timing will be crucial. I’ve got potions ready to go, a bug-out bag for Wyn, and Barbas to act as my look out if things go sideways.

Middas, 3^rd of First Seed, 4E 202

I found a grey hair this morning. I have named it Wyndelius Gatharian.

The jail break could have gone worse, I’ll give myself that much credit. The most nerve-wracking part wasn’t getting Wyn out, it was everything that led up to it. Court parties blow. The drunken merchants, the racist banter; enduring Aia’s backhanded compliments and Delacourt’s solos (I find that I do not enjoy the Breton accent, oh the irony) it’s all way outside my comfort zone. How the hell do bards do this all the time?! It’s exhausting!

As planned, I went back to the inn, grousing about getting an early start in the morning. All the regulars were there. Chatted with Tekla. She can’t wake Dengeir up when he nods off in his chair, because he gets violent, so most nights she just stands around waiting, poor thing. I retired to my room at the usual time. Then came the hard part, getting back out again without anyone noticing. I napped while Barbas listened. Invisibility is incredibly useful, but only if no one sees your door swing open on its own. It was early morning, maybe 2-3 AM? when the room finally cleared out. Light snow outside; not ideal, but I decided to risk visible footsteps.

We peeled off, Barbas sticking to the streets, watching for guard movement while I skulked to the barracks. Fortunately for me no one ever bothers locking the guard house, because what sort of suicidal lunatic breaks in to prison, right? Just opening the door was dicey. There’s nothing separating the sleeping quarters on the top floor from the main level, so there was no keeping cold air from rushing in as soon as I entered. For a beat I just waited by the door. I could hear snores from upstairs, but no movement. It would have made my life easier if Maliles had fallen asleep on duty. When I cracked the basement door, I could see him slowly pacing, shaking his arms out as he shuffled from one side of the room to the other.

Deep breath, wait for him to turn away and...go!

I’d hoped to just sneak passed him, pick the lock, slip Wyn an invisibility potion and sneak out again. Something always goes wrong. As I crept into the room I saw that the cell Wyn had been in was empty. They moved him to the fortified cell at the end of the hall, the one under the old well. The one that can’t be picked.

Well played, Skulnar, well played.

After the werewolf broke out the well was sealed with boards and heavy stone blocks, but there was still a good six inches of freezing cold standing water on the floor. No furniture, not so much as a wooden box or barrel to sit on. Wyn slept upright, huddled against the jagged bars.

After some frantic searching I found a release button. The new problem I had to very quickly get around was the sound the bars would make as soon as I pressed it. I had no potions that would work quick enough to knock Maliles out, so that left the paralyze spell. I’m a novice with it, at best, and magic makes noise; I didn’t see any alternative though. As soon as I unleashed it at the guard’s back, he dropped. Then I started counting.

One-one thousand, two-one thousand. Yank off the helmet, in goes the gag. Nine-one thousand, ten-one thousand. Flip him on his stomach, tie his hands and feet. I used his own purple surcoat and some prisoner rags as bindings. Sorry, Maliles, nothing personal. At best I haven’t been able to get a paralyze spell to last longer than thirty seconds, but at least I’ve gotten very good at maintaining invisibility. He would be able to give a full report later, sans physical description.  

The unavoidable jingling of the spell woke Wyn. It must have been disorienting for him to wake up to the sight of the guard getting pretzeled by thin air. Or thick air as the case may be. When I was satisfied that Maliles wasn’t going anywhere I turned to see Wyn staring in my general direction in utter bewilderment.

“Stand back, it’s time to go.” I was whispering but it came out harsher than I meant; a raspy command as I smacked the release button hidden in the wall.

He shifted away just in time to avoid the sharp barbed bars as they slid out of sight. I was doing my best not to panic about all the noise. Wyn still wore only a pair of ragged trousers and footwraps. There was no time to hunt for his things. I pressed a potion bottle into his hand and scurried back to the door to check if the coast was clear. It was not. Someone shuffled around at the top of the stairs, tapping the cooking pot. Seghe had gotten up early for his shift.

Wyn appeared at my back, pulling on a blood-stained tunic he’d found. I suppose the shimmer of the invisibility spell told him roughly where my eyes were. He can always tell. He looked like he was about to say something, thought better of it, and sucked down the contents of the ampule in his hand.

Up we went, breath still and steps slow, desperately willing the stairs not to creak. The reedy sound of wind blowing through the rafters and the snap of the fire seemed almost deafening. Seghe sat facing us with his helmet balanced on one knee.

“’Bout time.” he said, casually brushing crumbs out of his beard.

I froze with my hand on the door handle. Seghe leaned forward in his chair. His gaze hovered over my shoulder; one black eye, one cataract blue with a scar running through the brow and down the cheekbone.

“Hail Sithis.”

What the actual fuck?

Wyn gently pushed his palm against my back to urge me to move. Getting out was a blur of snow, wind howling and heart hammering until we reached the little waterfall on the slope above the mill. His potion wore off by then, but I didn’t have to tell him to stay down. I whipped off the pack I’d been carrying, shoved it into his arms and ran back to Falkreath. There was no time to stop or to think. Barbas took off in the opposite direction we’d gone and started barking to get the perimeter guard’s attention.

I didn’t have to wait long for the dog to appear at my side in front of the inn. It was very early in the morning by then. If anyone was up I expected it to be Valga getting the day’s bread ready. Who should greet us but a very agitated Dengeir. He looked lost, like he’d been sleep-walking, but not confused enough to miss the door opening for a dog and a puff of snow. I just kept going as fast as I could while he railed about specially trained Legion hounds. Once back in my room I let the invisibility spell unravel and stripped my gear off. Tekla’s voice rang outside, trying to calm Dengeir down. Valga’s voice joined a minute later. Soon she was knocking on my door and I had to pretend to stumble out of bed and ask what was going on. Had to play it off like I’d let Barbas out earlier and forgot to bring him back in. Valga and Tekla seemed to buy it. Dengeir claiming conspiracies against his life is nothing new, this raving episode just happened to include a dog who could supposedly open doors. Eventually Tekla convinced him to go home. Barbas and I retreated to my room, where I promptly collapsed onto the bed.

“So, how’d it go?” Barbas asked.

I couldn’t even answer. I was in that moment an exhausted puddle. All I could do was lay there and feel the adrenalin shakes slowly subside. Distantly I thought I heard shouting.

“Shift change. Guess they know now. That elf had better hide himself well."

I think I nodded. I tried to nod. The next thing I knew it was light out.

Having a werewolf escape your jail is one thing, it’s a supernatural being after all. But a second escape in less than three months? Skulnar was more than a little embarrassed and he took it out on his men in the form of door-to-door searches and sweeps through the woods. I was questioned thoroughly before I was allowed to leave town.

Barbas and I headed out on the east road as planned. Snow still fell, with about an inch of wet slush underfoot. Shit traveling weather. It covered up our footprints from the previous night, but man am I tired of being cold and wet.

My only plan was to be seen heading out of town, and to eventually find that group of bandits Siddgeir had me after. I figured Barbas would be able to sniff them out. As for Wyn, part of me hoped that he would disappear. Then I wouldn’t have to ask him what the hell he’d been doing to make Seghe let him waltz out of prison. Or what happened to the Sanctuary. Or why he kept the assassination attempts a secret for so long.

Of course I wanted to know, it was just…scary.

The clanking racket of search parties echoed through the woods for hours into the journey. Stealth is not the Legion’s forte. It subsided as we turned north, replaced with the sound of swaying trees and distant wolf cries.

I’ve never hunted people before. As we walked, I tried to psych myself up. Killing a bandit means they won’t rob, rape, or murder anyone else, you’re really doing a public service, etc. Isn’t that the sort of thing people tell themselves in these situations?

No matter how I frame it though, nothing will change how much I hate killing. And I don’t want to stop hating it, because that might mean I’ll start to enjoy it…and that’s a mental road I’m terrified to go down.

Barbas broke me out of my reverie when he caught the scent of something he described as “spicy feline.” A cart sat overturned on the side of the road, thoroughly looted. It clearly belonged to a khajiit caravan. Tracked it to a small cottage tucked into the woods just off the main road. The vegetable garden out front needed some weeding, but other than that it appeared perfectly normal from the outside. Inside I didn’t need Barbas to tell me that something very bad happened there. It reeked of blood. The basement was trashed. While I pocketed a smattering of coins left on a table, I noticed a small button in the wall near a bookcase. Had the shelf been placed six inches to the right it would have been a clever spot for it. Pulled out my axe and tried to steel myself for the next part. The bookcase made an unholy grinding noise that set my teeth on edge as it slid away from the wall. I waited, poised for something to come running out of the dark, but it remained utterly quiet. Considering what I’d already gone through the previous night my nerves really didn’t need all the added suspense of creeping through tunnels, waiting for something to happen. Barbas went first. He trotted a few paces ahead, sniffing like mad. I hadn’t gotten two steps when several things happened all at once. Barbas whirled and snarled viciously at something behind me, and that something hit the back of my head before I could turn. I registered the pain briefly before blacking out.

Woke up with a raging headache. I was on the upper level of the cottage once more, laying on a pile of furs and blankets by the hearth. My vision swam as I tried to sit up. A substantial goose egg had formed on the back of my skull, but my fleeting worry about having a concussion was overtaken with a gut-twisting fear. I’d been attacked and my dog was gone. This shall not stand. There was no calling for help, I had to pull myself together and go find Barbas. My clothes were still on, except for my axe and boots, which sat on the floor nearby. I felt shaky going down the stairs. The basement looked just the same, with the tunnel entrance gaping.

I practically fell over the first body. The corpse of a Nord in fur armor, with a pickaxe in hand and throat slit, lay on the threshold between the main tunnel and a dank room full of wooden scaffolding. Another sat slack against a wall with her legs trapped beneath her. A third slumped over an anvil in a pool of his own blood. All still warm to the touch. Bile rose in my throat.

It was a surprisingly long set of tunnels, dug at a gently sloping downward angle for the most part, with warrens in the very back used for storage and living quarters. A few draugr hung out of their crypts, which had also been looted.

I counted seven bodies by the end, the last two still sitting at a table with their last meal. The leader, it had to be the leader with her heavy bear-themed armor and war paint, looked like she’d put up the most fight. Where most of the others were taken out with a single clean cut across the throat she had multiple wounds, so fresh that blood still oozed beneath her fur gorget.

The air stirred. I spun around, which brought on a wave of nausea that probably saved Wyn’s life. Instead of unleashing the Shout caught in my throat I instinctively clamped my mouth shut and doubled over. He rushed forward and grabbed my shoulders. I must have passed out again because I woke up on a nearby cot. A new, rank smell hit my nose. Wyn stood on the other side of the room shirtless and rummaging through a cupboard.

I winced. “Did I throw up on you?”

The wry look he threw over his shoulder told me everything. Yes. Yes, I had. He yanked on an oversized tunic.

“Barbas is upstairs.” He assured me before I could ask.

Wyn begrudgingly helped me back to the cottage entrance. He didn’t think I should be moved, but I wasn’t about to stay in a warren full of dead people a second longer than I had to. It was slow going, I was still dizzy and had to lean on him where the ground was uneven. He talked the whole time. He explained how he’d taken a circuitous route through the hills to avoid the guards, then tracked me as soon as I left Falkreath. A Nord, probably a scout, followed us into the cottage and that’s who had hit me. So, Wyn retaliated.

I think it must have been the longest Wyn has ever talked, maybe to anyone, certainly to me. He settled me back where I’d started by the hearth, then opened the front door. It was dark out and sure enough in trod Barbas with snow dusting his fur.

“Coast is clear! We got ‘em all!” he declared cheerfully.

“Tell me you’re not enjoying this.” I grumbled under my breath.

Barbas shook himself out and rolled on his back, so he could loll his tongue to one side and look at me upside down. “I’m not not enjoying myself.”

I drank the water Wyn handed me to cover up my groan of frustration. Nothing ever phases Barbas. I envy him that.

Wyn thoroughly examined the bump on my head. His fingers traced down the back of my neck, checking my spine, and he moved the lamp back and forth to see my pupils respond. When he was sure that I wasn’t in any danger of dropping dead he ordered me to sleep. He said he was going back downstairs to “clean up.”

The weight of everything that happened in the last 24 hours dropped on me all at once when he said that.

“You killed them all.” I heard myself mutter.

Wyn sat on his haunches next to me and nodded. “Because your life is more important than theirs. I know that is not what you want to hear, but it is true. This was a group of career criminals, Esme. Murderers. When I saw what that Nord…well the dog already had him on the ground, I simply finished the job.”

He leaned in close, meeting my eyes. “Their deaths are on my conscience, not yours. I think…that is as it should be.”

“I never wanted you to-”

“I know. My hands are not clean; they were not even before we met, of that I am certain now. I choose this role, for…the greater good.”

There it was again, the needs of the many. Acceptable sacrifices.

Every word rang with absolute conviction. I hate that he thinks of himself that way, like a tool or a weapon.

I was too exhausted to argue.

“Get some rest.”

He squeezed my hand and went back downstairs.

Took three days to get straight answers about what he’d been up to since Windhelm. At first, he busied himself with disposing of the bodies of the bandit troupe, then cleaning the place up because it would make a suitable hide-out later should we need one. The poor khajiit from the caravan had all been dumped in a pit. Fire would have been too conspicuous, and the topsoil was too hard to dig graves, so we ended up walling the dead up in a small chamber deep in the warrens.

Wyn looted the place top to bottom. I’d ask a question, he’d evade. I’d ask again, he would find some very interesting chest or pile of junk to examine. Finally, I managed to coax a story out of him.

In Morthal the first pair of assassins caught him off guard. Barbas told me correctly that he had chased one into the swamp. What he hadn’t told me was that Wyn had already left the assassin to bleed out in the water and took the orders out of his pocket. The ones with my name on them. Barbas didn’t so much chase the guy into the swamp as harass a dying man into belly crawling away from the scene of the crime. I wasn’t told about any of this because it would have upset me. Well, no shit.

More appeared at random over the past several months. He took out a Breton posing as a lute player in Dawnstar, then a Bosmer outside Nightgate. Before the Blackreach expedition there was a khajiit. Two more after Blackreach, the Dunmer I’d found in the snow and an Argonian who ran.

“The Brotherhood will never stop, not until the contract is fulfilled. It was…inconvenient.” Wyn admitted. “When the last assassin ran, I pursued him. It was not my intention to leave you unprotected. He was just…too fast."

He cleared his throat and continued a little faster. 

"I realized the only way to put an end to it was to wipe out the Brotherhood entirely.”

“So, you burned them out of their Sanctuary?”

He looked startled by the question and shook his head. “No. I could not get in. The chase lasted days. I was tired, the Argonian outpaced me. I tracked him to the black door. It was spelled, so I took up a look-out in the trees and waited for someone to come out. I did not know there was…unrest inside until the door opened again. Smoke poured out, I heard screams.”

“They turned on each other?”

“Perhaps. I do not know what went on inside. The man who escaped was human, with a large bundle in his arms. He mounted a horse that rose out of the very water and rode hard. I think…I think he was laughing. The Argonian followed him.”

“You let him go that time?”

“I was tired.” Wyn sighed. “Even the swiftest Dunmer cannot hope to keep up with a horse at full gallop. If the Argonian has that kind of stamina…then he is highly trained and exceedingly dangerous. Since that night I have often wondered why he did not simply face me in combat. He chose to run, perhaps to gain support from his brethren…only to be dislocated not a day later. It was all very…unsettling.”

So, the very last of the Dark Brotherhood is still out there somewhere. Dawnstar probably.

Wyn said he’d planned on tracking the horse, but he needed food and rest first. I can’t imagine running all the way from Windhelm to Falkreath non-stop. That’s nuts! He pilfered what he could, slept in a hay loft, then went back to the Sanctuary the next day. He wasn’t alone. No one was officially sent to check out the fire, but a couple town guards volunteered, off the books. Wyn watched from the trees as they ransacked the place. There wasn’t much to salvage, but one of the guards did come away with a stack of hand-stitched journals.

“I should not have let curiosity get the better of me.” he admitted. “A record of Brotherhood activity could point me to where they may have fled. I thought it might also contain information about contracts…about you…that would be hazardous in the wrong hands. I broke into the Legate’s office and took them. I’m sure you heard the rest. I was seen, chased.”

“Why did you try to cross the border?”

He smiled a little. “I didn’t, that was a misdirection. I misjudged how persistent the guards were, however. Before they caught up to me I hid the journals. As far as I know they are still where I left them.”

And we will be getting them back, too. I am beyond curious about the sort of deviations recorded in those journals. From when Cicero left Dawnstar to now there must be pointed differences in the canon story I know. I doubt there will be any information on my contract or who put it on my head, Cicero’s not that stupid, but there may be clues. That’s tomorrow’s chore.

So, then I had to ask about the whole Hail Sithis thing. That he shrugged off. Seghe was likely a Sithis worshipper from way back and assumed that Wyn was part of the Brotherhood. Why else would he steal the journals and refuse to talk? Makes sense given what we know. It felt good to put that nagging doubt about whether Wyn got entangled in Brotherhood business, Listener-type business, to rest.

I didn’t need to ask about his treatment in prison, the cuts and bruises he’s covered with are enough. We’ve taken more than enough time to recover. Tomorrow I’ll be taking the bandit leader’s sword to Siddgeir. Once I collect the bounty and resupply we’ll head east again.  

Chapter Text

Falkreath

Turdas, 4^th of First Seed, 4E 202

Turning in the bounty was supposed to be a quick errand. Here’s proof that people are dead, please pay me now. Simple. Of course, once you do one favor for someone like Siddgeir he suddenly has so many problems he needs help with. Never again! I am not a merc and have no desire to become one. Or turn my friend into one. Good God that bothers me! Wyn taking on a bodyguard role is one thing, because I want to live. Thing is, if I picked up a bounty and asked Wyn to do the dirty work he would. He deserves better than that.

150 gold for Pinewatch. Siddgeir pushed another bounty on me. It will make excellent toilet paper.

Stepped into the general store to get some better camping supplies and found that Aia had followed me from the long house. While Solaf went rummaging through his stores for the things I needed she sidled next to me at the counter.

“He’s not your friend.” She said, as if I should know exactly who she was talking about.

“The headmaster pretends to favor you. He writes you, correct? It’s a ruse, to keep track of you and lure you back to Solitude, nothing more.”

Okay…left field much. I didn’t know quite how to react, which seemed to aggravate her. She kept her voice low and controlled in that tell-tale bard way where every syllable is perfectly annunciated. It also had the effect of making everything she said sound slightly threatening.

“You’re not special.” She spat. “If that’s what you think, then you are a fool. Viarmo tried to manipulate me at the college too, but I would not let him succeed. As a first year there was already talk of sending me to court at Windhelm. When I would not cooperate with him Viarmo tried to send me to Winterhold. Winterhold! Do you see?”

I did not.

Aia let out a long-suffering sigh. “He-is-a-THALMOR-AGENT.”

“You know this how…?”

“Oh please! Did you never wonder how he became headmaster in the first place? With no talent, no reputation abroad? I certainly did, and do you know what I found? A single recommendation in the college records from thirty years ago signed by Arril Thilinor.”

I still didn’t know what the hell she was talking about.

“Arril Thilinor. The former steward of Alinor. One of the founders of the Thalmor who supposedly died in the 3^rd era?

“By the Eight! Even if the name was a coincidence a position like headmaster would be vetted by the senior staff, thoroughly. If the entire board was as ignorant as you there still ought to have been inquiries into Viarmo’s education, background, credentials, and there is nothing but a lone reference from a dead man!

“I planned to show the letter to Falk Firebeard, but it disappeared from where I hid it. Sound familiar? And when I confronted Viarmo he had the gall to act offended. Suddenly all my solos for the season were suspended. He blamed the cancellation of the Burning of King Olaf festival. It was really a punishment for looking into his background too closely.

“He is a fraud and one day I shall prove it. Should any evidence fall into your hands on that score I would be willing to compensate you accordingly.”

An incredulous little laugh escaped me. “You want me to spy on him because you think he’s spying for the Thalmor?”

“Precisely. Call it civic duty.”

“Duty or opportunity?”

She gave a condescending little head tilt at that and sniffed. “The jarl is a…lovely man and I really do enjoy my place here, however, should the position of headmaster become vacant it would open certain prospects for those with the drive to succeed. Think it over.

“To be perfectly honest when you first arrived at the college, I thought you might be a Thalmor plant as well but that simply made no sense. They don’t generally employ humans and when they do those humans have some talent or position to be utilized. You have neither. Yet it is clear to me that his masters have Viarmo assigned to you for some reason. A little strange that you should be abducted from the Blue Palace a second time, don’t you think? How, I wonder, did they know where you were?”

Solaf came stomping up the cellar stairs with his arms full of gear. As if on cue Aia smiled beatifically at us both and left the store. I was so distracted Solaf could have charged me triple and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Spent quite a bit of time this evening analyzing everything she said and going over my letters and journal entries.

Aia may be a grasping, haughty, self-centered bitch but there’s also a chance that she might be right.

My dossier mentioned an “informant.” And Viarmo does always want to know where I am and what I’m doing. He is always trying to get me to go back to Solitude, even after the Thalmor nabbed me there. Someone at the college did turn my stuff over to Elenwen.

The Thalmor knew exactly where I would be while everyone else was busy with the court proceedings, though to be fair they have spies all over Solitude, so that could have been anyone.

I think it’s more than a little sus that the one piece of evidence Aia claims to have found conveniently disappeared. She either thinks I’m dumb enough to take her word for it (which would not shock me) or she’s just that confident that she’s right. Maybe there’s a smoking gun out there just waiting to be found- Elenwen’s NOC List, sitting in a room full of magical security laser beams.

If it is true, I can’t say that I’ll be heartbroken, but I will be disappointed. It’s a blow to the ol’ ego to think Viarmo may have turned me over to be tortured. That’s the part I’m really having a hard time with. Knowingly handing people over like the fucking Altmer gestapo? I can’t imagine Viarmo being that heartless. I’ve seen him grumpy and anxious and exasperated, sometimes all at once, but never cruel. Last time I was in Solitude he was incredibly helpful. Why bend over backwards to help me only to turn me in?

Regardless of whether Aia is right or not I can’t really do anything about it right now. Barbas had a good idea though. He thinks I should keep writing as if nothing is wrong, feed Viarmo bits of information to see what happens. We’re heading east, so if I mention that we’re going north, to Riverwood maybe, will the Thalmor be seen more there than normal? It’s a relatively low-effort experiment. I think I’ll try it. Of course, it’s not foolproof, the whole college is in my business. If I ask Viarmo now not to share anything in my letters he would wonder why.

This is the sort of shit that makes you paranoid. That and walking through a town where you perpetrated a jail break four days prior like nothing happened. The searches have stopped. Falkreath guards are still very much on edge, though. I could feel eyes on me walking down the street. After picking up mail and asking Valga to forward anything else for me to Ivarstead, it was a relief to leave again. There’s a letter from Thane Bryling, and one from Kiri. I’ll take a look at them later.

Oddly enough with all the sweeps through the woods the guards never tried to get into Pinewatch while we were lying low. Barbas heard them poking around outside but they didn’t so much as jiggle the door handle. I think they know exactly who’s been using the place.

While I took care of business in town Wyn’s job was to go get the journals he’d hidden (and not get caught). Just in case Pinewatch was being…watched we decided not to meet there, Wyn was just to supposed to catch up with us on the road.

When we were clear of Falkreath, and Wyn hadn’t shown up yet, Barbas cheerfully asked, “What do you want to bet he gets himself into trouble again?”

Awesome. Great. Thank you for that, Barbas. Very helpful. Like I need one more reason to stress out.

If I’m being honest with myself, I’m very uncomfortable with the idea of being without Wyn again. I can get by, but life is so much harder without him. I can’t let myself be selfish though. Every follower, from Avulstein to Barbas to Sarah, I’ve tried to treat exactly the same; I’m not the boss of anyone and we’re all free people who can go our own ways whenever we wish. Wyn can leave today, tomorrow, or when/if Alduin is no longer a problem. Whenever he’s done with all this, he can go. I’d just like a good-bye when it happens. Trying not to let myself think about it too much. I can have a nice mental breakdown after the big bad world-destroying god-dragon is gone. In the meantime, focus!

Helgen came into view around dusk, just as skeletal and bleak as I remember. This time it wasn’t abandoned. I expected bandits, what we found were a dozen poorly supplied Stormcloaks. They left the front gates wide open, an obvious trap. Going around the town seemed like the most reasonable option. When will I learn? Of course, there were men looking out from the top of the keep. And of course, they spotted Barbas and my footsteps in the snow alongside him. Out came the arrows, but they held fire.

I dropped invisibility and hailed the men on the walls with my palms up. I figured once they saw that I wasn’t a Thalmor or an Imperial, just a random traveler, that would be the end of our interaction and I could go on my merry way. Three soldiers called me over to the gate. The hungry looks they exchanged would have made me reach for my pepper spray a year ago. Now, well they were standing side-by-side in perfect formation to be taken out by a single Shout. Nords have a higher center of gravity, makes them easy to knock over. I was ready, too. Shoulders back, feet apart, feeling solid. Could I take on the entire camp all at once? Fuck no! But I could push them back, then run like hell for cover. It wasn’t necessary thanks to one extra beefy Stormcloak who came hurling down from his look-out post like gravity’s his bitch. He had that look. The I know you from somewhere and I’m on the verge of getting really excited about it, look. When recognition dawned on his face, he yanked off his helm and took a knee. Bulky bod, bald head covered in grey stubble with a beard to match-the merc who landed the killing blow in Windhelm! He’s…not supposed to be a Stormcloak. I don’t think?

Stenvar is his name. He introduced himself while shoving the three pervy gate keepers away, going on and on about how the dragon attack changed his life and how I’d inspired him to join up.

Ah. If it isn’t my old nemesis, the consequences of my actions.

As he led me in he explained that they had been ripping through the Reach on Thalmor-finding duty for the last six weeks and were on their way to their Falkreath camp to resupply. Helgen was a convenient stop.

A half-processed elk carcass hung from the rafters of one of the ruined houses off the town square with several men busy slicing and smoking strips of meat on makeshift racks. When Stenvar said they needed to resupply what he really meant was they were starving.

Their captain sat in a sad, patched tent nursing a leg injury. He didn’t seem to share Stenvar’s enthusiasm for my being there, but he listened patiently. I couldn’t help but notice how grey he was and offered to look at the leg. I’d bet good money he’s already got sepsis. Did what I could to heal the gash behind his knee and gave him one of the low-potency potions I’d whipped up in Falkreath. I doubt it will kill the infection completely. Still, Cappy (I can’t remember his name) appreciated the help and had his men clear out a house for us for to use for the night. There are barely any intact walls and the place reeks of stale beer. It’s one of the few dwellings still mostly standing though and the fireplace is functional. The soldiers shared their venison, I shared my bread and cheese rations.

They also wanted stories. Nords do so love tales of adventuring. Stuck to dragon attacks, since that was what they most wanted to hear about. Several had their own takes on why Alduin chose now to come back, and what it all means, which I didn’t comment on. What was very interesting was the recollection of one boy from Deep Water Crossing. A dragon, according to him, was taken down by a group of miners. It was a lucky shot, he admitted. Somehow their archers managed to hit both eyes and forced the dragon to land, then it was just a matter of keeping it down and pummeling it until it stopped moving. It lay in a pool of its own blood in the dirt for hours, he said. They were absolutely sure it was dead. There was no movement, no breath. Then, by sunrise the next day, it resurrected and flew off.

Well shit. I never thought of that possibility. If I’m not around to absorb the soul I guess dragons just…don’t die? What if the body is burned or dismembered? What if the miners had just kept chopping it up, would it have kept regenerating over and over again? If the Blades go off dragon hunting will any of their kills be successful if I’m not there? If not, will that still be the case after Alduin is gone?

Once this becomes common knowledge, I’m never going to get a moment’s peace.

The rest of the fireside gossip among the soldiers revolved around where they were likely to be assigned next and how long the war was going to go on for. Some just want to go home, some are committed to the cause, or at least say they are. Stenvar wanted me to say something inspiring. Little did he know I’m hardly pro-war, and certainly not pro-Stormcloak. If my side-stepping annoyed him he’ll just have to deal with it. The last thing I want is to be used as a recruitment tool; Ulfric’s equivalent of Uncle Sam. I can also do without some of the not-so-subtle insinuations and elbowing of some of the soldiers. The rumors that I’m involved with Ulfric continue. That “friendly curiosity” bullshit people pull when they want to pry into your personal life can fuck right off. Still, I chose my words very carefully. In no terms, not by any stretch of the imagination, have I ever been or will ever be personally, romantically, or politically involved with Ulfric Stormcloak.

Now watch them twist that into a new round of rumors.

Fredas, 5^th of First Seed, 4E 202

Wyn turned up early in the morning, perched on a rock in Helgen’s shadow, waiting for me. He could have snuck into camp last night, but I don’t blame him for choosing to sleep in the woods. He feels safer in the wilderness. And he managed to successfully retrieve Cicero’s journals! I remembered that I also have mail that I never read before leaving Falkreath, so we’ve stopped in a sunny spot off the path to rest and give me a chance to catch up on my reading.

*******

Summary of Thane Bryling’s letter: negotiations have reached an advanced level. Elisef is going to Whiterun ahead of the Moot to talk with Balgruuf in person.

It’s all about as romantic as a sack of sand, but what else did I expect? On paper it’s a good plan. Balgruuf is really getting the better end of the deal, though. Elisef is getting saddled with a political marriage and three kids. Maybe she sees it that way, maybe not. It’s hard not to project myself into that role and feel mortified by the very idea, but then that’s just how I grew up. It was always: eat your veggies, go to college, pick a career, then you can think about all that other stuff. Priorities are completely different here.

*******

Summary of Kiri’s letter: things are not going well, please come back to Windhelm and talk sense into the pig-headed dingus I work for.

I’m paraphrasing, but the context of the letter still caught me off guard. I knew Ulfric, or at least his people, were spreading rumors about me backing him in the civil war, but I didn’t think it would become a big enough part of their strategy to warrant a plea for intervention. Seriously, he must have other advisors.

Well, they’ll just have to deal with disappointment because I have no plans to head north again any time soon. I’ll draft a reply when we get to Ivarstead. Something polite, but firm.

*******

Cicero’s journals are more disturbing than I remembered. Maybe it’s all the blood stains and the little doodles in the margins. I’m not sure if the one on the last page of the third journal is a Khajiit hanging from a noose, or a house cat wearing boots. Creepy either way.

Volume 1:

18^th of Evening Star, 4E 186 -to- 27^th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 187

A presumably young, and very sane Cicero has lost his home in Bruma and relocated to Cheydinhal. This is not the journal of an uneducated or unhinged man. He’s greeted warmly by his brothers and sisters and seems to be optimistic about the future, though even early on he mentions his concerns about the Brotherhood losing their foothold in Tamriel without more of a “physical presence.”

Volume 2:

7^th of Sun’s Height, 4E 188 -to- 21^st of Sun’s Disk, 4E 188

The fall of Wayrest, Bravil is destroyed, and the Listener dies defending the Night Mother’s crypt. One brother makes it out with the coffin and manages to get back to Cheydinhal. Still very sane.

Volume 3:

23^rd of Sun’s Disk, 4E 188 -to- 4^th of Sun’s Height, 4E 189

The Brotherhood without a Listener, Cicero states that they must “take the streets” to be sure the people don’t know their prayers are not being answered. Named Keeper by the Black Hand, goes into some detail about oiling and cleaning the NM’s corpse. Last contract: the jester.

Volume 4:

1^st of Hearthfire, 4E 189 -to- 29^th Sun’s Disk, 4E 200

This is where the tone starts to really shift. The head of the sanctuary tries to declare himself Listener but doesn’t know the special phrase. Cicero convinces another brother to murder him. Cheydinhal falls, eventually Cicero is left completely alone. He goes from matter-of-fact reports on his kills to taking on the jester’s persona.

Volume 5:

30^th of Sun’s Disk, 4E 200 -to- 1^st of Rain’s Hand, 4E 201

Now he’s completely off his nut. Plans to move to Skyrim, questions whether the Falkreath Sanctuary is really Brotherhood, decides no they’re not, goes to Dawnstar instead after finding the pass phrase in a book, “Innocence my brother.” More silence, total isolation except for resident ghosts and a troll. Decides to relocate to Falkreath to find a Listener and “teach Astrid the error of her ways.”

Cicero is what you get when you take an optimist, reward him for glorifying murder, give him a structured environment with a support system in place, then take it all away. Almost three years of isolation later and anyone would have lost their damn mind.

*The 6^th journal starts up in Mid Year, about the time I was recovering from my swamp ordeal in Morthal, before my first trip to Whiterun. So, I guess I missed him by a week or two.  

Reading through it…I don’t know how to feel. On the one hand I’m glad they never found a Listener, I’m glad the Brotherhood is hanging on by its fingernails. Cicero chose the life of an assassin and it’s clear by his earlier journals that he understood what he was doing. Could things have gone differently though? Would people still be alive if I had made more of an effort to intervene? I wasn’t the Dragonborn yet then, I was still suffering under the delusion that there would be a key home in a book in the Winterhold library. If I had thought about it sooner maybe at least farmer Loreius and his wife would still be alive.

There I go again! You. Can’t. Save. Everyone!!!

Chapter Text

3rd of Mid Year, 4E 201

Such preparation! Cicero was careful-so very careful! Wagon secured and loaded in the night-in the snow. Sithis take the snow! And a wheel broken on the road! Curse it! Curse it! The farmer would not help-no! Not for gold or merry songs so Cicero practiced slicing, slicing, slicing! Shiny blades cut, cut, cut! And no need to clean up! A cellar, cool and dark where the earth will soak up all the lovely blood. Then Cicero had nice tools! Poor Cicero did his best and Mother was soon homeward again. Now Mother is safe! Cleansed and oiled in her place of honor with red light shining! Cicero could do without the damp, but he does not complain! No! He Keeps and creeps and peeps at what is left of the Old Ways. Diminished, yes, tucked away. Cicero can taste the neglect!

A home full of brothers and sisters once more, misguided but good Cicero will show them the way!

27th of Mid Year, 4E 201

Poor Cicero wants to like his new siblings. He does! Krex the wizardly old Breton reveres the Tennants, as does the ancient un-child. But all loyal to Astrid! Cicero cannot bring himself to like the Pretender! Usurper of Mother’s word and will! Shameful and wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong!!! But Cicero cannot eliminate the problem while her dog-soldier watches and sniffs like a Void hound. Patience. Sweet Cicero knows a good kill comes with patience. He will whisper and caper and keep his blades so very sharp and close!

4th of Sun’s Height, 4E 201

No Listener, still. None! So quiet-Mother is surely displeased by the state of this Sanctuary. Yes. This is the heart of her silence-Hateful! Hateful silence!! Cicero must try harder to correct his brothers and sisters, perhaps if all can be swayed the Pretender will be forced to change her ways. A few agree with Cicero, but not all. Not yet.

28th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Terrible screaming mountain! It stopped, but doesn’t, Cicero hears it still. Farmer Loreius screamed into the night. Not so joyous, not so final this sound. It echoes, but poor Cicero cannot understand. Cicero begs Mother to explain. Of course, she will not. No, she remains silent still.

23rd of Hearthfire, 4E 201

The sacrament was performed, she says. The people remember and the contract must be honored, she says. Who finds these wretched souls though? The Pretender will not say that-no! Astrid laughed at dear Cicero and handed contracts to a pair of fledglings with virgin blades! Gold changed hands, without Mother’s sweet guidance! Cicero reminds them and he is threatened! Cicero longs to stab, stab, stab his devotion to the Void! But not like this! False worship! Not for Mother or the Dark Father but for gold and for Astrid! The Brotherhood must survive, yes-but does it truly? No, no she twists, and the others bend to her oh so readily! Cicero still hopes they may be saved, so he must whisper in ears and wait, wait, wait!

2nd of Sun’s Disk, 4E 201

An embarrassment! An unmitigated failure! Only one target eliminated and both sister and brother gone to the Void! The nasty necromancer is no more, but a little girl remains. The Pretender calls it a ‘fluke’ and sends another sister to finish the job. Raeille is a charming killer, with her lute and her songs. She lets Cicero dance while she plays! Cicero wishes his sister success, but he does not believe it will be so- no. The wrongness is at work, an ill omen.

19th of Evening Star, 4E 201

First Raeille, then Ja’iir. How many will fail before Astrid listens? Brother Reyvon sends word the target has disappeared. He will wait in the cold for her to resurface. He is a good brother. The Pretender sends Veezara as well now. Cicero listened oh so carefully from the shadows. Two assassins, one target! Even the un-child cannot remember the last time a contract went so very wrong!

Cicero is nearly done with his preparations. This farce has gone on long enough! Krex and the dark elf, perhaps even the Redguard will side with him. Unrest and uncertainty. Even the forge-dog is quiet now.

Mother will stay safe-Cicero has seen to that-if his brothers and sisters refuse to denounce the Pretender-Cicero will cleanse the Sanctuary! Cicero has had to start over before-Again! And again! And again! He will continue until Mother is appeased. Until she speaks at long last!

26th of Morning Star, 4E 202

Brother Reyvon has joined the Void. No word from Brother Veezara. A Shadowscale is good at disappearing-yes! After the target is very, very dead.

Cicero will wait no longer! Failure after failure and still the Pretender is defended! Still she mocks-still she ignores-still she steps on the Old Ways.

Shimmery runes and scrolls all tucked away, safe and waiting. Shiny, pointy knives! Gleaming and ready! Soon poor, abused Cicero will dance a merry jig- through the Void or over Astrid’s corpse!

Under lock and key! By land or sea! So, it will be!

Chapter Text

Ivarstead

Sundas, 7^th of First Seed, 4E 202

Wyn very wisely decided not to come into Ivarstead with me. The townsfolk remember me fondly enough, him…not so much.

Fastred, that ADHD teen with more enthusiasm than sense, ran off with some guy about six weeks ago. Her parents are dealing with it in typical stoic fashion.

Most of the villagers have spent the winter bear hunting and cleaning up the barrow. Since the jarl of Riften can’t be bothered with petitions, the farmers scraped together enough gold to fix up Narfi’s old house so they can entice their own priest of Arkay to move in full-time. When I asked where Narfi would live everyone went quiet. I guess it was too much to hope for that that Dark Brotherhood contract would go unfulfilled forever. Poor bastard. He wasn’t hurting anyone, who would want him dead?

It's also weird that the priestess who came to perform the rights for him took Narfi’s body back to Riften rather than inter him at the barrow. The whole room irrupted in complaints when Wilhem brought that part up. An insult to the community! And all that. Never mind that someone was murdered. Skyrim is a shitty place to die poor and alone. Someone can put an arrow through your skull and the guards will call it a “hunting accident.” Case closed; paperwork done. No further inquiry required.

Spent most of the evening at the inn catching up with the locals while Wyn scouted the steps to High Hrothgar. Mostly clear, down here, but there will be snow clogging parts of the trails further up. I still hold out hope that the Greybeards can maybe help me figure out the words of power without having to use the Elder Scroll, but it might be unavoidable. I just want to get it over with.

Ivarstead

Morndas, 8^th of First Seed, 4E 202

Today was mainly dedicated to resupplying and getting through the three-inch stack of letters waiting for me.

Jorlief wrote (though I’m very sure it’s Kiri’s handwriting) asking again for me to attend the Moot in support of Ulfric.

No, thank you. Moving on.

Erandur's letter was mostly about what’s happening with the Dawngaurd. He’s been working with Falion on behind-the-scenes support for incoming vamp hunters, lots of research it sounds like, which is right up his alley. Benor has been promoted to Captain. They estimate that they’ve wiped out fourteen vampire cells. What remains of the Vigilants have joined their ranks.

Morthal is still a semi-regular staging ground for Thalmor, so I’m not going to reply from Ivarstead. Even if I use my fake name the couriers here know me too well to risk it.

The rest of the letters were from Sarah and Calcelmo’s nephew, Aicantar, who have also been writing each other, it seems, thanks to a mis-delivery to Whiterun that Sarah took the liberty of answering. I suspect Fralia helped transcribe for her. There’s a lot to sift through, but basically what I understand is that Calcelmo is very intrigued by the prospect of finding an ancient Dwemer road as long as someone else does the leg work, he’s too busy with his own research to make time. Aicantar does seem confident that if a road to Skuldafn did exist it would have either started or had a connection with Kagrenzel. That, as of now, will be our start point.

Sarah has also been doing a great deal of mechanical work with Dwemer parts. She’s gone from getting gyros to spin to getting connected gears and levers to move as well. Aicantar and her have been trading notes like a couple of obsessive nerds and it’s absolutely heart-warming.

I sent my replies, thanked Aicantar for all the help, and told Sarah that I’ll be MIA for a while.  

We tackle the Steps tomorrow. 

High Hrothgar

Turdas, 11^th of First Seed, 4E 202

Here I am again in this spartan icebox, all because the Tongues decided to make some shit up. I wish I understood the rules. If they created a Shout that dragons can’t comprehend, then they created their own words of power from scratch. Why can’t I do that? I’ve tried, nothing happens. The Greybeards aren’t much help on that front, everything they know hinges on their understanding of Paarthurnax’ teachings and what the Tongues did wasn’t part of the curriculum.

The climb up here wasn’t any more pleasant than the first time. More snow, more wolves, more ice wraths. No leg cramps though.

The only reason I’m not on the tippy-top of this rock talking to Paarthurnax was the hope I’d find a last minute work-around. No dice, so tomorrow I get to make the rest of the climb, just me and the Scroll. Wyn has been trying to convince me not to go at all and I’ve been trying to convince him to stay with the Greybeards, out of flaming-rock-to-the-cranium range. I can go ethereal to avoid damage, Wyn can’t. And he knows I’m right.

High Hrothgar

Middas, 17^th of First Seed, 4E 202

ZAH FRUL. Son of a bitch! All of that fucking effort over two syllables!!! I know what JOOR means. I’ve known for a long, long time.

JOOR ZAH FRUL. Mortal, finite, temporary.

Using the Elder Scroll was…intense. A bit like the time I walked around in Erandur’s memories, but not. I wasn’t in a memory, at least not one from a person’s point of view. It was like the Scroll punched a tiny hole for me to look through; if I focused dead-center images and sounds came into focus, but if I concentrated on the periphery, it became a million layers of time stuff compacted around me. All the things, all at once, and there was no getting out until the scroll decided it was done. I’m not normally claustrophobic but oh dear lord that was uncomfortable. The knowledge absorption part was very different than getting a word from Paarthurnax. It felt thinned out, like Time had watered it down.

The Greybeards wanted a detailed account of the whole thing, which I don’t blame them for. It should be recorded; I just don’t know if it makes sense. You can’t describe these things without sounding cryptic. I’m sorry I called the Akaviri obtuse. I take it back.

Alduin’s attack wasn’t immediate, but I was still on the mountain when he started flying circles around us. Dragonrend has an off flavor; waxy, like sucking on an old crayon. It brought his scaley ass down to the ground, though. He was not amused. The Shout didn’t so much ground him physically as shake him out of sync. When he landed his legs wobbled noticeably, like he couldn’t quite make his body move the way he wanted. Not that it was an easy fight. Fireballs don’t do shit against him. I had to go way outside my comfort zone with a combo of ice and back-to-back Shouts ‘til my head swam. Think blowing up a balloon too fast, that is how too many Shouts in a row do.

By maintaining etherealness I managed not to get brained by the weaponized meteor shower. I don’t remember the last of the battle very clearly. Paarthurnax did quite a bit of swooping, it was hard to keep track of him. I was exhausted trying to stay behind Alduin and land ice spikes to his undercarriage, while alternating Shouts. I started to panic. Maybe I should have learned more spells, or more Shouts and words of power before doing this. Maybe I should have trained more.

It finally came to a head, where I was just too out of breath to Shout again. Alduin was slowing, but still calling down space projectiles. A smaller rock hit me mid-dodge. I’m told that Alduin took the opportunity to cut and run; I was too busy with a shattered tibia to pay him any attention just then. It did stick out to me that everything went from a deafening cacophony to dead silent as I lay stunned in the snow. It was the kind of big, sudden contrast that makes you question whether you haven’t died.

Paarthurnax couldn’t help with the physical damage, so he talked. He blocked the wind and told me that few could stand against the World Eater and live. I should be proud. I needed to get up.

I’ve gone over the pros and cons of health potions before. With broken bones there’s a fun little caveat: you have to move the pieces into the right position first and hold them there. That was an ordeal. I’m not sure how many times I blacked out from the pain. Paarthurnax very considerately flew me back to the monastery, which must have been a little degrading. He never complained, though I could tell it was laborious for him to balance my weight and try to make what was essentially a vertical descent into the courtyard.

*******

I swear to Azura if Wyndelius doesn’t stop mother-henning me I will chuck his ass into the nearest troll den and leave him there.

High Hrothgar

Sundas, 21^st of First Seed, 4E 202

I have not been in the best of moods. My leg is pretty much mended now, after a week’s steady diet of low-dose healing and that godawful tea Arngeir makes (is mushrooms).

Arngeir ignores temper tantrums like a veteran English tutor hell-bent on getting through his lesson plan. He will only speak to me in Dovahzul and will only respond if I answer in kind. It’s good practice, if frustrating at times. And words spoken in frustration tend to break things. I owe Master Einarth a new pickling crock.

With nothing better to do Barbas prowls the halls looking for vermin to eviscerate. The first few days Wyn wouldn’t leave my side, but that just made me snippy. I know he just wants to help. It was sweet, and I’m a horrible jerk for blowing up at him. Now he spends most of his time either in the courtyard doing exercises or reading in the kitchen, where it’s warmest. I will attempt to make pumpkin bread tonight by way of apology.

I’m sick of hobbling around the tiny cell they insist on putting me in every time I’m here and very much looking forward to hitting the road to Riften at long last. In a day or two, I think.

Chapter Text

Ivarstead

Tirdas, 23^rd of First Seed, 4E 202

Some kid fishing off the north bridge hooked a human jawbone yesterday. The rest of the remains followed using nets and shovels. All the villagers agree it’s Narfi’s sister, Rayda, who disappeared well over a year ago. A ring and remnants of a leather satchel found with the body were hers.

I have no idea if the two deaths are connected, but it got me thinking about what Wilhem said about the priest of Arkay. She refused to inter Narfi’s body here. Instead, she carted it all the way back to Riften with her. Why? The more I think about it, the more suspicious it seems. Not that I need to give myself any more chores, but I’m going to need to talk to the priestess when we get to Riften or it will never stop bothering me. Misappropriated corpses remind me way too much of Calixto. The ring also troubles me, because beat up as it was, with empty settings where stones used to be and all the plating worn down to dull brass, I swear it looked a hell of a lot like one of those chunky class rings they used to sell high school grads back home. It could be a coincidence. I hope it’s a coincidence.

Goes without saying we got down off the mountain fine. My leg is a little tender, but I’ll live.

Most of the meteors hit the Throat of the World during the battle; not all, though. A couple roofs needed repair afterwards and there were a few minor injuries. Jofthor’s cow is still missing. The people of Ivarstead are used to the occasional grumble from the mountain, but they were shook. I still felt the warmth of respect, the villagers still greeted me like one of their own, but I caught more than one apprehensive glance at my stiff movements and new scars. I can't really gauge how much I’ve changed in the last year, physically. For the first time in a long while I wish mirrors were more widely available in Skyrim. Then again, maybe I don’t want to know.

Riften

Turdas, 25^th of First Seed, 4E 202

A final bit of snow fell the night before we left Ivarstead, the last of the season supposedly. It blanketed the trees and the ruins on the eastern road. I like this region. Big lakes, deciduous forests, all the snowberries you can stomach. It’s nice.

We made a slight detour to the Sarethi farm, because seeing their windmill reminded me that I’ve been lugging around Sinderion’s journal since Blackreach. I had already taken what notes from it I thought might be useful when I was laid up. Avrusa was pleasantly surprised to see it and paid me a small finder’s fee, only fifty gold, but she’s a farmer, she probably doesn’t have a hell of a lot of disposable income and I’m sure she can get more use out of the book than I can. I’m keeping the crimson nirnroot, though.

Carried on east after that, following the river. It was still light out and we weren’t invited to stay at the farm anyway. I suspect that had something to do with Avrusa’s little sister shamelessly flirting with Wyn the whole time we were there. Which is fine. He awkwardly flirted back a little. Also fine. I do not have the right to not be fine with this. So, I’m fine and totally secure and not at all jealous in the slightest bit. If he’s into exotic ginger-haired Dunmer ladies with perky tits that’s his business.

We didn’t talk much, because Wyn was back to brooding, and I’ve been sorting things out in my own head. Well, overthinking really, which history shows just becomes a long ride down Reticence Trail to the bottom of Why Are You Like This canyon.

As if sensing how much I was tormenting myself Barbas trotted up to me on the road then and bumped his snout against my leg.

“You need to talk to him.” he said.

“I know,” I answered in English. “I just don’t know what to say…”

“Start with the truth? Well, maybe soft truth. Mortals always say they want honesty, but then get all touchy when you give it to them the wrong way. Or you could finally get around to telling him that you missed him and you’re glad he’s back and that you never want him to leave again before he decides to, you know, leave again.”

“That might be a bit much. And what do you mean? Did he say something-”

“That’s what I’m talking about! You try to act like it doesn’t matter, but you’re so afraid of losing people that you push them away. You swan off to fight The World Eater alone and expect your friends to just be fine with it!”

“You’re just annoyed that I didn’t take you with me either.”

“Well, you should have, but that’s not my point. The looming specter of death doesn’t sit well with mortals, I’ve noticed. It scares them, makes them angry, so why do you keep pretending that it shouldn’t affect the people around you?”

“I don’t! I left the two of you behind to keep you safe. And it worked out, I lived! I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

Barbas gave a humorless little snort. “He’s not. And before you start arguing that it’s only because he expects you to save the world stop and really think about that. If you were just you, no prophetic titles attached, do you honestly think that elf would care any less if you got yourself killed?”

“No.” It was a mushy, sluggish syllable; barely audible even to me.

“So, talk to him. Before your luck runs out.”

Stupid, insightful magic dog…I really should have been thinking about it from that angle a lot sooner. Wyn was stuck at High Hrothgar through the whole battle, where he couldn’t help. He couldn’t even sneak up there with the magic barrier in place and no means to Shout it away. So like the people in the village he was left to listen to the whole screeching, apocalyptic fire-from-the-sky shitshow helplessly from the sidelines. Oh. He’s not mad because I snapped at him, he’s upset that I almost died again. Right, I should have picked up on that instead of focusing on myself.

I am an asshole.

Dumping my feels on Wyn would be a terrible idea. You have to ease into those kinds of conversations. I needed to take the initiative in a safe way. Probe the edges of the problem I’d caused and figure out just how big it really was.

We passed a road marker and I started talking about what I wanted to do when we got to Riften and asked Wyn for his opinion. He didn’t see the need to interrogate the priest of Arkay. I had to explain that I thought she might be doing something inappropriate with Narfi’s body. Wyn wanted more context for that, which sent me down a rabbit hole and before I realized it, I had gone way deeper into my real backstory than I’d meant to.

Barbas did say I should be honest.

The conversation, well confession really, was long overdue. At some point, I’m not sure when, we stopped walking. Barbas chortled in the background while Wyn listened to my verbal incontinence under a big oak tree. When I was done, I stood there feeling unburdened and oddly expectant, like some devastating consequence would fall on my head the moment I closed my mouth.

Wyn took a breath. “So, the ghost, your rude thieves’ guild friend, and possibly the dead beggar may all be from the same place you are…that is to say another…realm.”

“Yep.”

“Where magic does not exist…but somehow the Daedra hold enough power to bridge the worlds.”

“As best as I can tell.”

“And this Calixto and his ilk are experimenting on your people for…nefarious reasons.”

“Without a doubt.”

“Which is why you want to speak with the priestess.”

“I could be wrong, but yes.” I offered, as if that would make the rest of it sound a little more reasonable.

“Certainly explains a lot...” Wyn mumbled, his eyes following Barbas, who plopped his furry butt next to my boot, tail wagging and tongue out, looking just as pleased as he could be.

“The dog knows, doesn’t he.”

It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway, trying to decipher by his expression whether he thinks I’m nuts, or lying. When the sun hits his eyes just right the dark purple ring around each iris stands out against the red. It’s…distracting.

“Does anyone else know?” He asked, thoughtfully.

“Sarah, Tony, Jarl Ravencrone and Falion. Oh, and Paarthurnax. And the Greybeards. And the Augur of Dunlain…but it’s not something I go around blurting out to just anyone!”

I could actually feel all my blood reverse flow from all my extremities, right up into my face.  

The corner of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly. “Now I understand why you’re so protective of the thief and that ghost.” He finally said.

We started walking again. Wyn sidled up at my side, rather than staying a pace behind as he had been. I think we’re good.

The rest of the day was spent talking about Calixto and things that happened prior to Wyn joining the posse, because if things get weird he should at least know why. I need to write Kodlak again for an update on that contract I left with him.

The closer we got to Riften the more road traffic picked up. It went from practically deserted to the occasional traveler on foot, to farmers lugging carts or riding rickety wagons filled with caged poultry to market. Several dark robed figures and Orcs, possibly mercs or hunters, passed us with suspicious side glances that made me uncomfortable. I generally don’t like traveling after dark, but we decided to press on because camping out in the open would have been an invitation for anyone stalking the roads to slit our throats in the middle of the night.

I wonder how different it would have been to enter the city in broad daylight. The bunk house and the inn were lit up and full of rowdy patrons. The few guards that could be seen, and who I had to sweet talk into letting us through the gates, did nothing about the stumbling, drunken brawls or screaming matches over dice. They let paying customers have the run of the city as long as no one pulls a blade out in the open where it can’t be ignored.

Got a room, didn’t sleep. Every five minutes a new argument or round of boisterous laughter erupted from downstairs. No amount of ear plugging could drown it out. Wyn was so on edge that he propped the back of a chair under the door handle and sat watching it with a dagger in his lap until dawn. We’re both very cranky today and in total agreement that we will not be staying a second night.

It’s mid-morning now, my plan is to track down Tony and then go from there, I guess. I know where the Guild hangs out but gaining entry might be tricky. I need to figure out how to send him a message first, so shanking doesn’t happen.

Riften

Fredas, 26^th of First Seed, 4E 202

Getting a message to the Guild is easy, if expensive. That redheaded guy with a B-name (Brynjorn? Or Bjornolf or something?) was not in the market square, so I resorted to a local beggar who was only too happy to go trapsing down into the Ratway; five gold to deliver and another five to come back with a response…about four hours later.

In English I wrote: “I’m in Riften, need to talk, when and where? –E.”

Tony replied: “Riftweald manor. Use back door, right side of Temple. Do NOT use street entrance!!! Tell Vald you are there to view the tapestries. –A.A.”

The big dude guarding the place, Vald, did not understand the passphrase at first. He just stood there, looking at me like I’d grown a second head. Then a slow, unpleasant smile split his face.

“Riiiight. You must be the…uh…art dealer.” he winked and stepped aside.

We passed through rooms filled with furniture covered in sheets and crates stacked up in the corners. Vald led us to the second floor where a man with rags tied over his face was knocking down a plaster wall. It wasn’t until the last dusty chunk fell and he pulled the cloth away that I recognized Tony. Dirt clung to every inch of him and his hair stuck up at odd angles. He looked exhausted, but happy.

“Check it out! I’m a homeowner!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide to indicate the room as if he couldn’t believe it was his.

“Putting in a sauna, are we? Maybe a jacuzzi out back?” I teased.

“That’s not a bad idea. Maybe later, this is going to be a gaming room, I’m having a pool table built for it and everything.”

We caught up while meandering through the house, which he’s almost completely gutted to make way for a custom-designed boiler in the basement and a steam-fed pipe system. There are also plans drawn up to add a Solar on the backside of the property and indoor flush toilets. It’s going to be the most modern building in Skyrim one day.

When the Guild reappropriated Mercer’s holdings they found that he’d neglected to do any maintenance in all the years the manor had been in his possession. Tony had to campaign the Guild hard to let him clean it up and remodel. Karliah hated the reminder of Mercer and wanted to be rid of the place, but eventually relented because thieves though they are she saw the usefulness of having a front for “legitimate” business dealings.

Things on that front are also going exceedingly well. The Guild’s bad luck streak is over and they’re making money hand over fist. I don’t condone what they do, but I am in favor of Karliah’s pivot away from grifting locals and instead focusing on property speculation. Golden Glow Estate and the land where Honningbrew Meadery used to stand outside Whiterun are hers in all but name. They’ve already rebuilt the beehives to start production back up. It’s no secret that Maven Black-briar is livid over the whole thing. I plan on visiting with Ingun while I’m in town, she can give me more insight.

Tony is letting us stay in the house while we’re in Riften. He said he’d offer me a less messy place to crash in the Ratway, but I won’t appreciate the unique aroma. I tend to agree. Vald sleeps in the basement, so we’re taking the attic. Mercer liked fishing and this is where they’ve stored all his old gear and trophies. More creepy, glass-eyed corpses pegged to wood. I will never get the appeal.

At least it’s quiet.  

Riften

Loredas, 27^th of First Seed, 4E 202

Ran into Ingun Black-briar at the market. It was nice to catch up with her. She finally got to come home from Windhelm. Maven had to return to handle some business matters that weren’t being “satisfactorily dealt with.”

Ingun is as frank as ever. She’s got one brother in prison, the other spending money like it’s nothing, and Maven tearing her hair out trying to maintain her reputation. They can’t keep good mercenaries because they’re flocking to the Guild. The family estate outside of Riften has been burglarized so many times that they just stopped trying to replace things. If the meadery, which has been operating at a loss since it opened, doesn’t turn a profit this year they’ll have to sell the manor anyway.

It struck me that she didn’t seem worried at all and I said as much. Ingun just cocked a dark brow and shrugged, saying “Mother will work it out, she always does.”

It’s not that I want the family wiped off the map or anything, I like Ingun too well for that kind of petty bullshit. It is satisfying to hear that Maven is struggling, though. Maybe she will overcome the hard times and make a comeback. Maybe not.

Moot gossip is really all anyone cares about right now. Ingun was glad to get away from the preparation craze. She said the tension in Windhelm was overwhelming and all the die-hard Stormcloaks are braced to retaliate if the vote doesn’t go their way.

“That man,” Ingun said about Ulfric, “wants to make a show of strength, like his ancestors, but he’s terrified of losing his chance for the throne. I was there long enough wasting away in his court to see it, the fear. You watch, he’ll lash out like a trapped bear. I hope Whiterun is well fortified for what happens next.”

“But if he doesn’t accept the Moot’s decision isn’t that disrespecting tradition? I thought that’s what he was all about.”

She scoffed and bent her head low, so no one at the stalls around us could see her mouth moving. “That’s the rhetoric he hides behind. But when faced with losing what he thinks is his? I think all that noble posturing will fall away. He's poured too much gold and most of his best years into this bid.”

Ingun swept her head back up and brightened. “That’s a problem for tomorrow, though, isn’t it?”

Five days to be precise.

Fuuuuuuuck. It’s too late. I’ve already interfered, and I am not hauling my ass to Whiterun just to see a first-hand pissing contest between Ulfric and Balgruuf. It’s just going to have to play out.

We parted with plans to have lunch tomorrow at the Bee and Barb. Then I traipsed off to the Temple to have a chat with their basement-dwelling mistress of the dead.

I didn’t expect her to be so…wholesome. It’s hard to imagine Alessandra as a necromancer, despite her profession. She was scrubbing a marble table when I walked in, with her sleeves rolled up to the armpit and a big water mark across the belly of her robes. After talking with her for a while I’ve decerned two things about her character: she has daddy issues and the ruthless cunning of a shrubbery.

When I started probing about Narfi she looked surprised and asked if I was his sister come to claim him? Like in the letter? The letter she received from “Rayda” asking for her brother’s body to be interred in Riften until she can come claim it? Because if so, she had a form for me to fill out.

Yeah…

I asked if I could see the letter and she dug it out of a pile of paperwork without hesitation. I think it’s worth noting that it was written on heavy, stodgy paper with a greenish tint and thick charcoal rather than ink. It was fairly short, the author stating that she was “abroad” and couldn’t take care of her brother’s remains until she gets back to Skyrim but would be very much in the priestess’ debt if he could be laid to rest in Riften in the meantime. There was a modest amount of gold attached to cover embalming and transport. It was signed Rayda. There was no date, no other clues about where it came from, and it was delivered by courier.

Alessandra had no reason to question it and made the trip to Ivarstead as asked. I believe her. Because she offered to show me the body. She led the way into the maze of back rooms with crypt shelves built into the walls and coffins stacked in out of the way corners. Traditionally Nords dehydrate bodies with salt, so she’d put Narfi in a draining box to cure. She talked in detail about the process the whole way, talked while removing the wooden pins holding the side of the box in place, and suddenly stopped talking when the contents were revealed. Brown sludge coated the bottom of an otherwise empty space. I believe that she had nothing to do with it because I saw the look on her face in that moment. Shock, horror, disbelief, confusion. Not impossible to fake, but damn hard.

Based on the amount of putrid liquid in the receptacle Alessandra guessed that the body couldn’t have been in there longer than a day or so. His organs, which she'd removed first thing, were also missing. 

Goddammit. This was planned, maybe by the same person who killed him. Possibly the same person who killed and then impersonated his sister. They had to have been watching the Temple carefully to know when Alessandra got back from Ivarstead, then somehow got in and out without being detected. I asked around, no one saw, or will admit to seeing, anything out of the ordinary. I think it’s probably a citizen, or at least someone who spends a great deal of time in Riften. The sewers beneath the city seem like the likely route they would have taken without being seen, but there’s no entrance into the Temple. I’ve asked Tony. As far as the Guild knows there’s no exit.

So, for now I’m stuck. There’s no way this body thief isn’t affiliated with Calixto. If I can just track him down or get my hands on “M” I could get to the bottom of it and break up the whole fucked up cabal.

It has occurred to me that “M” could stand for Maven. Sure it could, it could also be Maal or Mjol or Milton Morbius Munford the Third for all I know. I need more to go on.

I’ll keep snooping. I have some time, waiting for word from Kodlak and from Whiterun about the Moot. My last letter all but pleaded for Sarah to get out of there and warned the Grey-manes that they should be prepared to defend the city. They won’t leave, I know that much.

Five days.

Have I mentioned that I hate waiting?

Chapter Text

Riften

Turdas, 6^th of Second Seed, 4E 202

It’s been a long month. Training; emphasis on the bow. If I get my ass handed to me again the next time I face off with Alduin it won’t be for lack of effort. 

I haven’t felt like writing, but I should keep a record of what’s been happening, and more importantly what hasn’t.

When Elisef was voted as High Queen by the Moot the news was pretty benign at first. She won the majority, five to four votes, against Ulfric. Her marriage to Balgruuf took place in Whiterun before the jarls convened and they chose not to make a big show of it, at least by Idgrod’s account. All Elisef had to do was sit on Balgruuf’s right side at the opening feast and everyone knew. Predictably, Ulfric was not pleased by the outcome. He couldn’t challenge Elisef without looking like he was challenging the vote itself, so he switched tactics and accused Balgruuf of manipulating her so he could insert himself as the de facto High King. The gossip circuit only had it that they faced off and Balgruuf won. Idgrod wrote me in more detail. Balgruuf had the good sense to accept the challenge on the condition that it be strictly hand-to-hand combat. No weapons, no Shouts, no outside interference. Ulfric would have looked weak if he’d refused. What came about was a long, bloody fight “punctuated by the martial cries of generals and courtiers alike” until the jarl of Windhelm “lay unconscious, but not dead by the mercy of his King.” I read a hint of flippancy in Idgrod’s tone at that. I’m glad I wasn’t there.

Sarah and Aicantar made their own plans to head an expedition ahead to Kagrenzel before the Moot even happened. She’s bad about not keeping me in the loop. Now they’re already up there investigating the roads that may lead to Skuldafn. We’ll join them as soon as they find something. There’s no telling how long it will take to find the route, assuming the way isn’t completely impassable after all this time. In her last letter Sarah said she had a surprise for me. I don’t know if I should be excited or worried.

The search for Calixto and his body-snatching buddies has ground to a halt. Aela and Skjor finally did get back to Kodlak when they returned to Jorrvaskr to resupply, with disappointing news. They thought they picked up the trail based on the miller’s account of two chicken thieves, an older man and younger woman, sneaking through Mixwater. They tracked it down river only to lose the scent at Darkwater Crossing.

How in the actual fuck did he give werewolves the slip?? How does that happen?!

My own investigations in Riften have also come up with nothing. I’m beyond frustrated. I called in a favor with the Guild, one Etienne was happy to help with, and had Maven’s houses and meadery searched for signs of necromancy or any other off-color activities. Nada. Clean as a whistle. There wasn’t even a sign of Dark Brotherhood summoning, which I’m sure she’s done more than once in the past. No one saw Narfi’s body removed from the Temple vaults, and no one has noticed any other unusual occurrences in town. I’ve chatted up guards and merchants and bar patrons. Spent more gold on drinks than I ever have in my entire life, and still not a damn thing. Even ventured into the Ratway to talk to those crazy bastards. All I got for my trouble was a few death threats and a withering “I told you so” from Tony.

The only nice thing that happened recently was Bendt and Evette’s wedding. They arrived in Riften with Evette’s father, Octieve, and Bendt’s grown daughters and their families from his first marriage. His grandkids are very cute. Viarmo and Inge Six-Fingers also came. Since the Temple of Mara is always booked up for ceremonies there wasn’t much to do. The big event was very straight forward and took all of ten minutes. The reception was held at the tavern. As a wedding gift someone paid for free ale for everyone who wanted to raise a toast; suffice to say a lot of toasting went on into the early morning. I got them a bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy with a fancy label I couldn’t read. Evette started crying, so I guess it was good stuff?

Seeing Viarmo was a little awkward. He looked haggard, like he hadn’t been eating or sleeping well. He blamed the journey; wagons give him motion sickness. Inge found me first, still sporting swollen knuckles, but the balm I sent her helps (I could tell she wanted more but was too proud to ask.) We all stood together in a corner of the tavern, the old college crew, catching up about students we all knew and the state of things back in Solitude. Evette had plenty to say about the Thalmor and their treatment of merchants. Transport ships were ice-locked through winter, so they had regular orders for supplies carted all the way up to the Embassy, forever sending back complaints about the slowness of the deliveries and the quality of the produce. Bunch of Karens.

Wyn positioned himself at my back, his normal stance when we’re in a crowd, so it took me a while to notice that he and the other elf were having a stand-off with me sandwiched in the middle. Wyn doesn’t do small talk, but after a while I stopped letting him guide me away from the bards. It was getting kind of ridiculous. Viarmo saw an opportunity and attacked with polite questions. What do you do? Where are you from? The ones Wyn has the hardest time answering. Outwardly he kept up the bodyguard routine, but I could see the muscles in his jaw clenching. Viarmo must have seen it too. He relaxed into a self-satisfied stance as if he’d won a posturing contest and asked if he could “borrow” me without waiting for an answer. I didn’t see the harm in getting some air. Figured I could probe for information at the very least, and it’s not like I wasn’t armed.

Barbas followed us along the catwalk above the canal at a distance. I could hear the clip of his nails on the boards, comforting and a bit annoying at the same time. I knew he was hanging on our every word. My furry chaperone.

Viarmo wanted to know all about what I’ve been up to, in detail, not just a quick run-down of events, but who I was with and what we were doing and why. A year ago I would have chalked it up to a bard’s natural inclination to tell a compelling story. The history of the last Dragonborn, as told.

You can’t put the genie back in the bottle, though.

My letter writing experiment was ill-timed. Since a contingent of Thalmor showed up to witness the Moot there’s no way to judge whether they increased their presence in Whiterun because of what I told Viarmo or not. Still, I can’t help but wonder if there’s a kernel of truth to what Aia said about him. I don’t want to believe it, but there it sits, itching my curiosity.

I brought up Aia. Maybe not the smartest tactic, but it was the only bit of ammunition I had to push the conversation in the direction I wanted. We both played innocent. I casually mentioned that I’d seen her in Falkreath, he pretended to be mildly interested in what she’s been doing. Too mild, for our mutual dislike of her, the back and forth turned forcibly light. So, I went against my instincts and asked direct questions about his posting as headmaster. How did that happen? How long ago was that? Did he leave family behind when he took the post?

He answered with a “Oh, I hardly remember.” A friend of a friend of a friend of his aunt pulled a few strings. He was happy to relocate for the opportunity. His family was and is happy for him. He’s happy to stay put.

That, right there, the saccharine pivot and the forced dismissal in his voice set alarm bells off. We’d been walking toward the darkened overhang along the row of houses on the north side of town, which seemed to have more than one torch out by my reckoning. My arm was trapped in the crook of his. The catwalk met the cobbled street and instead of turning back around to the pub he continued leading me into the shadows.

I couldn’t hear Barbas anymore.

As best as I can tell someone hit me from behind with a soul capture spell. I can’t be entirely sure because the only experience I’ve ever had with that spell was a demonstration at the college of Winterhold. It sounded about the same. The feeling, though, that was something new and horrible. My entire body felt as if it was under pressure, with a pinpoint of intense pain in the center of my chest, like having a heart attack at the bottom of the ocean.  

Time really does slow down in moments like that. Several things came into focus at once; Barbas’ alarmed howl, the metallic swish of a knife unsheathing behind me. I registered Viarmo shoving my arm away from him and running. Instinct had my legs rolling into a side dodge. That saved my neck but didn’t stop the assassin from grabbing the hem of my robes. Fucker rubber-banded me. They must have been panicked, judging by the lack of technique as the knife frantically stabbed at the sweet spot between my ribs. The custom leather armor sewn into my robes was worth the money. Still, the blade did snick through in places. Shallow cuts to my rib meat didn’t even hurt at first, it was the one that hit bone that ripped a scream out of me.

My body whipped around, which propelled the knife with it and probably caused more damage, but at that point I wasn’t thinking clearly. The YOL I aimed at the assassin was meant to startle them back. It never occurred to me that my assailant might be more flammable than usual. The hot blast forced my eyes shut and when I could open them again a twitching khajiit appeared out of an acrid cloud of smoke. It smelled unmistakably of burnt hair. She clawed at her chest and collapsed. An elven dagger lay nearby, tip stained in my blood, and as she suffocated, my first dragon fight in Kinesgrove came to mind and what Del told me all those months ago. Wait for the fire to go out, then breath.

I just stood there. Seconds, I’m sure it was just seconds. I’m not proud of it, that a part of me was tempted to let her die.

Then I was down in the dirt with her, shoving her head back, blowing hard into her toothy maw. It tasted of smoke and sweet, cheap alcohol. Almost like Listerine.

She was still vomiting on herself as the guards dragged her to the Keep. Half the town turned out to see what was going on, which is saying something in Riften. Viarmo talked over them all. Finger pointed, making sure everyone knew he was the one who went for help. Inge and Evette swooped in to cluck over my injuries; not deep, but numerous.

Barbas pushed his way through the crowd and licked my face.

“I’m sorry!” his voice wailed in my head. “I was paying attention the other one!”

“The other one?”

“She had a partner, I think. Another khajiit, I spotted him lurking by the gate before she turned up. He smelled familiar, so I went to investigate and then she came out of the alley. Wyn’s after him.”

I patted his head and stood up. Sitting in the middle of a filthy sidewalk in front of an audience of strangers is not the best place to handle first aide. We went back to the Bee & Barb where I could get to soap and hot water. It didn’t take more than fifteen minutes to suck down a weak health potion and wash out my stab wounds. I shouldn’t have taken that time. Walking into the Riften jail I was met with a confused group of guards waiting for their captain to show up and tell them what to do about the dead prisoner slumped over their booking table.

All she had on her was the elven dagger and a short note:

I have good reason to believe the target will be coming to Riften in the next few days. Discretion is preferred, but elimination of the target is of the highest priority. The usual restrictions on exposure are lifted--you will be reassigned outside Skyrim if necessary, without penalty.

Do not fail me.

--E

Fuck you too, Elenwen.

When the captain finally got there, bleary-eyed and stinking of ale, he dismissed my warning that this was a sign of Thalmor infiltration in Riften and had me give my statement to his second in command. Alessandra came for the body. Bless her for looking deeply uncomfortable when I asked if I could sit in on her exam.

“You don’t think this one will…also…” she fluttered her hands nervously.

“No, I just want to hear your opinion.” I answered tiredly.

Dawn just broke over the rooftops and I said goodbye to it as we relocated to the Hall of the Dead. Not one guard seemed to think my involvement was weird. Law enforcement at its finest.  

Alessandra laid the corpse out expertly on the marble worktable and seemed to forget I was there, except to make the occasional remark out loud. With mirrors to reflect the lamp light I could clearly see all the exposed fur on the khajiit’s body was seared to the skin. Reaching up I found that most of the hair on my head had also singed down to stubble. Again.

During the autopsy Alessandra found crushed pieces of acorn and globs of wax in the teeth.

“It must have been hollow.” The priestess said. “Filled with some sort of toxin and sealed with wax.”

A whimsical suicide pill; I wonder if that was the Thalmor’s idea or if the assassin came up with it on her own.

Ingun was more than a little excited about the academic exercise of figuring out what poison it was. After a lot of dunking and mixing and lighting squares of cotton on fire she concluded that it was probably a home-brewed tincture of nightshade and jarrin root. The latter is expensive and hard to import.

Alessandra wrote up a full report and presented a copy to the captain. Still no alarm, all he said is that he’d pass it up to the steward along with his own report of the “incident.” His eyes went hard in my direction when he said it, as if I’m the one at fault. Dick cheese.

I was tired as hell and out of things to do. Full morning in all its bright, noisy glory met us as Ingun and I parted ways in front of the jail. She skipped off to the apothecary shop by the canal to swap notes with Elgrim. Back at the manor I found Tony passed out in a dining room chair, drooling on himself, and hugging a bucket of crusty plaster. I didn’t bother waking him, just trudged upstairs to the mattress I’d been using. Barbas flopped onto Wyn’s, which was next to mine on the floor and empty. Slept all day. I didn’t feel particularly rested when Vald woke me up, though. A “gentle shake” from that guy is enough to rattle the teeth out of your head.

Etienne stood at the back door waiting to escort me to the Ragged Flagon. I hate it down there! The dark I can deal with. Damp I can deal with. It’s the definitively brown smell that I can’t tolerate. It sticks to every inch of you, becoming a part of you. Tony was right, I’d never be able to sleep in the Ratway, imagining all the unbelievably foul things moving in and out of my lungs with every breath. It’s too much like the shit cave underneath the Embassy dungeon. One whiff and I’m there. Bodies decaying in troll shit, in the cold dark, heart pounding, hoping we don’t get caught. Etienne understood. Of course he did. He pulled a bandana over his face as we walked down to the canal and handed me one too.

I get the impression that no one but Tony and Etienne trust me. The rest of the thieves watch from their shadowy corners, probably sizing me up as a potential mark. That’s fine. The only ones I need on my side are Karliah and red-headed-dude-who’s-name-I-keep-forgetting. The Nightingales. I genuinely like Karliah. She’s methodical and rational; a born leader, you can’t question that after talking to her for any length of time. She waited at the end of the line, that is the cistern, though they hilariously think I don’t know that. At the Ragged Flagon I was blind folded, then led the whole twelve feet back into the super-secret inner lair. Behind a bookcase on hinges in desperate need of some WD-40. Immediate left turn, six paces down a stuffy corridor. Another door, and a rush of air perfumed with mildew and rotten, water-logged wood. Oh, how will I ever find my way again?

I was relieved to see Wyn standing off to the side, talking to Tony. Well, that is until I noticed the brown lump in shackles on the floor nearby. The shackles had been modified. One set on his ankles, another daisy-chained to those and his left wrist. The right arm had been tied behind his back with a leather cord. A “you have got to be kidding me!” noise escaped me.

“Ra’jirr! Really? Just-I mean-really?” was all I could get out coherently.

He flinched, shoulders up, gold gaze turning to me expectantly. The six brass rings in his ears clinked slightly as they flattened against his head.

Tony had to prod me into Karliah’s workspace on the other side of the cistern. The debriefing took a while, me going over my history with the khajiit and the recent assassination attempt, respectively and Tony explaining that Ra’jirr had briefly been a guild member when Karliah was in exile. He’d been kicked out for murder. Mercer wasn’t exactly a stickler for the rules, Tony said, but even he had standards.

Karliah listened patiently and then laid out the facts like a judge making her ruling. While Ra’jirr was in Riften at the same time the assassin was he claims that he had no plans to kill me and had no orders on him from the Thalmor or anyone else. He claims he came back to beg to be let back in the guild. However, his record shows that he’s not incapable of murder. Wyn found him lurking behind an iron gate and when he realized that he’d been spotted, Ra’jirr ran. These are not innocent actions.

So, what does Karliah decide? His fate is up to me. Joy of fucking joys, just what I always wanted! A man’s life in my hands! Hoo-rayyy.

The guild has graciously offered to keep Ra’jirr locked up while I get my head on straight.

Tackle one problem at a time. The Thalmor want me dead so badly that they’re sending out assassins. Fine, knew that was coming, just not when. Also, one of the very first people I ever met in Skyrim might be a Thalmor agent, which means he’s been feeding Elenwen information about me this whole time. Not fine. Very not fine. But not something I can really do anything about right now. He has too much plausible deniability. Worst-case scenario let’s say Aia is right and Viarmo has been a plant for years, I don’t think that puts anyone in immediate danger. Let him keep reporting to Elenwen. I’ll just have to keep feeding him false info. Other spies will say something contradictory, confusion ensues, and if that puts him on the Thalmor shit-list, well that’s his problem, isn’t it?

Had dinner with the Solitude crew, then saw them off this morning. Viarmo had the audacity to pretend that he’d done nothing wrong. Like he hadn’t run at the first sign of trouble as if he’d been expecting it. Like I should be grateful that he did.

I put on my best bland “everything is fine” face until the wagon disappeared. You could practically hear the thunk of it drop when I turned back toward the Riften stables.

“Am I correct that…the Altmer is not to be trusted?” Wyn asked cautiously from my side.

“You better believe it. In fact, from now on let’s just assume that of everyone in Riften.”

He squeezed my hand.

Barbas snorted. “Way ahead of you there, Ez.”

How lucky am I to have those two on my side? Of course, when it comes to Ra’jirr and what to do with him they have different opinions from me. Barbas wants to use him to send a message. The kind of message that would involve shipping a khajiit-skin rug to the Embassy, earrings and all. Old school and a bit much.

Wyn is also in favor of the death penalty, but he’s much more practical about it. A quick decapitation, then dispose of the body in some obscure warren. Efficient and impersonal.

Thing is I don’t even have definitive proof that Elenwen sent Ra’jirr and he swears up and down that he’s never even met her. He was just looking to get back with the guild. Didn’t even know I was in Riften too.

I need to think this over. I’m not going to kill the guy, Wyn and Barbas must know that, they’re just making recommendations. Actually, I think Barbas is probably messing with me. He thinks he’s funny.

If Ra’jirr is lying and I let him go free what’s to stop him from going straight to Elenwen? Absolutely nothing. If he’s not lying and I let him go there’s also no stopping him from going to the Thalmor out of sheer spite, and the hope of a reward. He’s a one-handed thief, it’s not like the jobs are lining up. For even the possibility of gold I don’t doubt he’d sell me down the river without a second thought.

What do you do when you don’t like either option on the table? Make a third. That’s where I’m at now. I’ll give it a few days. Maybe sitting in a damp cell for a while will make Ra’jirr more forthcoming.

Chapter Text

Riften

Fridas, 14^th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Ra’jirr doesn’t have one friend in the guild. Not one. Delvin said he was a “serviceable thief and a decent tracker.” That’s the most positive comment I’ve heard.

I gave it 48 hours. That seemed like enough time to interview people, ask after the opinions of the ones I respect, and cool down. It’s hard not to take attempted murder personally. Stick your nose in politics, though and this is what happens. It’s much too late to go hide in a hole. Though some days I’m tempted…

The guild doesn’t normally keep prisoners, so their fuzzy new resident was treated to a private cell down in the warrens. More of a dank oubliette than a jail.

Ra’jirr refused to talk to me. He just sat on the floor of his cell, curled into himself defensively, with his stump in his lap. Wyn on the other hand he trusts, for some reason.

I sat myself down the hallway while they talked about Ra’jirr’s woes and struggles through the bars. Everything is someone else’s fault. The man he killed made him do it by being home when he shouldn’t have been. He fell in with bandits because the guild turned their backs on him. He became a thief in the first place because he left Elsweyr at twelve. Not once did he own his decisions.

Throughout the whole session he bemoaned his cruel fate, arguing he could do so much if only he had the opportunity. He still swore he wasn’t working for the Thalmor and never had been.

I can’t very well keep him locked up for having no self-awareness. Murder though…he confessed to that almost casually. Like it didn’t matter.

I thought about turning him over to the local guards. Problem is the crime occurred four years ago in another Hold. Ra’jirr won’t formally confess anyway, so what good would getting them involved do?

We all convened at the Flagon afterwards to talk it over. Vex had an ingenious idea.

“You said you’re looking for a murderer, so send one to find one.” She said.

Well shit, that could work. Ra’jirr wanted a job, so all I needed was someone to agree to keep tabs on him. All eyes suddenly plunged into their mugs. No takers.

Fortunately for me, the guild has a couple of their own couriers. I sent word to the Companions that I had a lead on the contract I’d left with them (I maintain that a stolen corpse is absolutely a lead). Aela and Skjor arrived in Riften yesterday. After a lot of back and forth, which annoyed Skjor enough to drive him out of the manor, they eventually, begrudgingly, agreed to take Ra’jirr on their recon for 500 gold more than the original bounty.

Ugh. More grinding in my future.

Ra’jirr burned his bridges with the guild, so it was either stay locked up or take the job. Kind of a no-brainer. Once the bounty is fulfilled, he gets a share. A small one. This also gives him the opportunity to impress the Companions. Do that, more jobs may follow. I didn’t feel the need to mention that disappointing Skjor was probably a really, really bad idea. Even Aela, who’s not a particularly big woman, radiates an uncompromising authority that says step out of line, and I will end you.

The khajiit’s ears flattened against the top of his head when he left with them, turning back and giving Wyn one last worried look over his shoulder before they disappeared into the evening mist.

“What did you do to win him over, anyway?” I asked Wyn.

That little smile in the corner of his mouth appeared. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Don’t get cheeky, Gatharian. I just gave away my life savings.”

“We spoke at the grotto before…it made an impression, I suppose. Other than that…I couldn’t tell you.” 

Wyn grasped my hand and held on this time instead of giving it a quick squeeze like he does.

“You did the right thing.” he said. “More than he deserves.”

“It might be for nothing. Aela said they would do their best to find a trail, but too much time and too many people have muddled the scent. They’re looking for a needle in a field of haystacks.”

“Companions have a reputation to uphold. They will find something. Their honor depends on it. Ra’jirr will see that day if he chooses.”

I made an agreement noise and tried pinching the headache out from between my eyes.

“Let’s go see if Tony put the kitchen back together yet. I want pancakes.”

Riften

Middas, 19^th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Every day there’s a new report of attacks and skirmishes to the west. Markarth and Rorikstead were both hit by dragons. Supposedly the Blades showed up to drive them away. Since I can’t be everywhere at once I’m actually grateful, even if Del guilts me about it later. There were still casualties and young crops burnt to ash. Alduin should be in Sovengarde rebuilding his strength right now. He probably ordered his lieutenants to attack towns at random in his absence just to taunt me. This needs to stop, soon.

No word yet from Sarah.

On the other side of the shit sandwich Ulfric is trying to sack Whiterun. Last I heard he had several battalions of Stormcloaks laying siege to the city. Balgruuf already relocated to Solitude with Elisef and his children, leaving his brother and steward in charge. It’s unclear whether Ulfric knew and planned for that, or if it was a coincidence. Public opinion is leaning toward it being deliberate.

My last letter to Windhelm basically turned into a plea for sanity. Stop. Just stop! You lost, get over it before you tear your country apart.

I haven’t received a reply.

Riften

Turdas, 20^th of Second Seed, 4E 202

If I have to wait around one more day for Sarah to tell me there’s a way to Skuldafn or not I’ll lose my damn mind.

I’ve been trying to make good use of my time. Spell practice in the woods, alternating with bow hunting, sparring with whoever will volunteer, lifting heavy ass bars of iron to build up muscle, and all around doing everything I can think of to prepare for Alduin.

I have brewed ALL the potions. Spent several days down at Elgrim’s tinkering. Ingun got her hands on a load of moon sugar confiscated from one of her mother’s meadery supervisors, so we played with that. Unprocessed, the starchy nubbins have the texture of freeze-dried marshmallows with a slight banana aftertaste. Sold the bootleg skooma (once we figured out how to distill it) to Vekel and split the profits. Yes, I’m technically selling drugs. At least I’m not making meth in my underpants. And I’m certainly not sampling the stuff! I learned that lesson in Blackreach. Elgrim said he tried it once in his youth, for science, and experienced euphoria, hallucinations, and then intense paranoia. I don’t feel great about indirectly feeding addictions, but I need the coin and selling potions is the most effective way to do that. I need to pay for the Companions, and for supplies, and armor and all the shit that I can’t just pick up off the ground for free in the real world.

Wyn took a few small side jobs for Delvin. He got back last night, tired and not in the mood to talk about it but let me play with his hair til he fell asleep. It’s past his shoulders when he puts it down now; silky black and so fun to run fingers through.

Made 1,225 septims total.

-200 septims for Wyn’s new set of leather armor (thieves guild style, but black and green per his spec.)

-125 septims to repair my custom robes plus cap and fire-resistant enchantment. (I should make use of the Dragon priest mask I found at Shearpoint, but only in the field. Scares people in town and it smells funny.)

-50 septims for a gross of iron arrow heads (asked the local blacksmith, Balimund, to teach me how to make arrows with them. Fletching is tedious. Use sparingly.)

I owe the Companions 1,000 septims on completion of the contract, so I still need to scrape another 150 together. Shorting them would not go over well.

I think it may be time to go forth and scavenge. There’s a derelict fort full of bandits right across Lake Henrich just begging to be cleared out. Non-lethally. I’m going in prepared; potions, Shouts, and spells. Plenty of leather cord to tie up unconscious baddies, too.  

What could go wrong? *she asks herself like a complete dumbass*

Chapter Text

Riften

Sundas, 23^rd of Second Seed, 4E 202

Why is it that even the simplest plans never go the way they’re supposed to?

Tony invited himself along when I mentioned the fort we were planning to hit. I should have guessed why sooner. Not that I don’t trust him, mostly, but when Tony volunteers to do something you’d better believe he’s got his own agenda.  

We watched the fort stake-out style from a bluff on the east side and counted ten hostiles. I figured there were probably more inside, but I was thinking maybe a handful at most.

Barbas watched the wolf pens from the other side. His job was to signal and run interference if they were turned loose on us.

Instead of trying to get in through the front gate Tony suggested climbing one of the shorter walls. We waited until sundown. I passed out invisibility potions and reiterated my one rule. Nice and simple: no killing.

Wyn went first, spidering from handhold to handhold ‘til he reached the top. He made it look so easy. So graceful. I on the other hand felt like a drunken sloth trying not to let the shakes fuck up my grip. I don’t get winded like I used to, but…heights.

Most of the troupe nonchalantly sat around two fires, roasting a dog carcass over one and boiling something in a cauldron over the other. An archer stood watch on each tower. We targeted them first. Mine was a Redguard all decked out in leathers and swirly yellow war paint. I crept behind him and initiated a sleeper hold til he went limp. Effective, but I discovered it’s very difficult to direct the dead weight of an unconscious person twice your size without making noise. I ended up slumping backwards under him in a muffled heap. Once I managed to wriggle free, I looked to the other tower. Wyn crouched over his own victim, looking in my direction and obviously holding back laughter.

Tony was supposed to sneak down to the second level, dose their food with a nifty cocktail Ingun whipped up before we left town, and then signal us. It’s amazing how naturally he melts into the shadows; being a Nightingale has its benefits. I lost sight of him for so long that I started feeling uneasy, Wyn too judging by the uncertain glances he swept over the catwalks below us. Then I caught the faint ripple of air around one of the campfires. The cauldron lid barely lifted, then the ripple was gone again.

It worked great, I need to give Ingun all the props for that, after about twenty minutes they were falling asleep in their seats with food hanging out of their mouths. However, there was a tiny problem: Tony never regrouped with us. A door off the parapet opened on its own while Wyn and I hog-tied the bandits. Wyn’s eyes narrowed in judgement. He doesn’t like or trust Tony, but we were committed at that point, so…

Phase one complete, on to phase two!

My optimism evaporated when we got inside. It was packed. The halls rang with noise, with echoey shouts and laughter, wolf snarls and clanging coin. Not just bandits, and not just a handful. There were mercs and traders; a few desperate, tweaked out faces I recognized from the streets of Riften, and hard-bitten characters fresh from grave robbing. The ground floor had been turned into a multi-level fighting ring. At the bottom a pair of mangy wolves ripped each other apart with gamblers on the upper-level egging on the carnage. Even more people crowded around a shabby bar to one side, with a tired looking woman selling ale and skewers of mystery meat. A massive iron cage had been built to act as a lock-room. There was even a heavy-duty looking safe against the stone wall. Two Orcs stood guard on either side of a little window built into it, behind which hunched a sweaty, balding little man counting paper leaflets. 

I plastered myself against a wall in the darkest corner I could find, trying to figure out the best way to tell the others to abort mission without blowing cover. Too many people. Too many ways to get caught…then I felt a familiar hand on my arm.

Wyn whispered “Stay here” then bolted away before I could stop him.

It wasn’t like Tony and Wyn were doing anything unexpected, the point was to rob from the robbers. The whole Robin Hood routine. I’ve never had to sneak around that many people before…

‘Stay here,’ though? What am I, an extra? I can’t just stand around and hope no one accidentally bumps into me while they do all the work!

Nope, I needed to prove that I could do it; I can be just as sneaky as…well maybe not as sneaky as a Nightingale and former Morag Tong, but still pretty damn good! What’s the point of all the training I’ve been doing if I don’t use it, after all?

The guarded cage I avoided in favor of smaller rooms on the upper floors. Fewer people, more small stashes to go through. Most bandits in residence had the sense to lock their doors, but they were simple enough to pick. Normally I’d feel bad about stealing, but not from animal torturers. Every coin was blood money and I could think of a thousand ways to put it to better use.  

After going through six or seven rooms I’d only collected about fifty septims. Shouldn’t have surprised me, what are bandits going to do with their gold? Gamble and drink it away or save for retirement? Is retirement even a concept they would understand? Probably not.  

I was starting to feel disgruntled, leaning up against a wall near a broken balcony overlooking the lower level, when the lady behind the bar let out an ear-splitting shriek. Half a dozen wolves flooded into the room from a dark tunnel near the pit. From my vantage point I could see them frantically sprinting through the scattering crowd, looking for a way out. Some of the rougher bandits and the Orc guards pulled their weapons, others fled. In the chaos I noticed the lock-room door fly open. A moment later the sweaty man inside slumped out of sight behind the counter.

Risky. That move had Tony written all over it.

I decided that was as good a time as any to get gone. Problem was the main exits were clogged with panicking drunks and very confused wolves and I didn’t need to get involved in any of that mess. So, I went up instead, thinking I’d get back onto the rooftop and climb back down the way we came.

And that was where things really went sideways. Swinging open the door at the top of a staircase I ran right into a steal breast plate, fell backwards, and narrowly avoided a broken neck by going ethereal. Instead of snapping bones my molecules rolled down the steps like a Slinky. I love that Shout.  

The human tank filling the doorway sputtered for a second the way someone might startle at a bug flying at their face, then registered that it was just a bug, and the bug must now DIE.

I tried to pull myself together, but he was fast and hit hard. Even ethereal each blow slowed me down. It didn’t hurt, but the pressure of his fist going right through me knocked me off-balance. When the Shout wore off a gauntleted upper cut immediately connected with my diaphragm. I landed on my back, breathless, tasting blood. Had to roll away from his great sword, then shot a ball of fire at his face. Not that it helped much, he was in head-to-toe steal armor with an enclosed helmet. It just made him mad. I hauled myself up and Sprinted passed him in time to avoid getting stabbed. Twirled around and iced him. That winded me severely and the ice layer only encased the outer armor. At least it slowed him down. He stood there with a few inches of the stuff sticking him to the floor, smoking eerily off his winged helmet while he struggled and cursed. That bought me a few seconds to rally a paralyze spell. He managed to crack his legs free, then fell face down, sending chunks ice skittering across the stone floor with him. 

Wyn found me standing over him, with my hands on my knees, gasping for breath. He stepped over the body to get to me, eyes trained my face. His hand went to my chin and came away bloody. I think that gut punch tore something.

Tony appeared a few seconds later with bulging leather loot sacks slung over his shoulders, looking from me to the guy on the floor making disbelieving “look what you did” gestures.

“You said no killing!” 

“Didn’t!” pant. “Paralyzed!” pant, pant. “Turn him in!” pant, cough.

“Um…no. That’s not gonna happen. The guild would--you know what? We’ll talk about it later. Run!”

Shouts rang out above the din on the level below and we heard the footfalls of reinforcements coming up the stairs. I knocked back a healing potion as we hauled ass to the roof. In the confusion and with the look-outs already taken care of it wasn’t hard to disappear into the woods, back to Riften.

The moons were setting by the time Vald let us back into the manor. I must have looked rough even with the restorative in my system. Wyn sat me in a chair, examining my eyes and listening to my breathing, which was still a little ragged. He pinned Tony with a murderous glare.

“Explain.” He demanded in a dark, even tone. “Now.”

Tony took a defensive step backwards, pointing at me. “You’re not blaming me for that! I did not tell her to attack the fucking chief!”

“Oh, shit was that who that was?!” I croaked.

Wyn frowned at me but kept his attention on Tony.

“This was supposed to be a precise stealth mission and you broke away without consulting us. So, I ask you again…explain.”

Tony shrugged the heavy sacks off his shoulders and fished around in his coat. He pulled a tan envelope from some deep inner pocket, opened it up, and laid the document out on the table in front of me with a dramatic wrist flourish.

The official looking seal at the top was written in Cyrodiilic, but below that were the words “Honor Hall.”

“Holy goat balls, is this what I think it is?”

“Yep.” he popped the last syllable smugly. “A little bird told me Grelod has a pretty serious gambling problem. She pawns the deed to the orphanage at least once a week to cover her bets, always manages to win it back though. Well, not this time.”

“But what are you going to do with it? If you waltz into Honor Hall she’ll know you stole it and report you.”

“No, she won’t. That’s the beauty of it. The orphanage is technically owned by the city of Riften. Grelod is just a civil servant, she shouldn’t have even had the deed to begin with. If she goes to the jarl there will be an investigation. I’ve got witnesses all lined up to speak against her. She’s racked up a lot of debt, made a lot of enemies, and she knows it.

”Of course it would have been easier to just ask for the deed after she hocked it, but not everyone would have been on board.”

”With the exception of a few guild-friendly members of the gang.” I surmised. “Like the chief? Who attacked me first by the way!”

“Yeah, Murtin started out as one of Delvin’s little helpers. He grew up in Honor Hall and he really, really hates Grelod.”

“The seven-foot tall, armored gorilla man is named Murtin?”

“He’s actually a really sweet guy when he’s not trying to kill you. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer though-”

“All of this would have been very good to know ahead of time.” Wyn interjected irritably.

Tony ignored him. “That hag has it coming. Her assistant is sick of her shit too. The timing couldn’t have worked out better! The jarl’s back from Whiterun, the guild is on top of their game again, it’s almost perfect! We’re going to make the lives of a lot of kids much better.”

“A noble goal you could very well have accomplished…on your own.”

“It just worked out that way…” Tony winced and took a seat, appealing to me in English. “Look, I’m never going to be father of the year. I know that’s what-it’s just not going to happen, okay? I don’t have it in me. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t care about my son or what that woman is doing to all the kids in there like him. You understand that. I know you do. So…just let me have this.”

He glanced up at Wyn, who looked like he was trying to force-choke him. Tony switched back to Tamrielic.

“And I’m sorry that I didn’t warn you ahead of time. To be honest when you said you were going to rob the place I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it! I’m kinda proud of you! Um…but we have to give the gold back-”

I gaped at him. “Are you serious?! The only reason I did any of this is because I need the money, Tony! You knew that!”

”I think we can all agree that I dropped the communication ball.” Tony said placatingly. “Returning loot goes against every professional instinct I have, believe me. But it’s part of the deal. The only reason I took it in the first place is so it looks like a generic theft. Fewer questions, more suspects. I know it’s disappointing, but I'll pay you back your cut of the take, I swear!”

I pinched the bridge of my nose against an on-coming headache. Wyn continued to stone-wall. There was a beat of awkward silence.

Tony rallied first. “You know what helps with disappointment? Soup! Who wants soup? Everyone, right? I’ll just…”   

He jogged off to the kitchen, leaving the deed and bags of gold in the room with us, which in retrospect was a huge sign of trust on his part.

I looked over the deed. He wasn’t wrong, it named the city of Riften as the owner of Honor Hall, with an attachment signed by Grelod as the “official proprietor” representing Jarl Layla.

How many children has Grelod harmed over the years? How many could be saved by removing her from the position of power she clearly didn’t respect or deserve? It was a small price to pay, I decided. She gets to live; the orphans get a new mistress. 

“He’s trying to do a good thing; we shouldn’t be so hard on him.” I said to Wyn.

He handed me another restorative from his belt. “We aren’t. You are too quick to forgive, because he is one of your own, perhaps?”

I didn’t like his tone.

“There are other ways to make money; those kids are more important, if he’d told me he was after the deed I would have made that the mission. And I don’t think I like you accusing me of favoritism. If you’d pulled the same stunt my reaction would be no different.”

I took the potion like a shot, trying to taste as little of it going down as possible.

“You haven’t always been completely honest with me either, but I let it go now didn’t I?”

“Foolishly one might argue.”

Oh. That hurt.

“I don’t think so. But if you feel differently, there’s the door.”

Balls! Don’t take me up on that! Shut your stupid mouth, Esme!

He did. He walked right to the door, opened it for Barbas, and disappeared into the back garden.

“Where’s he going?” Barbas asked.

I jumped up after him but Wyn was already gone of course, like he just had to show me up one last time by going ninja.

Tony returned looking contrite. He’d heard everything.

“Thank you. And…sorry.” He said, handing me a bowl of broth.

Pride and Reason battled for control of the situation. I could practically feel my dragons twisting with indignation. I’m not wrong for siding with orphans. Yeah, okay now that I've had some time to cool off I'll admit that maybe I shouldn't have gone off by myself at the fort after he told me to stay put. Sure, the whole thing could have ended really badly. And I've known for a long while he doesn't take my near-death experiences well. But I'm not in the wrong. 

So why do I feel so bad?

Chapter Text

Riften

Middas, 26^th of Second Seed, 4E 202

I’ve waited long enough. Too long, maybe. Alduin hasn’t been spotted in Skyrim since our fight on the Throat of the World, but how long do I have before he’s done nomming souls in Sovengarde? Paarthurnax said he retreated to regain his strength. How long does that really take?

Sarah finally sent word from Kagrenzel. They’re sure they’ve found a viable road that, after some excavation, appears to be mostly intact and pointed in the direction of Skuldafn. She sent directions and a map; we leave tomorrow. Tony isn’t up for “adventuring” and Wyn has been MIA for two days. I still don’t think our little spat was my fault. I’m willing to talk it out, but that can only happen if he decides to come out of hiding.

Kagrenzel

Loredas, 29^th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Here I thought the most complicated part of getting to Skuldafn would be the road itself. Turns out that part’s easy. Way easier than it would have been without Sarah and her proclivity for tinkering.

Backing up, nothing noteworthy happened when we left Riften. I had a few parting words with Alessandra, Tony, and the apothecaries (Ingun slaved over a hot alembic for days to make sure I have a shit-ton of potions). With Wyn still off doing whatever it is he’s doing Tony sent Vald for back-up muscle. It was heavily implied that it would have been taken as an insult to leave him behind, so off we went despite my misgivings about having an unproven meat shield on the crew. The man is dumber than a bag of hammers. If he sets off a booby-trap or something and gets himself killed, I take no responsibility!

We took the north road, my first foray into that bit of territory. The guard towers between Riften and Shore’s Stone were burned, only a few discarded blue flags left to show the Stormcloaks had been the attackers. The ashes were cold, the bodies gone. We were seeing the aftermath of an unsuccessful push south Ulfric failed to pull off months ago. Now he’s concentrating almost all his troops on Whiterun, or so I heard last from the Riften rumor mill.

Shor’s Stone is tiny. I’m not sure you could even call it a village. There are three houses, an empty manger, and a rocky plot half full of sickly potato plants.

The miners were mostly left alone during skirmishes, however after the Moot a group of Stormcloaks heading back to Windhelm (presumably to regroup) came through and took pretty much everything not bolted down. They loaded the foreman’s one and only horse with food, supplies, and live chickens, mouthing off the whole time.

“You ne’er heard the like!” the foreman complained. “Not just about their jarl bein’ cheated, but some--pardon me for repeatin’ it! Whore what betrayed him. And to hear ‘em say it, it were the Dragonborn herself! Can you imagine a proper Nord sayin’ so? Done put a bounty on ‘er head and ever-thin.’”

Noted: continue avoiding Windhelm.

The mines were also infested with spiders. I didn’t ask to be paid to clear them out, these people have lost enough. 

The rest of the journey I was mostly occupied with watching for bears and listening to Barbas’ incessant yammering.

“I’ll bet he went back to Morrowind to face the Tong with some dignity. You think he remembers his past now? I do. I think he remembers all of it and doesn’t want to let on. Gotta face consequences eventually, you can’t stall forever. Speaking of, when we’re done with this dragon-killing business, I’m going to have to go talk to Clavicus again and, no pressure, but it would great if you’d come with. I’m not promising anything, but there will be some sort of reward in it, there always is, just don’t take the first option he gives you. The first one is always a trick. Sneaky bastard, I miss him! Will there be treats at the next stop? I know you have jerky!”

And on, and on, and on. He does it on purpose. Every time we’ve got someone with us who doesn’t know what he is he feels the need to talk non-stop just to test my patience. 

Climbed the stairs to the ruin at Ansilvund, camped, then continued on to Kagrenzel at first light. Took some time to find the entrance and follow a series of arrows drawn in chalk to the correct passage. Half a day later we finally caught up with Sarah, her Altmer friend, Aicantar, and two of his surveyors, a tawny Khajiit named M’aza and a Redguard called Gidan.

Sarah is a robot.

I wasn’t sure what to make of it at first, there stood this huge, golden machine shoveling mounds of fallen masonry out of a tunnel entrance, the others just standing by. Vald shot an arrow at her, which bounced harmlessly off her back with a loud chink that got everyone’s attention. Aicantar waved his arms frantically calling for a cease fire. Sarah’s ghost slipped out of the metal body and started giggling when she saw me.

She had the face plate pounded into a softer oval shape. Somehow, it’s creepier than the standard version. The body is a guardian with the roller-ball bottom, modified to unlock and become four spider legs. The arms are also customized; claw or hammer on the left arm, depending on which way the attachment is screwed in, and a Centurion hand on the right with a small cross bow at the wrist. I am friends with a Transformer. Eight-year-old me would have been too giddy for words!

It took her a while to break it down for me, but I think I get the gist of how it works. A dynamo core acts as a router, wired with soul gems in strategic extremities, with her own soul gem acting as an interface with the existing “brain.”

“It’s like trying to operate two bulldozers and a forklift at the same time.” She said. “I’m still getting used to it and I can’t talk when I’m in there.”

“The Dwemer never bothered to give animunculi voice boxes.” Aicantar chimed in helpfully.

“How long did it take you to put this together?” I asked.

They looked at each other conspiratorially. Awe! There’s something there. How cute! This little pen-pal thing has been going on for months. I guess it should surprise exactly no one that a guy who studies Dwemer machines would fall for one, sort of. And Sarah’s gotten the rottenest of deals; if she’s happy as a literal ghost-in-the-machine that’s good enough for me. Even if her boyfriend is an Altmer.

The expedition was able to get to the road this quickly, relatively speaking, because Sarah’s nifty new bod can pick up roughly five times its weight and what she can’t move she can smash to moveable bits. She cleared the tunnel in minutes. It’s hard to gauge distance and time, especially underground, but M’aza confidently proclaimed that they’d walked 4,827 paces since breakfast.

We can only speculate about how far Skuldafn was built from the main hub at Kagrenzel, but it helps me to stay optimistic if I think we’re making good time. So, we’re making good time, until proven otherwise.

Sundas, 30^th of Second Seed, 4E 202

We’re being followed. Something organic, but still far enough behind that we haven’t seen anything yet. Pushing ahead. Assigning a watch while we sleep, Sarah usually volunteers since she doesn’t need any. Gidan is very good with protective runes. There’s about an eighteen-foot perimeter, if something hits it we’ll hear them before they can get to the main group.

I think Vald regrets coming.

Morndas, 31^st of Second Seed, 4E 202

A delay this morning, involving an unstable collapse and a lot of standing around strategizing our way around it, ended in those noises catching up with us. It was at a bad spot, too. The blockage was at the top of a ramp, with no exits and a bottleneck at the bottom where the tunnel wrapped around a series of vertical pipes. Sarah took point, with Gidan and Aicantar on either side with spells ready. Falmer hit the line of runes first, that killed three, but they just kept coming. Waves of pale, needle-toothed, stooping warriors in black chitin. This clan had crude slashes for insignia, suspiciously similar to dov claw markings, though I didn’t recognize it as an actual letter or word. 

Sarah slammed two into paste and sent a third flying. The mages held the line with lightning. Barbas tanked for me while I practiced shooting arrows into their flat faces. M’aza practically danced with her curved swords, twirling through blood spray, leaping over viscera. I had to be extra careful not to hit her. Some bodies rolled down the ramp on their own, some we helped. When the last fell M’aza muttered “twenty-seven,” holding her blades at the ready, ears twitching. 

More sounds echoed from below.

We were fully prepared to face more Falmer. Instead, who walks around the bend into our torchlight but Avulstein! Followed by an equally stacked Nord who couldn’t be anyone else but his brother, Thorald. Sten stepped out behind him, then Benor and Erandur both in Dawnguard gear. In the confused rush of rune-diffusing and sarcastic lamentations about how we didn’t save any for them, I caught sight of Wyn out of the corner of my eye, standing away from the rest, watching me with that little smirk of his. I think I made a noise. Running at him in a happy haze, I probably squeed and certainly wrapped myself around him. He came back! With friends! The hug turned to kissing with my back pressed against a cold wall and I wasn’t the least bit mad about it. He didn’t seem to mind either. Our first kiss. Knee-deep in dead Falmer. God, please don’t let that be an omen.

The others had the decency to ignore us, except Barbas, who proceeded to hoot enthusiastically the whole time. Dick.

Anything more needed to wait, no one wanted to hang out on that bloody ramp any longer than they had to. It was disgusting. Whatever this batch of Falmer marked themselves with smelled like fermented koala shit.

Got through the blockage by shoring it up with some of the fallen masonry, then squeezing through an opening the size of the fridge in my first apartment. Sarah had to detach both arms and limbo-roll to make it through.

Catching up with everyone was a nice distraction from the mess we left behind and the one we’re likely walking into. Skuldafn, my notes say, should be teaming with draugr. I seem to remember death lords. Lots and lots of death lords. And a dragon priest. Joy. I’m not exactly happy about dragging all these people into that, but it’s also nice to know that I’ve got plenty of back up.

Sten and the Grey-Mane brothers filled me in on how things are going in Whiterun. They were all part of the siege, initially. Which, unless I’m missing something, makes them all deserters. Ulfric’s campaign is going about as well as I thought it would. Stubborn idiot should have listened to me. Whiterun’s walls were fortified (almost as if they anticipated the attack, hm…imagine that) leaving the Stormcloaks pounding their fists at the door. Balgruuf sent regiments from Solitude to box them in, cutting off their access to Rorikstead and Riverwood. Smart, that means they can’t resupply locally. Windhelm still has its own port, but they have to cart food halfway across the province to feed their siege troops, which puts them at a severe disadvantage. The city itself has deep stores underground. They should be able to hold out for a very long time.

When Ulfric ordered flaming arrows to be blindly shot over the walls to try to burn the residents out a lot of his men, including the brothers, took issue. Sten doesn’t even have family in the city, and he hated what was happening. Then they all received a mysterious summons to aide the Dragonborn, signed by Jarl Ravencrone herself. The gist being: “If you want to save the world, drop what you’re doing and meet my contact at Stony Creek Cave.” That contact being Wyn. Wyn being the one who wrote Idgrod to begin with. He’s been busy.

“More men would have come, but I’m no mutineer. We kept it amongst ourselves.” Sten said, gesturing to himself and the brothers. “Ulfric is still my jarl, and I still believe in the cause. Skyrim should be free.”

“Then why put yourself in this position?” Gidan asked. “None of you will be welcome to return to Stormcloak ranks.”

“A true Nord understands the importance of the Dragonborn’s holy mission.” he answered.

Thorald shifted the war hammer on his back uncomfortably. “I would rather languish in prison than have my soul devoured by the World Eater.”

“The safety of Nirn comes first.” Avulstein agreed, smiling at me. “Skyrim can only be liberated if it continues to exist.”

“And then will you finally be settling down with Mette?” I asked, wiggling my eyebrows.

Avulstein blushed under his stubble. “Perhaps. When the war is over. Will you be doing the same with your dark elf?”

I caught Wyn’s eye over his shoulder as we walked through intermittent shafts of green gaslight. We needed to talk.

“Perhaps,” I answered, “if I survive, that is.”

M’aza chuckled. “You have a Dwemer guardian, three mages, five warriors, two rogues. If that is not force enough to defeat this enemy, you deserve to be bested.”

“So, you think if the Dragonborn fails then the world deserves to be destroyed?” Erandur asked.

“Or reborn.” M’aza’s jade eyes lifted to the enormous chamber that opened up before us.

Some sort of workshop, Aicantar guessed, twirling around to admire the still working pistons, steam puffing from vents every ten feet or so, and dozens of stone benches littered with tools and parts. Dude was in Dwemer machine-head heaven.

There were several smaller side alcoves and three branching hallways off the room. While Wyn, M’aza, and Benor scouted, the rest of us explored the shops for anything useful. Thankfully no signs of Falmer, maybe that collapse kept them out of this area altogether. After some debate we’ve decided that the second hallway turns east, so that’s the one we will follow in the morning. Aicantar wants more time to catalogue the workshop anyway.

*******

I should be sleeping, but it’s too noisy. Inside and outside of my head.

After supper everyone split off looking for comfortable places to put their bedrolls. Aicantar and Sarah spent hours gleefully combing over every rivet the Dwemer left behind. Sarah might still be at it, actually.

Me and Wyn found a nook where we could talk. I had already put together more or less what he’d been up to since leaving Riften, getting Idgrod and the others involved, knowing that I’d either be in Riften or on my way to Kagrenzel by the time he rallied everyone. He admitted that he had already written to Idgrod well before our disagreement, which would explain how he got so much done in less than a week. I can't act surprised, doing shit to keep me alive behind my back is his MO. 

I apologized for being thoughtless and he apologized for being obtuse and secretive. The rest is…kind of a blur. A good blur. A “holy shit why haven’t we been doing this all along?” blur. Neither of us are exceptionally experienced, but there was a lot of enthusiasm in that nook. He has great hands. Soft and callused in all the right places. In the moment it was hard to focus on anything but how silky his hair is and the little noises he makes when I touch his ears. Now, wide awake and over-thinking, there are consequences on the horizon. Like the possibility of getting knocked-up. The odds of us being genetically compatible seem pretty slim. Please, please, PLEASE let that be true. Not that I don’t think Wyn would make a badass dad. His kid would know how to kill a man seven different ways with a spoon before they could walk. But medicine isn’t exactly evolved here and there are certainly no OBGYNs in Skyrim. Women give birth at home, or drop trow in the fields, and maybe live through it if they’re lucky. Christ, that’s scary. Battling morning sickness and dragons at the same time sounds like my own personal hell. 

Ugh…way to turn a really nice evening into a panic attack, Ez. Fantastic. Good job. GO TO BED!

Chapter Text

Tirdas, 1^st of Mid-Year, 4E 202

There’s no quiet in a Dwemer ruin. Even on the roads the ambient sound of machinery is constant. If it’s not the ventilation system, it’s the turbines running it and if it’s not that it’s the metallic spiders. Clank, clank, fucking CLANK. The ear plug industry must have been huge when they were in full operation!

I dreamt that I was in the poorly lit basement of a factory; just this endless, dark warehouse and I was standing in the very center. I kept passing giant boilers with open gates full of fire. I’m surprised Freddy Krueger didn’t make an appearance. I could feel sweat dripping from my hairline and down my face. Conveyer belts lurched by while I desperately looked for an exit.

I never found one.

Woke up overheated and headachy, sandwiched between Wyn and Barbas. Most of the group was still asleep. I found Sarah, in ghost form, fiddling with the guts of her mecha-bod. I’d never seen one completely opened up. The interior is less complicated looking than I would have thought. Gears and what-not sure, like the insides of an old clock, but I guess I always assumed that there must be some special, ultra-high-tech bits and pieces in those things. But what do I know? I’ve never been tech savvy. I couldn’t even figure out how to replace the graphics card in my laptop. Weird how quickly you adapt when you need to. The last year I haven’t so much as had the urge to look at my phone. It’s dead anyway. I used to check messages a dozen times a day and now it’s just a shiny black brick at the bottom of my pack.

I plopped down to watch Sarah work for a while and couldn’t help but let my mind wander. The question just came tumbling out.  

“So…are you happy? Like this, I mean?”

Without looking up from the sprocket she was tightening she answered “yeah” in that elongated way that tells you there’s a “but” coming.

Her transparent face set into a thoughtful expression as she finished and examined her work.

“I was angry.” Sarah finally answered. “I am really angry. I don’t know if that will ever stop. All the things I’ll never get to do. My daughter…” Her already echoey voice cracked.

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “Not your fault, is it. We neither of us had much of a choice, but here we are making the best of a shit situation. Only difference is you got to keep your skin.”

“It’s a very cool body you’ve built for yourself, did I mention?”

“It is, isn’t it?” she beamed. “Aicantar and I have big plans to improve the design, once we find the right schematics to work from.”

“If you need help with that you just tell me. Maybe I’ll loan you Vald.”

That got a morbid laugh out of her. Vald screamed like a little girl the first time she appeared. Sarah does love putting the frighteners on people.

She picked up the reshaped Dwemer face plate, rocking it back and forth in her hands. Polished stones in the eye sockets caught the light, casting diffused flecks of emerald around the room. It reminded me of Ellis’ night light growing up. He could choose between a dozen colors but always kept it on green. I switched it to pink once and he got so irritated that he dunked my toothbrush in the toilet.

“How is this reality anyway? How’d we even end up here?” she muttered rhetorically.

“I know what you mean. Not that long ago my routine was all get up, go to school, stare at a computer screen, go to work, more staring, zonk out at home for a few hours; rinse and repeat. Just going through the motions. I kept telling myself once I had my master’s degree in hand, then things would change. I’d get a job that didn’t have the word “temp” in the description and move somewhere warm. Start a real life.”

Christ on a cracker! Now is not the time to start thinking about this! I scolded myself through tears.

“When you had one all along.” Sarah nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I thought I had plenty of time too. I was going to work for my uncle for a few years, then get my NVQ when Bee was ready for pre-school. Electricians make good money. We would have been set. Now…she’s fine. I know my nain will look after her.”

“What about her dad?”

Sarah made a face. “Worthless gobshite didn’t want anything to do with either of us the minute I told him about her. Nain will probably tell her that we’re both in heaven, or some such. It’s just as well.

“But you asked if I’m happy? Yeah. And angry and scared and all the things I ever was. I’m not all the way dead. That’s more than I ever thought I’d get out of an afterlife. Maybe one day my soul will end up strumming a harp next to Sally Ride and the bloke who invented ball bearings. If not, I get to make the most of whatever this is right now. So, thank you for that.”

I’m not crying, you’re crying.

*******

More tunnels, a few spiders, blissfully no more Falmer! It was a dull day, really. If we don’t reach what Aicantar has been referring to as an “intake complex” leading to Skuldafn that might mean we either took a wrong turn, or more likely whatever route there was doesn’t exist anymore. It would absolutely suck if we have to scrub this whole expedition.

Hard tack gruel for supper. Vald is acting squirrely, I’m gonna need to watch him. 

Middas, 2^nd of Mid-Year, 4E 202

When we came to the end of the line I was pleasantly surprised to see a huge chamber with collapsed archways on either side and a set of intact doors, until we tried opening them. Protection runes forced us back and even when we’d cleared them the doors wouldn’t budge. The mechanism that once controlled them had long been smashed to bits. It was worse than the Falmer sabotaging the elevators at Black Reach. Aicantar and Sarah both agreed that whatever destroyed the machinery did it with so much force that some of the parts had fused together. It would take a team of engineers a year to fix all the damage.

Well, we most certainly do not have a year. After some brain storming Gidan suggested that we break the doors down with magic. Aicantar and Erandur froze a patch right in the center, then I helped Gidan blast the same spot with fire until the metal glowed, and we were both light-headed with the effort. We alternated like that all day, breaking now and then to rest and eat.

I have a raging headache. It worked though. The Dwemer metal went from a solid eight-inch barrier to a brittle, blackened weak spot that Sarah could punch into. Then it was just a matter of smashing a hole big enough to fit everyone through.

The other side is pitch black and smells of nothing but wet rock. There’s a slight breeze though and that has to mean there’s some sort of opening to the outside. More excavation tomorrow. For now, I really need to rehydrate and sleep. I may not have time to write again until after this whole business is done. Unless I die. If that happens, I’ve asked Sarah to recover this journal and my phone if she can, so that if she ever finds a way home my family will know what happened to me. And that I love them.

C/O: Michelle Winters, nee Reiser
        6800 Turquoise Ave.
        Peoria, AZ 85345

Cell phone code: 1996

Chapter Text

Sundas, 4^th of Sun’s Height, 4E 202

Since the start I think I’ve been dealing with my situation pretty well, for the most part. I’ve had downs, I’ve questioned my sanity (a lot more often than I’d like to admit), and I’ve come through it because the alternative was always worse. But something dawned on me today: I don’t have to question my sanity ever again. Because I refuse to believe that my own brain would treat me this way.

It’s been a hell of a month. Trying to heal and come to terms with everything. The losses. The weight of Alduin’s soul. Thank god for Wyn and Sarah, otherwise I don’t know if I ever would have come back out of it.

Aicantar said he was going to chronical the downfall of Alduin “for posterity.” Even if he only publishes through the guild I have no doubt that the Thalmor will eventually see it and that bothers me. I can’t stop him, though. He even took dictation from the others after the fact. He knew better than to ask me for a retelling. I wasn’t ready to talk about what happened. I don’t know if I really am now, to be honest, but then again what will his final version of events read as? I should take down my own recollection of things, if only for myself.  

Digging our way into Skuldafn was as dignified an entrance as it sounds. Like a reverse jail break. It wasn’t just a collapsed tunnel either, the rock and dirt had been intentionally impacted to seal the entrance. It wasn’t until we broke through into the open air that I had a late-coming realization: I never trapped a dragon or demonstrated the strength of my thu’um to them. Not only was the mountain hold crawling with draugr and death lords, but Alduin set up some of his scaley lieutenants to guard the portal to Sovengarde while he regenerated on souls, or whatever you call what he was doing in there. My stomach literally dropped. In the sky above us circled not one, but four dragons. That will show me for not posturing enough.

Each crumbling complex became a staging area. We’d clear the draugr and dragons would swoop in and do their level best to bring the roof down on our heads. I lost Vald first. It was his own damn fault, while the rest of us took cover and shot arrows into four sets of wings at once, he tried to make a run for it. Maybe he panicked, maybe he thought he could make it to a better hiding spot. All I know is that I saw him duck through an archway out of the corner of my eye while lining up a shot. His final scream was just background noise.

I ran out of arrows before the first dragon fell. I don’t know if Shouting and magic would have been enough to keep going if not for his unintentional gift: dragon aspect. It wasn’t the Word that really lit a fire under me; it was the feeling of euphoria that came with it, like I’d found a missing piece of myself. It’s hard now to untangle the word from the feeling. Which word came from which dragon, which fell first, which snagged Benor and flung him too high into the air for hope. Too much time has passed now. I vaguely remember the uphill fight, knocking death lords off ledges like it was nothing and moving as if I really had wings. It’s all an adrenalin-fueled blur.

Two dragons down and I don’t know how many draugr, we made it to the second level. Holed up in a dusty chamber to regroup. Everyone was in bad shape, and they kept…staring at me. I didn’t get it until I looked down at my hands. Del told me once that when I Shout, I glow from the inside out, just for a few seconds. I imagine this was like that but sustained. A hazy, opalescent shimmer rose off me like evaporating sweat and I could see veins and ligaments shining through my skin. It was creepy and beautiful, and I can’t imagine what it looked like full body. M’aza kept running the pads of her fury fingers over my skin in fascination. It faded after a few minutes and everyone visibly relaxed. We barricaded ourselves in and slept a few hours before starting all over again.

I won’t recount every detail of the battle for the main temple or making our way up to the portal. Draugr, death lords, a few skeletal mages for good measure; I don’t want to say it was routine, but there isn’t a whole lot of variation in technique when it comes to hacking apart a living corpse. It’s just tiring, dirty work.

The dragon priest proved to be an elusive bugger. He strafed and sidled; disappeared and reappeared, always close to the portal. The staff in his mummified hand never lowered, a filament of magic connected it to the huge, swirling vortex leading to Sovngarde. The energy it gave off was borderline hypnotic. Part of me wanted to dive head-first into it, sort of evoking that little voice in the back of your head that says “jump” when you’re standing on something high up, but much stronger. I fought the urge. I’m not sure now if that had any impact on what happened afterwards or not.  

We were down to the last elder dragon, and I’d gotten another soul to bump up Aspect til I thought I really might be high off my ass, when Alduin burst out of the portal. I don’t know how I knew he was at full power, but I did. I knew it as surely as I knew I was already exhausted. I knew people would die.

I’d managed to ground the elder dragon (I was aiming for Alduin) with Dragonrend, the mages had him pinned with lightning strikes while he lacked muscle control. Sten overhand-climbed up its spine. Like the first time we met in Windhelm he swung the killing blow at the back of the dragon’s head. Alduin dove screaming fire at his own companion just to get to mine. Engulfed in flame Sten’s axe head still landed square between its eyes.

In the aftermath it was difficult to pick out where his bones started and the dragon’s ended. Whatever political disagreements I had with him, Sten was a fearless, crazy talented warrior and he went out like the absolute badass he was. Aicantar can put that in his report.

Alduin ordered the dragon priest to hold position. Naturally that made him my number one target. With the elder dragon’s soul still rushing into me like a volcanic breeze I yelled for the others to fall back, Sprinting up to the stone platform where the priest stood. On-the-fly reasoning. I figured if Alduin wanted the priest to hold, he wanted to ensure that the portal stayed open, so I had better close the damn thing while he was still on the living side and distracted.

I know enough dovahzul to understand the commands Alduin spoke. To an untrained ear it just sounded like bone-jolting roars. In dragon tongue I could just pick out the nuanced sounds of urgency in his voice.

I hit him with another shout over my shoulder and the priest fell finally to one last borage of fireballs. I took up his staff and smashed it against the stones til it splintered so violently that the blast of magic escaping from it knocked me back several feet. The shrieking fury of the World Eater cut through the air as it did. I’ve been told that it was heard as far away as Black Marsh. No idea what happened to the priest’s mask, btw.

The portal winked out before Alduin could regain flight. Then we locked in on each other at last.

Aspect makes you feel stronger, faster, but it also narrows focus. It’s incredibly difficult to concentrate on more than one thing. I wonder if that is true to the dragon experience in general, now that I’ve had a chance to think about it; they might be vulnerable to flanking because they’re hyper-aware of a single target at a time. I could have had a dozen arrows fly into me when using it and wouldn’t have noticed. As it was, there were two lodged in my shoulder blade.

I renewed Dragonrend, making Alduin’s limbs shake violently and all the frustration of that bled into his Voice as he cursed. Gouts of fire spread over the ground between us like napalm. Dodging and Sprinting out of the way left me with Shout fatigue, but I still had Aicantar, Gidan, and Erandur working him over with lightning and freezing his talons to the ground. Wyn and M’aza attacked in short, quick-bladed hits. They afforded me a few precious seconds to breath.

Then Alduin started monologuing.

No, really. It was entirely in dovahzul, but it was an honest to god soliloquy between Shouts. I can’t remember all of it verbatim, sadly. At first I thought he was just trying to bait me, distract me into making a misstep so he could roast my ass, and I still think that’s partially true. The longer he spoke though the more anguish I heard in his Voice. The gist I got was: you’re only delaying the inevitable.  

“Ofan hin Morah!” I barked at him, because there’s no word for “stop” in the dragon tongue.

He answered, as sardonically as a dragon can, “Hi los nih ah mindol.” Roughly meaning “You’re not entirely brainless.”

I’ve had some weird conversations in my day, but a semi-condescending, nihilistic argument with a dragon mid-battle on a mountain top is way up on the list. I didn’t want to kill him. And, all previous evidence to the contrary, I don’t really think he wanted to kill me either. It was just part of the deal. The inevitability factor.

He wasn’t going to stop. The last thing I remember him saying clearly was along the lines of: “If I don’t fulfill Akatosh’s will, another Aspect shall.” Then I hit him with one final Dragonrend/ice spike combo. It was all I had left in me. His tail jerked and whipped around with one final screech of pain and fury. I didn’t understand, not really, until just then. It wasn’t like the others. I could feel him ebbing out of existence, sundered between me, as if I was a living anchor with invisible roots stuck fast into the center of the planet, and something adjacent; bigger and emptier than anything I’ve ever felt. A sliver of him remained, slinking alongside the other souls I’ve taken in that unnamable place behind my ribs, the rest I realized too late went right back to Oblivion. Back to Akatosh. And the whole cycle starts over again…

It was never a victory; not for the Tongues, and not for me. That’s what he meant. If I’d been the warrior everyone expected, just a meathead who never bothered to listen to the Greybeards or Paarthurnax, I don’t think Alduin would have bothered trying to warn me. I’ve saved the present, but the future is still in jeopardy. Always was.

All I did was hit the snooze button.

I came to face-down in the rubble with hands on me, tugging and jostling, frantic voices hovering above the pain, but I couldn’t move or talk. I heard words like “blood loss” and “cauterize.” Everything went black for a while.

I didn’t know about Gidan or Avulstein until much later, opening my eyes to a smoke-hazed ceiling and Wyn squeezing water down my throat. I could just make out M’aza and Thorald washing the bodies on the other side of the chamber.

Gidan I didn’t know very well, but he seemed like a decent man. Avulstein…I knew very well. His loss hurt the most. I could barely look at his grieving brother without bursting into a fresh round of tears. Then thinking about how to tell the rest of his family-his parents and sister and Mette! Oh god...

The bodies were wrapped in scrap linen and tied to make-shift stretchers for the eventual trip down the mountain. What was left of Sten fit in a flour sack.

I suppose I should recount my own injuries even if I don’t remember receiving any of them: Two arrows to the right shoulder blade, right ankle fractured, left arm broken-no shattered is what Aicantar said-with burns and a concussion cherry on top.

Sarah’s shiny new body was completely crushed when a wall collapsed on it, fortunately her soul gem wasn’t damaged. Erandur broke both wrists and an arm bone (radius or ulna, I can’t remember the difference). Thorald caught an arrow to the leg, Wyn got one in the back, and everyone sustained burns and lacerations. Only Barbas came out of it miraculously unscathed. Like always.

And a final fuck you: one of the dragons, doesn’t really matter which, destroyed the Dwemer entrance we’d used. The soil above it caved in, you could see the curve of the tunnel where the earth buckled into the cavity below. Way too unstable. We healed, rationed what food we had left, and subsequently had to climb down the mountain range the hard way. Found Benor’s body around the halfway point, frozen solid to the rock that broke his back. We had to leave him there. Never found Vald's body. 

Erandur obsessively worked flame cloaks around us all in an effort to keep warm. There was very little banter as we picked our way along treacherous goat trails and slid down more than one snowy embankment. They were quiet. They were mourning. I didn’t have the energy to try to comfort anyone, least of all myself. The guilt was enough, Alduin’s presence didn’t make it easier. Why the fuck had I let them come with me? What was I thinking?! Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces. Sten, Benor, Gidan, Vald and Avulstein staring me down, a pair of huge eyes behind them glowing red in an inky black void, looming as if to say the struggle will never be over. In the end, I don’t get to win.

Had I been alone I would not have made it off that mountain.

Wyn never let more than an arm’s length of air get between us the whole trip. Even though my “destiny” is fulfilled and the fate of the world no longer hinges on whether I live, he stuck by me. It isn’t fair to him that I still marvel at that.

It may or may not enter into Aicantar’s record that at one point he sprained his ankle, slipped off a ledge, and managed to land in a steaming pile of troll shit. Sarah fretted over him, the rest of us had a much-needed laugh at his expense after the troll was taken care of. Geographically we weren’t really sure where we were until then. Westward all we could make out were trees. When the altitude haze cleared Kagrenzel came into view on a peak much further north than I thought, so the only option was to keep making our own way down to the foot of the mountain. Shor’s Stone was the nearest settlement. The villagers were kind enough to store our dead at the bottom of the mine. Arranged for pick-up with Alessandra when we got back to Riften.

I shut down for a while, safely locked away in Tony’s house. I don’t want to go anywhere. I don’t want to see anyone. Call me selfish. I know "should haves" don't help anyone, but I won't lie, I've taken a few hundred spins on that mental merry-go-round.

Should have gone to Skuldafn alone. Should have taken on all the risk myself, instead of letting a bunch of glory-addled fan boys follow me up there. Should have done something to earn the other dragon's respect. Should have been more clever about the whole thing...

Should stop obsessing and do something useful.

Erandur and Wyn wrote a mountain of letters for me. Condolences, assurances, inquiries; all the stuff I wasn’t ready to handle.

Held funeral services last week at the temple of Mara. The Gray-Manes couldn’t attend, they’re still stuck in Whiterun thanks to Ulfric’s stupid siege, but Mette came down from Windhelm with Aventus. She punched me in the face when she saw me. It felt justified. And like my sinus bone cracked in two. I snorted blood clots for days. We haven’t spoken a word about it since and I felt better afterwards, like I’d paid penance. Thorald seemed to greatly approve. He was a lot more open and friendly after that, even clapped a hand on my shoulder in solidarity before he left town. It must be a Nord thing.

M'aza paid her respects to Gidan, who was a business partner and nothing more, then she left Riften for Markarth. Erandur returned to the Dawngaurd a few days ago.

Aicantar and Sarah want to go back to Windhelm…and yes I needed a minute to process that when they told me.

Sarah is frustrated; not only does she need a new body, but we still don’t know where her old one is. The Companions haven’t found Calixto yet and there has been no word from Aela or Skjor out in the field. It might not be a bad idea, if only to scope out Calixto’s old house more thoroughly than guards would ever bother to do. Search for clues. Maybe get a look at the sewer system beneath the city if Aicantar isn’t too squeamish.

I sure as shit am not going. With a bounty on my head and Stormcloaks out for blood Windhelm is the last place I need to be seen. Helgerd owes me a solid, I’ll write ahead to her at the Hall of the Dead in case Sarah needs help. Aicantar can look after himself. (It’s not that I don’t like the guy because he’s an Altmer, okay? I don’t like him because he’s a fussy ponce, it’s a totally different thing!)

They’re going to start making me leave the house soon, I think. I’ve cleaned every square inch of it twice and when people come calling I’ve gotten into the habit of hiding. I just want to brood, is that so much to ask? I got five people killed, eliminated a demi-god only to feed it to another part of a greater god who wants to destroy the world harder than the first one? (I’m still not sure I understand that part), and now I have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with the rest of my life.

I. NEED. A. MINUTE.

Chapter Text

Riften

Probably still Sun’s Height, 4E 202

Sent Sten’s remains with Sarah and Aicantar when they left for Windhelm. None of us knew if he had any next of kin. He never talked about having a family waiting for him. At the very least he should be interred properly at the Hall of the Dead.

*******

Haven’t been sleeping well. Restlessness. Nightmares.

*******

Thalmor spotted southwest of the city. Karliah has been bartering with the Orc stronghold in that area. They’ve been taken care of, for now. My debts to the Guild are starting to add up. Brynjolf and some of the seniors are sure to be keeping track.

*******

I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to go home.

*******

Well, what did you expect, dumbass? That you’d get through the “main quest” and suddenly a big flashing EXIT sign would appear? Suck it up and stop feeling sorry for yourself!

*******

Haven’t felt like writing or doing much of anything really. Going to try baking. Maybe see about getting my hands on some paints? Therapeutic shit. I want to take a trip to Morthal to see Idgrod. I keep talking myself out of it. 

*******

When Mette went home to Windhelm she left Aventus with his father. I can’t blame her in the slightest, with everything that’s happened. It’s awkward though. Tony doesn’t know how to behave like a dad and Aventus has been very quiet. Poor kid probably feels like he’s a burden, being passed from one caregiver to another. The timing could have been better, but ain’t that always the way? My efforts to make him feel at home mostly revolve around food. It’s also given me an excuse not to talk to people; if they amble into the kitchen, I put them to work.

Ingun has been amazing. She’ll come over and play games with Aventus that he knows from Honor Hall or show him an alchemy trick like what happens when you mix potash and vinegar (middle school volcano!) Aventus seems keen on alchemy, if only to spend time with Ingun. He might have a bit of a crush on her, how cute is that? As long as he’s learning something I see no harm in it.

Tony is trying, but he’s got this mental block when it comes to fatherhood. He believes he can’t do it, so he can’t. Mind over matter. It will take time.

When he’s not on a job he’s usually busy with renovations. Maybe he can bond with Aventus over that. Put a hammer in the kid’s hand and see how he does. It would be great if more people in Skyrim got on board with the whole plumbing thing. Introduce the concept of separate septic systems instead of literally dumping waste out the windows. Lake Henrich is disgustingly polluted.  

I am proud of Tony for cutting back on the booze. He’ll have one bottle of wine with dinner instead of three now. The other night he quipped that he’s not buying mead anymore because it will spoil his girlish figure. Mead is getting way too expensive anyway.

Loredas, 22^nd of Last Seed, 4E 202

The Ragged Flagon is not my favorite place to hang out, but it is the best place to hear all the juicy news without getting gawked at too hard.

Word of The World Eater’s demise has spread. It will quickly go from news to a wildly inaccurate tavern story and eventually settle into its own legend, as these things do. I’ve said my piece on the subject.

The Blades know by now that the rest of the dragons will be riled up. I suspect that even without Alduin the other dragons will just keep resurrecting if I’m not there to take their souls, but I’m waiting on a report from Delphine to confirm that. It isn’t exactly easy getting messages to her.

So far, I haven’t heard of any uptick in dragon attacks. Odd. They might be fighting amongst themselves, figuring out a new pecking order. Parthurnaax should be the new leader, but he will be challenged by those who remain loyal to Alduin. I wish there was a way to speak to him without having to climb a damn mountain every time. I suppose I could Shout, but it’s a loud, awkward way to communicate and it scares the absolute piss out of the city folk.

I don’t want to see dragons go extinct. I respect them, Parthurnaax in particular, but if the others won’t play nice…I can’t let more innocent people die. Maybe having “slayed” Alduin I’ll have more clout with the dragons now. Could I convince them to keep to their mountain territories and leave settlements alone? Doubtful. You never know til you try, though. I’m not sure where to start. Since I know his name could I call Odahviing down for a chat? Would he come if I did? Will revisit the idea after I hear back from Del.

Ulfric’s siege of Whiterun is over. Balgruuf rallied reinforcements independently from the Imperium (which was a brilliant PR move but took time) and managed to drive the Stormcloaks out. They followed the retreat all the way to Valtheim, which you have to admit makes a statement. Heavy Stormcloak casualties on the city’s doorstep, then a relentless pursuit to the very border of the Hold says you crossed a line and we’re not taking it anymore. That was weeks ago. We’re just now hearing about it in Riften.

Ulfric hasn’t offered any kind of truce much less surrender. He can’t. He’s backed himself into a corner and he must know it. He would never swallow his pride and call a truce with the Imperials and he can’t keep throwing his men and resources at them indefinitely. Something’s gotta give. The only way out that I can see is if he appeals to Balgruuf directly, but after the shit he pulled at the Moot, and then trying to sack Whiterun, I doubt Balgruuf would be lenient. Maybe he’d let Ulfric live, but at the very least he would demand his abdication as jarl. That wouldn’t just mean giving up his ancestorial seat, but the right to hold any office or even name his own successor. I think Ulfric would sooner fall on a blade.

For now, Dawnstar, Winterhold, and the Redoran out of Solstheim still trade with Windhelm. It’s a poorly kept secret, one the Empire Trading Company is all too happy to exploit. How long can that last though? If I was in Balgruuf’s position, I’d already be turning up the pressure on all the jarls to cease trade with the Stormcloaks entirely or deal with the consequences.  

House Redoran only supports Ulfric out of hatred for the Empire, if they really knew how he treats dark elves in his city they might rethink their trade agreement. That’s a letter I could definitely send if I wanted to interfere further. I’d rather not. Hoping it won’t be necessary.

The uppity-ups in Skyrim are slowly distancing themselves. Maven Black-Briar completely backed out of all dealings with him, according to Ingun. She’s just as indifferent about it as she ever was, which just baffles me.

Marry a dude old enough to be my grandpa? Sure, mom, whatever you want. Oh, that’s not happening now? Neat. I’m going to go pick nirnroot.

I don’t get that about Ingun. She’s so lost in her own head it’s like she doesn’t care about the real world. She’s cool though, don’t get me wrong. If you need an alchemy-related favor Ingun’s your huckleberry. I’m glad she doesn’t take after her mom, seeing people as opportunities to be exploited for coin. Rumor down at the Flagon is that Maven just left town to attend one of Elenwen’s fancy shindigs at the Embassy. Now that Ulfric seems to be waning in power she’ll bolster her dealings with the Thalmor, because Maven doesn’t give a shit who she does business with as long as she comes out on top. Color me surprised.

*******

Walked around the garden briefly last night. Got further today after dinner, wandered too close to the market, Fastred spotted me and talked my head off. Sweet girl still doesn’t have a clue.

Fucking exhausting.

One point that caught my interest however: she mentioned Reyda. She’d heard about the body being found from her mother. I realized that I never got the chance to talk to Fastred at the time. She had already skipped town with whats-his-name.

Not a lot to go on. She said Reyda and Narfi kept to themselves, because while Narfi wasn’t violent, the slightest thing could “excite and upset him.”

Fastred’s eyes lit up and she leaned in conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I think she must have been tired of minding her big brother. Before she disappeared, she started going off into the woods every evening. Told Wilhem she was foraging. Once I saw her coming back very late from Geimund’s island, all pale and disheveled. I think she was meeting a lover.”

“Did you notice any newcomers to town before or after she disappeared?”

“I would have noticed.” She scoffed. “You know what a boring little town Ivarstead is, I don’t miss it one bit! I used to think maybe Wilhem liked her, but he was so devoted to Lynly-”

“What about when Narfi was killed? Do you remember anything unusual at all?”

Fastred screwed her pretty face up like a child trying to work out a math problem. “Not really…he had one of his episodes, but that happened more often with Reyda gone. I’m not sure what set him off, he’d been wandering around the mill and all of a sudden started babbling and screaming. Father and Klimmek talked him into going home. The next day he was stone dead.”

Arrow through the head, laying on the riverbank like he’d stood countless times waiting for Reyda to come home. That’s what everyone else I’d interviewed said too. Rounds out what happened, poor SOB was harvested. What I don’t get is if Rayda was targeted too, why would the killer not also steal her body? If she and Narfi were both Displaced and some necromancer shitbag figured that out it makes sense that they’d get her out of the way first, but then why was her skeleton in the water?

I don’t like thinking about it, but who else is going to seek justice for these people? They’re my people, after all. There’s an obligation stuck to that concept. I can’t shake it, no matter how much I’d love to stop and just be.

Fastred started talking about the food they serve at the Bunkhouse soon after and I tuned out.

They could have taken pieces, I suppose, Reyda’s skeleton was hardly complete. Or she might have been soul-trapped. That bothers me more, thinking about anyone having their soul stuffed into a rock, waiting to be used like a battery. Are they conscious in there? Do they feel time passing? Can they see and hear the outside world, without the ability to interact with it? That would be the definition of hell. I very much hope that the dragon souls I carry don’t feel that way. I don’t think so. When I let myself concentrate on them it’s more like they’re disinterested spectators in the background, like a bunch of dugout players at a baseball game who know they’re not going to get to play. Even Alduin, though he’s far from a complete entity, more like a malicious horcrux. A dark spot I avoid.

I wonder if every Dragonborn had the same sort of experience in the past. It’s not like they wrote any of that shit down, unless Miraak left a journal somewhere. 

*******

The Flagon has become a safe space for me, which is weird. Maybe I’m just getting used to the smell or maybe Delvin’s stories are just that good. It’s not like I sit around getting sloshed all day. I’ll nurse a bottle of mead for hours listening to gossip and shop talk about past jobs. Am I deliberately distracting myself so I don’t have to think about shit? Yes. I’m aware. I also know that it won’t last, but I figure if I don’t give myself a little time off I’ll either burn out or go completely batshit insane. Baking bad bread and listening to stories about botched forgeries is self-care.

For thieves, the patrons of the Flagon are mostly alright. The only one who makes me a little uncomfortable is Galathil, the wood elf who started hanging out down there when the rest of the “merchants” moved in. She keeps soliciting me, specifically, for what she creepily refers to as “flesh work.”

Remove the scars, grow out the hair; a little nip, a little tuck. Wouldn’t you look adorable as a ginger?

If I had the money I would be tempted. Most of her business is with thieves who have gotten themselves into too much trouble to go unrecognized or who want to retire. A complete face and body overhaul is a thousand gold, no questions asked. You even get a complimentary hood to wear on your way out of the city.

Good to know.

Still, as Wyn likes to point out, I earned my scars. Each one is a lesson and a memory; removing them would feel wrong. Unless I had no other option, of course. But that’s a down-the-road problem.

Wyn takes jobs now and then, mostly recovering things people have reported stolen by freelancers outside the guild, which is somewhat ironic. I don’t like it when he’s gone, but we also need to eat. Can’t live on Tony’s charity forever. He’s got another contract lined up tomorrow that will probably take him all the way to Dawnstar.

He always comes back. With or without loot, or a story to tell; doesn’t matter, he comes back.

We haven’t really talked about the future, but I’ve had a lot of time to think about it lately.

I like the idea of having my own little self-sustained homestead one day, but that requires two things: money and permission from the jarl of the Hold to buy the land. I’m sure Idgrod would sell me property near Morthal. I just need the startup capital.

Killing for money is out of the question. I’m uncomfortable with thievery and tomb raiding. I’d love to get better at magic, but while the Thalmor continue to skulk around neither of the colleges are safe for me. What does that leave? Mercantile and hard labor jobs. Meh. There must be something, a niche I can tap into, short of traipsing around the countryside with a “will thu’um for coin” sign around my neck. Would the Companions let me take only animal extermination contracts? I could Shout them calm and lead them back into the wilderness. I’d be their very own bear whisperer!

I sound like I’ve given up on getting home, don’t I? Yeah. It’s not that, I just feel like I’ve reached an impasse. I could spend the rest of my days looking for a way back. I could pour everything I’ve got into the search, and still come up with nothing. Not that I’m ever giving up on finding Calixto, that at least seems doable. Slow and frustrating, but doable.

I’m not delusional enough to think that finding him will solve anything or bring me closure. Nothing is that simple. I just hate the idea of him roaming free, hurting and using people; recruiting others to do the same because cults spring up like toad stools in this fucking world.  

No, I need to be realistic. Home is where I am, so I’d better get off my ass. These people still need me. I know too much and hold too much power now to simply fade into obscurity. Not yet anyway. Maybe I’ll live long enough to retire. Buy that homestead, raise a healthy flock of chickens. No monsters or necromancers or civil wars. Nice and peaceful. I never asked for a life of adventure, never even thought about it, not even as a kid. When we played pirates, I was always the foppish British dude with toilet paper on my head, there to put an end to Captain Jack’s swashbuckling shenanigans. The younger kids got foam swords and would giggle when I dramatically pretended to drop dead. I didn’t mind being the “bad” guy. Someone had to do it. The story would have been no fun otherwise. If only the villains in real life were so easy to defeat.

Sundas, 19^th of Hearthfire, 4E 202

Wyn is out of town. I had a not so great feeling about the smarmy Argonian who put up the contract, something about a non-guild sanctioned raid on a cache up north. They wanted the culprits tracked down and “made an example of.” Delvin vouched for the guy, but it’s not the sort of thing they usually handle. Maybe it’s nothing. Anyway, Wyn already agreed to the job so he couldn’t renege just because my Spidey-senses are a’tinglin.’ I made him take Barbas with him just in case.

Tirdas, 21^st of Hearthfire, 4E 202

Ra’jirr showed up last night. No warning and alone. I had been going with the assumption that he, Skjor, and Aela had lost Calixto’s trail and were still scouting for leads. I’d hoped that was it anyway. Companions apparently suck at mission updates!

It’s worse than I could have imagined.

The trail went cold near Darkwater. They methodically checked every ruin and abandoned keep after that; first downriver, then backtracked upriver looking for the usual signs of necromancy.

“There is nothing wrong with Ra’jirr’s nose. The Dragonborn sends him into the wild with werewolves and he goes willingly, for what choice does he have?” He snapped accusingly. “Ra’jirr smells silver and blood and dog. Ra’jirr smells death. He does not complain. He follows his nose. Months of this. He does not complain, until people try to kill him.”

They followed a lead north. Silver Hand members kept cropping up on their trail, so Aela and Skjor eventually hit their camp at Gallows Rock. And found it empty. They tracked them to a tomb built into the side of The Throat of the World, but found it emptied even of draugr. Until they had breached the last chamber.

“Not just dead. Mutilated. Ra’jirr has seen reanimated corpses before, but they do not last. They are not supposed to last! After the spell is cast, after some time they fall again. These did not fall. They kept coming. The draugr of the tomb fought the fresh ones, not a fair fight at all in Ra’jirr’s opinion.”

“What else was different about them? Do you remember anything standing out?” I asked, dreading the answer.

Ra’jirr nodded and walked into the entry hall where he’d dropped his things. He picked up a burlap sack and pulled it open enough to reveal its contents. A man’s head. As he handled it glassy, bloodshot eyes rolled forward and its mouth opened and closed as if trying to scream. Ra’jirr clenched his jaw in disgust and held it up by the hair with his good hand for me to examine.

A diamond-shaped chunk of flesh had been cut from the forehead and replaced with a piece of older, drier brownish skin stitched in place with what looked like salted sinew. The same sound I heard from Calixto’s kill room faintly chimed from it, magic undeniably off-key and wrong. Marks had been carved into the hollow of each cheek. None of us knew what they meant, so I sketched them out.

He said every single undead gang member was like that. Patched, marked, and enduring.

The whole time Ra’jirr held up the head its jaw continued to frantically work up and down, teeth clacking, eyes rolling. Even the muscles in what was left of the neck flexed and wiggled. A complex cologne of gingivitis, old blood, and something musty-sweet like moldy molasses wafted through the whole room. For science I grabbed a pair of tongs and a knife. As soon as the stitches were cut and I’d thrown the patch of leathery skin in the fire the head went slack. Something dark and sticky clung to the exposed bone where the patch had been, some sort of homemade glue.

I nearly puked. And I’ve got a famously strong stomach. Jesus H. Christ. Now we know what happened to Narfi’s body parts, at least some of them. 

Ra’jirr put the head away to continue his story. Later, we burned it.

By his reckoning they were outnumbered but managed to cut the undead down until they’d gained the last chamber. A dozen armed corpses including the poor bastard whose head Aela lopped off were left, guarding the room.

“There was something in the wall. A ring the size of a man, it glowed with magic and it…it must have taken the others. Ra’jirr turned away from the last of the undead and he was alone. The ring disappeared and there was nothing left, just a wall, steaming as if burning hot, though it was not.”

Ra’jirr spent most of the evening telling his tale slumped cross-legged on the floor with his ears flattened in apprehension. Tony didn’t take his hand off the hilt of his sword the whole time. When he’d finished, he straightened his spine and looked me in the eye.

“Ra’jirr could have fled to safer climes. He did not. He has no reason to lie.”

Well, that’s never true.

Only me, Tony, and Ra’jirr know what happened, or what he said happened anyway. It should stay that way. No point in contacting the Companions til I know more. I took my sketch of the symbols carved into the head down to the Flagon to ask Delvin if he recognized them but did not tell him where they came from. He moved the paper back and forth, trying to focus. The man needs glasses. Finally, he nodded and said they were Imperial letters. Cyrodillic for “we are forever.”

If I needed any more proof that it’s Calixto behind this shit that clinched it.

The fresh scar across his snout and left eye notwithstanding, I’m still not ruling out the possibility that Ra’jirr isn’t being completely honest. Because I’m not stupid. Still, it’s a lead. What he described sounds like a portal, but what kind? Generated by what? It’s too much of a coincidence that the Silver Hand got involved after the Companions started looking for Calixto.

Why am I PLAGUED with coincidence? Is there even such a thing?

A portal would finally explain how the hell Calixto vanished out of custody in Windhelm but doesn’t help me understand how he created it or where he went. 

Heading out to investigate the tomb tomorrow. Ra’jirr pointed out the location, it looks to be well north of Ivarstead, built up and into the mountain. Yay. More climbing. Can’t hold out for Wyn or Sarah to get back to town first. The promise of a clue, something that will point to where to look next is too much to pass up. The longer I wait the more likely that that something will disappear.

This wild goose chase has gone on long enough.

Chapter Text

The first thing she consciously registered was sharp pain radiating down her neck. Esme woke with a view of floorboards and a rough spun skirt she didn’t own draped over her thighs. The jolt of terror that followed just made the pain worse. She was trussed up in a forward kneeling position, with her arms bound behind her back at the wrist and her knees locked in a wooden brace. A sopping wad of wool had been shoved so tightly against her soft pallet there was no tonguing it out. Her joints were on fire. Her legs were asleep.

Shitshitshit!Fuckfuckshitfuck! Okay, okay, okay don’t panic! DON’T. PANIC. Panic makes you dead. Take a minute. Assess the situation.

After a few long, shaky breaths Esme reopened her eyes. Lifting her head was possible, she found, but not at all comfortable.

Stone walls curved around her with a high ceiling supported by thick, smoke-blackened beams festooned with chains. An iron brazier burned between herself and the one visible door. Heavy shadows bounced across a nearby worktable littered with candles, bottles, tools, and papers. A human skull stared at her from atop a jar full of dead moths, several gold teeth glittering merrily from its jaw.

Oh no…no nononono…Think! What do I remember last? Leaving Riften with Ra’jirr and Tony. Yes. Okay. We got to the tomb, Ra’jirr was right, it was a fucking mess. I was knee deep in it. Then a purple light-

Rapid, uneven footsteps snapped Esme’s attention back to the present. The door burst open for a petite woman with dark, dirty hair matted to her shoulders and an oval face marred by a road map of scar tissue. Esme recognized the face with rising horror. It shambled against the wall with a crooked gait, mouth open wide in the semblance of a childish guffaw.

Slower, heavier steps followed. The room was round, so it was probably a tower, or part of a Keep, with a set of stairs just outside, Esme surmised.

What floor though? How much ground between me and the nearest exit? Shit! Where’s Tony and Ra’jirr?

The visitor plastered herself against the wall, holding as still as she could manage. A thread of saliva slowly trailed down from one corner of her open mouth, staining her already filthy yellow bodice.

Esme could only see the silhouette of a man at first. He stood in the doorway, staring in, breathing heavily. When he stepped into the firelight his cold eyes never left hers, even as one arm swung out to grab onto the other woman’s dress. She squealed, clumsily trying to peel herself out of the garment. He cowed her to the side, wrenching her arms while she howled.

Calixto looked twenty years older. Gone was the neat, mild-mannered shopkeeper of Windhelm. Fresh scratches stood out vividly where his face wasn’t hidden by an unkempt pewter beard. Heavy bags under his eyes and his labored movements spoke of exhaustion and Esme quietly reveled in that. Sarah would be mortified to see what her body had become, she thought, but there was at least some satisfaction in knowing that Calixto hadn’t succeeded the way he’d hoped.

Franken-sister keened and bucked angrily as he fought to pull her arms behind her back. They stood there, locked in a miserable power struggle, the broken girl grunting in protest and Calixto’s loathing gaze firmly fixed on Esme.  

Another silhouette soon filled the doorway, this one far slimmer and so light on their feet they’d hardly made a sound.

Esme nearly choked on her gag.

Ingun Black-briar, wearing an apothecary apron and long leather gloves, stepped into the light looking mildly annoyed.

“Of all the rooms she could have chosen…interesting.” She yanked off a gore-smeared glove with a sigh and turned to Calixto. “If you would only let me fix her-”

“If anyone is to fix her, it will be me.” He growled.

Ingun shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m only trying to salvage the situation. Like always.”

The old man softened a fraction, eyes fixed on the top of the girl’s head in front of him.

“I know. I know that.”

“Good. Now, why don’t you tend to that and let me work, hm?”

Calixto’s shoulders slumped. He gave Esme one final withering glance before marching the still struggling girl outside. Ingun waited for the door to thud closed behind them before she spoke again.

“Poor sod. It’s funny how some people cling to their mistakes, isn’t it?”

Ingun strode forward and took Esme’s chin firmly between her fingers, examining her carefully. Esme couldn’t help but notice the skull amulet dangling from her neck.

Dammit, Wuunfurth!

“I’m sure you want answers, but if I remove your gag and you Shout at me, we can’t be friends anymore. Then there will be no answers and several bodies on the floor faster than you say ‘nirnroot.’ Understood?”

Reluctantly Esme nodded. Ingun pulled the gag out with her still gloved hand and tossed it to the floor.

“I’m so glad we can approach this situation rationally.” Ingun grinned down at her. “Truly, I was sure no one would ever dethrone Reyda for principled reticence until we met.”

Esme spat the taste of mildew from her mouth.

“Yeah? You were buddies? I hadn’t realized.”

Her grip on Esme’s face tightened slightly, but otherwise Ingun did not react to the sullying of her apron. If anything her tone remained unnervingly polite.

“I heard a great deal about her from an acquaintance of mine. He is sadly no longer with us. Poor soul, lost in the attack on Helgen. One of mother’s oldest friends, too. She has so many.”

“I don’t suppose she goes by “M” with them, does she?”

Ingun ignored the question, continuing her exam. With her index finger and thumb, she forced Esme’s right eye wide until the whites tinged pink with irritation. Esme bit the inside of her cheek, holding back the frustrated tingle in her throat. Looking up put pressure on her already straining muscles.

Evidently satisfied, Ingun withdrew to jot something down on a scrap of parchment.

“Honestly, I had hoped that we could do this in a more pleasant setting.” She confessed, pulling up a cushioned stool. “You’re early. If you had informed me of your plans I might have done more to curtail Uncle Calixto. He’s already rather paranoid, especially when it comes to his special projects, and frankly you just keep getting in the way. When you turned up at his testing site, well that was the last straw, as they say. You really have no one to blame but yourself for being here.”

Esme concentrated on her breathing. No way was she going to give this traitor the satisfaction of seeing her angry. She wanted so badly to Shout.

Not yet. You don’t know where the others are, remember? Keep her talking.

She took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “Uncle Calixto, is it? I hadn’t realized you were related.”

“Don’t be obtuse. It’s honorary, I’m no more an Imperial than you are a Bretan.”

“I’m not in a position to take anything for granted when you’re wearing that.” Esme pointedly nodded at the necromancer’s amulet.

Ingun gripped the talisman protectively. “Yes, well it was necessary. Mastering multiple disciplines is a virtue, not a failing. You know that. And I didn’t think you’d mind so much after Wuunfurth’s abysmal behavior when you last met. It was nothing at all to slip into his room after you left Windhelm. I don’t think he’s even noticed yet.”

Her smile faltered as her eyes sketched over Esme’s face. “Now, don’t be cross with me! I did what had to be done. Mother turned the matter over to me. It’s my responsibility-”

“To murder my people.”

“No! See, this is what I wanted to talk through with you. You’re looking at it all wrong! One cannot murder a construct, only repurpose rare precious materials. In that regard we are doing humanitarian work!

“You people only turn up every few hundred years. I’m embarrassed to admit no one made the correlation between your emergence and certain historical milestones until recently. The common rabble dismiss a strange beggar or two ranting in the streets as Sheogorath-kissed, but we know better, don’t we? The tell-tale signs are hard to ignore once you know what to look for. Confusion, unintelligible language, utterly alien dress and manners, and often a propensity for sudden violence. Not you, though, you’re special. I’ve known that for some time. You’re not reactionary. You think like a real human. The others however-”

“That’s because I am a real human!” Esme snapped. “Real people get scared and lash out! That doesn’t give you the right to kill them!”

The genuine pity on Ingun’s face did nothing to quell Esme’s mounting fury.

“I acknowledge that you believe that. Why wouldn’t you? Everything was replicated so perfectly.” She ran the pad of her index finger down her cheek.

Esme forced herself to maintain eye contact, but she did flinch. A fleeting, stricken expression passed over her former friend.

Ingun took a deep breath and nodded, as if coming to a decision with herself. Twisting toward the table she lifted a thick ledger with irregular pages sticking out from its margins and nestled it reverently on her lap.

“Every sighting, recorded experiment, and observation. The work of dozens of dedicated scholars spanning generations, right here.” She tapped the book lovingly.

Esme waited for the other shoe to drop.

“What I need you to understand, firstly, is that I am not doing this for personal gain. There are those who are, I will freely admit that. Calixto wanted his sister back. Mother hopes to cheat death as well, which we can talk about later. The point is I am first and foremost a seeker of truth! And the truth is that you have more in common as you are now with a Daedric artifact than a human being.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“It does if you have a thorough grasp of the nature of Aethurius and how it affects causality from one realm to another. Not that the subject is straightforward by any means. There are nuances. Layers. Contradictions. For example, in necromancy there is a principle referred to as the ‘soul-flesh threshold.’ Are you familiar?”

“You can bind a spirit or the body, but not both.”

“Very good! A bit of an oversimplification, however. One can soul trap a subject and then reanimate the body. That is nothing a skilled necromancer cannot manage. The difficulty is in both preserving the integrity of the body and enslaving the spirit in a corporeal form simultaneously. Longevity is also a problem. No modern necromancer has been able to reanimate a body longer than a day or so before it begins to deteriorate. There are draugr, of course, but the technique used to create them was lost after the fall of the dragon priests. It’s been a point of great frustration for centuries! Then you people turned up.”

As she went on Ingun became more animated. It reminded Esme with a pang of the many fun and not at all weird-at-the-time academic conversations they used to have over games of chess.

“We’ve known for some time that there was something special about your kind, but with so few subjects to work with it took centuries to make progress. It was Calixto and his sister who discovered the ritual involving the necromancer’s amulet. Credit where credit is due. Though I suspect they stole both the amulet and the research. He won’t talk about it. No matter.

“Now we know that if the base material is imbued with the same energy as the plain of Creation, suffused with the correct enchantments using the necromancer’s amulet, and with the soul bound to a black gem, the superficial result is a body that will endure as long as the soul does.

“Subsequent experiments prove that the soul-flesh threshold can be broken under those conditions! Not only that but the effect can be transposed onto mundane subjects! But only if the flesh carries those traces of Aethurius, which your people do. Admittedly we are still in the middle of a rather…heated debate on why that is. I have my own theories. Every one of you arrived via a Daedric portal, as best as we can tell. I surmise that part of your body not only passed through Aethurius, but became part of it, essentially. I believe that the realms repel each other like oil and water. Perhaps during Creation certain elements naturally came together and split apart as worlds were formed. Trace elements of each lingered in their separate spheres, but not enough to cause instability. Therefore, I postulate that only a small percentage of what you were could come through, the rest was reconstructed in Oblivion.”

Did she just call me a clone?

“But theories prove nothing. You don’t believe me. Do you?” Ingun’s shrewd expression hardened. “No. That will require a demonstration.”

She rose suddenly, turning her light tread towards the door.

“I’m doing this as a courtesy.” She called over her shoulder. “Because I do respect what you’ve made of yourself. Remember that.”

“You’re just going to leave me here like this? I thought we were friends.” Esme quipped, trying to put on a braver face than she felt.

Ingun spun on her heel and tucked her hands in her apron pockets, smiling almost fondly.

“As I said, you’re early. We must suffer the consequences of our own choices, now mustn’t we? You can endure for a little while longer. After all, you’re Dragonborn.”

Dread landed heavy in the pit of Esme’s stomach. The click of the lock practically boomed in her ears.

Esme sagged with a whimper. Her shoulders burned and the strain on her neck was becoming unbearable.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sounds around her. Ingun’s footsteps faded fast. The occasional crackle of the brazier came into focus; creaking wood above her head, and below the hollow echo of air rushing through tunnels, like a crypt or mine. Nothing sounded nearby, though admittedly it was difficult to concentrate when half her body was numb, and the other half felt like a beaten piñata.

She tested the ropes again. Pain shot across her shoulders and down her spine.

Fuck it. Ingun’s too smart to have left me ungagged by mistake.

She went ethereal, whispering the thu’um with as much focused intent as she could muster. The static feeling of the space between her cells expanded, buzzing through her like a warm current. The ropes slid through flesh and bone in a single agonizingly slow forward motion. Once her arms came free so did the relieved breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Esme pulled her legs out of the brace with difficulty only to fall forward on her palms. She crawled, her muscles shaking, pins and needles rippling through her calves and feet. She used the cushioned stool to pull herself into a sitting position.

“Well this sucks.” She complained to the rafters, methodically rubbing the feeling back into her fingers.

Once the twitching electric burn in her nerves subsided Esme struggled to her feet, which she noticed were bare. All she had on was an oversized shift that wanted to slide off her shoulders. Even her breast band and underwear were gone.

Oh, that’s just low.

She fumed as she rummaged through the contents of the worktable. Of course, her things were nowhere to be found. A roll of bandages shoved between book piles would have to serve as foot wraps. The closest thing to a weapon she could find, short of breaking off a table leg, was a tiny pen knife no longer than her pinky finger. With a frustrated huff she upended a lidless junk box. Trinkets spilled out of the bottom. Among the coins and soul gem fragments that skittered across the table a familiar glint of dulled silver landed heavier than the rest, stark against the ancient woodgrain. She ran her thumb over the cowboy and horse embossed on the side in disbelief.

“That cunt!”

Esme palmed the lighter in one hand, pen knife in the other, and went to scope out the door lock. It looked simple enough, a triple tumbler with heavy iron pins similar to the practice locks the Guild used. She slipped the blade in easily, jimmied it upwards, and watched the weight of the first pin snap the metal like pencil lead.

“Fuck me sideways!”

She chucked the handle into the brazier with enough frustrated force to send sparks flying and began to pace.

“Now what?”

Stop and assess. What’s the situation?

I’m stuck in here. I don’t know where I am or where my friends are. I’m half naked. There’s an unknown number of deranged necromancers nearby, including someone I trusted with way too much personal information…

I’m early. What does that mean exactly? She’s been planning something. That can’t be good. Ingun must have been in on this since we met. That bitch! I defended her when people compared her to her mother! I told people she was different; she was the good Black-briar! We were friends! How did I not see this coming?

Beat yourself up over it later! What do they want? Start there. If all they were interested in was harvesting body parts you’d be dead already, so what’s the angle?

She said I needed a demonstration. Why does she care if I believe her or not? Ingun thinks I’m not a real person, that no one from Earth is, because we’re clones or something. She used the word “construct” before. We’re “reconstructed” from Creation…stuff. Like an advanced Gollum? Really advanced, considering that I eat and bleed and feel every bit like a person.

Could be that she plans to use that amulet on you. Maybe it takes more preparation than she bothered explaining.

Why not do that when I’m passed out and defenseless though? Why bother explaining anything at all?

I guess we’ll find out. What else do we know?

We seem to be dealing with a loose affiliation of multi-generational necromancers. Actual number of members unknown. She said Calixto and Maven were looking for ways to cheat death. I already know that they’ve figured out how to make uber-zombies, they could create their own undead army with enough time.

To do what with? Take over the world? Cliché much.

I don’t get Ingun’s motivations at all. How do you go from someone who loves alchemy more than anything to hardcore necromancy? It was a little weird how obsessive she got with cataloging poisons, but I thought it was just part of her whole thing. Just a hobby. I never thought…doesn’t matter. Can I play them against each other? Ingun called Calixto “uncle,” but she came off as more irritated with him than anything. He looks exhausted, bordering on crazy. He’s the weak link. Then there’s Maven. Even if she passed the torch to Ingun, she’s the one who never misses those Embassy parties. She had to be have been the one who got my lighter from Elenwen; question is how and why? I don’t think Maven would ever voluntarily share knowledge when she would benefit from keeping it proprietary. Giving the Thalmor the ability to create an undead army themselves would be reckless. Selling them an army on the other hand…yeah that sounds like Maven.

Still doesn’t shed any light on what Ingun wants though. She always just sort of went along with whatever her mother wanted, but was that a lie too?

Who else? Sild is dead. Arondil is still in prison up in Dawnstar…right?

He’d better be. Don’t spiral into worst case scenarios, you’ll just get overwhelmed.  

Wait…when did I start talking to myself like this?

Who else are you going to bounce ideas off? The fact that you’re conscious that you’re doing it probably means that you’re still sane. Stressed as fuck, but sane.

Good point. So how do we get out of here?

Option 1: Force. We FUS RO DA the door down and take out as many of them as possible. Messy, loud, and a good way to get a lot of people killed. Last resort.

Option 2: Stealth. Use that nifty long-term invisibility thing you do to ghost the next person who opens that door and slip out without anyone noticing. Sneak through the Keep (hope no one knows Detect Life or hears you breathing) and find friends. Stage jail break (without being noticed) and get everyone out alive. Risky. Ingun isn’t stupid, she knows your skill set and would anticipate this.

Option 3: Psychological Manipulation. Play along, get them to show you exactly where everyone is and what they’re planning. Also risky, once you’re in the thick of it you’ll be completely relying on your rusty clinical assessment skills. Calixto is clearly unstable. And he hates your guts. You won’t be able to sway him to your side, but you could turn him against the others. Maybe. If all else fails, see Option 1.

Esme scrubbed her hands down her face. With some difficulty she yanked what was left of the pen knife out of the lock and carefully stabbed it through the fabric of her shift just under the collar. Her eyes drifted to the ceiling rafters, where several sets of rusty chains dangled.

Not exactly an inconspicuous weapon.

“Option three it is then.”

You weren’t going in guns blazing anyway. That’s not your style, especially when there are lives at stake.

Ingun knows that too.

*******

Waiting for someone to open the door and get to the big reveal already became almost too much to bear.

Esme paced.

She stretched.

She practiced half-remembered calisthenics.

Eventually she calmed down enough to start reading through the thick ledger Ingun had left. By the time a key finally jangled in the lock she’d scanned through the book several times. Some entries were written in languages she couldn’t decipher, others were so old the script was difficult to make out. What she could glean was not encouraging. The founders of the group had branched off from other cults after the Oblivion crisis. There was no unifying philosophy outside of Daedra-obsession and necromancy; no tenants or codes of conduct, just a core belief that death once conquered is the epidemy of magic and the only way to truly master death is to tap into Oblivion. Half the newer entries were just lists of Maven’s business expenses. The extensive notes Esme expected from Ingun were strangely absent.

Much to her disappointment it was Ra’jirr who opened the door. He approached cautiously, tail swishing behind him and golden lantern eyes keen to look in any direction but hers.

“When did they get to you?” Esme asked quietly.

Two men she didn’t recognize appeared behind the cat. They blocked the doorway, standing shoulder to shoulder in greasy leathers with matching silver-handled broad swords. It was the dark diamonds carved into their foreheads that drew her eye, however. Esme swallowed hard and forced herself to focus on Ra’jirr.

His ears twitched nervously. A pair of manacles dragged at his ankles as he shuffled forward.

“Mistress Ingun would have a word.” He ground out, holding up a second pair of bindings that glowed a subtle blue.

“I see.”

Chapter Text

For nearly two years Esme thought in circles. She thought about personhood while scrubbing floors at the Bard’s College. She thought about consciousness bobbing in the back of wagons and trekking up mountains. She’d considered that she might be dead, or hallucinating, or being fed digitally replicated stimuli. Maybe her real body was in a coma. Maybe some high-tech VR system was projecting her awareness into an avatar. Maybe the self she was experiencing now was divorced from the self she was back home, who might very well be living her life completely unaware that there was another version of her walking in chains to horrors unknown.

Ra’jirr descended the steps beside her while the two undead guards followed a pace behind.

“You didn’t answer me before.”

His whiskers bristled. “The Dragonborn thinks the worst of Ra’jirr. Yet when she gives orders Ra’jirr obeys, even when she wishes to go to a dangerous place filled with death-things! Ra’jirr should have run at the first sign of trouble!”

“I’m here too, aren’t I? What I’m getting at is whose side are you on?”

“Side? Ra’jirr is on his own side. If the Dragonborn wishes to live she will do as Ra’jirr does.”

“Cower?”

“Cooperate.”

A door at the bottom of the stairs appeared in the torchlight. It was propped open to allow a constant breath of copper-tinged air to escape the dungeon beyond. Half the lamp-lit space had been rearranged to accommodate a ring of bones, not unlike a Dark Brotherhood summoning circle. A partial skeleton had been arranged in a hexagon. Instead of nightshade or other offerings the center was left bare save a single, faint rune imbedded into the floor.

Tables had been set up to create a ramshackle laboratory. Calixto sat on a barrel, holding his sister in place in front of him with one hand while he gently combed her hair.

The rest of the dungeon looked original, with rusty iron cages hanging from the ceiling and holding cells below. Esme gasped when she saw Aela slumped against the bars of her cell, her wrists shackled, war paint muddied with grime and blood. A hulking, limp werewolf she suspected was Skjor hung from chains on the other side of the cell, where Aela could not reach him. Next door Tony watched warily with two black eyes and a swollen jaw.

Ingun stood at an enchanting table with her back to the door. At her side slouched Aventus, twisting the cuffs of his tunic into tight knots, and kicking his ankles rhythmically against the side of the trunk he sat on. Without looking up from her work Ingun put a hand on his shoulder and leaned in to whisper in his ear. The boy’s face blanched and the kicking stopped.

“I’m so glad you’re here for this!” Ingun exclaimed, whirling around with a broad smile. “Come in, have a seat.”

Ra’jirr and Ez were urged forward towards Aventus, who scrambled to his feet and shifted awkwardly, unsure where to stand. As his hands fell free at his sides Ez noticed a bevy of small, livid cuts along all of his fingers.

“Are you alright?” she asked him.

“He’s fine! Sit!” Ingun interjected. “I won’t lie, I was nearly frantic when you turned up. The state of the place is…well you see what I have to work with. But that will change! I’ve thought about it and your early arrival might just be the catalyst we needed to get things going! Uncle Calixto has been dragging his feet.”

“Testing the apparatus-” the old man began.

“Yes, we’ll get to that.” Ingun waved him off and turned her attention back to Esme. “My dear friend, do you trust me?”

Ez arched an incredulous brow. “I don’t know how to answer that.” she said honestly. Saying no seemed too antithetical to Ingun’s expectant, almost manic expression to be safe.

The younger woman deflated slightly.

“Of course. My hope is that once you see the situation for what it is you’ll come to understand that I’m acting on everyone’s best interest, yours included. With that in mind, are you willing to hear me out?”

“Are you willing to let them go if I do?” Esme nodded to the cells.

“Oh, yes, is that even a question? I’ve no interest in being a full-time jailer. It’s been exhausting! If you will only listen to what I propose and take a little trip with me so I can give you that demonstration I mentioned, then I shall be happy to turn them over to your care.”

Esme’s gaze swept through the room looking for ques. Aventus refused to look up. Aela and Tony leveled dark glares at their captor, shaking their heads. Ra’jirr twitched his ears unhelpfully.

Six undead guards, all in full kit with silver swords at the ready, lined up behind Calixto as if awaiting orders.

Oh, just fuck my life…

“I accept your terms.”

Ingun quickly snatched up the object she’d been working on from the enchanting table and held it up. It looked like a skull cap, neatly cut above the brow, and carved with more runes.

“Excellent, I’ll just need you to power this up and we’ll be off. Calixto, you’re in charge while I’m gone! If we don’t return in…oh three hours say, consider the agreement null.”

Calixto’s nasty smile in reply told Esme everything she needed to know about how that scenario would go.

Ingun led the way to the summoning circle in the center of the room.  

“You will need this where we’re going.” Ingun said, pulling an ebony dagger from beneath her apron and handing it to Ez decisively. “The cuffs stay. You understand.”

She held the skull cap up in a perverted imitation of Oliver Twist, watching Ez steadily, as if challenging her to disobey.

“Charge it.” she ordered.

Oh. It’s like the Akavari blood-lock at Skyhaven. Great.

“The blade is clean, but feel free to cleanse it yourself if you don’t believe me.” Ingun continued, a knowing smile twitching on her lips.

Esme did her best not to react, though it seemed useless and she suspected that was very much the point. She had been trying to summon magic, any magic, since she’d been manacled to no avail. Wherever the energy came from the cuffs effectively blocked her access to it. She could only hope that she could still Shout if necessary.  

The lighter she’d been palming flicked to life with ease. She slowly ran the flame over the knife’s edge until she was satisfied, took a breath, and quickly sliced the tip of her pinky to allow a few stingy drops of blood to fall into the basin of the skull. The runes all around them immediately reacted, escalating from a dull hum to an off-key cacophony that set her teeth on edge.

Ingun balanced the concave piece of bone in one hand, looping her other arm around Esme’s. Just when Esme thought her ear drums might burst the air around them crackled an electric purple. In a fraction of a second the noise ceased. The room around them was replaced with cold, damp blackness. She forced down a wave of nausea. Ingun summoned a tiny ball of mage light. It couldn’t come close to illuminating the whole chamber, but she could make out a natural stone floor and another summoning circle arranged around them. This one, Ez realized, was made of the rest of the same skeleton. There was a spinal column, arm bones, and the rest of the skull propped up in a position of honor. She could clearly make out the jagged hole in the lower temple that killed him.

Narfi, you poor bastard, I’m so sorry!

This at least explains how the fuck Calixto got out of prison in the first place, and how he kept evading capture. 

Shit, how many of these portals do they have?

The cavern echoed around them as Ingun stepped out of the ring towards a nearby pool.

“I have been studying this for weeks.” She confessed, peering into the still surface of the water. “Where your friend made his emergence all those years ago, no? Kjor’s notes are incomplete, I suspect we lost unimaginable amounts of data in the Helgen fires, but I know he was very keen to find this particular gateway. It was his great obsession.”

Ingun grinned at her bemusement. “Anthony told me the whole story. I didn’t even have to ply him.”

Right, Tony said he emerged in the dark, in a cave somewhere in the mountains near Helgen. And he told her because I trusted her. Goddammit.

Ez focused on the issue at hand.

“So, he came through this as a reconstruction according to your theory? Then where’s the original man?”

“That is precisely the question, isn’t it?” Ingun straightened, tucking the skull cap into the inner pocket of her padded surcoat. “In you go.”

“Where does it lead?”

Her grin broadened. “Enlightenment.”

Nope. Do not trust that.

“Why is it so important that I believe you about this whole cloning via Oblivion thing anyway? What does it matter?”

“Because you need to see the truth, and know that what I’m planning is something you need not interfere with. If anything, I hope you’ll choose to help.”

“With what exactly?”

“You’re just stalling now.”

“You can’t blame me for asking perfectly rational questions.”

“Tick, tick, tick. Our friends will be very disappointed if we don’t return in time.”

Ez clenched her jaw and looked down at her own reflection. An angry, scared woman stared back. Her heart-shaped face seemed more angular by the severe shadows cast by the mage light. She’d never thought much of that face. Now she wanted to commit it to memory, imperfect though it may be.

I’m me. Whatever happens.

Ignoring every instinct not to jump into the inky mystery pool she did so, hardly feeling the cold water as her body raced toward an interminable focal point. A misty blue haze dominated her vision as Esme struggled to orient herself. She was horizonal all of a sudden, lying in a fast, shallow stream. A gloaming cavern ceiling that could be a mile up or more yawned above her as she tried to catch a breath. Ingun emerged a moment later. Ez had to roll to escape her boots as her body was violently ejected from a narrow whirlpool the stream fed into. It didn’t phase Ingun at all. She pulled herself up as if she’d made this trip a thousand times. She took a quarter turn, fixing on a landmark in the distance. Esme followed her gaze. Mostly the terrain was cavernous, dominated by pillars of rock and illuminated by blue-white fungi and clusters of what looked like orange coral growing out of tiered rock formations. The air smelled of ozone.

Ingun began walking toward what appeared to be a tower spire. Red splashes of light bounced off the jagged edges of the structure, too still and harsh to be natural.

“We’re in Oblivion.” Ez whispered.

“The Spiral Skien if my research is correct. Mephala’s realm.”

“The Prince of Secrets?”

“And murder, and sex, and lies. Hardly the worst of the Daedra. I’ve been here many times and have never seen her. It’s her minions we must be wary of.”

“You brought me here unarmed?!”

“I gave you a dagger!”

“Hardly effective while I’m cuffed.” She hissed. “And you didn’t bring anything!”

“I have magic, poisons, and potions. Anyway, they only attack if they notice you, which takes some doing. Mostly this realm seems to be in a torpor. Just be quiet and follow me.”

Though Ingun insisted that she knew exactly how to get back to the gateway, her reassurances did little to calm Esme’s increasing anxiety. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt so vulnerable. The further they went the more signs of life she noticed. Moss and webbing hung from stalactites and the occasional chittering rustle gave her the distinct impression of being watched.

The sound of toppling rocks made them both halt, which unpleasantly reminded Ez that she didn’t have shoes when the muslin wrap around her left foot caught on a shard of flint. She bit back a yell, stamping and shivering in frustration. The water caught in her hair steadily rolled down her shoulders in icy rivulets. Her shift clung and bunched as she walked. Every step reminded Esme that she was handicapped and she did not appreciate it at all.

While she tried to walk and ring out her skirt at the same time a scorpion the size of a Harley Davidson reared its body out of a crevasse and snapped its pincer at Esme’s head. She Shouted on instinct, flinging the thing several yards away where it landed on its back. The sound triggered the rest of the nest. While the first scorpion struggled to right itself several smaller ones attacked at once.

Ez sprinted to the top of a fungus-encrusted boulder.

Four dog-sized creepy-crawlies, plus Big Daddy. This would be so much easier if I could summon fire.

Well duh, you can!

Oh…right.

She waited for the smaller bugs to gather at the base of the boulder, then unleashed a YOL TOOR SHUL thu’um. The intense heat forced her to clamp her eyes shut. When she opened them the scorpions were reduced to four twitching mounds of flesh split from their exoskeletons.

Like that time you tried boiling crawfish in the microwave.

You’re not helping!

The larger scorpion advanced with a rasping screech. Esme’s head already felt light after Shouting twice in as many minutes, but there was no way she was going to survive getting close enough to use her dagger. With that in mind she made the risky decision to fling the blade away in favor of her lighter, which had been precariously clipped to her sleeve. Without taking her eyes off the enemy she loosened the bottom of the Zippo and pulled the cotton wadding out. She took a wide stance, planting her feet as firmly on the boulder as she could.

A drop of fluid clung to the stinger at the end of the scorpion’s tail, poised to strike.

Wait…

The scorpion sidled back and forth. She noticed the eyes were unnervingly mammalian, soft and brown with long lashes, instead of beady black orbs. They could have belonged to a horse if there weren’t six of them.

The stinger came down.

Ez hurled what butane was left in the lighter while unleashing another Shout and rolling sideways. The extra fuel and the Shout combined burned straight through the scorpion’s tail. The top flopped to one side, spewing an arch of brown fluid, while the rest of the body curled in on itself with an ear-splitting shriek.

She recovered her blade, sliding back to the ground painfully, careful to stay away from the pinchers as the thing continued to jerk and writhe.

Then Ingun screamed.

She’d retreated further downstream, where a smaller bug Ez hadn’t noticed was cowing her against a tall rock formation. The steady gout of magic Ingun directed at the scorpion appeared to be doing exactly nothing.

Ez took aim, adjusting for the fact that she had to use both hands, and flung her dagger at the scorpion. The tip of the blade barely pierced the weak spot between the plates on its back, but it did turn its attention away from Ingun so she could limp away. Ez took several deep breaths before Shouting. The scorpion leapt through the air and landed crispy around the edges, its legs so brittle a few broke off as it crashed to the ground.

Esme bent over immediately, her head swimming.

Breath. Do not throw up. Breath.

After a minute she was able to stand up straight. She approached Ingun where she sat on the bank of the stream.

“‘Torpor,’ huh?”

Ingun looked up at her miserably. “I’ve never been attacked here before.”

“It must be me, then. Can you stand?”

She tried, only to slump back down on her ass, raising her right leg with a hiss of pain. Beneath the layers of hose and cloth the scorpion’s stinger had punctured right into her shin. The wound was small, but already swollen and bright red.

“I can’t heal you.” Ez said matter-of-factly, lifting her bound wrists for emphasis. 

Ingun fished through the myriad pockets inside her coat for a healing draught.

“I don’t need you to.” she snapped, chugging the contents of a red vial.

Any pity Esme might have had for her former friend evaporated. Ingun was barely out of her teens, sheltered, and clearly delusional. And she was knowingly putting them both in danger just to prove a point.

Which reminds me…

“Are you going to tell me about this big plan of yours yet?” Ez asked, wading further into the water, taking a knee, and unceremoniously dunking her face in.

“Just because I’m temporarily wounded doesn’t mean that you…what are you doing? Are you listening?”

Her voice continued as a string of irritated noises muffled by the water. Ez slowly blew bubbles through her nose and counted to twenty before emerging with an inelegant snort.

“Shouting fire dries out my sinuses.” She explained, wiping water and strings of bloody mucus across the back of her hand.

“You were saying?”

“I see what you’re doing.”

“I’m asking questions.”

“You’re being intentionally flippant to throw me off balance.”

“What I’m trying to do is understand. If all you want is for me to ‘see the truth’ then why not just explain what it is you’re trying to accomplish? Why go through all the trouble to bring me here? Seems a little over-dramatic. Or was it Mother’s idea?”

Ingun tossed her dark hair indignantly. “I told you, I’m in charge.”

Ez retrieved her dagger, eyeing the large scorpion still writhing on the ground several yards away.

“Sure.”

“I am!”

Esme’s attention focused on the bodies of the smaller scorpions. At first, she thought she imagined the ashy haze coming off the corpses, but as she stepped closer she realized that they were disintegrating. The ozone smell in the air became sharper. Within a few minutes there was nothing left of them but a fine layer of dust.

Well…that’s different.

What did we learn just now?

Other than the fact that Ingun doesn’t know as much as she thinks she does? This whole place feels off. The combatants in this realm are physical enough, but not organic.

Nirn is to a terrarium as Oblivion is to a holodeck.

Oh my god, that actually kind of makes sense.

Whatever she’s planning on showing us isn’t going to be pretty.

Yeah, but now I’m curious.

And scared.

That too. Let’s finish this on our own terms.

Esme squatted down, clamping the chain between her cuffs in place with her foot. With a deep breath she went ethereal. The normal static tingle she felt while phasing through a solid object was accompanied by a painful burning sensation. She kept pulling.

“That won’t work, it’s-”

Esme’s right wrist phased through the cuff. It left a raw ring of skin behind, very like an electrical burn, and her hand continued to buzz painfully. The left hand came loose a moment later. She dumped the offending manacles in the dirt.

The shock on Ingun’s face was priceless.

“Remember if you return to Skyrim without me Calixto has his orders.” She said with an edge of panic in her voice.

“I’m well aware.”

Ez helped Ingun to her feet. With her other hand she sent a gout of fire at the scorpion limping towards them with its pincers snapping. The flame met its too soft eyes. It pulled back, she sent a shard of ice into its brain, then finished the job with another wave of fire.

“See how much easier that is?” she asked rhetorically, watching the giant insect’s smoking body slowly turn to ash.

“Now, let’s get going. You can explain yourself on the way. In detail.”

Chapter Text

Esme had long discovered that getting people to talk themselves up a rope was the best way to let them hang. And it took very little to get Ingun going.

The possibility of Maven Black-briar starting a fucked-up arms race had already occurred to Ez. Amoral privateers always profit from war, so why would that stop with zombie soldiers and portals made of the bones of the innocent? If anything, it lent a colorful nuance to an otherwise dull enterprise; something the bastards could titter over at cocktail parties.

The longer Ingun explained her aspirations the more Esme’s mind supplied a dizzying array of nightmarish possibilities. Forget the arms race. Forget the cocktail parties. Ingun’s idealism aside, Ez could read between the lines.

An immortal Black-briar family.

With an undead army at their disposal.

Pulling the political strings of Tamriel like the Medici on steroids.

Forever.

And all they need is…raw materials.

She suppressed a shudder.

“…So, you see it’s not such an alien concept. We’ve often talked about the state of affairs in Tamriel and came to the same conclusions, have we not?

“The Thalmor are dangerous zealots. The Emperor, and by extension the thanes, are only interested in holding power. None of them have any regard for the people, or more importantly their future! With time we will change that. Eliminating the Thalmor is obviously the highest priority. They cannot be trusted, you’ve said as much yourself! Mother has dealings with them, so she would be perfectly positioned to lend her support to loyal replacements to fill the power vacuum once the Council is gone. The same with the Emperor.”

Oh yes, because any appointee of Maven’s will be altruistically minded, I’m sure.

“The thanes will fall in line, so they’re in no danger, don’t worry. Ulfric will likely be the exception, but only if he won’t see reason. Mother intends to give him every opportunity to do the right thing. I know you’re not fond of him, but his bloodline is important. And speaking of, now that your dragon slaying days are over you should really consider using your status to secure a position. We will of course be more than happy to help with that! I think you would make an excellent jarl. Perhaps of Whiterun? Wherever you decide. Although Mother would prefer to stay in Riften, if you don’t mind. No one will object to you keeping your elven lover, either. In the new order we shall be most lenient with the other races, especially the poor mages. They deserve better treatment and free reign to study any discipline they please! Mother disagrees, but that’s only because she never had any talent with magic. You can help me sway her. Because you are quite correct, the quality of life in Skyrim would be vastly improved if the Nords would simply show some trust in magic. That is my first personal order of business after I become jarless of Windhelm. No more restrictions, or abuses of the other races will be tolerated, and mages will be employed instead of shunned.

“The point is that I have the opportunity to use my family’s obsession with politics and power to do something important! Something that will change the course of history! It would be wrong not to take full advantage.”

You keep telling yourself that, Crazypants McGee.

“It’s important to me that you understand my motivations come from the pure drive of discovery and progress. I wasn’t lying before; I greatly respect your good opinion. Dragonborn isn’t just a title, it’s a legend that will endure and inspire generations to come. What a monumental waste it would be if it were not utilized! I simply can’t stand waste. I know you agree.”

Sweet tap-dancing Jesus what did I do to deserve this?

The same thing you always do. You meddled.

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

Sure, but there’s no rule that says you can’t make a U-turn. Grab Ingun by the ankles and drag her back to the portal. A good ol’ fashioned hostage exchange can’t be worse than whatever the hell is waiting in that tower.

Maybe, but I need to know…

The path had been on a steady incline for a while and the stream was no longer audible. Esme noted the yawning silence around them as Ingun rambled.

A complex of stone ramparts and bridges materialized at the crest. Over-saturated reds and blues splashed against the stones at distorted angles, leaving purple imprints like a visual bruise. Where her eyes searched for something logical, like lanterns with colored glass, or even more glowing fungus, there was nothing. An overt, unignorable nothing.

A headache began to bloom between Esme’s eyes.

“Ah, this is the place!” Ingun exclaimed.

She picked up the pace toward a centralized tower festooned with layers of webbing.

 “Simply fascinating.” A woman’s voice whispered, making Ez jump and look around for the source.

“What a dear and courteous friend. What great and magnanimous plans…”

Ingun continued to walk ahead as if she’d heard nothing.

“She has no intention of honoring your agreement.” The voice breathed.

Esme cringed at the very real reverberation of the sound inside her ear canal.

Fantastic. Another voice in my head, that’s exactly what I need right now.

Her companion fell silent, whether out of awe for the massive tower, or her own private conversation, Ez couldn’t tell.

Great black doors opened wide in greeting. Ingun stopped in her tracks, her jaw slack, and eyes glittering.

“This...this wasn’t here before…” she stammered.

Where the outer stones were austere the chamber within was a cascade of golden textures. Sconces flared to life, strategically lighting the chamber with the warm, inviting glow of oil-fed flames. Jewels embedded in the walls cast flickering rainbows across mounds of treasure piled haphazardly from floor to ceiling with only a narrow path from the doors to an ornate black spiral staircase.

“That is so a trap.” Ez deadpanned.

Ingun rallied herself, lifting her chin high. “What we need is on the top floor.”

“Fine. Don’t touch anything. I don’t feel like being buried in sand.”

“Sand?”

Touch nothing but the lamp!

“Never mind, just go. We’re running out of time.”

The urge to pick something up was overwhelming, not because Esme wanted to keep any of the artifacts, but because she wanted to study them. Thousands of gold coins scattered across the floor, each more ancient than the last. Some bore a striking resemblance to Roman profiles she’d seen in history books. Several elaborate headdresses overlaid with feathers and lapis lazuli sat mounted to brightly painted busts that seemed to stare with unnerving intelligence. Among the jumbled textiles she spotted mosaics of Russian firebirds, a tapestry of a blue lady with too many arms, jewelry with twisting Celtic symbols, and piles of Japanese porcelain.

Welcome to the basement of the British Museum, I’ll be your guide this evening.

On the second floor they found another gold room with vaulted ceilings, round on one end, opening into a long corridor on the other. At the round end a huge triptych supported on a gaudy red marble dais depicted classical medieval scenes of Hell. The heavy contrast of the panels gave the illusion of windows looking out onto frolicking demons gleefully tormenting their naked victims with pitchforks and fire.

All along the corridor were rows of shallow archways. Esme counted thirteen spaces on each side, filled with an eclectic collection of looking glasses. Some were framed, some bare; four appeared to be broken. Ingun stood before the first on the right, bouncing on her toes.

“This is it!”

Ez peered into the mirror. She guessed it at about six feet by three feet with jagged, asymmetrical corners. Their reflections were pale, thin ghosts against a shockingly bright blue sky and the silhouette of a person. She could make out the heavy soles of the man’s boots, pressed against the glass as if he were standing on it. His stance was mid-motion, walking away while standing still. The cloudless sky above him made the back-lit details harder to make out, but Esme recognized the lines of a green anorak jacket and the bill of a baseball cap pulled over messy black hair. She sucked in a breath as she tilted her head. The man’s features made more sense with the change of angle. The prominent nose and chin; fleshier than she knew them, but recognizable.

“Do you see now?”

“He still hasn’t left the salt flat.” Ez muttered in a hollow voice.

“Which means you haven’t really moved either. The real you. She’s still standing before her own doorway. From our perspective, anyway.”

Esme took a step back, processing. Her gaze latched onto the face of a chrome-plated Casio that peaked from beneath one jacket sleeve. Though the whole scene appeared at first to be still as time in Oblivion ebbed around her Ez could have sworn that the second hand sidled a hair’s width closer to the nearest tick mark.

Seconds on Earth, years on Nirn…

That would explain why there’s always a couple centuries between Dragonborns, huh?

Tentatively she flattened her palm to hover just a few centimeters from the surface of the mirror. It pulled gently.

Fuck it, might as well be thorough.

She tugged the penknife blade still fastened beneath her collar free and flicked it. The blade smacked against the glass with a tink. At the same time a new sliver of metal splintered off into the scene and froze.

Okay, so duplication happens both ways. I wonder…

Ez rubbed the embossed cowboy on what was left of her lighter in parting before tossing it too at the mirror. This time nothing hit the glass, if that’s what it was really made of, but joined the little penknife, glinting in the Bolivian sunshine at Real-Tony’s feet.

Once copied it doesn’t happen again, at least from this side. That’s interesting.

“Go home.” The voice suggested sweetly. Esme winced at the unexpected intrusion as goosebumps crawled over her skin.

“You were taken from your life unwillingly. Here is an open doorway begging to be used. Do you not long for your own people? Have you not given enough of yourself to be worthy of freedom?”

Ez wrapped her arms around her damp torso miserably. The temptation was real. She couldn’t resume her old life; that role had never been vacated. Yet the lure of home was no less enticing compared to the uncertain and tumultuous future of Tamriel, especially as Ingun envisioned it.

She could walk right back into 2008. Learn to speak Spanish, start a new life; make a truck load of money betting on Cardinals games and retire by thirty.

You’ll also never see Wyn again.

Ez closed her eyes and took a long, calming breath.

If she stayed there would be no avoiding more confrontation, more bloodshed. She’d entrenched herself too deeply in the story. The weight of responsibility suddenly felt overwhelming.

“I’m tired.” she admitted in barely a whisper.

“Then go. You know how to return if you wish. Let these fools play out their little games. It would be effortless. A blink. A night’s rest. You could watch the rise and fall of nations! See what fruit their machinations shall bear and intervene only when you choose, for this is the crux of godhood.”

Her eyes shot open.

Did that bitch seriously just drop the G-word?

“You must understand now!” Ingun’s voice intruded. “These copies will be in service of the greater good while their originators lead perfectly undisturbed lives! It’s very like what you said in Windhelm, ‘the needs of the many outweigh the few.’ We are the many! We need only the Will to act! There are other gateways, here and elsewhere, waiting to be harvested. And the process need not be fatal, I promise I will do everything I can to limit needless suffering.”

Harvested.

Oof, the hits keep coming, don’t they?

I’ve had enough of this.

‘Bout time, you masochist.

Esme turned fully from the mirror, pinning the younger woman with a cutting glare.

“Here’s the thing,” she began, forcing her tone to remain even. “I don’t care that you don’t see me as real. I say I’m real. That goes for anyone else who came through one of these things and got cloned against their will.

“Secondly, it doesn’t change the fact that all of your big plans for Tamriel hinge on murder and genocide. I’m frankly insulted that you think I’d be okay with that.”

“Change never comes without sacrifice!” Ingun cried.

“Not yours, though. Do you hear yourself? You’re smarter than this! You are not sacrificing anything; you’re rationalizing because if my people aren’t real then it’s fine to cut them to pieces. If the Thalmor are pure evil, then it’s justifiable to slaughter them all. Nothing is ever that absolute. You’re taking no responsibility for those lives or the horrifying consequences of your actions!”

“What of your interference? You have done more to manipulate the politics of my country in the last year than I ever have. What of those consequences?”

“I think about them every day!”

“Enough!”

An ear-splitting crack halted the argument. Both of their heads swiveled to the triptych. It had grown right through its dais, into the floor and walls as if it was all made of the same substance. A sickening pulse warped the demonic scene from within, birthing a mass of black hair glistening wetly around a corpse-pale woman’s face. The rest of the body emerged as if from a cocoon of paint and canvas; half human, half spider.

For once in her life Esme could not come up with an appropriate expletive.

Almost simultaneously both women bolted for the stairs, only to find the way blocked by rapidly and loudly multiplying treasures welling up from the floor below.

Ez gripped her dagger, trotting backwards down the corridor. Her mind raced. There were too many and too few options and no time to examine which was the safest choice. Each window gave her only a quick glimpse of the other side; a swampy hillock, the battered trunk of a tree, a blurry face retreating into fog.

Mephala rose to her full height on spikey black legs, the top of her head nearly brushing the ceiling. A small smile twitched on her bloodless lips. When she spoke, her voice was saccharin on ice.

“Stubborn child. Do you like my collection? It’s been Millenia in the making. Gifts, spoils, winnings. And doors, my lovely doors! Where oh where do they lead?”  

“What do you want?” Esme asked warily.

“Many things, in due time. You complicate more than one strategy by refusing to remove yourself from the board. The Game is far from finished. One player in particular is very keen to make your acquaintance.”

Two more armor-clad figures emerged from the twisting black mass behind the Prince, their faces distorted with networks of angry scar tissue and pupilless red eyes.

“Spiderkith!”

Ingun frantically ducked behind Esme as she shot gouts of fire from her fingertips, trying to slow the attackers. The Spiderkith advanced with staves, forcing her to switch to casting a ward to deflect white hot bolts of lightning.

They were rapidly running out of room. Ez had two final mirrors and a dead end at her back. One showed only a dull, pitted rock face, which she figured had an equal shot of being Utah at night or the surface of the moon, and the second was so dark there was no telling what might be on the other side.

“Do something!” Ingun pleaded behind her own feeble barrier.

Bolts hit one after the other, knocking Esme to one side and almost off balance enough to fall through the moonscape mirror. That was when her mind latched on to a piece of information and ran with it.

The kith were trying to cow them to the right.

Therefore-

Ez shoved Ingun through the mirror on the left, Shouting the Daedra backward before making her own blind leap.

Chapter Text

Esme fell upwards, braced for an impact that never came.

Opening her eyes stung. She floated in murky darkness, buoyed by the last breath she’d taken. Too soon it burned in her chest. Her limbs scrambled frantically as instinct took over, reaching for a surface, for anything to hold on to. Just when she thought her lungs would burst her fingers scraped a hard edge. She grabbed for it, pulling and kicking with everything she had until her face broke the surface, sucking in salty breaths. Her hands clamped onto a squared edge, rough and porous beneath her slicked skin. Ez slumped over, her face and throat burning. Bile and brine mixed with streaming tears and the muffled sound of her own wracking coughs.

She swung her torso forward and toppled to the ground. The view when her vision cleared was not welcome. A bottle-green sky swirled above a black sea, stretching uninterrupted to the horizon save for the immediate expanse of irregular slate tiles beneath her. A large, round fountain rose from the center of the expanse. A body floated motionless on the opposite side.

“Ingun?” she croaked.

Esme stumbled around the stone pool; mild vertigo forcing her to use the lip of the fountain for support as she went.

“Ingun?!” she called again, reaching for one limp, outstretched arm.

The fine wool layers the other woman wore made her twice as heavy. Ez grabbed her around the middle and hauled her up with a grunt. Once on the paving stones she began forcing air into Ingun’s lungs. After a few tries Ez heard a telltale gurgling and pushed Ingun onto her side so she could retch a thick torrent of what looked like squid ink.

Ingun cringed away, gulping breaths between strained coughs. Slowly the convulsions lessened. She curled in on herself and began to sob.  

“They killed me!”

“We’re not dead-”

“Not this!” Ingun wailed, frenetically gesturing at her body as she tried to sit up. “Me! They killed me!”

A disgusted sigh escaped Esme. She left Ingun in a sodden heap, turning her attention to the space around them. The dirty chartreuse light revealed no cover to speak of. The slate floor extended in a circle several meters across surrounded by the same inky liquid that filled the fountain. She walked around the perimeter, finding it solid and featureless.

No stairs, no dock, no ramps…

A roaring screech echoed in the distance.

 Ez groaned.

Can I get a single goddamned break in this life? Just one?

“Why would you do this to me?! You knew what would happen!” Behind her the alchemist angrily stripped off her heavy coat and rounded on Esme.

“You realize we’re in Ap-”

“It doesn’t change anything! You hear me? Nothing!”

Ingun’s manic grin dulled as she squatted over her coat, frantically riffling through the pockets.

This is just sad.

Esme lifted the spelled skullcap in her hand, which she had casually nicked while Ingun was busy choking.

Rage and dismay distorted Ingun’s pretty features before she rallied. 

“You can’t use that key without an entry and an exit point. It’s useless to you otherwise.”

“Really?” Ez made to fling the skullcap into the sea.

Ingun flinched in terror. “Stop!!”

“Thought you didn’t care, now that you’re not really you.”

A dark battle danced across Ingun’s features. She flushed, grasping the necromancer’s amulet at her throat like a lifeline.

“It’s too late.” She finally ground out, conflict still plain and raw. “I have to go back now. For the greater good…Mother will be furious…I convinced her to put everything we had left into the project…I just wanted you to be part of something amazing and you ruined everything!”

We don’t have time for this.

“Ingun, I know you’re upset, but I really need you to focus on problem-solving right now. We can’t go back the way we came. There’s no way off this-”  

“Which was your doing!”

“I made a split-second decision! Someone had to! Now can you or can you not get us out of here?”

Ingun’s head tilted in thought. Her brow furrowed, puffy eyes darting from the empty platform around them back to Esme and the skullcap in her hand.

“In a way that doesn’t involve dismembering me.” Ez quickly amended.

Her companion huffed in frustration.

“It won’t work. The entry and exit points have to be physically placed with runes and made from the same body. I can’t just split your head open and force a link through the Aetherial plane with nothing to anchor it to.”

That’s a choice visual.

“Right. Okay, so let’s think. The way we came is probably swarming with Spiderkith, assuming it’s still open at all. There’s no way off this platform except to swim for it, which still wouldn’t get us out of this realm. Neither of us is going to sprout wings any time soon. Where does that leave us?”

Another screech sounded, closer this time.

Ingun’s eyes went wide, fixed on a point over Esme’s shoulder.

“Dead.” she breathed.

Esme turned. A black dot appeared in the sky, swiftly getting larger. Ingun began to hyperventilate.

Shit.

Ez tamped down her own fear and gripped Ingun’s arms tightly.

“Don’t panic! What do you know about Apocrypha? Say it out loud.”

Ingun took a watery swallow. “Hermaeus Mora’s realm. He covets forbidden knowledge, memory, and secrets. He lures mortals with promises of power. The Doors of Oblivion-”

Esme nodded encouragingly, keeping an eye on the winged creature approaching.

That must be Miraak. And he knows we’re here, there’s no avoiding a confrontation at this point.

That’s good though, better him than Prince Tentacle Blob.

Sure…yeah at least Miraak used to be human.

Not that you’ll get any sympathy.

Of course not. Canonically the DLC paints him as a power-hungry prick, if I remember right, he sends cultists to kill the DB, but when they finally meet he doesn’t attack…why?

That’s a fantastic question.

Esme anxiously scoured her memory.

You get into Apocrypha through a Book and…dialogue happens, something about coming back to power…but he doesn’t kill you right away…dammit! I need my journal!

The serpentine dragon swooped low, skimming its tail along the surface of the languid sea before coming to rest at the edge of the platform. The eel-like head squinted rheumy double-lidded eyes in their general direction, jaw agape as its rider slid down its panting grey-green scales.

Ingun’s recitation died in her throat. She hopped behind Esme, trying to make herself look small.

His approach shook the floor slightly. The tattered remnants of a black cloak trailed heavy steps, weighted with spikey antique armor. A polished mask of sharp, stylized tentacles hid his entire face, but the deliberate body language told Ez that he was sizing them up.  

Esme planted her feet and squared her shoulders.

Come on! Think! You’re a threat. Why doesn’t he kill you?

Miraak crossed his arms over his chest with a slight tilt of his thorny head.

“Ahhhh. The Last Dragonborn. And a little playmate. How quant.”

Ignore the bravado. Why doesn’t he kill you??

I don’t remember! He just poofs you back after a lot of flowery bullshit about rising to power again!

There’s got to be more to it than that.

No, he just sends you back and later turns up at random in the real world to poach your kills and-wait…

“So, you have slain Alduin…Well done. I could have slain him myself, back when I walked the earth, but I chose a different path. You have no idea of the true power a Dragonborn can wield!”

Esme shrugged off the scripted boast. Outwardly she schooled her features, playing the part of the confident, seasoned warrior. Internally her heart raced and a ball of dread landed heavy in the pit of her stomach.

“Maybe. Speaking of power, you’re going to send us both back to…”

She turned to Ingun with a questioning lift of her brows.

“Uh…South Skybound Watch-”

“South Skybound Watch in Skyrim. Preferably the lower dungeon if you can manage it.”

Miraak barked a humorless laugh behind his mask. “Why would I do that, little one?”

“Because you need me to harvest dragon souls for you if you’re ever going to escape this place.” She answered bluntly.

Goading the Prince of Forbidden Knowledge’s champion with knowledge. This is a terrible idea.

We’re literally out of options.

“And what would give you that impression?”

Esme folded her arms across her chest, matching his posture. “Because it’s true. You know as well as I that Herma Mora will not simply grant you freedom. He could have released you after the dragon priests fell, but he didn’t. He could have released you when Alduin returned or after he fell. He did not. Now that the Stones have been uncovered on Solsthiem you have an opportunity to free yourself, with enough power that is.”

Miraak stood motionless and utterly silent for an uncomfortable handful of seconds.

Oh please, please, pleeease tell me I’m remembering this right…

“You are better informed than most.” He conceded, measuring his words. “Yet little more than the common rabble in this era of ignorance. I will be free; it is only a matter of time. Should I choose, I could collect what is owed to me here and now. Your soul and the souls you have consumed will fuel my return to glory!”

“Hm…that would be premature. Surely your servants have told you that there are still dozens of dragons terrorizing Tamriel. Why waste time culling their numbers yourself when you know that’s my lot?”

“Why acquiesce to the chore if you know the outcome will not serve you?” He clapped back.

She smiled sweetly. “I’d rather live to fight another day.”

That earned her a short, dry chuckle.

“I see why Mora wants you. My Lord grows weary of my ambitions.”

“All the more reason to help me instead of him.”

He made a thoughtful humming noise, looking her up and down. “You did not enter here using a Book. How do you propose I transport you without one?”

“With this.” Ez said, handing the spelled skullcap over to him.

A low, discordant sound chimed from the Key. Esme could see the faint glimmer of a spell ripple over its surface. Ingun’s hand flew away from the amulet at her neck with a yelp as if she’d been burned.

“Humph. Primitive magic. Inefficient, but serviceable.” Miraak muttered. “Still, energy must be expended. I need only the Last Dragonborn…”

She couldn’t see but could feel his gaze twitch over to Ingun. Esme loosened her arms to swing nonchalantly.

“Keep her if you want. I have things to do and she has been nothing but a hinderance.”

Ingun choked on a whimper.

In for a penny…

“She’s good for whatever appetites you have in mind.” Esme continued. “Young, strong, well-fed. Look at her teeth as well! In a world without fluoride those are some impressive teeth!”

For emphasis she grabbed Ingun’s face, pushing her cheeks together so her lips flared out. Ingun grunted indignantly. She stumbled over her own feet, landing hard on the slate tiles and scooting backwards like a frightened crab.

“Not particularly graceful, though.”

“Traitorous bitch!” Ingun bellowed.

“You’re not adverse to swearing, are you?”

Miraak stood by, thoughts unreadable, leather gloves creaking as he slowly turned the skullcap over in his hands.

“If you return without me there will be dire consequences!” Ingun warned.

“Yes, I’ll have to kill a lot of people. It’s unfortunate.”

“You will not leave me here!!”

“Why not? After everything you’ve done why should I care?!”

The sharp edge in Esme’s voice reverberated through the briny air between them.

Ingun’s cheeks flared bright red.

“Please…” she begged, crawling backwards towards the edge of the platform.

Esme turned back to Miraak. “Do you want her or not?”

With a practiced flick of his free hand Ingun’s amulet snapped and flew at Esme’s face. She caught it, barely, and grasped it tight to hide how badly her hands shook. 

Stiffly the First Dragonborn bent down, clutching Ingun by the collar of her tunic. He lifted her easily. Her furious squirming and attempts to smash vials of poison into the seams of his armor didn’t faze him at all.

Miraak slowly lowered Ingun to her feet, shifting his grip to her tangled mass of dark hair. With a low, brown sound that popped Esme’s ears the skull in his hand became a spirit blade. The indigo crescent of light found Ingun’s forearm and sliced. Sobs of terror bubbled incoherently through the snot and tears running down Ingun’s face as she struggled.

Esme clenched her jaw, forcing herself not to look away. A jumble of questions bombarded her as she watched. How did Miraak know that they had gone through a mirror and what that would do to Ingun’s body? Had he originated from Earth all those centuries ago? If so where had he been? What portal had he stumbled upon? Did he remember his past life or had too much time passed? Did the time shift between Nirn and Oblivion mean that for him he hadn’t been stuck in Apocrypha that long? Was that why he was still alive?

The blade disappeared and was once again a skullcap, which he held under the stream. Once the entire basin was coated, he let Ingun drop like a sack of potatoes.

Placing the key in Esme’s hands Miraak gripped the back of her neck, pulling her close. She swallowed reflexively. Thick fingers kneaded the soft flesh beneath them, either in thought or to remind her that he could crush her windpipe.

“Ultimately you know that you will not win this battle.”

“Perhaps, if that’s my fate. All I ask is a little time. Will you grant me that courtesy, brother? One Dragonborn to another?”

Miraak smelled of the seashore in winter; like salt-seasoned driftwood and frozen dunes. Esme could just make out the liquid glimmer of his eyes deep inside the narrow slits of the mask. His glove slowly moved down her shoulder and arm. The oddly intimate movement made her skin crawl, but she forced her own gaze to remain steadily fixed, waiting for him to call her bluff.

He pulled her hand in his, still gripping the necromancer’s amulet, and held it up as if examining it.

“Put that on.” He ordered.

She complied, doing her best to tie the leather cord with trembling fingers. It hummed evilly as it settled against her clavicle. Again, his hands found her throat, this time clasping either side. A sharp, cold sting like icy lightning tore through her. Esme could feel the chaotic branching power travel beneath skin and muscle, jumping from rib to rib, across her chest, and finally lodging a breath from her heart.

Her dragons twisted in outrage at the intrusion. It felt like a cosmic insult. A nameless violation. Every fiber of her being wanted to tear it out, to see it wither and die on the ground like a parasite without a host.

She fought the urge to rip the mask off and uppercut his nose into his brain. Instead Ez took a deep breath, dug her nails into her palms, and leveled a withering glare at the Champion of Apocrypha.

Miraak loomed over her, the barest whisp of green smoke rising from beneath his heavy armor.

“Do not attempt to betray me…sister.”

He grabbed Ingun by the hair and hauled her up.

“And take this with you.” He added, pushing Ingun at Ez before the skull and amulet both began to chime an off-key harmony.

An airless, claustrophobic vortex squeezed around both women until Apocrypha disappeared. In its place a battle-riot erupted around the bone circle of Ingun’s dungeon lab.

Esme quickly ducked under a silver sword, pivoting to see an undead bandit shambling over his maker to get to Aventus. She snatched the iron poker from the boy’s grip and whipped it into the side of the zombie’s head as hard as she could. The metal bent as it cracked open the orbital bone around its eye. Ez Shouted it backwards, then swung again, this time catching the thing square in the mouth. A shower of teeth fell, the jawbone hanging by a thread of sinew behind its flopping tongue. Aventus struck from the other side with a thick wooden board. It didn’t do much damage but distracted it long enough for Esme to snatch the dagger from its belt and sweep low, slicing through the Achilles tendons above both ankles. It dropped, giving her the opportunity to wrest its sword away. 

She scanned the chaotic scene in dismay. Most of the undead were attacking the prisoners. Aela hung back in her cell, deflecting stabbing swords and pikes coming at her through the bars with Skjor’s hanging body. Ra’jirr was cornered on the other side, deftly fending off two more zombies while Tony worked on picking the lock to his own cell without losing any fingers.

“Find some rope!” Ez barked at Aventus.

She shrouded herself in Dragon Aspect, since there was no time to find armor, and set to cutting off as many limbs as she could. Hands and feet went flying. Esme focused all the tension and pent-up aggression she’d been holding back into every sword swing.

I am-

Desiccated flesh gave way.

So over-

Bone met the edge of the blade.

This bullshit!

A crunchy snap followed the twisting movement of her sword. The headless corpse flailed on the dirt floor, trying and failing to hold itself upright on wrist stubs, dragging a partially severed leg by the connective tissue around the kneecap.

The others noticed and turned on her. Ez pushed over barrels and furniture as she retreated to the enchanting table. She purposefully avoided using fire. Spikes of ice and blasts of frost were enough to slow them and brittle limbs were much easier to break.

Tony managed to free himself, then began working on Aela’s cell door while Esme drew all the attention. Hacking the hoard into smaller and smaller pieces proved messy, but cathartic. When one sword blade dulled too much to be effective, she picked up a new one and carried on until the dungeon was confettied with twitching, convulsing body parts.

When the dust settled Esme found herself standing on top of the enchanting table with a bent, nicked sword in one hand and a spell readied in the other, panting and shaking with adrenaline. Aventus came trotting down the tower steps with a coil of rope on his shoulder. His shocked expression helped bring Ez down from the feral battle high.

“What should I…?” the boy began.

Esme dropped the sword and wiped sweaty locks of hair back from her brow.

“Honestly, I didn’t have a plan. Just…wrangle the pieces into a pile, I guess. Don’t get bit.” she ordered. “Is anyone hurt?”

Tony groaned loudly as Ra’jiir went to check on him. He lay prone, holding a badly bleeding cut to the thigh. Esme grabbed a knife and joined them on the floor.

“I’d hug you, but you look like the Bride of Swamp Thing.” Tony quipped through clenched teeth. “Bad trip?”

Ez nodded, tearing his pants to get a better look at the stab wound. “Were we that late?”

Ra’jiir snorted humorlessly beside her. “Early in fact. Calixto became agitated not long after you left. He cleared out the rooms upstairs, then fled with his ghoul of a sister. The coward set those things upon us on his way out.”

Tony’s breathing became erratic. Ra’jiir shoved a leather strip between his teeth and let him clench his arm. He pressed the split skin together tightly while Ez worked to seal it.

“So, Calixto has Ingun’s notes.”

“Probably.”

“How much of a head start does he have?”

“Not long. Perhaps ten, fifteen minutes at most.”

Esme looked around the room.

“Did anyone see where Ingun went?”

“The same way Aela just went.” Aventus pointed to a low door almost hidden behind a ransacked bookshelf.

Ah hell…

Ez set to yanking the boots off the nearest corpse.

“Tony’s lost a lot of blood. Find him a potion, if you can, in case he goes into shock. Then get yourselves out of here.”

She rushed to the door, snatching up a belted dagger from the body pile as she jogged after Aela.

Low ceilinged walkways opened into a series of small storerooms; the smell of wet dog met her nostrils all the way to ground level.

Calixto hadn’t gotten very far. Not twenty feet from the main entrance raged a moonlit battle.

Aela in werewolf form was terrifying. Glowing preternatural eyes fixed on her prey; teeth bared in a snarl, her muscular arms swiping viciously. She circled just out of range of the fire staff Calixto wielded; locked in a dance of snow and flame, claws readied.

Ez could make out Calixto’s sister sitting on a sack of loot abandoned in a drift. She slouched forward, as unbothered as someone watching a football match. Ingun hid behind a boulder near the entrance of the Keep.

No loyalty among thieves or necromancers, it seems.

Prioritizing Aela, she entered the fray, careful to stay out of range. Shouting wasn’t an option. They were moving too quickly, too erratically to be sure that she’d only hit Calixto. Esme resorted to Dragon Aspect again for a boost of armor.

When Calixto caught sight of her he tucked the staff against his side so he could maintain the gout of fire at Aela and free his other hand to shoot lightning towards Esme.

“You can’t stop us!” he bellowed. “What’s done is done! The wheels are in motion! You are powerless! You are nothing!”

She warded off the attacks, quickly tossing her dagger aside in favor of double casting. The first paralyze spell missed. So did the second. As powerful as Aela was in werewolf form her inability to get close enough to deal any damage meant that Ez was doing all the heavy lifting. She was getting tired. A flinty grin split wide across Calixto’s face as her ward weakened and her armored Shout waned. Esme could feel the layer of energy protecting her body fail by degrees. Micro-fissures crackled against her skin. Pressure built, stinging then numbing her shaking limbs.

The iron axe head that flew over her shoulder shocked Esme enough to stop burning through her last bit of mana and step back. Calixto dropped to his knees, shock written across his ashen face. A crimson flower spread around the metal buried in his chest.

Esme followed the trajectory of the blade. Ra’jiir stood in the snow, his breath puffing out in clouds caught by the moonlight. She hadn’t fully turned when he fell forward. The dagger she’d discarded protruded from his back and there, wild-eyed and defiant, was Ingun staring at her expectantly.

The mountain went silent.

Aela slowly shifted back into human form, naked and covered in angry welts and burns. A gash above her eye bled freely. Unbidden, the huntress twisted Ingun’s arm behind her back and stepped deftly to hold her in place from behind.

A Shout burned in Esme’s throat. Holding it back, she pulled Ra’jiir into a sitting position across her lap. Rushing blood stained her hands when she pulled the blade out of him. A wheezy laugh bubbled from his maw.

“A good death, yes? -- The Dragonborn will tell the world -- Ra’jiir, son of Khaa -- died well. -- Yes?”

“You’re not going to die.” Esme stressed.

She clamped her palms over the wound, digging deep for a reserve of healing energy and frustratingly coming up with barely a trickle.

His clawed hand lifted, as if greeting someone who wasn’t there, but he couldn’t quite complete the movement.

“It is -- too cold.”

A soft breath escaped him. His body went still.

Esme felt the reserve of energy she’d been drawing from contract like an overextended muscle. Her head pounded from the strain. Biting back tears, she lowered Ra’jiir to the ground and closed his lantern eyes.

“How many chances have I already given you?” she asked rhetorically.

Her gaze remained cast down, because if she looked up at Ingun she wasn’t sure what she’d do with the rage building, the Black Voice of what she thought of as the Aspect of Alduin chanting kill-vengeance-retribution! deep inside her.

“I…reacted.” Ingun mumbled, looking almost confused.

“You reacted.” Esme repeated flatly. “Really? That’s your excuse for stabbing someone in the back?”

Ingun lifted her chin, face hardening into grim resolve.

“I was aiming for you. You ruined everything! Tamriel will never progress as it should unless I intercede. A clean slate…I just need to start over! Don’t you see? My work is too important to allow interlopers to-”

The almost hysterical bark of laughter from Esme surprised them both.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re one of us now. What you do with your own body parts is none of my business. I would have let you go. If you had promised to leave the others, and me, alone I would have left you to your own devices.”

“You were going to give me to that…monster!” Ingun whined.

“If Miraak thought I gave a shit about you we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Esme pointed out, pinching the bridge of her nose against the astounding headache stabbing the back of her retinas.

Understanding finally broke through Ingun’s single-minded train of thought. “You lied to a Daedric Champion.”

“And I let him mark me for later, which is something I wanted to avoid, to keep us both alive.”

“You are an unnatural abomination! You and that-that thing over there!” Ingun spat.

Ez spared a glance at Franken-sister, Lucilla/Sarah, standing over Calixto’s corpse with a slack, ponderous expression.

“The Black-briar clan is the most powerful in Skyrim, with Imperial ties from Cyrodiil to Hammerfell, you think Mother will halt her plans because you wish it or because I’ve been sullied?! Fool! Nothing changes! Nothing stops! You had a chance to become a participant and threw the opportunity away! You and every one of your alleys are now the enemy of the Black-briar dynasty!”  

Kill-vengeance-retribution!

Kill-vengeance-retribution!

Kill-vengeance-retribution!

“Mother will put a price on all your heads! That muck-skinned mer you love so much! The stupid boy and his thief father! Every Grey-Mane, every Companion, they’re already dead, you hear?!”

Kill-vengeance-retribution!

Kill-vengeance-retribution!

Kill-vengeance-retribution!

Esme rose, fists clenched, vibrating with rage.

“Aela?”

The huntress took the hint, freeing Ingun and stepping away in a single, graceful movement.

Ingun stumbled slightly, looking wildly between them with her palms up. She managed to cast a plume of flame that was pushed back into her torso when Esme unleashed her thu’um. Ingun didn’t even have time to scream. She flew back, rag-dolling through the air before colliding with a jagged piece of ancient masonry sticking out of the snow with a wet thud.

Despite the precious relief releasing the Shout washed over her, Esme instantly regretted it.

She conjured a tiny mage light and jogged to Ingun’s side. The young woman’s beautiful face was frozen. Blood trickled from her ears, and it was clear from the position she’d landed in that her back was broken. Her wide hazel eyes had become milky cataracts.

“Knew you had it in you, lass.” Ingun intoned.

Horror quickly overcame Esme’s guilt. Distorted giggles burbled from Ingun’s throat, made all the more disturbing by the complete stillness of the rest of her broken body.

“I win.”

Chapter Text

Esme nestled in a pile of bear skins with a mug of cider steaming in her hands. The ginger-gold forest around the homestead dominated the view from her place on the deck, with the Throat of the World peeking just above in the canopy.

On days when the wind blew in from the north-west she could hear Paarthurnax as clearly as if he had flown down to speak with her in person. Their conversations were brief by necessity. One of these days she promised herself that she would make the pilgrimage again and have a real visit with him. Not this season, though. Not with everything...

Her mind recoiled from the near recollection and a sharp, tight pang from the unspeakable place next to her heart threatened to overwhelm her. Ez counted her breaths, forcing herself to focus on the present; the sounds of the brook and softly buzzing apiary, the scent of pine boards and dying leaves.

“I’m safe. I’m not alone. I’m safe.” She chanted silently.

Slowly the tremors subsided. She gulped down her beverage, vowing that it would be the last attack and knowing it was a lie.

The cabin was coming along nicely. Wyn had found it, half-collapsed and filled with rotten pelts, perched on a little hill south of Ivarstead. Fixing it up kept them both preoccupied; kept Ez from sinking into the kind of self-destructive revery that left her catatonic on bad days.

Barbas stirred at her feet, rolling over on his back to stretch.

“You’re not getting all broody again, are ya?” he asked, nuzzling her ankle.

Ez pushed the writing board on her lap aside and bent down to scratch his neck.

“Just procrastinating.”

“You already told everyone worth telling that you’re retired. What else is there to say? You don’t owe them anything.”

She hummed, sparing a glance at the thick stack of letters on the bench beside her.

“Leaving things unanswered, even if every single one is “no” feels wrong. Like I’ve been shoving my homework in a drawer the past eight months. Literally.”

“And who exactly is going to scold you for that?” he asked.

“Myself.” Esme sighed. “Sweeping things under the rug doesn’t solve anything, it just makes a bigger mess to clean up later.”

“True.”

She smiled at Wyn as he climbed the side steps, holding a tiny chick, which he handed to her before taking a seat.

“They hatched!”

“A few hours ago, I’d say.”

He draped an arm around her.

“Did I interrupt a very important conversation?”

“Not very.”

Barbas snorted. She rolled her eyes at him.

“We were discussing my mail problem.”

Wyn picked up the stack of envelopes and began sorting through them.

“If you’re ready…” he began, watching her carefully. “I could summarize them for you. Then you can decide if they are…worthy of a reply.”

Esme gently ran her index finger over the chick’s delicate fluff, frowning unconsciously.

Just rip the band-aide off already. Think of it as therapy.

“That’s a good idea. Start with an easy one, like the Gray-Manes maybe?”

He nodded and began methodically scanning names until he found the right one. After a few peaceful minutes he began a carefully worded synopsis. 

“Freya wishes you well. The rebuilding of Whiterun proper is all but done since your last…visit. Aela extends her greetings as well but is too busy with Companion business to write herself. Axel has threatened to come seek you out and drag you back to the city.”

“For my own good, no doubt.”

“Indeed. The jarl-in-standing for Whiterun will be voted on. In fact…it happened last month. You should ask who the Moot chose in your reply.”

Esme cringed and jotted down a few notes. “One down, fifty-six to go. Next?”

He rifled, lingering on an envelope with flamboyant russet lettering before moving to shift it to the bottom of the pile.

“You promised to stop hiding things from me.” She accused.

“Unless I know that it will cause you unnecessary distress.”

“When did we decide that? Come on, I know who it’s from, let’s just get it over with.”

Wyn pulled the envelope back to the top, cracked the seal, and scanned the first page.

“To be honest…I thought she would be more subtle than this.”

“Oh, let me guess, an out-right death threat?” Esme tried to joke around the lump in her throat.

“Yes.”

Wyn’s arm tightened around her as he continued to read. “Maven Black-briar evidently believes that she still holds sway with…certain powers. We’ll see about that.” he added darkly.

“No more killing.”

“I promise nothing if she sends hired blades to our door.”

“She lost her only daughter. There’s no reasoning that away.” Ez sighed, snuggling further against his side. “We’ve known about the Dark Brotherhood contract on my head for a long time. If she’s counting on them to get the job done, I think she’ll be disappointed. There’s only two left-”

“That we know of.” He pointed out.

“And if they intend to make good on that contract they’re taking their sweet time, aren’t they? Every courier in Skyrim knows where we are by now, but not one assassin has turned up. Unless you’re not telling me something. Again.”

He planted a kiss on her forehead. “How could I possibly keep such a thing from you? The dog would tell you immediately just to get me in trouble.”

Esme chuckled, then shivered as the morning breeze tousled her curls.

“This is good, it helps, but can we be done for now?”

“Whatever you need.”

Chapter Text

Golden sea waves glittered in the last rays of the afternoon sun, unfiltered by the muddy haze of ash that warned sailors away from the wrong side of the island. Captain Gjalund kept his hand firmly on the ship rudder, eyeing the shore suspiciously. Every voyage to Solsthiem he swore would be the last, and every season a mountain of gold at his feet labeled him a liar. This time it was not House Redoran who changed his mind. Gjalund found cynical satisfaction in that fact, at least. He was done with snobbish dunmer and their trade contracts.

The khajiit had been a model passenger from the beginning. In fact, he stayed below deck almost the entire journey and only now, standing at the prow, watching land come nearer and nearer on the horizon, did he deign to mingle with the Nords.

Sails trimmed and his most able men ready at their ores to ensure a smooth dock the ship slid through the chop created by crosswinds, careful to avoid hidden rocks. City guards in blonded chitlin armor watched from their posts. The moment their moorings were tied the cat leapt onto the wooden platform. Gjalund signaled to his first mate to delay him.

“Fair voyage.” He said amiably. “You’ve arrived safe and sound. Now, I believe we’re owed the rest of our fee.”

A set of long whiskers twitched beneath his wizard’s cowl. The khajiit pulled a heavy purse from his robes and tossed it to the first mate blocking his way into Raven Rock.

“J’zargo is grateful, yes. Safe journeys to you, Captain.”

“Will ye be needing passage back to the mainland?” He asked curiously.

“No, no. J’zargo plans to stay for some time. There is much to be learned. Much to be done. Yes.”

The way the cat’s gold eyes cast over the hills beyond the city and the eager, nervous energy twitching in his claws unnerved Gjalund enough to drop the subject.

“Safe travels, then.” He muttered, pocketing the gold and returning his feet to the comforting rhythm of the boat.

“Creepy mage.” His Mate muttered when the khajiit had disappeared down a sandy ally.

Gjalund privately agreed, but there was cargo to see to if he wanted to leave on time in the morning. Surely a single cat with his puzzle boxes and old tomes was better off on this miserable island than causing mischief on the mainland.

Surely.