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The Name Lost in Time

Summary:

Have you heard of the Elder Scrolls? Some say they only exist in legends. Some say they are a part of us. Some say they do not belong in this world while others will tell you the exact opposite. There are rumors that these scrolls transcend time...
If Yrith could transcend time, perhaps she could bring her dead parents back. Perhaps she could undo the gravest mistake of her life. Or perhaps she could make a graver one.

Notes:

I don't own Skyrim or any of the lore characters or places. I owe the pleasure of engaging in this beautiful world to Bethesda Studios.

Chapter 1: Secret of The Orphan

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It had been six moons.

Yrith raised her head, looking away from the book she was gripping like a dear child. Six moons in this gods’ forsaken place. If she had spent that time lying here with her eyes closed and only opened them now, she wouldn’t have spotted a difference. It was as grey as ever. It was as cold as ever. The wind kept blowing the snow inside her room, like it always had, wailing as it passed through the crevices in the cold stone walls. She had gotten used to this cold, not minding the cloudlets of steam that left her mouth. With every breath, they took away yet another sliver of warmth. She did not remember how it felt to be truly warm. Or, rather, she did not want to remember.

Her eyes drifted back to her book. It was all she had now, those stories of heroes whose hearts were braver than hers. Those six moons had marked the dullness of her life, and the endless escape to a world of her own that had become her prison. Out there, sons and daughters of the rich and noble proudly exhibited their magical talents for the judgement of their masters. She was neither rich, nor noble, and there were no talents she could exhibit. None that she would exhibit. The College of Winterhold had only become her home because someone else willed it. She, for one, had taken an oath, and she was not about to break it.

She fixed her eyes on the lines of text before her. They stayed simple lines, flat and meaningless. Her thoughts wandered. They seemed to gain a life of their own whenever she cut on her classes, as if they extended an invisible hand to her, inviting her to that place she avoided at all costs. The window cracked open, making a final stop to her concentration. The pages of the book flipped wildly under her hand. Her raven hair whipped her face and obscured her view. She sighed, setting the book aside and rising from her cold stone seat on the floor. Papers flew about, fluttering like colorless butterflies. She swam through them to the window, pressing it back into its frame. Through the screen of falling snow beyond it, she could see the fading silhouette of the Hall of the Elements. She glared at it, quickly turning away. No, she would not go.

The sudden absence of the wind’s howling revealed footsteps approaching from the outside. Yrith frowned at the door. She knew the sound well, that elegant elven gait, soft on the padded soles of leather boots. She had trained her ears for it. Now it had come for her again.

Grabbing her book, she slid under her bed and waited. She could hear her own breath and her heartbeat was deafening. If only she had left the window open.

The footsteps stopped before the door. Yrith watched it, motionless, the book pressing against her belly. There was a creak as the door opened. An ornate boot appeared on the doorstep, then another. Slowly, unhurriedly, their owner made her way to the middle of Yrith’s room, leaving the door to close itself. As it snapped shut, a voice rang above Yrith.

“Come out at once.”

She did not even know why she was hiding. Eventually, she would be discovered. But this was a game of wills she was not keen to lose, even if she was to be dragged out of her hiding place.

Like she always was.

The elf graciously gave Yrith time to swallow her pride. She waited, stubbornly crawling even further from the edge of the bed. The window shook again, but it was foolish to hope that it would open and occupy the elf enough to let Yrith make her escape. After all, she was Lady Faralda, the renowned Altmeri master of destruction magic. She had spent ages here in Winterhold, perfecting her craft. She had eyes everywhere. Skyrim’s turbulent cold could not put her out of countenance. And much to Yrith’s displeasure, she was her foster mother.

The window rattled for the third time, like a wordless countdown to the inevitable encounter. Upon falling silent, a hand slid under the bed and caught the rim of Yrith’s robes, pulling her out with surprising strength. She found herself staring into a pair of amber eyes, boring into her with steel-like firmness.

“When will you ever learn?” The elf stepped back to gain a full view of Yrith. The slight Breton girl must have looked horrible with her raven hair tangled and likely full of dust from the floor, her robes tattered, and her round face twisted in defiance. Opposed to that, Lady Faralda stood tall in her fitting periwinkle robes, her refined, slender features a display of cold control polished to perfection. Yrith hated it. Over those six months, she had never seen a sliver of warmth in that face.

“Learn what?” she spat.

Faralda sighed. “It is unbecoming of a young lady to crawl on the floor and avoid her lessons. You have a place to be and I believe it is not this room.”

Unbecoming it was, and Yrith could care less. Was she truly expected to act her age when the nobility infesting these walls was an assortment of brats pretending to own the place? She let out a snort.

“My place to be is the place I choose. Just like you are here and not on your guard duty, or whatever task of significant importance they gave you this time,” she replied evenly. One corner of her lips quirked up in a smirk for that crispy touch of self-satisfaction. She could feel Faralda’s look piercing her, those amber eyes gaining a tinge of icy blue.

“My responsibilities are none of your concern, and if you value your freedom and the comfortable life you’ve been granted here, you will be on your way at once. Unless you want to spend another night cleaning the corridors, that is.”

Yrith straightened her back, staring up into Faralda’s face. If only she could be a little taller.

“None of the other students get punished for not attending their classes,” she grumbled.

Faralda bared her teeth in a dazzling, yet dangerous smile. “Very well. Feel free to return when you have the coin to pay for your studies like the others do, and perhaps we might set you up under different conditions.”

Yrith could feel the sting of her nails digging into the skin on her hands. “I never asked to become a novice in the first place.”

Faralda opened her mouth to reply but closed it again. She was not looking at Yrith, but rather through her, and the unreadable mask covering her face seemed to crumple and wither. Yrith felt a cold stab in her chest. She would back away if she could, but the bed behind her pressed into the back of her knees. The tall elf before her shrank into smallness unfit for an Altmer.

“One word, Yrith,” she said quietly. “Why?”

Yrith pressed her lips closely together. She had no answer to give. There were so many ways to interpret the question. She had heard it so many times, never daring to ponder its meaning for too long. The reality of her life was not one she was willing to discuss. To put it in words would mean facing her failure. She was not ready to cope with the disappointment that would follow.

Her guardian waited in silence. Yrith turned away, unable to bear that look. The window rattled again, drowning the sound of snowflakes tapping on the glass. Yrith could feel the cold creeping through the gaps between its frame and the wall lick her face. She shivered. Normally, she would happily ignore it.

Faralda waited until their eyes met again. Then, she gave a slow nod.

“I see,” she sighed. “Words aren’t enough for the two of us anymore, are they?”

Turning on her heel, she left the room, leaving behind the sound of flipping robes. Yrith’s blank look was fixed on the open door. The hinges groaned in the draught and the words of Lady Faralda kept ringing in her ears.

Why did it have to be this way? No matter what she did, guilt always caught up to her.

She sank to her bed, resting her head against the palms of her hands. A gust of wind slithered under her shabby robes and bit into her skin. Papers rose again, dancing on her desk until they rustled down on the floor. She let out a breath, eyeing the fraying satchel that was meant to store her papers and textbooks. So this was the price for her comfort. No. This was the price for her failure.

She forced herself up on her feet, grabbing her coat while combing her hair with her fingers negligently. Why would she care for appearances when all those snobbish brats saw in her was a shabby urchin with no talent or appeal? She had no reason to bother. As the last touch, she slung the satchel over her shoulder. It had been long since she had last checked its contents. She shrugged at the fact, hurrying out of her room. Moments after, she was rushing through the College courtyard to the Hall of the Elements, fighting against the waves of snowflakes assaulting her eyes.

The College grounds were almost as dark as the night. The veil of snow now concealed the surrounding buildings, as well as the fountain of bright blue light in the middle of the courtyard. Yrith walked bent low, her long, raven hair soon speckled with white. She kept her eyes nearly closed, missing the bizarre figure of a white-haired sturdy orc dressed in the adept mage robes heading in the opposite direction. She would have ignored him completely, had he not called out to her.

“What’s that? Late for the lecture?”

His rough baritone cut through the swishing sound of the wind and caught her by surprise. She staggered, tripping and losing a shoe that was too big for her foot. She groped for it absent-mindedly, hopping around and barely keeping her balance. When she finally found it and straightened her back, her gaze rested upon Urag gro-Shub, the College librarian and a local curiosity. He gave her a hint of a smile.

“Well, good luck with your first impressions!” he hollered, saluting her on his way.

Her eyebrows shot up in an unspoken question, but the orc simply turned away with a wave of his hand and stomped through the accumulating snow. She stared at his silhouette slowly fading in the murk, forgetting momentarily the reason she was standing in the middle of a raging blizzard. As she snapped back to reality, she stumbled ineptly through the courtyard to the massive brass gate of the Hall of the Elements. She pushed on the wing that hummed almost inaudibly with magic. It gave a painful whine that carried through the foyer and further to the center of the building.

Yrith hissed to herself, hoping against all odds that she had not been noticed. She slipped inside, letting the gate shut the gale out. In here, she could hardly hear the faint moan somewhere far above her head where the tall, smooth walls and pilasters touched each other in a graceful vault.

Quietly, she treaded through the vast foyer, into the octagonal room with a fountain of blue light beyond. Gathered there was a crowd of people, all standing with their backs to Yrith. She hesitated. Now was the last chance to turn away and leave this place. Perhaps she should just run.

A Dunmer boy with spikes of fiery hair turned her way, his mouth widening in a smirk. Yrith cussed in her thoughts. So much for her chance. Out of all people, it had to be Cain Aldaryn who noticed her arrival.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” he drawled. Every head around, the classmates that had flocked to him like a pack of starving skeevers, turned to him and then to Yrith. She wished to disappear. Becoming the source of entertainment for the illegitimate offspring of Tamriel’s nobility was the last thing she wanted. They stood with hungry eyes, ready for the thrill that was certain to come. Perhaps if Yrith was not around, they would have picked another one from their midst. But the pauper orphan was too tempting a target. She gritted her teeth, staring right into the Dunmer’s crimson eyes. “A midget,” he continued, scrutinizing her half-bare feet, the limp, discolored robes and the mop of tangled hair sprinkled with melting snowflakes, “soaked and very much late for the class. Then again… it is so very nice to see you here in conjuration. To what do we owe this honor?”

Several people laughed. Most wore the same smirk as the Dunmer, copying the manners of their leader. Yrith scowled and circled them. She would not give them any more reasons to laugh at her account.

She made for the far corner of the octagonal room, looking for Master Gestor, their conjuration master. But instead, the pale blue light of the fountain fell on the figure of a tall, dark-haired Nord man. She stopped, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He was young, but perhaps a few years too old to be a student of their class. She frowned. The man approached her, his pace steady and reserved, eyes fixed firmly upon her. The students went silent, watching them in anticipation.

“Yrith Ravencroft, I presume?” His voice was deep and melodic, with a touch of cold sharpness that sent shivers down her spine. It made her raise her head and look into his dark eyes, staring at her from a face as hard as steel. Definitely not a student. A teacher then? So that was what Urag had meant by first impressions. The knuckles on Yrith’s hands cracked as she clenched them into fists. This could hardly get any worse.

“M-master Gestor is…” she hinted a question without answering his. He knit his eyebrows in apparent displeasure. Inadvertently, she took a step back. His eyes slid down to her feet, making Yrith painfully aware that one of them was not properly shod. For the slightest of moments, she could see one corner of his mouth twitch. She fought not to scowl. So their new teacher was the same sort as her classmates.

“Retired as of today,” he replied coolly. She took a moment to study him further. A face shaved to nigh perfect smoothness. Brows that were definitely shaped by hand. Carefully coiffured hair, not a single strand sticking out of his braid. A body too thin for a Nord, but too muscled for a mage, bearing just the slightest hint of tan. His sleeveless, yellow-lined silver robes were perfectly clean and entirely smooth, with no single thread hanging loose. His shoes were…

Yrith quickly blinked to hide her sudden urge to laugh. The laces were tied in a way they could not move, one a perfect mirror of the other. The shoes too were clean for the current weather, the leather they were made of reflecting the fountain light. No, he was no noble. But perhaps he was worse.

The man noticed her look and his eyes narrowed.

“I do not like my students coming late to the classes,” he added quietly.

“I was searching for my textbook,” Yrith muttered the first excuse that had come to her mind. She felt a flush in her face, averting it quickly to pin her eyes to the closest broken tile on the floor.

“We don’t have a textbook,” he reminded her. A low chuckle came from the side of her classmates. She shuddered. The Hall of the Elements was always quiet. She wished the gale would deafen her and drown the loud beat of her heart, but there was nothing but a faint, distant whine.

“My… restoration textbook.” She knew everything about her exposed her. Her trembling voice, her stooped shoulders, clenched fists. It made no sense to lie. And still, she forced herself to proceed. “I lost it and then became so absorbed in looking for it that I just…”

“Came late to the class,” he concluded colorlessly. “Well, I do hope you don’t lose your textbooks very often.”

She stared at him incredulously, forgetting herself momentarily. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. The knuckles on her hands turned white as the snow outside, and she pressed her lips tightly together to stop herself from retorting. Eyes on the ground, she stepped aside to join the crowd that was now roaring with laughter.

“So, Miss Ravencroft,” he spoke again, and she could feel an undertone of sly amusement in his melodic voice. So now he would target her. She took a breath, hardening her face into a steel mask before raising her head. “Since you came late, can you step forward and conjure a familiar for me? I wish to demonstrate how the qualities of familiars can vary based on their summoner.”

So it had come down to that. Had Lady Faralda hoped for a change when she prodded Yrith’s conscience? She would not get it. And this man would regret he had ever called her name.

“I… I can’t conjure a familiar, Master…”

She could almost feel the tension in his long, deep exhale. “Singird Larkwing. I’d say you could at least come to class knowing the name of your teacher.”

The class laughed louder. Yrith resisted the urge to put her hands over her ears.

“Well, if you can’t conjure a familiar, then you’ll just have to give it your best. Step forward, please.”

She shot him a furious glance and spent all her energy trying to convince herself that stomping angrily would not do her any good. Unwillingly, she shuffled to the teacher's side and faced the heartily entertained class. Then came the moment when everyone fell silent and waited for her demonstration. She carefully avoided every single pair of eyes. Without thinking, she stretched out her hands and waved her arms wildly. Not a spark of magic came out of her fingertips. Nothing happened, aside from their new master sighing almost theatrically. An opinion formed in her head. Of all the teachers in Winterhold, he was already by far her least favorite.

“Tell me, Miss Ravencroft,” he accented her name with a hint of scoff, “how long have you been studying here?”

“A-almost six months… sir?”

“Six. Months.” He clicked his tongue, seemingly deep in thought, but his eyes hadn’t left Yrith for a split moment. She shifted her weight, waiting for what was to come. The class watched in anticipation. No one dared utter a sound. “Six months should be enough to master bound weapons and atronachs for even the least talented of all. And yet, here you stand, flopping your arms like a crippled bird, trying to summon a familiar. Can you tell me how a creature is summoned? In theory.”

She shook her head.

“Or what part of your body you need to focus on to draw the energy from your soul?”

Another shake, slower than the one before. She fixed her eyes on his feet, gritting her teeth.

“Do you know where you should direct your energy when you summon a creature?”

She kept staring at those irritatingly clean shoes of his, motionless. She did not need to look up to know his expression. The sigh he gave said it all.

“I see. Mister Aldaryn, would you like to fill in and display your talents?”

There was a shuffle at Yrith’s side as the fiery-haired dark elf moved past her, shoving her on his way. When he stood before the class, he gave her a smirk and scanned the small crowd with his eyes. They all watched him with admiration. Cain Aldaryn waited a split moment to enjoy the attention before tucking his sleeves.

With one last meaningful look in Yrith’s direction, he raised his hands and narrowed his eyes in concentration. A moment after, a howl echoed through the octagonal chamber and an ethereal wolf-like creature formed before him. It stood there, awaiting orders, oblivious to the applause that came from the ranks of its master’s classmates. All except Yrith who just barely suppressed a snort. Master Larkwing nodded in appreciation.

“I will now summon my own familiar,” he turned back to the class, “and send it against the one summoned by Mister Aldaryn. While they fight, watch closely and try to analyze the differences between them.”

Yrith turned away. Why in Oblivion had she decided to come here? Conjuration had always made her stomach turn. The ugly act of summoning a creature for the purpose of fighting. They knew nothing else, the mindless slaves of their masters. Just like them, she thought. Just like the nobles who had gathered here, just like the teachers who knew no better than to teach them to fight.

She winced as her classmates gasped and cried out at the sound of growling and scratching. She could swear she heard a ripping sound as well. A memory threatened to surface, but she quickly pushed it back to the depths of her subconsciousness. She fought not to close her eyes, not to cover her ears, ignoring with all her might the battle that happened just a few paces from where she stood.

Then, the sounds died out. She raised her head to see Singird Larkwing’s familiar standing victorious by its master’s side. The teacher – to her utmost displeasure – was staring directly at her with a stone hard, unreadable expression. She shuddered, but before she could turn away, his look shifted to the Dunmer.

“Very well,” he said and gestured toward the crowd. Cain waited, but when no words of praise came, he stepped back, his expression unreadable.

“As you could see, if you were watching, that is,” the teacher shot a glance at Yrith and several chuckles rose from the crowd, “my familiar was stronger and more tenacious in combat. Even if our familiars had not fought each other, mine would have lasted longer.” There was a loud crack as the translucent creature returned to its home plane. “In the next few lessons, I would like to concentrate on how your focus and broadening your pool of magicka can improve your summoned creatures. Conjuration is not just a simple act of summoning a creature or an object from another realm. It involves controlling it, giving it strength and qualities.

“For our next lesson, I should like you to research familiars and atronachs and write down their characteristics. Please, include statistics such as the scale of their strength depending on the conjurer’s level of advancement or the amount of magicka you need to invest in different types of creatures. This paper should become your guideline for this subject until the expert classes, so do give it proper attention. You will hand it to me in three days for revision.”

Upon his words, a disgruntled murmur rose from the crowd. Singird Larkwing frowned, raising his hand to silence them. Their voices faded one by one, their heads turning to him. He waited for a heartbeat, then looked them over, stopping at Yrith.

“And no excuses,” he said with unquestionable finality. “Dismissed.”

Smoothing his robes and hair, he rushed out of the Hall of the Elements, accompanied by countless stares.

With a sigh, Yrith made for the entrance gate. If someone thought she would do assignments, then that someone thought wrong. Magic was not her way. Coming here had been a mistake. Soon, even Singird Larkwing would learn that she was not worth his attention.

As she stepped into the foyer, the fiery-haired Dunmer blocked her way. Yrith stepped aside. She did not like his smile. She did not like his wide stance. She did not like the people mobbing around them. She aimed for the gap in their line, between Cain’s graceful Altmeri companion known as Leyna Travi, and Ha’risha, the all-too-smug bronze-furred Khajiit always trailing them. The two grinned, stepping closer together. Yrith found herself dragged backward as someone gripped her collar. Once again, Cain stepped in her path.

“Let me go, Cain,” Yrith hissed.

“Let me go, Cain, she says,” Cain drawled to general amusement. “Say, midget, how about a cup of tea for mutual peace? We’ll share our papers with you.”

He winked at her. She returned the favor with a snort.

“I think I’ll pass. If you would excuse me.”

“Ah, there she goes again,” he purred and grinned. A set of dazzling, white teeth contrasted his ebony skin. “So unfriendly. Don’t you at least have the manners to say thank you when someone offers you help?”

“Not if that someone holds me up like a skeever for slaughtering! Now if you don’t mind, I would like to keep walking, so would you please be so kind as to let me go?”

“And if I say no?”

“Please don’t. Or I’ll…”

“Or you’ll what? Call your parents? Oh, that would be a disaster, wouldn’t it?”

“Cain…”

“Go ahead, call them. Why don’t you? Oh wait… your parents aren’t around anymore, are they? Look at me, I almost forgot!”

Yrith felt a rush of fire in her face. How dare he. How dare he speak of her parents. How dare he pretend to know a thing about her! She put both of her hands on his and snarled inarticulately. The crowd surrounding the two of them cheered and whistled. They had formed a perfect circle around them. There was no escape. She took a breath, her eyes narrowing into two slits.

“Let. Me. Go.” The words coming out of her mouth sounded strangely alien to her, calm and quiet unlike her usual tone. She looked directly into the Dunmer’s crimson eyes and her grip tightened. The elf winced ever so slightly, but quickly reclaimed his composure. His sneer widened.

She did not waste another word. One twist of her hand was enough to send the surprised, unprepared classmate to the ground. A cacophony of screams echoed through the tower. People cheered and shouted and clapped their hands. Leyna Travi stared at Yrith with utter shock, one slender hand covering her mouth. Cain lurched to his feet and bared his teeth with a quiet hiss. Yrith charged into the circle of bodies, but he blocked her way. She took a step to the side and he followed at once. She would shove him away, but he tackled her hair, pulling her closer and jerking her head backwards. She screamed and kicked him in the knee. He screamed back.

“S’wit!”

The insult resonated through the hall as he staggered back, arms stretched so he could protect his wounded leg. Yrith looked at him with unconcealed contempt. For his noble origins, his vocabulary sure was indiscriminate. For a mage, even more so.

He threw a fist. Yrith leapt to the side, searching for a gap in the circle. There was none. They pushed her back to her opponent the moment she wanted to elbow her way to the door. Upon Cain’s next assault, she tripped him with a stretched leg. He fell face down on the floor. Slowly, he raised himself on his hands and turned his head to her, his eyes aglow.

“Enjoying yourself, are you?” he growled. He rose until he loomed above her, lifting his hands. Yrith cowered instinctively, expecting him to hit her. He did not move an inch. Instead, a silver screen of frost appeared around his fingers. She backed away until she could feel one of her classmates’ breath on the nape of her neck. Magic. He was going to use magic against her. The magic he had learned in this accursed place.

She wanted to run, but the wall of bodies behind her held her firmly in place. Even if she could defend herself, Cain excelled in destruction magic. She stood no chance.

She closed her eyes as Cain’s arms stretched and a shower of icy needles burst from his fingertips. As they landed on her skin, it tore, forming a trail of minuscule wounds. Cold gripped her, draining her strength and sharpening the pain. She let out a quiet groan as she sank to the floor, covering her face with shaky hands in retreat. Whatever he wanted of her, if he’d only stop. If he’d only spared her the pain.

“What in Oblivion is happening here?!”

A voice echoed through the hall. The stinging sensation stopped as a sliver of warmth returned to her limbs. Yrith raised her head, only faintly registering their new master looming above the circle of faces. His face was carved in stone, his gaze pinning both Cain and Yrith to the ground. She froze, looking away. At her side, Cain put up a mask of indifference that failed to conceal his unease. The crowd parted, creating an aisle for Singird Larkwing. He stopped inches from Yrith.

“The moment I walk into the infamous College of Winterhold, I see students coming late for classes, unable – or unwilling,” he put a strange emphasis on the word and shot Yrith a piercing look, “to cast even the most basic spells, and on top of that, they brawl amongst themselves? This is a college, for the Nine’s sake! Being taught here should be a privilege, but it seems that with our new pact, this status would soon be forgotten. Manners seem to come in short supply to our new… students.” He pronounced the word with a hint of distaste.

The two antagonists responded with absolute silence. Even the people around them stared wordlessly into the grey of the floor stone, hardly daring a breath. Master Larkwing let the heavy quiet weigh on their shoulders before speaking again.

“I suppose discussion with my fellow teachers is in order. But the two of you obviously need to learn to cooperate. For this following month, every day on dawn and dusk, you will retrieve the fish from the nets down on the shore. For the entirety of this time, all shifts will be relieved of this duty. I hope I have made myself clear.”

“What?!” Yrith gasped and the shame of the past moment was replaced with disbelief. Jumping on her feet, she stared deep into the darkness of his eyes. “For a whole month? You… you can’t do this!”

“Oh, I can do a lot worse, Miss Ravencroft, and believe me, I will if I deem it necessary.” He returned her look with coldness to which not even Cain’s magic could compare. She gritted her teeth almost painfully.

“But…”

“Miss Ravencroft, one more word.”

She gave him an aggrieved look but fell silent at once. Cain’s eyes, now turned to her, were filled with blazing rage, his fists clenched so tightly that the ebony skin on his knuckles had turned almost white. Yrith could not decide whom she hated more. The smug Dunmer, or the Nord teacher whose eyes were now not so secretly smiling with satisfaction. Without another word, she stomped out of the room, thinking fires of Oblivion and pits filled with frostbite spiders.


As always, the Arcanaeum was warm, filled with soft flickering candlelight and heavy smell of dust and paper. Yrith inhaled it deeply, stopping for a moment to appreciate the quiet repose of the place. There would be no flashes of magic or wild battles in the College library, for its caretaker would never allow it.

Yrith stepped into the octagonal inner study, treading lightly on the polished tiles. Urag gro-Shub sat in the usual place by his desk, eyes fixed on a thick book, muttering something through the pair of yellow fangs that stuck out of his mouth like horker tusks. When Yrith reached the three steps leading to the desk, he raised his balding head and a smile spread across his brute face.

“There is my little curmudgeon,” he hummed, carefully placing a bookmark on the page before he closed the book and set it aside like his dearest treasure. “So, how did it go?”

Yrith crossed her arms over her chest, pouting. “Why didn’t you tell me we had a new teacher?”

He chuckled softly. “But I did, didn’t I? Why the long face? Couldn’t quite put up with Singird Larkwing?”

“That man is a beast.”

“Now there’s a thing we will agree on. Anyway, what brings you here? I’d find it hard to believe that you’d come just to see an old orc’s face.”

“Your face is the only one worth looking at,” she muttered, ignoring his frown. “But no. Do you know where Master Larkwing’s room is?”

The orc raised a white, thinned eyebrow. “Oh? And just why would you ask?”

She shrugged. “To pay him a friendly visit.”

He gave her a long, scrutinizing look. Then he smiled, winking an eye. “No clue, although I heard Nirya fussing about how they removed that enchanting device from the top floor of the Hall of Countenance. Said it was her favorite. Like she’s ever used an enchanting device anyway.” He gave a theatrical snort. Yrith could not help but smile.

“Thank you,” she purred, dropping a curtsy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Any books today? What can I offer you?”

She shook her head. “Not now. Maybe I’ll come back later.”

Urag leaned over his desk, touching Yrith’s forehead. “Who are you and what have you done with Yrith?”

She snickered, glancing over at the outer circle of the library and the bookshelves lining its walls from pilaster to pilaster. All those tomes they were encumbered with, old and new, fancy and plain, pristine and ragged, she greeted like old friends. All except the grimoires and magic handbooks which she had never dared touch.

“I will stop by later,” she said. “Anything I can bring you from the city? Seems I’m going for a stroll later.”

“Outside?” The librarian’s tone changed from amused to suspicious. Something in his voice made Yrith take a step back.

“Y-yes. That’s what I said.”

“Alone?”

Yrith would have smiled at his fatherly concern, but the memory of Singird Larkwing made her clench her teeth instead. “With Cain Aldaryn,” she muttered.

With no warning, the orc slammed the desk. His unfinished book hopped an inch. Several papers flew. Yrith winced. “It’s that demented ogreface of a Nord, isn’t it? He and his discipline!”

“W-well, it’s a long story…”

He took a moment to draw several deep breaths. His green fingers clutched the edge of his desk, staying there until his rage abated, leaving him with a resigned look.

“A new set of quills from Birna’s, and an inkpot to go with them, if you’d be so kind. But Yrith.” He placed his broad, bear hands on her shoulders. “Take good care. Do not stray and do not stall. All right?”

“But why…”

“You’ve heard the news.”

“Ah, that. But that’s just some madman trying to frame the College. What reason would they have to target one of us? And me of all people.”

He shook his head. “Don’t tempt fate, Yrith. One can never be careful enough.”

“If you say so. It’s not like I want to spend more time with that snob than necessary anyway.”

“Well well. Have you found any friends yet?”

She pierced him with a look, then turned away, stepping down the stairs. There, out of his reach, she stopped.

“Stop asking. I’m not talking to that lot.”

With that, she left the Arcanaeum. The sad, weary sigh behind her back kept her company until it mingled with the painful creak of the old, rusty door.


The Hall of Countenance was never quite vacated. It required patience to move through it undetected. But to exact justice, Yrith had plenty of it. Much to her delight, Drevis Neloren, the College illusion master, never bothered with putting up protective spells in the teachers’ dormitory. Perhaps he believed that no one could escape the eyes of the masters of magic. Or perhaps it was simply not worth his time. It was thanks to him that Yrith always managed to find a blind spot. When, after an hour of waiting in the courtyard, the always distraught Nirya rushed from the door, leaving it to snap shut by itself, Yrith found a moment to carefully slip in and simply walk to the stairs on the other side of the octagonal room as though she belonged there. More than half of the residents had left under her careful observation. She could not hope for more.

She climbed the stairs, carefully scanning the area of the second floor. It looked deserted. A door opened somewhere below her. She shrugged, proceeding up. Whoever it was, chances were that they were not going to visit Master Larkwing around lunchtime. And up on the third floor, there was nothing but his room.

As she left the last step behind, she had to marvel at how fast the Collegium had managed to build a new room here. The old enchanting device and laboratory, never used by anyone, had been moved elsewhere. Instead, walls surrounded most of the area, hiding a room at least twice the size of a standard teacher’s chamber. Yrith found the disproportion rather unjust.

Despite having seen Master Larkwing leave the tower, she pressed an ear to the lacquered wooden door. No sound came from within. She cautiously grabbed the handle and pulled, and the door wing turned in absolute silence. The absence of the sound pleased her. But of course, Singird Larkwing would make sure that the hinges of his door were always in a state of perfection.

Slipping inside, she finally inspected the room in full detail. The sight made her want to laugh. The room was exactly as she had expected, a perfect mirror to her new teacher’s personality. Not a speck of dust lay on the thoroughly polished furniture. Several columns of books were perfectly aligned with the edge of the desk they were placed on. Every door or drawer was shut tight, and even the shelves were lined in perfect symmetry. She dedicated a few moments to a silent meditation on how in Oblivion this uptight Nord could ever survive among his kinsmen. Then she shook her head and rubbed her hands. Time had come to deliver her chef d’oeuvre.

One look and she knew what she had to do. She carefully shuffled the books. From the depths of Singird Larkwing’s wardrobe, she withdrew several sets of robes and mixed them with the neatly folded shirts and tunics, wondering in the process why he would need so many clothes in the first place. Several items on the shelves, an hourglass with crystal clear sand, a paperweight in the shape of a moon made in dwarven metal, and a strange soul gem with curling ornaments carved along its edges, switched places. When she was done, she nodded in satisfaction, admiring her own work.

“Punish me for being cornered, will you?” she snorted to herself. “Need a target for your whims? Well, the feeling’s mutual.”

She took one last book and patted its smooth cover made in blue-dyed leather. Soul Recreation by Telvas Adinor, said the imprinted title. Just as she was about to place it on a pile with books of different size, a sheet of paper slipped from within and fluttered to her feet. She picked it up and curiously glanced at the robust, formal-looking script that covered the page.

Singird Larkwing,

It is with great regret that I inform you of the death of your beloved parents. They passed with honor, providing aid to fellow citizens in need. Their remains will be kept in the Temple of Talos in Windhelm until their collection.

I would like to offer my deepest condolences for your loss. May their brave souls forever rejoice in Sovngarde.

I remain,

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm

Yrith stared at the letter for a long while, holding her breath unwittingly. A bitter memory crept into her mind, one she did not want to remember. She had spent six moons trying to forget. Perhaps…

She shook her head. She could not start looking for reasons to excuse Master Larkwing’s coldness and the injustice with which he had treated her. No, this man deserved no pity, and she had none to offer. Her hand almost automatically clutched and crumpled the paper, but she stopped herself at the last moment. Carefully, with trembling fingers, she inserted the letter back in the book and gently put it where it belonged. With head slightly bowed, she left the room, refusing to look back.


The storm had subsided. The heavy clouds had moved to hinder the sailors who were brave enough to traverse the Sea of Ghosts. The sunlight gave golden lining to the imposing statue of Azura dominating the western horizon. The daedric mistress of balance, ruler of day and night, stood tall on the mountain ridge that separated Winterhold from the Pale, slender hands that held the sun and moon reaching toward the sky.

As Yrith stepped out of the gate, she saw Cain standing on the bridge over the Winterhold strait with a burlap sack in his hand, his gaze turned to the statue and beyond. Instinctively, she gritted her teeth. But when she looked into the Dunmer’s face, for a moment, it seemed almost gentle, as if she was looking at a different person.

She approached him quietly, eyes fixed on the uneven path under her feet, avoiding the sight of the icy depths below. The bridge was old, its walls eaten by the tooth of time. Ancient magic was the only thing still holding it in place.

A loose piece of gravel crunched under step. Cain turned around abruptly, his eyes narrowing into his usual sneer.

“Trying to sneak up on me, midget?” he growled.

She sighed. The moment of tranquility was gone. “And just what would it give me?” she said, raising her hands defensively.

“Why should I know? Maybe you’re hoping that I fall down and break my bones on those reefs over there. Well you can go ahead and do that yourself. And carry this while you’re at it.” He threw the sack at her. Yrith caught it instinctively, her lip twitching in rage.

“I’m not your servant!” she hissed.

“No? You might as well be one, shabby as you are. Mind your step, I wouldn’t want to sully my shoes.”

He stepped out, his elven gait light on the crumbling stone. Yrith followed him, her fist clenched around the sack, imprinting its texture into her skin. She battled in silence with the desire to push him and make him slip over the icing covering the bridge’s surface. Instead, she turned her eyes to the handful of cottages emerging before them that were the once proud city of Winterhold. With their dimly lit windows and smoking chimneys sticking out of the snow-covered thatch roofs, they gave off a feeling of coziness. It was an oasis of warmth, set in the middle of a frozen wasteland. On the sides of the cliff that held the city way above the sea level, ruins were scattered here and there, a remainder of a great cataclysm known as The Great Collapse.

Upon reaching the gate at the foot of the bridge, the city welcomed them with the smell of burning wood and roast. Yrith’s eyes wandered to the inn, The Frozen Hearth. Not too many voices came from there, but she knew that inside, a gentle fire was burning and the owners, Dagur and Haran, were serving a warm meal to the locals, complaining about poor business as usual. Back in the day, she would visit them and receive a bowl of broth and freshly baked pie. Dagur would dance around her and sing horribly out of tune, making Yrith, hailing from a land of artists, want to cover her ears. That was when her parents had still been alive. In those times, Yrith had known how to smile properly.

Without thinking, she paused to take a pensive look at the inn’s old, chipped door. The signboard at its side creaked a lonely tune. She barely ever caught a glimpse of the duo in these days, being mostly confined to the College grounds.

“Are you coming, dog?” Cain’s affected voice cut through her thoughts. “Should’ve brought a leash.”

Yrith glared at him, biting the caustic remark that fought its way to her lips. Perhaps she would be satisfied with simply stuffing his mouth with snow to silence him. Rolling her eyes, she rushed past him, leaving the obnoxious Dunmer behind. She could hear his breath quicken as he picked up his pace.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Yrith laughed. “It seems you’re not quite as successful at making me bend to your will when there’s no one to hold me down for you.” She felt a rush of satisfaction at the truth of her own words. Here, with no circle of people to cut her way, he was powerless. Yrith was confident she knew the place better than he did and could outrun him at any time. The nobility never spent too much time acquainting themselves with the darkest corners around. Yrith, on the other hand, considered it one of her favorite pastimes.

“And you’re quite proud for someone who has just been punished and can’t even cast sparks.”

She shrugged. “But I’m not the only one who has been punished, am I?”

He let out a snort, choosing silence as his next weapon. At last.

The buildings along the road slowly gave way to ravaged ruins. No footprints were cast in the ruffled white blanket around them, its pristine texture contrasting their decay. Even the occasional birds seemed to avoid the space above them, as if it was contaminated and deadly. Walking down the beaten path, Yrith could still feel a tingling touch of cold that had little to do with the eternal winter. Beside her, Cain, having caught up with her at last, shivered.

“Half an hour in your company and I already feel drained,” he grumbled, pointing an accusing finger at her. “Let’s press on. I can’t wait to get back for a warm dinner. Even if that stuff tastes horrible.”

For once, Yrith agreed. She gave a silent nod as they descended the slope leading to the fish nets, cautiousness battling the desire to leave the place as soon as possible. With cliffs on both sides, they entered a murky ravine. A shadow of a great iceberg loomed above the dark sea waters in the distance. The ice around them filled the air with soft crackling, occasionally drowned by a distant splash. The sound was strangely regular, travelling between the walls like a restless cricket hopping from one side to another. Yrith tried to follow it with her eyes. A few times, she had a feeling that she saw a flicker of light moving along those icy walls.

A chill tickled the nape of her neck, and she turned after it. Ethereal columns of snow whirled in the wind and obscured her view. Strange. There had been no wind just a while before, and the sky was still crystal clear.

“What are you looking at?” Cain called to her, sneering. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

She pierced him with a look, wishing to pull the sack he had made her carry over his daft, spiky head.

“You wish,” she muttered.

“So you are scared! The Lone Demon is coming for you, boo!”

“And just what in Oblivion is the Lone Demon?”

“Never heard of the fallen divine? Neither aedra, nor daedra, cast from Aetherius to Oblivion and from Oblivion to Nirn. The Nameless God with no home to return to. He likes to hunt for lost souls and devour them for pleasure.”

Yrith raised a brow, sizing the Dunmer up. “Of course. And young maidens especially, doesn’t he?” she scoffed.

“You’re laughing, but he destroys all that is innocent. All that represents the good of the world, because in his world, there is no difference between good and bad. No difference between any two entities. When he presented his idea of a perfect world to the Divines, they cast him off to Nirn for fear he would turn them into mortals. Everybody fears death. But death is what he brings.”

“Great story. I’ll be sure to remember it when I finally become a writer.”

Shaking her head, Yrith picked up her pace, nearly slipping over a stretch of ice. Just then, the crackling sound drew closer, its echo assaulting her senses. Cold slithered beneath her skin. Shuddering, she searched for the source of the sound. The ice sparkled and sputtered. And moved. Her eyes widened.

“Cain…” she managed to produce.

“You know,” he continued, oblivious to her dismayed face, “I’m quite sure he would find your soul delicious.”

“C-Cain…” she tried again.

“What? Did I really scare you, midget? Are you afraid for your soul now?”

It shot forward. An ethereal snake-like skeleton of pure ice.

“Behind you!”

The Dunmer laughed.

“Don’t try to scare me, midget. I know better than to…”

“Turn around, you trollhead!” she cried. At last, the Dunmer looked over his shoulder. He gasped and took a few quick steps back, nearly tripping over a knob of hardened snow.

“What the… that’s an…”

“Ice wraith!” Yrith shrieked. “By the Eight… do something! Do something!

Cain bit into his lip and backed away, until a wall stopped him. Eyes wide with fear, he raised his hands in between heavy breaths and a sphere of flames enveloped them. He released it as soon as the spell was fully charged. The fire bolt hummed through the air. It seemed to take forever. Yrith held her breath and so did Cain. The missile hit the wraith, but before the two of them could cry out with joy, it hissed and dissolved. The Dunmer forced himself to draw breath and shot again. And again. And twice the fire fizzled and vanished as soon as it touched the creature. It lunged at its attacker and dug its frosty teeth into his cloak. The dark elf screamed, and his legs gave way. Yrith’s scream matched his own.

“No!” he yelled. The ice wraith wound about him. He stared at it helplessly, and Yrith could almost read his thoughts. His novice magic could not compare with the power of a fully grown ice wraith. His back pressed itself to the wall of ice behind him, his feet digging holes in the snow. Yrith stood by his side, eyes fixed blankly on the creature. It withdrew, its body arching over Cain. It would strike at any moment. It could kill him. She had to do something. Anything…

Her mind reached far into her past, pulling out memories she had wished to bury. No, she still wished to… she couldn’t do it. They would know. It would be the end. But if she didn’t…

Time seemed to stop for her. Her eyes found the cowering Cain, his frantic look, the body that trembled not in cold, but in fear. He feared for his life. Perhaps for both their lives. It would be the end either way. She drew a breath through gritted teeth.

Stretching out her arms, she let the sack fall in the snow. Somewhere deep inside her, a pool of magicka swirled, long untouched. She closed her eyes and let the energy flow. Her thought flew across the planes, becoming one with Mundus. Fire, it called. I need fire!

When she opened her eyes, violet sparks burst from her hands, soon taking the form of a graceful blazing figure. Her flame atronach did not need commands. It knew what to do.

It flung itself over Cain’s body, sending forth a ball of fire. The ice wraith recoiled. The Dunmer gasped, trying to integrate himself into the wall.

The second ball hit its target. It ignited, the fires of Oblivion themselves eating into the wraith’s flesh. The creature hissed and squirmed, desperate to flee, but its movement had slowed into a painful staccato.

The third ball sent it to the ground. It barely managed to release its final hissing breath before it shattered into a small pile of ice. The atronach flew over it, twirling in a pirouette to announce its victory. Yrith let out a deep, shaky breath.

There was a moment of silence. Neither Yrith nor Cain dared move, staring wordlessly at the scene before them. The atronach’s fire hummed quietly, until it left for its home plane with a loud crack. Yrith winced at the sound, finally looking at her companion. He looked back at her, his crimson eyes wide with a palette of feelings too rich for Yrith to name them all. They opened their mouths at once.

“Are you–”

“You just–”

They stopped. Slowly, Cain scrambled to his feet, pointing an accusing finger at Yrith.

“What in Oblivion was that?!”

“That was an ice wraith,” she breathed, “and it was unusually close to the city.”

He knit his brows into a glare. “You know what I mean.”

She sighed. So that was it. There would be no words of gratitude coming from that mouth of his. He would not let it slide. He would not care that an ice wraith had just attacked them. As always, he would simply enjoy himself on her account. She wished to punch him. To show this noble boy his place.

“No.” She raised her hand in silent warning. “I don’t. As far as I’m concerned, you saw nothing. You know nothing and this,” she threw her arms about her, “never happened.”

“Oh really?”

Yrith stared at him in disbelief. His smug expression was back, sharp in the moonlight, as if it had never left his face.

“You little…” she swallowed the curse. “An ice wraith attacks us, I save your sorry hide and you…”

“Oh no,” he shook his head, casting her a meaningful look, “you didn’t. Because, you see… that never happened.”

“You…”

“Now, why would a person like you hide such talent? I wonder… I don’t suppose you’ll be fighting with me anytime soon. You never know. My mouth might just… slip.”

Yrith felt fire surge within her. Fuming, she grabbed the sack at her feet and took a step toward the Dunmer.

“You know what?” she spat, angry sparks flaring out of her eyes. “Fetch the stupid fish yourself. And choke on it while you’re at it! I’m not doing this.”

She threw the sack at him with all her might and stomped away, fighting the drifts of snow and patches of ice in her path. She was shaking with fury. He called after her. She refused to listen. Or perhaps her restless thoughts drowned the sound of his voice and she could not hear it at all.

Notes:

This chapter has been completely rewritten to match the quality of the latest chapters (20 and further). Eventually, I will rewrite all the parts that seem to be lacking. For the time being, I will welcome any kind of feedback for the following chapters. I am always striving to improve!

Chapter 2: Friend or Foe?

Chapter Text

Yrith gave the box she was holding in her hand a pensive look. Urag gro-Shub would not accept anything less than this. It was carved in smooth larch wood, and coated in fine leather on its edges. Gilded corners held a series of thin glass panels, through which she could see numerous quills of various shapes and sizes. It glistened in the flickering candlelight, casting light upon the dimmed columns of the library. She carefully deposited it on the librarian’s desk and earned herself a heartwarming smile.

“Thank you, you’re a lifesaver,” the orc said. He snapped the book he’d been reading shut and admired the craftsmanship. “Three more copies for the sake of science, would you believe it? And the amount of paperwork to be completed for the new students! Erm, not that I’m blaming you, of course.”

She smiled and threw a glance at the pile of papers lining the desk. “If you need any help around here…”

“Nah, you go and study as you should. Speaking of which, can you believe the Arch-Mage wanted me to teach history?”

“Well, that would be a class I’d always attend, at least,” she quipped and patted one of the many books on the table. Its faded, once deep red cover had a hoarse texture, weathered by the many years of its existence and countless hands that had held it. There are two things that gain on value with age and raggedness, her mother had once told her. Teaware and books. Her mother had had a weakness for tea. Yrith had one for books.

“You silly, stubborn girl,” the librarian sighed. Then, he pointed at her hand and quirked a brow. “How did that happen?”

Yrith raised the limb to take a look and suppressed a gasp. Her sleeve was torn, the fraying edges wet with melting ice, most likely a remainder of the ice wraith attack. Water dripped on the lacquered desk, creating a tiny puddle. She met his inquisitive gaze and felt color retreating from her face. “I don’t know,” she stuttered. She knew.

He tilted his head to the side and his eyes narrowed, but he chose not to comment. Instead, he gripped his unfinished book and nodded toward the entrance. “It’s getting late. Hurry up and get some sleep. Don’t miss your classes tomorrow.” The last sentence was pronounced with the educational accent she knew from Lady Faralda. Yrith’s gaze wandered to the tall windows. A soft whine came from the outside, and the glass tablets quivered ever so slightly, but she could see nothing except for a veil of impenetrable darkness.

She opened her mouth to growl back, but her attention was swayed by the book he held so dearly. Two things rang the imaginary alarm bell inside her mind. First, her friend had not offered her any books, as was his habit. Second, the book in his hands was one she had never seen before. Thick and heavy, with pitch black cover and silver lining on its edges. Not once had the orc uttered a word of it.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing her finger at the tome. The sleeve hung over the table like the branch of a weeping willow. She instinctively tugged at it. A ripping sound informed her she had her work cut out for her. She let out a resigned sigh.

“This?” He lifted the thick volume. Yrith did not fail to notice he cautiously hid its title. “Some crappy piece of pulp fiction that someone had left here. Nothing for your delicate taste. At least I have something to keep me warm when I run out of firewood,” he added with a chuckle.

Her inner alarm screamed at her. If there was one person that would never harm a book, she would bet on Urag gro-Shub. She studied his face. His mask was carved with extraordinary care, revealing nothing of his thoughts. Knowing the orc’s nature, she decided to put the subject aside. For now.

“Well, have fun with it then,” a smile formed on her lips. Too wide, she criticized herself in thought. Too late. “I’m going to bed.” Her fingers reached for the ripped sleeve and touched the skin on the other hand. She shivered upon the cold touch.

“Good night, Yrith. Take care. And remember what I told you. Or you’ll turn into a grumpy hermit and grow grey hair before I kick the bucket.”

“Don’t talk about things like that so casually,” she said softly. “You’re the only one I have here.”

“And that’s the problem, you silly,” he grumbled.

Not knowing how to respond, she shook her head and left the Arcanaeum, slapping one hand with the other to prevent herself from tearing the robe entirely.

Upon entering the Hall of Attainment, she froze. Most of its occupants were gathered in the lowest level of the main hall, faces pale as the blue light from the magical fountain in its middle lit them. All of them were laughing and chattering, eyes turned to the tall figure standing on the low stone wall surrounding the azure pool. Yrith could not see very well against the light, and most of her view was blocked by the crowd, but the clear, accentless male voice coming from the center did not sound familiar. Curiously, she pressed herself to the wall by her side and listened.

“… and then I saw him walk out of the tent, and the kid repeated ‘He came out of the Elder’s backside!’ From then on, much to my father’s displeasure, everyone called the place ‘The Elder’s Backside’.” The figure bowed slightly and the fountain behind him flickered merrily, letting out a spray of glittering sparks as though it was trying to add to his mirth. The crowd roared with laughter. Then the stranger turned his head toward Yrith and she could feel his eyes on her, watching her over the heads of her classmates.

“We have a newcomer!” he exclaimed. The crowd turned to Yrith who immediately wished to disappear. A number of sighs echoed through the central hall. Leyna Travi, the blonde Altmeri girl who had so affectionately clung to Cain Aldaryn just a few hours before, stepped out of the crowd, elegantly shook her head to make her white-gold hair fly around her like a veil, and let out a scornful snort.

“Oh, her,” she said. “That’s just our midget. Don’t waste your time on her, Qassir. She’s useless, unbearable and there’s not a single good thing about her.”

“Now now, let’s not be too harsh.” The figure jumped down in a swift, elegant leap and walked straight to the motionless Breton girl. An aisle formed in the crowd almost automatically. Yrith watched him warily, measuring how quickly she would have to react lest he tried to lunge at her. Instinctively she clenched her fists, but his pace stayed calm and relaxed, treading through the hall with somewhat reassuring composure. As he approached, she used the time to study him.

The blue light revealed a tall Redguard boy, not much older than Yrith or her classmates, with long hair plaited in a great number of thin braids. In his unusually symmetric oval face shone a warm, welcoming smile aimed directly at her.

She frowned. A Redguard? Here at the College?

She looked him up and down. Her eyes stopped at the standard novice robes that he had apparently obtained in a rush as they were too short for him, revealing much of his slender arms and legs. He did not seem to mind, however, nor did he bother with putting on any shoes. Just the sight made Yrith shiver with cold.

He stopped a few feet from her, leaning against the cold wall. Yrith resisted the urge to wrap her arms around herself.

“So, you’re one of my new classmates, I take it?” he said in an overly friendly tone. “What’s your name, little urchin?”

She stared at him, quickly pressing the arm with torn sleeve to her hip. Back in Daggerfall, urchins were a very specific sort of people – one that no one envied and no one wanted to become. She frowned in apprehension.

“What’s my name? What’s your name?”

“Ahh, right,” he laughed and straightened his back. “Qassir Tahlrah. At your service.” In one graceful movement, he dropped a curtsy and his hair swept the ground. Yrith did not miss his left hand copying the curve of his back while the right hand was placed on his abdomen. His legs crossed for a split moment before aligning themselves in a parallel. He had perfect mastery over western High Rock manners. She blinked in surprise, freezing momentarily.

“Have I startled you? Would you rather prefer the style of Hammerfell, my homeland? Or the local fierce Nord greeting?”

“N-no, that’s… uh. Well. Yrith… Ravencroft. My name. Is Yrith Ravencroft.” She refrained from formalities, aware she was expressing superiority that she was not entitled to.

“Really,” he mused as he closed the distance between them. His face was inches from Yrith’s, studying her with keen interest. Strangely unable to turn away, she took the time to study him back. Their eyes met. His were almond-shaped with irises of unusual, deep blue color, as far as she could guess in the pale fountain light.

Finally, he pulled back. Yrith realized she had been holding her breath and exhaled deeply.

“Yrith has a nice elven ring to it,” he said. “I don’t want to ruin the sound. I think I’ll still call you urchin.” He winked mischievously at her and reached out to ruffle her hair. She stepped aside to avoid contact and contained a scowl.

“Why thank you,” she pointed sharply. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“Leaving already?” The Redguard looked genuinely saddened. Yrith had her own opinion on the genuineness of certain expressions in certain situations. “How about you join us? It’ll be fun!”

“I must decline.” Her lips widened in a mannered smile. “Thank you for the kind invitation.” She lowered her head with a hand on her chest, testing his knowledge of her homeland’s customs. He simply nodded.

“Looks like I won’t be able to convince you tonight. What a shame. But oh well, you know what they say. There’s always next time. See you tomorrow, little urchin!”

He danced past her and hopped back on the wall, balancing on it while maintaining his tempo. The crowd laughed again and his face widened with a silly grimace. Yrith stared at the strange classmate for a while before retreating to her room.


That night, Yrith had a strange dream. Before her lay a book with cover black as night, modest silver lining being its only decoration. It bore no title, nor the name of the author. She would stare at it for a long time. The faint, flickering candle light would fade before it touched its surface as though the tome was feeding on it. She was sitting in her room, but it was strangely quiet. No wind wailed from outside. No papers flew around and landed on the floor. No footsteps from the octagonal corridor.

Then, the book whispered to her. Quietly, almost inaudibly. She lowered her head to listen in, but could not discern any words. Yet she knew it was an invitation. With a hint of hesitation, her fingers touched the cover and lifted it.

Before her was the universe. Vast and deep, yet so small. It was in the palm of her hand. Suddenly, it surrounded her. She walked among the stars, silver and gold, some fading, some newly born, children of Mundus. Masser and Secunda greeted her with warm light. She saw the Sun, casting warmth onto Nirn. She saw lights of so many colors it made her eyes twitch. And then she saw life. She heard it and felt it. Innumerous beings, merging into a single, great entity. Plants and animals, creatures so small one could not see them at all, souls that were long lost, and those that were being born. They were all part of her. She felt every single one of them, mingling together as though none of them mattered. And yet, each of them did.

She felt small children of men playing by the sea shore and laughing. Two men clashed in fierce battle, pressing shield against shield in attempt to sneak a blade past the enemy’s defenses. An elven woman laughed while the Argonian slave at her feet whined and cowered in fear. A dragon roared in anger and excitement, his breath searing the thatch roofs beneath him. A burning villager cried in pain and begged the gods for mercy. A horde of skeevers scurried through the field, tiny minds filled with a single thought – to survive. A lone cliff racer was searching for its nest that had been put down along with the tree it had been sitting on, overcome with uneasiness.

Emotions flooded her and filled her heart. She could smell them. Breathe them. Happiness, torment, joy, pain, security, doubt, anger, peace, love, hatred, loyalty, envy, lust, and indifference. Everything was in her. They became a mountain she could not climb. They blinded her and made her lose her mind.

It was all a single moment. Time had stopped. The urge to laugh would not cease but she could not laugh yet. The pain stung in her limbs, heart and lungs. She wanted to scream but gasped for air. She felt the blade that had cut through her belly and made her want to pass out instantly. But it was frozen in that single split second. Nothing would move. Nothing would pass.

Then, she heard a whisper inside her mind. It was filled with bitterness of someone that had been betrayed and broken. Her hairs would stand on end, hearing the sour, spiteful, voiceless tone. It grasped her heart and paralyzed it.

“Thou shalt have the world thou desired. Thou shalt live the life thou created. Thou shalt cry tears of blood. And blood thou shalt drink.”

Everything went into motion. Yrith felt herself laugh and cry at the same time. She exploded in ecstasy and broke in terror. She could not recognize the emotions anymore. Her mind went blank.

She sat up, eyes cracking open at once, panting and shaking. Don’t cry, she repeated to herself. Don’t scream. It was a dream. Just a dream.

Breathless, she pulled herself to the window and took a peek outside. The College courtyard was still dark, lit only by the pale blue focal point in its middle. An occasional snowflake fluttered about it before landing by the imposing statue of Arch-Mage Shalidor. She pressed a hot cheek to the cold glass covered in a mosaic of silvery ice fractals. Her breath steadied and she finally felt calmness spreading through her body and mind.

She forced herself out of her bed and with a spark of magic so weak it could not harm a fly, she somehow managed to light a candle. An hourglass standing on one of the few shelves on the walls told her she still had a few hours until dawn. But she was now completely awake. Trying to take her mind off the strangely realistic and painful dream, she grabbed a book and dug into her blankets.

Frog Prince and the Lizard Witch, said the weathered title that had once been imprinted in gold. She instinctively opened it exactly at the page where she had last stopped, but before her eyes could settle on the soothingly curling script, she heard a knock on the door. Her eyebrows shot up. Who in Oblivion would disturb her at this hour?

She set the book aside and watched the old, studded door with caution. Another knock came, this time with urgency that had not been there before. Slowly, she slid into her slippers and trod to the door. Hand placed on the handle, she hesitated. There was a third knock. It was ruthless with no feigned politeness.

“I know you can hear me, midget, so open the door before I bust it!”

The hand sank to her hip. With a sour scowl, she resolutely returned to her bed, blew the candle out and buried herself deep under the blankets until not a hair stuck out.

The knocking continued. After a while, the Dunmer on the other side of the door lost patience. There was a humming sound as he called on his magic, a click, and the door flew open. Through the several layers of fabric, she could faintly discern approaching light. The blankets flew off in one swift movement.

“Morning, midget. Rise and shine!”

Cain Aldaryn loomed above her, fiery hair dark against the ball of light floating over his head. Cold air made her limbs numb and she shivered.

“I’ll show you shine,” she uttered dryly. “Has it ever occurred to you to check the clock before you go for a visit? Or do you not have those in Morrowind?”

“We do. And they welcome new day long before the barbarians from High Rock part with the old one. So get up before I make you. We’ve got work to do.”

Yrith jumped on her feet, fists clenched and eyes narrow in rage. Cain rewarded her with a sneer.

“Oooh, so you can do it if you want. Splendid. Let’s go.”

“I told you I’m not…”

“Oh you are. I still know something I shouldn’t. And the rest of the College still doesn’t. Yet.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, displaying a disturbingly innocent grin which, in fact, was not innocent at all. Yrith clasped her hands together, preventing herself from punching him.

“Get out,” she ordered.

“No book talk today? But no, I think I will stay here.”

“Get out!” she hissed. He opened his mouth but his eyes traced her hand, grabbing the rim of her night robe. For a moment, she thought his ebony skin turned the usual ashen color of his kinsmen. Then he turned around and marched from her room, slamming the door behind him.

“I’m giving you one minute!” he informed her.

From somewhere in the corridor, she could hear another person shout “Quiet down there! People are sleeping here!” She chuckled under her breath.

A minute later, he was dragging her through the courtyard. It was deserted save for a couple of crows that had decided to settle under one of the bushes lining the walls. She staggered as he pulled the collar of her ancient, worn coat, barely keeping her balance. Grabbing his hand, she thought of shaking him off, but then she smiled and let herself sink to the ground. The Dunmer stopped. At that moment, Yrith thought to herself that his incredulous stare, like a clueless horker, was worth the stinging of the cold snow.

“What in Oblivion are you…”

She shrugged without a word. He released her, turning on his heel.

“Whatever. Don’t stay behind.” And he paced ahead. She smirked and followed, still silent but content. For the whole trip through the city of Winterhold, down the ravine and back, they did not speak to one another. That is, until the obnoxious elf decided to open his mouth again.

They were a few ells from the city’s lowest house. Yrith, naturally, was the one carrying the bag full of fish. The moist froze immediately on its surface before it could soak through her cloak. The Dunmer was walking two steps behind her, making her look over her shoulder every now and then.

“What? Afraid I might kick you?”

She pressed her lips tightly together, refusing to react. They reached the houses. A young Nord boy with a mop of tousled chestnut hair, no more than ten years old, peeked out of a door, shooting them a suspicious look. Then she heard him hiss “Mages, pah!” And the door shut close. She gave it a pensive look. No one liked mages, especially now that there had been several murders all around the province, all apparently done by the means of magic. Yrith did not know what to think of it. She did not consider herself a mage, but the constant accusations did not put her in good spirits. She picked up her pace, eyes fixed on the bridge ahead.

“So, I was thinking,” Cain tried again. Yrith wished she knew a spell that would temporarily deafen her. “I’m not really feeling like doing our next conjuration assignment. What do you say…”

“Dream on,” she grunted.

“Well, apparently you’re not that worried about what might happen then.”

She turned to him abruptly, stopping at once and making him crash into her. He lost his balance and caught her robes. They both fell over to the ruffled snow, ending in a bundle of limbs and bodies, covered in white from top to bottom.

“You kids, what are you doing over there?!” a guard called to them. Yrith rose on her elbows, shaking her head wildly to get rid of the snow in her face. Then she noticed Cain leaning to her, much closer than she would have liked. Smirking, she kicked him in his shin and jumped back on her feet.

“Why you…” He brushed the frost off of his hair and shoulders. She concealed a grin, noticing how his previously well-groomed spikes of fiery hair had gone down limply, tiny drops of water on their ends.

“Quite right,” she said with a simple shrug. “I’m not worried. Not when it comes to you, at least.”

“Hah. And why not?”

“Because your pride couldn’t bear exposing someone who is better than you. Especially me.” She quickly checked the state of the fish bag and set out once more. The guard was still watching her and she gave him an innocent smile. He stood there motionlessly, making her wonder what his face looked like underneath that bucket-like helmet of his.

“My what?” she heard an exasperated cry somewhere behind her. “How dare you talk like you know me?”

“Right. Then you don’t pretend you know me. Unlike you, I didn’t come here on my own free will. I have no reason to even try to become a mage.”

Before she could say another word, he was at her, pushing her down into the snow again. His right hand was on her shoulder while the left one reached for her neck, grabbing it mercilessly until she gasped for air, his eyes gleaming furiously. She dropped the bag on the ground beside her. The spilling fish produced a squelching sound, strangely alien in the never-ending winter.

“You think it was my choice?” he breathed. His hands trembled. For the first time, Yrith looked right in his eyes. There was blind rage in them… and hurt. “You think I just packed my things one day and came here, determined to become a mage? You… you know what? You’re right. I shouldn’t waste my time with losers who can’t even grasp reality and do their best to make it their life.”

With that, he walked away, leaving her to her confused thoughts. She lay there in the snow, with small cloudlets of hot air coming out of her mouth, finding herself unable to move. What in Oblivion was that about? For the first time in history, Cain had seemed like a human, so to speak, but she was not sure if she liked it that way. She was used to being insulted by him, but this time, it actually stung.

“Are you all right?” she heard a voice above her. Her eyes met two dark holes in a steel bucket-like helmet as she cocked her head backwards to take a look at whomever had spoken to her. “That boy… did he try to do anything to you?”

She exhaled and sat up slowly, reaching for the bag and the spilled fish.

“Who knows,” she muttered absentmindedly. The guard stood there in silence, apparently not realizing that she could not see underneath the helmet. Finally, she forced herself on her feet and staggered to the College, bent under the weight of her load.

The College courtyard was swarming with people. Students rushing to their classes and seminars, teachers preparing for their courses, residents simply greeting the new morning. The statue of Shalidor was now holding two balls of light in his hands, one like pure fire, the other an orb of crystal clear ice. It meant that both Masser and Secunda would be in full moon that night.

Next to the statue stood a small group of people, surrounding a Redguard boy. She remembered the last night and hurried to the kitchen. Friendly as he was, she did not feel the desire to talk to him.

A few moments later, everyone was assembled around the blue fountain in the Hall of the Elements, waiting for the restoration class to start. Qassir was deep in conversation with the gaunt, bronze-furred Ha’risha, their only Khajiit classmate. Yrith knew her to resent her own kind and refrain from speaking like the rest of the catfolk, always referring to herself in first person. But that didn’t stop her from twitching her pointy ears and whiskers or whipping the floor with her tail in excitement. Surprisingly enough, Cain stood aloof, glaring at his so-called friends who now devoted all their attention to the Redguard. He smiled angelically to everyone around, laughing at everything they said. Then he saw Yrith and sent her a wave. She earned herself a few glares and hisses and quickly turned away, cheeks flushing red.

An elder Breton woman entered the room. As always, Yrith stared enviously at the restoration teacher’s hairstyle. A complicated maze of straw-colored tails and braids ending in elegant thin tips that just barely touched her shoulders. Yrith could imagine that Master Colette Marence spent all of her morning working on her hair. That, or she invented a new spell for it. Either way, she was a beauty, even in her age. And despite that, men constantly failed to notice her. Perhaps they did not like her unusually high-pitched voice, reminiscent of the creaky hinges of the entrance door to the Hall of the Elements. Just as Yrith thought about it, its echo filled the octagonal room.

“Greetings, class,” she said as she walked through the small crowd. “As this is the first lesson of the day, I would like to welcome our new student who will be joining us for the first time. His name is Qassir Tahlrah. He came to us from Hammerfell. Everyone, please, be good to him.”

There was an applause. Yrith remembered several people joining them like this, but never before had her classmates cheered this loudly. She shot a glance at the Redguard. A soft smile played on his lips. One that revealed nothing of his thoughts. Colette Marence clapped her hands and the class went quiet.

“Thank you. Now that we are properly introduced, we can start the class. Pair up. Of course, having a new student also means that one of you will have to pair up with Yrith.”

Yrith sighed inaudibly. When it came to working in pairs, she was always the one to practice her magic with the teacher. That was about to change and she was certainly not looking forward to being teamed up with some spiteful classmate of hers. Her eyes wandered from one classmate to another. Tanya Verus, a slight Imperial girl with two adorable chestnut pigtails, was the only one who did not seem openly hostile. She was pinning her elvenly shaped eyes to the floor as usual. Nobody was pleased. Except…

Her new Redguard classmate stepped out of the crowd, the smile still curling on his lips. “I don’t mind pairing up with the urchin,” he said in a sweet voice.

Yrith suppressed a twitch in her eye at the sound of her nickname.

“Urch… I take it you are aware that she’s… not exactly known for her magical prowess then?” There was a clear hint of displeasure in Master Marence’s voice. Quiet chuckles filled the cold air. Yrith felt the urge to leave immediately.

“So I heard. But teaming with someone skilled would be boring, right?” Qassir laughed and gave Yrith a wink as he joined her. She pursed her lips, uncertain whether she should feel pleased or offended. Then she caught a glare directed at her person and her gaze met with the golden eyes of Leyna Travi. They stared at each other for a lengthy moment.

“Very well,” Colette Marence concluded and clapped her hands, causing both girls to snap back to reality. “Everyone sit down then. It’s meditation time.”

Qassir threw a glance down to his feet, now shod in soft, padded boots of a very much unidentifiable greyish color. “Do we…?” he suggested with raised eyebrows.

“Yes, we sit on this cold, inhospitable floor,” Yrith shrugged. With just a hint of mischief, she watched his expression out of the corner of her eye.

“Oh,” he said simply and gave an innocent smile. Yrith tried to hide her disappointment. “Strange that you take it so well. I thought it was warmer in Daggerfall.”

“How did you know I came from Daggerfall?”

“Heard it somewhere. I think it was one of your classmates?”

“I never talk to them. Especially not about myself.”

“Oh. Then maybe just a lucky guess.” He laughed, earning himself a reproachful look from Master Marence. Head bowing slightly in apology, he seated himself on one of the grey floor tiles. Yrith frowned. She did not like his smile. She did not like it at all.

They closed their eyes. The meditations they did before every restoration class included delving deep down into one’s soul and reaching for inner source of energy. “When healing or defending, you must have absolute control over your power and emotions,” Colette Marence reminded them. “Your magic is but an extension of yourself. It is one of the many ways you can interact with the world and communicate with it. Keep in mind that whatever you do with magic, people affected by it can feel every single bit of it. If your healing is inconsistent, you might, on the contrary, harm the person you are trying to heal. If your ward wavers, it might cost you your life. In restoration, simple mistakes may prove fatal.”

Yrith took a deep breath. Her mind was filled with mingling thoughts, mostly of her new conjuration teacher and the strange Redguard who knew more than he should. “Clear your mind.” It was easier said than done. Her soul felt like raging ocean in a storm. It was simple to conjure an atronach that came to her from an entirely different plane. To control her own soul, she would first have to confront it. And she was painfully aware of the fact that she kept running from her own feelings. Even more than that she was aware of the Redguard sitting next to her who, in spite of having his eyes shut tight, seemed to register her every movement. She opened one eye to take a peek. He followed immediately, lips quirking in amusement. His mouth moved.

“Can’t concentrate?” she deduced.

She replied with a shrug.

His hand reached for hers. She felt the urge to pull away but resisted reluctantly, curious what would follow. His fingers touched her and slid up toward her wrist. She took a deep breath, thinking of stopping him, but his hand suddenly ceased its movement. She threw a wary look around, but no one was watching. She caught an occasional sigh or hum, but all the eyes were shut tight. Colette Marence was sitting on the stone edge of the light fountain, taking deep breaths with the rest of them.

Qassir’s fingers wrapped around her wrist tightly. She jerked and turned to him abruptly. He shook his head, still wearing that strange smile of his. Her eyes closed on their own, as though some invisible force had made them. All of a sudden, a flush of energy flowed into her, clouding her mind into a soothing haze. She was slowly forgetting where she was and what she was doing. Silent force flowed around her, washing away her every thought like purifying water. No sooner did she open her eyes and gasp in surprise than another clap of Colette’s hands announced the end of the meditation.

She stared at her partner in confusion.

“What did you do?”

“Ah, just some harmless trick I learned at home,” he said. His smile stayed at its place. “I only directed your energy the right way.”

“Harmless? You just trifled with the energy of my soul. That can hardly be considered harmless! One step further and I could take you for a necromancer!”

“You’re not dead.”

“That’s not the point!”

Yrith could not imagine the Redguard’s smile getting any wider, but that is exactly what it did at that moment. He leaned to her and whispered in her ear.

“I hear you tend to seek refuge in the library. For someone who can’t cast spells, you’re quite knowledgeable. Good. That’ll make my job so much easier.”

Questions and more questions erupted in Yrith’s head. But no, she would not give him the pleasure.

“I don’t read books on magic,” she hissed.

The Redguard looked amused. She clenched her fists. How she hated it when people had fun at her expense. She looked away and silently prayed for salvation. As if answering her call, Colette Marence filled the room with the creaky sound of her voice.

Their next task was to practice ward spells. One person was supposed to shoot weak and harmless missiles while the other one had to block them with a ward. Yrith first took on the role of the attacker, enjoying that, for once, the strength of her magical missiles was not considered too weak. No one would scold her for not being able to cast a strong fire bolt. On the other hand, Cain had to apologize several times as Leyna Travi, his partner, stepped sideways to avoid getting hit by a brightly flaring fire bolt. It dissolved into a myriad of sparks when it collided with the protective barrier surrounding the whole Hall of the Elements.

Becoming the defender was not something Cain was looking forward to, and neither did Yrith – for a completely different reason. While Cain simply did not like to defend, Yrith couldn’t do it at all. She could see Qassir had perfect control over his magic. His sparks were harmless and consistent. When Yrith failed for the fourth time, the twinkling shower tingled her bare hands but did nothing more. She sighed. Qassir walked to her, wearing a look full of compassion. For some reason, she felt annoyed.

“Don’t worry,” he told her gently, “not everyone is good right from the start. Take it easy. You feel that clutch of energy around your heart?”

She nodded, having mastered that part when studying conjuration.

“Tug at it, pull some of it out and use it, as raw as you can. You don’t mix it with any other energy or substance when creating magical shields, and you don’t transform it. It’s just you and your own soul. Might be hard at first, but you’ll get the gist of it eventually.”

Another nod. She recalled someone telling her before, but she had never cared enough to use the knowledge. But now she was feeling something that was entirely new to her. Looking in her partner’s deep blue eyes and smiling face, she did not want to lose to him. He managed to mock and encourage her at the same time. Why would she let him do that?

She frowned and concentrated. She reached for her soul, feeling the stirred emotions inside. Her mind touched the dark edge of the subconscious she had always been scared to confront. From the depths of her very being, she could hear own voice. The blame is on you. You do not have the right to live.

She pulled away at once and felt color retreating from her face. For the first time, her teammate was not smiling, a deep wrinkle forming between his furrowed eyebrows.

“Are you all right? You look like you’ve just had one of those netchling elixirs… you know, the ones that Brelyna brought… heard quite some stories about ’em.”

Yrith gave him a weak smile and quickly concealed her fear.

“Let’s continue,” she said.

He nodded and a spray of cute tiny sparks was shot at her. Promptly, she reached for her soul and found the energy, but it stirred and bubbled, drowned in a flood of conflicting emotions, and she retreated, stepping back before the Redguard’s spell. He frowned, looking perhaps slightly disappointed. Or maybe deep in thought. She sighed and shook her head.

“Let’s try it once more,” he said, and there was a hint of something she could not identify in his voice, something that sent shivers down her spine. Was it excitement? No, that couldn’t be right…

He raised both of his hands and blazing flames enveloped his fingers. She winced at the sight, noticing that the spell looked much stronger than any she had ever seen anyone use on the College grounds. She hesitated, hypnotized by the fire. She should step away. Avoid getting hurt.

She could not move.

He hinted a smile. It was full of strange, non-hostile wickedness. She stared at him, holding her breath, and her hands instinctively shot upward in a defensive pose.

Then, a fireball shot from the tips of his fingers and charged at her at a blinding speed. She heard sudden screams around her, and for a moment, she saw death embracing her in its cold grip. Her mind went blank and she gasped. Time had stopped. She reached for the energy in her soul.

You do not have the right to live! Leave! Magic is not yours to command!

“No,” she breathed. “This is my soul. My magic. And I want to live!”

And she took a generous portion of what she had locked away herself.

Raw magicka spread into a round force field in front of her. It hummed and its edges flickered. A strong stable shield formed before her, absorbing the power of the fiery sphere at once. It dissolved into a blazing shower that slowly faded away. The shield followed. Yrith stared at her own hands incredulously, turning them as if she was looking for a hole that had let the magic out.

Then she fell down on her knees with a gasp, covering her mouth with her hands as her classmates gathered around her. Her heart was pounding so fiercely that Qassir’s voice sounded faint and distant.

“See? I knew you could do it!”

Raising her head, she saw him grinning at her until Colette stepped in her sight.

“This… this…” she stammered and Yrith could only imagine how shocked her teacher must have looked, standing with her back turned to her, trembling heavily. “Enough,” she whispered at last. “I will not see this kind of conduct here ever again, or you are out of here before you can say ‘netch’. Yrith may be… may have been incompetent, but she is still our student. I will see you in my room.”

“So… do I get to collect fish as well?” Qassir asked. Even in this situation, he managed to maintain his utmost innocent look.

“I believe two people are more than enough to take care of that,” came the stern reply.

“Awww,” he sighed as he picked up his backpack. “I was actually looking forward to joining you.” He winked at Yrith mischievously and walked away with grace, not a single movement of his revealing that he had just been promised a penalty. Just like the rest of her class, Yrith stared at him in disbelief, unsure of what to make of it all.

Chapter 3: There Is No Answer without a Question

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Singird Larkwing was not pleased. Not even two days had passed since he had arrived in the College, and the world was already upside down. Back in his student days, rigid discipline had been his only motivation. To arrive late for the class, neglect one’s studies, or disrespect a teacher would have been out of question. Now there were so many who did the latter… and one managed to cross all the lines at once. We lost support from the jarls, they’d said. But to invite brats from wealthy households and let them trample on the College’s honor and tradition? The world must have gone mad.

The newly appointed conjuration master tried to comfort himself with the thought of safety and access to infinite knowledge within the College walls, but the sight of the many books and clothes, now lying scattered all around his chamber, made his hopes fade. No, this was not the safe haven it had used to be. Someone had ransacked his room, but no matter how hard Singird looked, he could not find what was missing. He triple checked that the letter from Jarl Ulfric was in its place. He reread it several times and held it up against the light of his moon-shaped paperweight that glowed in pale, turquoise light whenever it became dark outside. It was without a doubt the same paper he had received on that dreadful day, the very document that had made him leave home and seek answers in Winterhold.

He put it back in the book about soul recreation. From the depths of a drawer below his desk he withdrew a thin notebook. A seam of silver string held together a number of blank papers in a plain hard cover wrapped in pale blue fabric. It was a journal, or, to be precise, it was supposed to be a journal. Master Gestor had urged him to make it to help him relax and pour out all his troubles. Singird had never written a single line in it, but the sight of the blank pages flipping under his fingers had a strangely soothing effect on him.

Leafing through the notebook, he listened to the soft rustle of the paper. And then, suddenly, he grabbed a quill and wrote on the first page:

How can I find an answer when I don’t even know the question?

He stared at his own words, waiting for the ink to dry. Then, he snapped the journal shut in one resolute gesture and gave his room a stern look. The mess was making him anxious.

“Discipline,” he breathed to himself. He furrowed his brows in concentration before flapping his sleeveless arms. A telekinetic wave seized one book after another and moved them to their rightful places. The clothes that had been lying about seemingly folded themselves and flew to their respective drawers and shelves. The hourglass with crystal clear sand sat in the middle of its shelf, dominating the room once more. In just a few moments, the room was clean, items on the desk organized into symmetric figures and all surfaces were rid of the last speck of dust. Singird sighed in relief, grabbed his journal and the satchel containing all his research notes and made for the door. It was time to take matters in his own hands.

His former master’s chamber was deserted. Singird rolled his eyes upon looking at the desk across the room, or, rather, the pile of books, scrolls, containers and various ingredients that hid it from his sight. Several circular translucent objects lay on the ground next to it and there was a puddle of strange green liquid which spread from a chest beneath the bed. Singird suppressed a scowl and instinctively swept the dust from one of the shelves. Despite himself, a soft smile curled on his lips. It seemed that some things never change.

“If you’re looking for Phinis, he went to the Arcanaeum,” a voice spoke from behind. It was quiet and composed, yet sharp enough to give off the impression that its owner is not someone to be trifled with. Singird quickly put on a serious face.

“Miss Ervine,” he said, turning around to face a stern looking Breton beauty with features almost as sharp as her voice. In spite of her small size, she was blessed with the gift of natural authority. That was Mirabelle Ervine, the Master Wizard of the College. “I see. I suppose it is time to visit my old orcish… friend. How are the older students faring?”

“The progress of their research is… satisfactory,” she replied coolly.

“I hope it is. Last time I remember, that Khajiit, J’zargo, caused an explosion and somehow managed to spawn some hairy… things in the still. I thought the College was short on coin, not looking for reasons to buy new equipment.”

There was not a spark of warmth in the air. The two mages stared at each other through the doorway, eyes narrowed and lips pressed tightly together. To an outsider, it might have appeared as though they turned into a pair of statues, motionlessly frozen in time. Then, Mirabelle spoke and her quiet voice carried dangerously through the hall.

“I believe that is my responsibility, Master Larkwing. Your job is to deliver quality education to our students.”

“Speaking of which, Yrith Ravencroft…”

“I am aware. You made sure you informed the whole College. Miss Ravencroft is here on Lady Faralda’s expense and it is solely her decision whether she stays here or not. Now if you’ll excuse me, I shall be on my way.”

“The Arch-Mage must schedule a meeting if I file an official complaint.”

“That she must. I’m sure she will find a suitable date for it, considering the gravity of the problem.”

“Then I believe there is nothing to worry about.”

“Certainly.” With a heavenly smile on her lips, Mirabelle Ervine left the room.

Singird followed her closely, face carved in stone. He picked up the pace to calm himself down, letting the wind cool his face that struggled not to flush in outrage.

It had been quite some time since Singird had last seen the imposing College library. Once again, he admired the countless shelves of neatly organized books lining every wall. They were held by massive stone pilasters supporting the tall vaulted roof. He always had a weak spot for Cyrodilic architecture. It was tidy, full of carefully designed symmetry and regular shapes, a result of accurate planning. Suddenly feeling inappropriate, he inspected the state of his robes, assuring himself that the rim was smoothed out and no thread hung from the seams. When he was certain that everything about him was perfect, he entered the lit inner circle of the Arcanaeum. Such a beautiful place… if it weren’t for the librarian.

Urag gro-Shub was sitting at his desk, immersed in a giant tome with pitch black cover. The orc was biting his lower lip with his large yellowish teeth, providing an amusing sight to behold. Upon hearing footsteps, he raised his head. Singird’s eyes slid sideways, purposely ignoring him. Instead, they fixed themselves on the balding Breton sitting in a dark corner beside Urag’s desk, eyes on a book in his lap. Singird gave the scene a painful scowl. Phinis Gestor had always been an expert on finding the darkest corner of the room to read, no matter how much it would strain his eyes.

“Master Gestor,” Singird spoke in low voice. The former conjuration teacher raised his head.

“Ah, if it isn’t our little prodigy,” the Breton smiled and rose from his seat, squeezing his student in a brief, yet warm embrace. Singird could faintly recognize the scent of blackberries and southern marsh spices. His master must have spent some quality time with the Arch-Mage and her supply of Velvet LeChance, one of the finest Argonian liquors. “I was wondering when you’d show up. Welcome back, Singird.”

The orc at the desk cleared his throat meaningfully. The two of them paid no heed to him, far too absorbed in their little moment of nostalgia.

“So, what brings you here?” Phinis asked. “Surely you didn’t come here just to make yourself some coin, did you? I bet the jarls in the cities could offer you much more than that.”

“Coin?” Singird laughed almost bitterly. “No, not really. I am in search of something… and someone. Speaking of coin, the College is overflowing with slackers. Is the situation really so desperate that we need to accept brats from snob families and even Lady Faralda’s freshly found foster child?”

“Well, we’ve… seen better times. No support comes from the cities anymore, Singird. The College is struggling, we have no means to continue our research… and no one who would appreciate it. As much as I hate meddling in politics, we could use an influential figure right now. But you know, there are rumors… until recently, we had generous support from Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun, Jarl Elisif of Solitude, and Jarl Laila of Riften. I believe they were hoping that some of us would return the favor once the war broke out. But all of them called off their caravans at the same time. Even if there have been murder cases involving magic recently, it all seems far too convenient to be a coincidence. There has been unrest among the College staff. Rumors that the College has been… compromised.”

Singird frowned. “Then my news won’t please you. My…”

“Sure, sure, don’t mind me,” the orc cut in. Both men turned to him with a start. “I’m just an old orc who, coincidentally, happens to be the current owner and caretaker of this library. I’m not important at all, nor am I your elder. And I definitely do not deserve the slightest hint of respect. Go ahead, do your things. You don’t need to concern yourselves with me.”

“Well, I apologize, sir,” Singird uttered, barely suppressing a scoff. “I mean… it has been a long time.”

The Orsimer knit his brows at the quasi-apology, returning to his book with a more than conspicuous sigh. “Haven’t changed one bit, eh, Larkwing?”

With his back to the librarian, the Nord grimaced to his teacher. “In fact, I have been looking for you, Master Gestor. There is something I would like you to look at. Perhaps you could help me with this?”

From the depths of his satchel, Singird withdrew a folded piece of paper. He invited Master Gestor to the lit table in the center of the room where he spread it, smoothing out the folds. It appeared to be some sort of a diagram. Lines and curves entwined and crossed each other in a complicated circular ornament. At a closer look, it resembled a constellation of stars, each heading in certain direction. All the lines met in the center of the circle, forming a dark hole. Every crossing was carefully marked and captioned and there were notes and formulas scribbled all around the circle. Phinis’s eyes widened in astonishment.

“Singird,” he breathed, scanning the web of thin ink lines again and again. “What are you trying to… actually, who are you trying to… this is… rare. I can’t even imagine how long it must have taken you to put this together… especially outside of the College. And you’ve come all the way here to ask me for help with this?”

“That is what I was hoping for.”

“I can’t, Singe. You know I can’t. I don’t have the power. You would need an extraordinarily powerful conjurer to assist you as a medium, and the last one capable of such a deed passed away some eighty-two years ago in the Great Collapse. Unless, of course, you would like to have a dragon do you the favor, and I doubt any of those beasts would be willing to comply. But, well… you could always ask the Arch-Mage. I’d say being the Dragonborn’s sister has its perks.” He gave his student a mischievous wink and earned himself a scoff.

Singird did not like to be reminded of his last encounter with the new Arch-Mage. Saying “it did not exactly go as planned” was a very euphemistic way of describing it. He sighed.

“I… you don’t understand,” he said as he leaned toward his teacher. “My family… throughout the last five generations or so, there have been…” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “mysterious deaths and disappearances. But all the traces lead here. I need more information.”

Deaths? Singe… is your teaching here just a guise to avert prying eyes?”

“Yes and no. I was hoping to find a miraculous child among the new students…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

“And that’s why you agreed to take the job in the end, I see,” Phinis nodded. “But they’re just children from rich families, Singird. Many of them were most likely sent here to make way for their siblings who are about to inherit the family fortune. Aren’t you expecting too much of them?”

“Never say die, they say… but I give up. If it were up to me, I’d have half of them expelled this very moment!” Singird unwittingly raised his voice, clutching his fists. Urag gro-Shub, still sitting at his desk, took his eyes off his book and shot him a warning look.

“Now now…”

“Especially Yrith Ravencroft. The useless little…”

“Whoa whoa, careful now,” the orc growled. His eyes clashed with Singird’s. Phinis shifted his weight nervously. “You dare touch her, Larkwing, and you’ll be sorry. The fact that you don’t recognize her worth doesn’t mean she has none. Everybody needs to sort out their life from time to time.”

“Ah, I see she’s got herself some admirers. Well, she’d better sort out her life before she’s out of here.”

Urag rose, his eyes gleaming dangerously at the Nord. Phinis quickly followed him, positioning himself between the two antagonists.

“Please, let’s all just calm down, shall we?” He waved his hands like an enchanted scarecrow. “Master gro-Shub, you don’t need to worry, nothing will happen to Miss Ravencroft. Singird, I don’t think you need to go that far. Just… try not to take things too seriously…”

“It’s she who doesn’t take them seriously enough!”

“Oh, chill, sourpuss, the baldy’s right,” Urag cut in curtly. “Stop eating lemons and try looking on the bright side for once, will ya?”

“Baldy?” Phinis raised his brows, staring at the green skin which presented most of the librarian’s head as his white hair slowly gave way to it.

“Sourpuss?” his pupil joined him, looking like a living definition of the word he had just questioned.

“What can I do with you two?” Phinis shook his head in resignation. “Singird, why don’t you look at some of the books here? Urag made a copy of the Seer’s Testaments recently. You know, the ones written by Dorion Trith before the Great Collapse. It’s quite fascinating how one can predict things to come so easily.”

“If you say so, Master Gestor,” the Nord gave in reluctantly, following his master to one of the alcoves surrounding the outer circle. Most of its space was taken by an old pain-peeled desk dominated by a column of books. Singird could not overlook that their edges were lined with absolute precision. Urag gro-Shub was the only one beside him capable of arranging them like that. But he was an orc, for the Nine’s sake!

Phinis took a book from top of the pile and handed it to his pupil. He accepted it and examined its contents. It was written in a neat script with elegant curves and thin lines arranged in perfectly straight rows.

“The writing is satisfactory,” he nodded. “Considering who’s responsible for it.”

The orc snorted in outrage. “Says the Nord mage. By Malacath, thank you for reminding me why I don’t like you.”

“Please,” Phinis tried to no avail.

“Anytime, greenskin.” The young mage was staring at the page before him, reading the same sentence over and over again.

“Mind your tongue, saucebox,” the orc hissed.

Phinis Gestor stared at them, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Just let me know when you two are finished,” he sighed. “I’ll be down at the Hall of the Elements. In the meantime, maybe you could ask some of the students there to teach you more of an adult approach.”

Singird raised his head to defend himself, but his teacher he was gone, his footsteps slowly fading away. With a resigned sigh, he returned to the book.

Seer’s Testaments was an interesting work concerning the attitude toward magic in the next hundred years, taken from year 119 of the fourth era. Although the book had been written more than eighty years before, the author, Dorion Trith, had been quite accurate in his estimates. Under normal circumstances, Singird would have loved to read about the development of magical awareness as it was currently the most pressing issue of the College, but right now there was that tiny voice in his head, continually repeating the words of his master.

You would need an extraordinarily powerful conjurer…

The ritual he was about to perform was of utmost importance to him, but even Master Gestor with his vast knowledge of magical studies and those concerned with them could not recall a single person powerful enough to assist him. The name of Falion of Morthal had not been mentioned at all. How could it be that hard? He only wanted to…

… do something that your parents and even the parents of your parents failed to do, reminded him that annoying tiny voice.

“Oblivion take it,” he grunted as he stood up.

“No swearing in the library,” Urag notified him dryly.

“Silence, orc. You just made that up.” Singird carefully placed the book back on top of the column and made for the door. Urag gave him a scowl as he passed him.

“Maybe I did.” Singird would not have dreamt of an orc with an angelic expression, but that was exactly what he saw.

He shook his head in resignation, deciding against quarrelling further, and left the room. A gust of fresh air reminded him of how cold Winterhold could be. It was almost summer time, but here in the far north, there was no sign of it. Falkreath, his hometown, was situated in a valley full of greenery and burbling creeks where ice and snow melted in the summer and gave way to carpets of grass, cushion plants, daisies and lavender fields. The sun shining through the pine branches was warm there. Here, the only thing that could warm him was a tankard of good old Nord mead. And now that he thought about it, that was not a bad idea at all.


As always, the city of Winterhold was quiet. No children running around, no pitchers shouting over each other, no hags gossiping around every corner, no barking dogs and definitely no jugglers. A drunk man was quietly singing to himself before the Frozen Hearth, but that was all the entertainment one could hope for. Singird entered the cozy inn and took a seat right by the entrance. It was always safer to be near the exit lest an incident occurred. Even if this was the last place on Nirn where one would expect it.

“Ah, the young Larkwing,” said the ginger-haired waitress wiping the table next to him. She had round, rosy cheeks, big hazelnut eyes and a wide smile that welcomed him like her own. Haran was her name, and she was the only one Singird could forgive for wearing a tattered apron whose color was indistinguishable under the many stains it bore. Not to mention it was awry. She promptly set the cloth she was holding aside and fetched him a tankard. “The usual, right?” She did not wait for an answer. “I knew you would come. I think the whole collegium has been here in the past few days. Everyone’s talking about you.”

“Truly?” The Nord accepted the mead with gratitude and took a sip. The familiar warmth that spread in his throat was both thrilling and soothing.

Haran sat down and leaned over the table. “Oh yes, you’ve raised quite the uproar among the teachers. A prodigy coming back, the youngest teacher in the College history… not to mention your latest… encounters with some of the students. All eyes are on you, my friend.”

“I am not sure whether I should be pleased or offended,” Singird muttered more to himself than to the twittering lady across the table.

“Oh, come on, little Singe,” she quipped, “it’ll pass. Just give it some time.”

Little Singe. He hadn’t heard this name for quite some time. And even though he glowered at her sulkily, deep inside he was pleased.

“Do you believe that? Have you seen the students?”

“Well, two of them passed through the city last night and this morning. I know one of them quite well. But otherwise no, I haven’t. They don’t let us, normal people, to the College grounds. Raises quite a suspicion, I must say.”

“You don’t need to worry. We only don’t want to be distracted from our research. In any case, those two were out on my orders. For misconduct.”

“For misconduct? Nine Almighty, Singird, you sure don’t lose your time.”

The door opened with a creak that split the ears, stopping Singird from defending himself. A figure entered the room, one that would be best described as gigantic. A Nord man with a thick mop of wheat-colored hair, one lock plaited in the typical Nord braid, and an equally thick beard. His body was nothing but steel-hard muscle scantily clad in a set of studded armor. A great two-handed axe was attached to his back. Around his neck hung an amulet of Talos and the wristbands he was wearing bore the image of the Stormcloak bear with a spiral under its eye. He would have appeared to be a standard Nord if not for his unusual size. Singird immediately recognized him and jumped from his seat.

“Toddvar!” he raised a hand to get his attention. “I was not expecting to see you around here. Long time no see.”

“If it ain’t our magical prodigy, Singird the Crank!” the man beamed as he pulled another chair to Singird’s table. He shook his whole arm, took off his axe as if it were a child’s toy and seated himself with arms behind his back. “Ah, I say it every time, but the chairs never come in proper sizes. Haran, m’ dear, could you fetch this parched man a bit o’ ale?”

“Right away,” the rosy-cheeked waitress replied and promptly served a tankard of golden liquid. The huge Nord rewarded her with a wide smile and a nod.

“Now that’s the stuff,” he praised. “Been on me feet all day. How goes it around here? Heard you teach kids now, Singe.”

“He’s been here two days and already punished two of them!” Haran laughed. “Busy man, isn’t he?”

“I’d expect nothing less from him!”

It was very hard for Singird to maintain his serious expression. He almost let a corner of his mouth twitch, but fortunately prevented it in the last moment.

“I caught them fighting,” he defended. “Well, the Dunmer can at least cast spells properly, but Yrith Ravencroft? You should…”

“Wait a moment. Yrith? Yrith is getting punished?”

“You know her, Toddvar?”

“Well, we all know her, dear,” Haran said. “Back when her folks were still around, she was the brightest soul in the city. Always with a book or helping around, learning whatever there was to learn. Hand work or text, she took it all in. Her folks moved here with her a few years back. Came from High Rock, they said. And they brought a whole library with them. Also concocted remedies for our sick. The whole family was a bit eccentric, true, but not in the bad way. We all welcomed the girl. Sweet little darling, she was. Always alone too.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Yrith Ravencroft I know. Except for the last part.”

“Aw, c’mon, Singe, you wanna tell me that Yrith can’t cast spells? That Yrith?”

“That is what I am saying, yes.”

Toddvar wriggled in his seat and leaned over the table. The chair let out a painful squeak. “That makes no sense, Singe. I recall her studying some magic. She always struggled for her parents’ attention and did everything to make ‘em notice her. And the Yrith I know never stops halfway. If she was reading books on magic, then she can do magic. I can assure you, sure as I’m sitting here. Haran, sugar, do you have a bigger tankard?”

The ginger woman laughed and swiftly served him a flagon. Toddvar’s smile widened as he grabbed it and downed it in one go.

Singird frowned, recalling how the girl had waved her arms in his class, as though she was flapping wings. An amusing sight for an observer, and a miserable one for a teacher. She had not expressed the slightest hint of effort. But if she could cast spells, why would she lie about it?

The door opened once more, and a pair of guards entered the inn. Both took off their helmets at once, revealing a curly red-haired boy with round face and round nose speckled with countless freckles, followed by a scarred veteran whose chestnut fringe cast a dark shadow over his hard, bearded face. The snow falling off their helmets and shoulders informed everyone inside that the notorious Skyrim weather was throwing a tantrum again. The men waved at Toddvar and gave a small nod.

“End of shift? Good work, lads,” the Nord giant returned the nod.

“Rare to see you around, Toddvar, sir. Come to check if the city’s still standing?”

“Ulfric doesn’t neglect his holds, lads, you of all people should know that. Come sit with us. Singird here will entertain you with some stories from the College.”

Singird knit his brows, not quite in the mood for entertaining. The younger guard looked at him with eyes gleaming with life and curiosity. He was just a boy, hardly reaching maturity.

“I didn’t know Ulfric recruited children,” he growled.

“Eh, no, sir magister,” the youngster shook his head with all his might and proudly stuck out his chest, “I joined myself. I stood at the front door of the Windhelm barracks every day for three months before they finally let me prove my worth. They made me hunt an ice wraith here in Winterhold. I returned in two days and now I’m finally here. It’s exciting to protect the land, no?”

Singird struggled to keep his feelings hidden. He was just a boy.

“Speaking of which,” the redhair continued, “you said you were from the College? Are those two safe?”

“Those two?”

“The two young novices that came through the city last night, sit. You know, ice wraith so close to the city, that’s not a common sight. It sure startled me, and I’m a soldier! I was about to run to their aid, but that atronach they conjured handled it for me. I must say, you sure train them well.”

“What?! Yrith was attacked?!” Toddvar jumped up, making his chair fall like a cut down tree. Singird felt color retreating from his face.

“An ice wraith? And you are saying they defeated it with an atronach?”

“Yes, a fire atronach, sir. Three shots were all it took. It was thrilling to watch!”

Singird beckoned for the guard to join them and took a deep breath. “Please,” he said, “do tell me more.”

Notes:

For all Elder Scrolls/Skyrim lovers, lore freaks and other individuals that like to nitpick on the details… (others can skip this part) I have altered the lore of Skyrim to fit my story. It takes place after the Eye of Magnus quest, but some things are different. You might have noticed that Mirabelle Ervine is still alive and you will see that the Dragonborn did not become the Arch-Mage. While the former is a very minor detail that I included on a whim, the latter is essential for the story. So please, bear with me. Let’s make it a slight AU. :)

As usual, many thanks to Tildemancer (previously dart0808) for the beta!

Mirwen

P.S.
Singird: How can I find an answer when I don’t even know the question?
Tildemancer: Well, you pull a Deep Thought and request seven million years to calculate. Then you give the answer 42.

Chapter 4: A Tea Party for Two

Chapter Text

It was a beautiful night. Masser and Secunda were forming a nigh perfect eclipse, the latter shrouding most of the former, revealing only a thin circle of partially lit craters. They were watching over the still land of Skyrim like a freshly wed pair, surrounded by myriads of glittering diamonds forming a hazy veil of nebula on their background. The sea of dark, which they dominated, was lined by the colorful aurora on its edges. It was a once-in-a-lifetime sight. Yrith had been preparing for it with all she had. She had read an incomplete collection of astronomy books that the Dwemer had left behind and some proactive wizard had gathered, calculating the position of the moons. She had studied all the constellations she would see in the sky that night. And sure as the shimmering lights of sundry colors lining the horizon, she remembered them all.

It wasn’t so long after dusk and the Night of Wonders would continue for several more hours, but Yrith was unsatisfied. She felt alone, abandoned. Her only companion was an elegant figure made of pure fire, silent save for occasional crackle. A circle of wet ground formed around it as its heat melted the snow.

Instead of the sky, Yrith was watching the window of a one-story house, lighting the snow below in gentle gold. The milky glass prevented her from seeing what was inside, but she did not need a single peek to know that the room behind it was occupied by two people bent down at a desk, drawing diagrams, calculating formulas or tending to their alembics. Two people whom she wished to be outside with her, and the two that kept rejecting her at every occasion.

A gust of wind rose to whip her face and she closed her eyes. She would open them again to look at the skies, but they were dark, as though someone had hid them behind a black curtain. She blinked to make sure that she didn’t see wrong, but the image remained the same. Alert, she glided with her eyes over the road leading southward along the shore, the snowy cliff ahead, the city houses which looked like a child’s puzzle blocks from the distance, and her own house. The light was still coming from the inside. She heard a clinking sound of glass falling on the ground and breaking into thousand pieces and stiffened as though she had been the one to break it. If there had been any chance to talk to her father, she had just lost it. Alembics were costly, and it usually took him a few days to come to terms with the fact that he had to make an extra investment.

She turned to the atronach at her side, ready to complain to the silent creature, but the words stuck in her throat as soon as her eyes found it.

Its crackling changed into a wild thrum and she watched as the fiery creature suddenly darted toward the house, leaving behind a blazing trail. For a moment, she gaped at it, frozen to the ground, but then it dawned upon her with the force of an avalanche. It went for the house.

“Wait!” she called, ignoring that it could not understand words. She took off, hoping to stop it before it wreaked havoc in the wooden building. The wind was her enemy, slowing her pace and making her task seem impossible. Something was amiss. A dreadful feeling overcame her as she rushed along the line of fire, and then, a blast made her halt. The window shattered and the others followed. The light flared and blinded her, then it passed and darkness took its place.

She stood there, forgetting her breath, and stared into the singed wooden frame. For a moment, all thoughts left her and there was nothing but absolute silence. She did not want to enter the house. And yet, she felt the urge to do so. Her parents are inside. Why can’t she hear them? Why isn’t anyone calling for help? There should be swishes and blasts, sparks of magic in the air, swearing… why is it so quiet?

Reluctantly, she took a step forward. Then another. Her tread soon turned into blind rush. She tripped over the threshold at the main entrance but paid little attention to it, gathering herself immediately. The corridor to the laboratory seemed endless and she wished for it to just disappear. The walls around her were strangely coarse on touch and gravel crunched under her boots.

And then she was there, in the lab. Pale moonlight lit a rectangular area beneath the window, but apart from it, the room was dark. She staggered to the desk, searching for a lamp, but it was shattered beyond recognition. There should be a spare in one of the cabinets. She fumbled about them, swiping a handful of powdery substance from their surface. At last, she found the lamp and lit it with shaky fingers. Her eyes wandered to the floor and widened in horror.

Silence took over her, the dreadful, paralyzing kind of stillness as though time had stopped, ceasing her breath. Then it felt suffocating, a hard lump settling in her throat, spreading and pressing and taking all the space it could. A stab came through her heart, piercing harder than the finest white-hot steel. And then her voice tore through the heavy, burnt air with deafening force.

Before her lay the singed remains of what once were her parents’ bodies, drowning in a flood of potions fallen from the shelves and blanketed in shards of shattered vials, sparkling in the light of her lamp. The furniture was black and deformed as the lacquer covering it had melted in the fire, the once beautiful decorations now vague and vitiated. A foul odor filled her nostrils and she didn’t even try to chase it away.

Her knees gave way under her trembling weight and she fell on them, covering her face with her hands, shaking with sobs.

“No…” she whispered shakily. “Please… don’t die… tell me you’re not dead… please… please…”

Then her whole body felt heavy and she fell face to the ground, soaking her hair in the potions mixed with dirt and cinders, the countless pieces of glass cutting into her skin.

“I killed my parents,” she wailed, suffocating on her own words. “I killed them… this was not supposed to… I couldn’t have… I should have died instead… I should just die…”

And then all went dark.


Yirith screamed and sat up abruptly, beads of sweat rising on her forehead.

“Gods dammit, midget!” she heard a voice above her and jerked as someone grabbed her by her shoulders. “I swear that one of these days I am going to shut you down. Now get up!”

Her eyes snapped open, staring for a moment without focus before she realized that a fiery-haired Dunmer was sitting next to her on her bed, leaning to her in attempt to wake her. He wore the same expression as always, smug and without so much as a trace of sympathy. With a start, she backed away, bumping into the wall behind her.

“You!” she hissed, fighting the embarrassed flush that was warming her cheeks. “What in Oblivion are you doing here?”

“That’s my line,” he snorted, seating himself too comfortably for her liking. Again, he took his chin in his thumb and index finger. Yrith was starting to hate the gesture. “You’re supposed to be at Larkwing’s class at the moment. So rise and shine!” The last word was nearly spat. Yrith scowled.

“So you’re only here to nag? Well, thank you very much, the door’s over there and I prefer you on the other side.”

“I was sent here by Larkwing, okay? I’d say I’m enjoying it just as much as you do so…”

“As if you ever enjoyed anything beside bragging in front of your groupies. Get out of my room. Now.”

“I’m not leaving until you get that butt of yours out of the bed and move it to the Hall of the Elements. I’m through with being reprimanded. Especially when it means having to spend more time with you!”

“Wanna watch me change then?” Yrith could not help but smile inwardly. This scene was somewhat familiar.

“Ew! Fine, I’m going!” he retorted as her rose and made for the door. “I’ll be waiting right outside your room.” He let in a gust of cold air from the corridor before he snapped the door shut.

“No peeking!” she told the door sternly as she opened a chest at the feet of her bed.

“Who would want to peek at you?”

With a frown, Yrith scrutinized the novice robe that she pulled out of the chest, examining the stitched sleeve and the few stains that she had not managed to wash away. Unlike the rest of her classmates, she only had one robe and it had not even been made for her. Everyday usage and fights with classmates had taken their toll on it. Yrith would have liked to buy a new one, but she could only dream of having the coin to do so.

She scowled and sighed as she recalled her dream. Just how many times had she relived it? The pain of that moment was so vivid in her memories, making her despise herself above all else. So many times she had questioned whether she had the right to live. Perhaps she should have perished in the flames along with her parents. Perhaps Lady Faralda would have been better off without her.

That night she had had an argument with her father. A part of her believed that he had seen the good-for-nothing that she was. A useless wimp who can’t even use magic properly. She clutched the robe she was holding in her fingers.

“What’s taking you so long?!” a voice from the outside called to her. “Are you sewing a new robe for yourself or what?”

“Exactly!” she snapped, suppressing the welling tears from surfacing. Grabbing a quill and a few sheets of paper, she hurried out of the room. Cain was sitting on the edge of the magical fountain, his usual self-righteous smile curling slightly on his lips. He rose without a word, accompanying her in silence, but she noticed his eyes fixed on her face.

“What? Is there something on my face?”

“No, but that spider in your hair looks like a decoration fit for your style,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.

“What?!” Her hand shot up, fingers digging in the mop of her hair. Cain’s lips curled up in a malicious grin.

“Right,” she shook her head. “Spiders don’t even live here.”

“Well, lucky for me then that your hand is quicker than your wits,” he jibed.

She turned away from him with a snort, stomping her way outside and on to the Hall of the Elements, combing her hair with her fingers in the process. He followed her in tow but she refused to look back at him until they joined the circle of students waiting for them by the blue fountain. Singird Larkwing was standing next to Tanya Verus, the taciturn half-Altmer girl. Upon their arrival, the teacher gave Yrith a reproachful look, his eye narrowing into a pair of dangerous cracks.

“I don’t suppose you were looking for a textbook this time, Miss Ravencroft,” he told her coolly. “Mind enlightening me in terms of your delayed arrival?”

She stared at him, barely noticing her hands clenching into fists as she realized the mockery in his tone. He knew all too well that she could not forge a lie in front of Cain, who knew the truth.

“I slept in,” she muttered. A half-truth, for she had not been planning to attend the class at all.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked quietly. Yrith stared at him, cursing him with every Daedra name she could recall. Gods knew that he had heard her well.

“I apologize,” she said unconvincingly, making it sound more like a hiss. “I slept in and didn’t wake up until just a while ago.”

She could hear whispers and low chuckles all around her.

“Very well,” he sighed. “I guess it would be too much to expect you to have brought your homework with you?”

She decided against giving him an answer, her gaze now drilling through the floor underneath her feet. Any word she let out would only increase her humiliation.

Fortunately for her, the teacher did not spare more than a brief moment before addressing the whole class.

“As I was saying earlier, today you will begin learning how to summon atronachs. Fire atronachs are the most common and easiest to conjure, so it is advisable to start with them. All of you should be able to summon a familiar now, but familiars answer to even the weakest calls. This time, combine what you wrote in your essays with my instructions to grasp the basics about the Oblivion elementals. Each of you will try to summon your own fire atronach. I will observe and correct your mistakes in the process. Start practicing now.”

“Look what you did,” Cain snapped quietly at Yrith. “I missed his explanation. How am I supposed to practice now?”

“I could care less,” she shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You’re unbelievable…”

There was a humming sound and then a number of ah’s and oh’s rose from the crowd. The two of them turned their heads to the source of the commotion, spotting a slender figure of a fire atronach, floating in elegant circles in front of Qassir who was now the center of all attention. Indifference reflected in the Redguard’s face, but when his eyes rested upon Yrith, he gave a wink and hinted a smile. She turned away, finding interest in one of the grey floor tiles.

“Excellent work,” Singird nodded in acknowledgement. “This is exactly the result all of you should be getting. Don’t forget that fire is your key today.”

“Bah,” Cain snorted. “If certain someone hadn’t been wasting my time lolling in her bed, I would have done better.”

“Oh certainly. It’s definitely not your jealousy speaking through you, no,” Yrith scoffed.

“Silence, worm,” he growled. Yrith watched him stretch out his arms and call his magical energy, but it faded in a heartbeat. He repeated it, and then again, his brows closer and closer together with each try. She folded her arms over her chest, leaning to a wall, and watched him, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“Amused?” he hissed and gave her a death glare.

She shrugged. There were several hums around them, announcing that a few more classmates had managed to outstrip Cain this time.

“This is your fault!”

“Well, you could have, you know… read about it in advance.”

“Unlike you, I’m not a bookworm.”

“Not my problem.”

A number of shouts and swishes announced that two students had set their atronachs against one another. Singird Larkwing rushed past Cain and Yrith, his robes flapping about him like broken wings of a moth swept by a windstorm. Yrith winced as a fire bolt missed her by inches. It hit the wall behind her and dissolved into thousand tiny sparks before vanishing entirely. A few ice bolts from the teacher made the elemental disappear, forcing the students step back to escape the blast that followed. Yrith frowned. The explosion felt too familiar for her liking.

“Fools,” Cain said, shaking his head. Again, he raised his hands, attempting to summon his own atronach, still to no avail.

“You two will come to my office this evening.” Singird Larkwing’s eyes shot daggers as he pointed at the two offenders. One of them was Dorien Lafayette, a slight Breton boy with eyes almost as sharp as the tip of his nose, and the other was an Altmer girl known as Jearis Finoran whose chestnut firelock cast a deep shadow over her face, concealing her expression. Yrith doubted that any of them felt the tiniest hint of remorse. “If anyone as much as tries to pull something of this sort again, I will see to it that they receive severe punishment. Are we clear?”

The class was quiet. The students waggled nervously in their places, most pinning their eyes to the ground or hypnotizing the blue fountain light.

“Where is your answer?” the teacher demanded.

“We pay for this, you know,” Jearis uttered, one hand at her hip.

“Irrelevant. It is quite saddening, Miss Finoran, that I have to remind you of the fact that the ones paying for your studies are your parents. By all means, do let them know about this little incident. I would very much like to hear whether such conduct is acceptable in your household.”

Jearis’s eyes flared with anger, but she said nothing in response. Master Larkwing nodded.

“Now then. Let us continue our lesson. Mr. Aldaryn, that was a good attempt, but try to take a firm stance and give your soul energy a wide passage.”

“Y-yes sir,” Cain mumbled as he spread his feet. Yrith raised a brow as soon as the teacher turned away.

“Well, good luck with that,” she laughed dryly, eyes drifting from one classmate to another. Three people flinched away from a gusher of sparks someone managed to produce instead of a full-fledged atronach. It almost seemed alive, waggling in place, but faded moments after it had come to existence. Master Larkwing hurried to the conjurer, brows knit together. Yrith could not hear the words addressed to the poor student, but she was certain it was not a praise.

“What do you mean?” Cain inquired.

“I mean that the instructions he gave you are completely useless.”

“At least he gave me some instructions. Unlike certain smarty-troll.”

Yrith sighed, eyes still on her classmates and teacher. No one paid the slightest attention to them. With a hint of hesitation, she turned to Cain. “Very well. Just… try to imagine you’re a part of Oblivion,” she whispered.

“I… what?”

“Simple. Instead of directing your call to Oblivion, spread your conscious and make it overlap. Realms are not only physical, they have a mental aspect too. It’s enough to touch its edge. Then imagine the creature you want to summon and call for it. Since your mind will already be a part of Oblivion, you won’t have to search for it. It will find you and come to your side on its own.”

The Dunmer snorted, face twisted in utter disbelief. “You must be joking.”

“Whatever you say,” she purred. “Don’t say I didn’t help you.”

“But… how?”

She rolled her eyes. “For someone who never stumbles, you’re quite thickheaded. Hmm, let’s see. While your body is anchored here on Nirn, your mind is not. If you concentrate hard enough, you can feel the world around you, no? It’s like… when you close your eyes, your hearing improves to make up for the lost sense. But you can train yourself to use this improved hearing even with your eyes fully open and alert. Your body is capable of it and your mind can process all the information it gets. Just like that, you can also use your mind as your sixth sense to feel everything around you. Everyone can do that to some extent, that’s how emotions get through. But there is a way to reach further. Oblivion is just another realm in the world. If you spread your consciousness wide enough, you can sense it and even send it a thought. That’s where your spark of magic comes into play. You need to tune it so that it reaches the right creature. Flame atronachs are attracted to fire, so that’s where your thoughts should be.”

“You can’t be serious. Spread my consciousness? That’s impossible!”

Yrith threw up her arms. Another atronach emerged just a few steps from Cain, causing him to produce an anxious growl.

“There’s no way I could…” Cain took his chin in his fingers, staring into the blue beam of light in the middle of the room, deep in thought. “No, but maybe…”

A deep violet orb that seemed to drown the surrounding light enveloped his fingers. He knit his brows in concentration, released the energy from his hands. The familiar hum informed Yrith of his success.

“See?” she said, triumphant smile playing on her lips.

“Except I didn’t exactly follow your instructions,” he sneered. “Whatever you were trying to pull, it didn’t work. But I guess it was a good hint if nothing else.” With his back straight, he let the derision into his face once more.

“You little…!”

“Very good,” Singird Larkwing praised as he suddenly materialized next to Yrith. She yanked to the side, nearly colliding with the wall. “I am happy to see that my advice helped you, Mr. Aldaryn.”

Yrith shuddered visibly. Master Larkwing’s tone would freeze an ice wraith, had one been nearby. The teacher gave a look that revealed nothing of his thoughts. Then, his eyes met Yrith’s and she felt the weight of her feet drag her down. Forgetting her breath, she stared into those dark pools, mind clouded with uncertainty. No sooner did she sigh in relief than the teacher left, eyes still tracing her from the distance.

“What was that?” she rasped, more to herself than anyone else. The Dunmer shrugged. Yrith stared at the teacher’s silhouette as he tended to her classmates, shifting her weight. “This place should have some chairs or something,” she grumbled.

“So you’re just going to watch?”

“Yes. Got a problem with it?”

“Why? Do you enjoy having others look down on you so much?”

Feeling restless, Yrith leaned back against the wall, scratching its coarse granite surface to occupy her hands. “That’s none of your business,” she said.

“I suppose,” came the unconvincing reply.

They watched in silence as their classmates continued their efforts. The beautiful Leyna Travi was demanding attention from Qassir, tossing her head to make the veil of white gold hair fly about her. For a single moment, Yrith spotted a trace of anxiety run over Altmer’s slender face, but it had passed so quickly that Yrith assumed her mind was playing tricks on her. Her eyes flicked to Cain who stared at the couple, a deep wrinkle forming between his brows. That too might have been her imagination, but it seemed to her that the obnoxious Dunmer looked very alone.

Her train of thought was interrupted by the voice of Singird Larkwing, announcing the end of the class.

“That will be all for today’s lesson. While most of you grasped the basics about atronachs rather quickly, some of you have a long way ahead. I would advise you to work on your conjuration technique as much as you can. Do not hesitate to ask me or your classmates for help. In our next class, we will practice some more and learn how to make your atronachs stronger. Class is dismissed. Miss Ravencroft,” he added before Yrith could bolt out, “you will accompany me to the Hall of Countenance.”

Yrith felt color retreating from her face. She turned to the teacher, barely suppressing a glare.

“Well, good luck, midget,” Cain said as he patted her theatrically on the shoulder.

“One of these days,” she hissed, “I’ll wipe that smirk off your face.”

“Oh, please do!” With that, he danced away. Yrith was ready to shout something back, but the presence of Singird Larkwing made her reconsider.

They waited for the other students to leave and followed them through the main entrance. Once outside, Yrith drew in the fresh air, oblivious to the fact that the rising columns of snow promised another storm. While the Nord teacher carefully picked his route to avoid any possible inconveniency, Yrith let her feet sink into the snow and the wind lash her cheeks. They would later turn the beautiful rose color that every noble woman hated, and she proudly wore. Her mother had had the same beautiful rosy cheeks which she nurtured by the means of a self-made ointment. Over the past six months, Yrith had developed a habit of stealing grease from the kitchen to substitute for it. A beautiful woman is one that is tough and healthy, her mother used to say. A soft smile spread over Yrith’s face as she recalled it, but her teacher’s deep frown made it quickly disappear.

They entered the Hall of Countenance and passed several teachers. All of them threw curious glances at the Nord, some approving, some almost enraged. There was no indifference among the collegium, as though Singird Larkwing had only come to sow discord. Unwittingly, Yrith gritted her teeth.

Master Larkwing’s office was as clean as Yrith remembered it. Before entering, the teacher made sure to magically remove all traces of snow and water from his and Yrith’s clothes, shoes and hair, triple checking for spots he might have missed. Yrith felt a strong urge to roll her eyes but managed to contain it. When they finally entered, she was feeling cleaner than ever in her life.

The room was lit by a moon-shaped glass paperweight emanating pale turquoise glow. Yrith’s eyes drifted to the window only to discover that the outside world was now shrouded in thick darkness. She could see a torrent of snowflakes twirling in a fierce dance before they vanished under the sill.

“Sit down,” the teacher ordered her curtly, pointing to a cushioned chair standing by his desk. She obeyed in silence, waiting for what would follow. With a sigh, he leaned over the desk, too close for Yrith’s liking.

“Now, Miss Ravencroft. Do you know the reason you are here?”

“No, sir,” she said quietly.

“Then take a guess.”

“Because I came late to the class?”

He laughed bitterly as he turned to her. She clutched the edges of the chair with both hands, eyes boring into his soft leather boots. “Ah, yes, you did, didn’t you? Thank you for reminding me. But no, there is a different reason.”

Yrith glanced around. The order in the room had been restored. Books, clothes and gadgets had returned to their rightful places, forming the cleanest and most organized universe she could imagine. Could he know that it had been her?

“I don’t know,” she replied shakily.

“I do not take kindly to lies,” he breathed as his face drew closer to hers. She wanted to avert her eyes but found herself unable to do so. “Cain Aldaryn is not one to hide his talents when he can boast about them. When the two of you arrived, I was done with explanations and Mister Aldaryn could not summon an atronach. A few moments later, he did it. It was not a feeble creature that would shatter upon the slightest impact. His atronach was strong and solid, not one he could conjure on first attempt without previous knowledge or experience. So here is the question, Miss Ravencroft. How did he do it?”

Yrith’s vision blurred and faded. The rosy cheeks that would have brought her pride and pleasure turned white as the purest alabaster. She could feel her heart beat its way out of her chest and the pain in her fingers as she tightened her clutch on the chair. On this day, her secret would be revealed. She knew it, and yet she could not bring herself to tell the truth.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she rasped.

“No?” he drawled. “Then explain this to me. Yesterday, I chanced upon a guard in Winterhold. This particular guard was quite concerned about the wellbeing of two students he had seen attacked by an ice wraith the night before. According to his words, those two students had warded the creature off by summoning a fire atronach. And I know only one pair of students who could have been wandering outside at such a late hour. Add the fact that Mister Aldaryn could not summon an atronach today. So I am asking you, Miss Ravencroft. Who was the one summoning the atronach on that night?”

Yrith could not suppress the tears welling in her eyes. She felt their hotness sliding down her cheeks and salt on her lips. She wanted to cover her face, but her hands would not move.

“Crying won’t help you,” the teacher said coldly, “but words could.”

There was a moment of silence when the two of them listened to the storm outside and Yrith’s quiet sobbing.

“So?” he insisted.

“I did,” she whispered at last. “I summoned the atronach.”

“So why,” he asked, and for some reason, Yrith sensed a sudden trace of softness in his voice, “why did you lie about not being able to conjure?”

She felt her own breath betraying her. Words would not leave her mouth, unable to surmount the lump in her throat. Let it out, a voice in her head whispered to her. Let it end and you will feel better.

She watched as her teacher drifted away, withdrawing a cup from one of his cupboards. A pot followed which he magically filled with water and heated. A moment of fumbling about his drawers resulted in a bundle of leaves which he promptly made into tea.

“Here,” he offered as he slid the cup toward Yrith. She took it in her hands, clutching it close to her chest and absorbing the heat, but did not take a single sip. A lone tear dripped into it with a silent splash.

“I… did not want people to discover… that I killed my parents,” she finally managed to produce.

There was a moment of silence before Singird Larkwing let out a long, deep breath. “I… beg your pardon?”

“It… it was an accident! I felt lonely and wanted a companion. I didn’t want to hurt anyone! But it… it just suddenly went rogue and…”

“You accidentally killed your parents with an atronach?”

“Yes,” she breathed, finally taking a sip. In spite of the despair she was feeling, she had to appreciate the light flowery undertaste of Master Larkwing’s tea. It reminded her of the tea market in Daggerfall. She remembered its scent from a stall that had belonged to an old, tiny Khajiit woman who only appeared every tenth Turdas. Every time Yrith visited the stall, the smell of tea and coffee wafted through the air, carrying tastes of sea and jungle. She found pleasure in sitting around and listening to old tales, mostly about the treacherous paths in Valenwood forests and the customs of the aboriginal Bosmer folk. The old Khajiit owner always welcomed her and offered discounted goods that she had saved especially for her. Yrith found the memory strangely soothing.

“Did you see the atronach kill your parents?” the teacher continued his questioning.

“No… I was outside when it happened. It just… entered the house on its own and went straight for the laboratory.”

The window quaked, strained by the violent wind. Through the tiny crevices on its side, Yrith could feel the cold trying to invade the room. Master Larkwing padded it with a few pieces of cloth and lit several candles which immediately drowned the paperweight glow and filled the room with the tiniest bit of warmth.

“These windows are old,” he remarked in a conversational tone, as though the two of them were having a simple tea party. “Everything here is old. I wonder how long the magic holding this place together is going to last.”

Yrith stared at him, clueless as to how she should react. She took another sip and felt the warm liquid melt some of her fear.

“Are you going to report me?” she uttered. She could barely hear her own voice over the constant wailing and clatter, but it reached its recipient nonetheless.

“Should I report you?” The teacher’s calm voice suggested a different question than the one asked. A slight shiver ran down Yrith’s spine as she looked into his unreadable dark eyes.

“I don’t understand the question,” she replied truthfully.

“So you don’t.” A soft smile spread over his lips as he took another piece of cloth and started wiping the window sill. “Would you show me your atronach, please?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your atronach. Summon it for me.”

“Right here?”

“Yes.”

Yrith reluctantly put down the cup and stood. The strain and anxiety had taken its toll on her. She felt weak in her knees, as though she had run a very long distance, like she had done so many times back in Daggerfall when her Nord neighbor was pursuing her for stealing his precious figs. I sure have a history with the Nords, she thought to herself.

Following the very instructions she had given Cain before, she let the violet orb of magic envelop her hands and give passage to a fiery creature. The elemental’s flare chased away the remnants of the cold. Singird Larkwing nodded as he studied it, carefully inspecting every inch of it. Yrith waited in silence, eyes drifting from her atronach to the nape of the teacher’s neck and back.

“Let me make you an offer,” he said at last as he turned to her.

He paused to let Yrith ask, but when the question did not come, he continued.

“For my silence, I want you to promise me something.”

Yrith stared at him in tacit question.

“Promise me, that from now on, you will not neglect your studies. You will show unprecedented diligence and strive to place at the top of your class.”

The girl blinked in surprise. “Diligence? Is that all?”

“Don’t be fooled by how trivial it sounds. I will not go easy on you. You will work ten times harder than others and earn your place at the College. Don’t forget that you are not paying for your lessons, and as much as Lady Faralda patronizes you, she has negotiated all kinds of reliefs for you. I want you to make them count.”

Yrith yanked to the side as the loud crack announced the departure of her atronach. The warmth receded, and she suddenly felt the need to rub her arms. Despite herself, she smiled at the teacher.

“You’re not as heartless as I thought you to be,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. In an instant, her hand shot up to cover her mouth. The Nord knit his brows.

“I shall pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said in a reserved voice. “There is one more…”

The howling from the outside had subsided to a soft whine, revealing a shuffling sound from the corridor of the Hall of Countenance. Yrith could swear she heard footsteps. Master Larkwing was one step ahead, assaulting his own door a little too fiercely. One look outside of the room revealed a deserted staircase and an equally vacant corridor. The Nord’s hands glowed red with a spell which Yrith suspected to be Detect Life, but the following moment he only shook his head.

Carefully shutting the door, he enchanted it with violet aura and returned to his desk.

“There is one more thing I want you to do,” he continued as he scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Your assignment. I am prolonging your deadline till tomorrow’s dusk. These are the books you will use for your research.”

He handed her the paper. The Threshold to Oblivion by Dina Methic, Two Minds in One by Duncan Finch and Bound Creatures and the Tale of Lost Souls by Yzzik Nchuah, it said. Yrith raised a brow at the third name, clearly of Dwemer origins.

“It might take you a while to persuade the orc to hand you the last title,” the teacher added with a more than apparent hint of displeasure. “The College owns the only copy ever found on Tamriel. Although, knowing gro-Shub, he made a duplicate which he guards with his life.”

Yrith smiled. That was Urag, all right.

“I will be going then,” she said, nodding. As she stepped into the corridor, she turned back. “Master Larkwing?”

“Hmm?”

“What about my classmates?”

“If they ask, go ahead and point them to me. I doubt any more questions will follow.”

Me too, she thought with a good amount of sarcasm. Inadvertently, she bowed and backed out of the door.

“You did not finish your tea!” she heard him call as the door snapped shut. She shrugged, wending her way to the Arcanaeum.


Back in his office, Singird Larkwing hardly suppressed a laugh. Deep down, his conscience was biting him for blackmailing the slight Breton girl. Above all, if his reasoning was correct, he had had her believe in a lie. He threw a glance at the unfinished cup of tea and lifted it to his lips. He loved its scent, regardless of the fact that this tea had been smuggled to Skyrim by one of his friends, a Khajiit fence called Ri’saad. In his life, Singird had allowed himself a single exception from his puritanism, and that was supporting Khajiit caravans. To him, drinking smuggled tea was close to a family tradition. One of the few things that his late father had left behind.

The Nord drew in the smell, and without taking a single sip, he dumped the tea in the sink. As much as he loved its smell and taste, finishing someone else’s tea was not an option, despite his mind yelling at him for wasting.

After returning the cup and the rest of the room to its originally perfectly clean state, he left, only to stop two floors below, by the entrance to his Master’s chamber. With a momentary pause, he knocked on the door.

The head of Phinis Gestor appeared in the door a moment later, sizing him up for a good moment.

“Ah, Singe, I was just… well, come in,” he invited. The Nord entered and was immediately welcomed by the warmth of the joyfully crackling hearth. He could not miss that his teacher was wearing his night robe. A cozy armchair was placed by the hearth, next to which stood a low table with a steaming pot and a cup. Upon Singird’s arrival, the Breton master readied another cup and poured in some dark liquid that remotely resembled tea.

“Come and sit down, dear Singird,” he invited, pulling another chair toward the hearth. “Have a tea.”

“I don’t remember this room having a hearth, Master Gestor.”

“Oh, I have made a few tweaks,” Phinis stated with a hint of pride in his voice.

“Since last night?”

“Well, with the help of half of the College, I admit.”

“An illusion?”

“Quite convincing, isn’t it?”

“Quite so,” Singird concurred as he seated himself. “Will it last?”

“Not for long, but I think I can afford a moment of bliss from time to time.”

Singird’s eyes found the window and the snowy murk behind it. “I suppose.” He took a sip from his cup and suppressed a sour scowl. If he could allow himself a moment of criticism, he would deny that this liquid had anything to do with tea.

“So, Singe,” Phinis said as he sprawled in his armchair, legs spread comfortably over the thick rug underneath it. “What’s on your mind?”

“Let’s see,” the Nord began, carefully sliding the cup away from him, “I have run into a curious problem. Say, Master Gestor. What can you tell me about Yrith Ravencroft’s parents?”

“I presume you have a good reason to ask?”

“That I do.”

“To be honest, not much. They were always a bit of mystery around here. Didn’t talk to other mages too much, except for when they needed supplies. Our Enthir was usually the one to provide them and they paid him handsomely. Enough for him to donate a portion of it to the College, and you know Enthir’s love for gold. I know they talked to Lady Faralda every now and then, but she rarely shared. They were alchemists of sorts, but apparently quite skilled in magical craft. Rumor has it that they concocted elixirs that were thought to be forgotten and invented spells of unimaginable power. How much of it is true, I don’t know.”

“Such powerful people must have had enemies, no?”

“Enemies?” Phinis groped about the satchel conveniently placed between the chair’s legs and pulled out a pipe and a small linen sack. He began to skillfully stuff the pipe with dried leaves. Singird frowned at that, eyes drifting to the closed window, but stayed silent about it. “None that I know of, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t exist. Your questions are piquing my curiosity.”

“I will get to it, Master Gestor. But please, let me ask one more question. If I summon an atronach, is there any possibility that I lose control over it?”

The Breton mage fired a single spark at the pipe. It hissed and faded, but he did not continue, raising his head to face Singird, brows quirked in surprise. “What kind of question is that, Singird? Have the students blown your wits away?”

“Just pretend that I’m one of them for a moment, please. If there is the slightest possibility, tell me. I need to know.”

“You know there isn’t. No, an atronach cannot go rogue. A dremora, perhaps, if you mess up and forget that you are summoning a bound creature. But an atronach? They are simple creatures and cannot exist on Nirn without a soul bond.”

“Good. So, if you had a situation where one summons an atronach, the atronach leaves its master’s side and kills that master’s ally, how would you explain it?”

“Hmm,” Phinis mused as he returned to igniting his pipe, “that’s a tough one. I’d say that either that person wasn’t an ally, or there was another person who managed to incite the atronach.”

“I came to the same conclusion,” Singird nodded, staring at his cup. His hands felt awfully unoccupied. He decided to check for dust on his robes. Naturally, he found none.

“Where is this all going, Singe?”

The young Nord sighed and cupped his face with his hands. “I promised not to tell anyone, so you must promise me that you will keep this an absolute secret.”

“You could have told me sooner,” Phinis remarked, releasing a circle of smoke which flew directly toward Singird. The Nord took a moment to admire the regularity of the shape.

“I had to know,” he insisted. “You can still say you don’t want to know the rest.”

“Singe, my dear. Who do you take me for?”

“Your call then,” the Nord shrug with a smile.

“Cheeky lad. Go on, please.”

“Last night, someone from outside of the College hinted to me that Yrith Ravencroft might be a skilled conjurer, despite the image she has been making for herself. Naturally, I had a hard time believing it, but I did a bit of digging out of curiosity. I learned a few things about her family. That the Ravencrofts treasured their only daughter above all else and also that she craved her parents’ attention and fought for it on every occasion. She had worked hard to perfect herself in every way and the townsfolk found her likeable. That made me wonder why such a fine lady would turn into such a slacker.”

He paused for breath, watching the illusionary cinders before him.

“So today, after our conjuration class, I had her confess. She feels responsible for the death of her parents. If she was telling the truth, she had conjured a fire atronach and lost control over it. The creature left her side, entered her house and killed her parents.”

Phinis exhaled as he let out a cloudlet of white smoke, “Yrith Ravencroft, skilled in magic? That is indeed hard to believe.”

“I saw her atronach, Master Gestor. That girl is a powerful mage.”

“If you saw it with your own eyes, there’s no denying it, I suppose. Still leaves the question of whether she couldn’t have been lying to you about the death of her parents.”

“Then she would have put on an exceptionally good act. I don’t think she’d have a reason to let people scorn her had she known the conditions of controlling an atronach.”

“So… let me get the facts straight. Since there are no other options, you think that Miss Ravencroft’s parents were murdered.”

“I am quite certain of it.” Expression stone-hard, Singird reached for the cup and downed it, instantly regretting it.

Phinis let out a deep sigh, leaning back in his chair with eyes open ajar. “Let me ask you again, Singird. Where are you going with this?”

“There might be a murderer in Winterhold. Possibly even here among us.”

“And your self-righteous nature commands you to take action. You are aware that you will be the one paying with your life if they get ahead of you?”

“I am also aware that there have been cases of magical murders all around Skyrim that the College keeps being accused of. And Miss Ravencroft took the blame for the death of her parents. I can see a pattern there.”

“But the College has nothing to do with it, Singe. These are rumors and assumptions, nothing else.”

“Even you, Master Gestor?” Singird growled, fighting the urge to stand and slam the table. “They think her parents died during an experiment while she blames herself for their death! You were the one convincing me what a good girl she is! And you were the one complaining that the Jarls don’t support us anymore! Now you’re meditating over a pipe in front of a fake fireplace, speaking of rumors and assumptions! What are those weeds you stuffed in there anyway? They smell horrific!”

Phinis raised his hands, half in defense, half in a gesture of piece. “Singe, please. You go looking for trouble, you get more than you bargained for. For the love of the Eight…”

“Nine. And no. Go back to your happy-go-lucky lifestyle and pretend this conversation never happened. I will continue doing what I believe is right.”

The old conjuration master put his pipe down and sat up, eyes gleaming in the flickering light of the fire. He looked at his apprentice, putting up a soft smile. “I have always admired your determination, Singird. I think I’m getting too old for this. I have lost the passion I once had and you still possess. I apologize. But if this is what you believe in, then I shall believe in you. I’d be a terrible master if I refused to help my most precious student, wouldn’t I?”

Singird stooped his shoulders, suddenly feeling defeated. “You’re almost making me feel guilty, Master Gestor,” he said.

“Then you better make it all worthwhile.”

Singird let out a bitter laugh. Worthwhile was not a word he would associate with solving a case of murder.

“By the way, Singird, did you tell Miss Ravencroft?”

“About the murderer? No. If she knew, she would surely go looking for them.”

“She will find out sooner or later.”

“She will, but the later the better. She promised to study diligently if I keep quiet about this.”

“You still haven’t given up on that ritual of yours, have you?”

“Naturally.”

“You monster.”

“Your compliment is much appreciated.”

Chapter 5: The Mysterious Tome

Chapter Text

Thank the Divines I brought my coat, Yrith thought sardonically, shaking whole clumps of snow down from her robe. Wet as a drowned skeever, she did not dare take one step further. Urag was generally quite benevolent with her, but not even she would be permitted to touch a book with wet hands. And so she stood on the threshold of the Arcanaeum, drawing in the scent of dust and old paper. In her mind, she was desperately thinking of a way to ask him for the books Master Larkwing had ordered her to study without having to explain the circumstances. The memory of Urag’s heated words addressed at the young teacher and the Nord’s scowl at the mere mention of the orc librarian conjured a soft smile on her face. Despite all the harshness and tease, there seemed to be a kind of mutual understanding between the two. One they might have not realized themselves, but she could sense nonetheless.

Quiet footsteps echoed through the tall library, and when she strained her neck to find their source, she noticed Urag gro-Shub counting the volumes on one of the bookshelves. He was holding a thin book, scribbling something in it every once in a while. The orc was nodding to himself, humming a tune that felt familiar, although she was certain she had never heard it before. As she tried to recall it, the orc turned around and spotted her.

“Yrith!” he called to her, waving at her with the paper. “What are you doing out there? Come on inside, it’s a lot cozier in here!”

She stepped into full view, spreading her arms to show the water dripping from every inch of her. Urag nodded in understanding, rushing to her side. “The weather sure is pleasant this time of the year,” he grumbled. “You need to learn your spells, Yrith. Simple heat is probably the easiest thing I know.” With that, he waved his hand as though he was conducting a bard concert and within a blink of an eye, a gust of warm air whipped all the water away.

“Thank you,” she said, combing her disheveled hair with her fingers.

“Anytime. What can I do for you today?”

“I need to take a look at something. May I?”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Well… not exactly, I’ll just wander around for a bit and find what I need.” Yrith was painfully aware that the smile she put up was the most unconvincing thing in history. She tried to scurry past Urag as quickly as possible, but the old orc grabbed her sleeve and turned her to face him.

“Yrith?” he drawled, lowering his head to give her the kind of suspicious look that a parent gives a child when they know their offspring is hiding something from them. She waited for him to articulate the question, but he stayed silent, letting the weight of the moment press her. And he did right. It felt almost suffocating to bear the quiet, worse than having to answer uncomfortable questions.

“Will you let me go, Urag?” she peeped. The orc smiled, revealing fangs that would scare away any ordinary human. Yrith was everything but ordinary, although she did feel a tug of disconcert at the sight. The teeth had nothing to do with it.

“Fine,” she gave in with a sigh. She handed him the paper she had received from Master Larkwing, her fingers trembling slightly. “I need these.” Her eyes sought out the floor, tracing the symbol of the Winterhold Eye made of neatly cut tiles.

Urag stared at the paper too long for Yrith’s liking, his poise slowly becoming a frown.

“Does Larkwing find this amusing?” he growled, almost ripping the paper as he clutched it.

“Urag?”

“Is he threatening you? Demanding something he shouldn’t? You know, if Larkwing’s giving you trouble, you can just come and…”

The sight of the old Orsimer fuming in outrage for her sake brought a smile to Yrith’s face. She chuckled, putting her slight hands on his bear arms.

“One moment you’re telling me to study, the next you are worried that I actually could?”

“Larkwing’s an exception,” he harrumphed, then waved the soaked paper in front of her face. “Do you even know what these are? They’re not your average textbooks. These are reference texts for the most seasoned magicians who want to go beyond impossible. What’s that dimwit of a troll thinking?!”

“Really?” She felt a tingle at the nape of her neck, a slight hint of thrill. For some reason, all of her fears suddenly dissolved, as though a burden had been taken off her shoulders. She did not know whether Master Larkwing was ridiculing her or if he in fact expected great things from her, but whatever the answer may have been, she was ready to accept the challenge. With poorly concealed excitement, she said: “Could you add a few ordinary textbooks then?”

“Yrith, what in Oblivion did he tell you?”

The dreaded question suddenly did not sound that threatening. “To study diligently,” Yrith shrugged.

“So you’re just going to do as he says?”

“Why do you have a problem with it, Urag? Didn’t you always wish for me to fit in here?”

“And you never seemed to care. So why now?”

Yrith paused, pondering her answer. She let the orc wait for a moment, listening to the sighs of the wind from outside and quiet crackling of the candles. Then she raised her head, gazing in his wild but gentle yellow eyes. “Because I want to,” she said simply and, much to her own surprise, realized it was true.

Urag was taken aback. He let go of her and stepped back, sizing her up with an intense stare. Then he nodded, slowly.

“I’ll get you the books.” And he scuttled away into the section that Yrith had, up to this moment, refused to visit.


Opening the first book, Yrith found a new world. She had always had a passion for literature of any kind. Beautiful letters set neatly on yellow pages, containing all the world’s wisdom and tales. Back when her parents had still been around, more than once she had snuck into the family library, snatching a book so she could read it in secret. That was how she had learned to conjure. One book, A Man of Two Faces, she had stolen so many times that her parents decided to give it to her, providing it with an inscription at the beginning.

To our beautiful daughter with love.

She smiled at the memory, setting her eyes at the task at hand.

The three books Singird Larkwing had ordered her to read were by no means uninteresting. She soon found herself absorbed in them, forgetting the existence of the outer world. They mostly focused on working with soul energy and transcending planes of existence, as though mirroring what Yrith had explained to Cain earlier. There was also a part explaining the possibility of conjuring a creature directly from one’s soul, but apparently, there were too many risks involved and most of those who had tried it had suffered a very slow and painful death. Yrith shuddered at that, withdrawing a paper from her satchel to take notes. In her concentration, she could not even see people come and go as they threw curious glances at her.

A few hours later, she let out a loud gasp, realizing she was late for Illusion. She earned herself a reproachful scowl from Urag who was balancing on a ladder before one of the shelves, trying to rearrange the books on it to fit some more between them.

“Urag, can I take these with me?” she called to him as quietly as she could.

“You’re really taking it seriously then? Well, if that’s what you decided…” he hinted a smile. “Go ahead but make sure to return them in time!”

“Sure!”

Yrith set out for the door, but then hesitated. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the mysterious black-covered tome Urag had been so secretive about. It lay on his desk, partially covered by papers but still in clear sight. She took a step closer, examining it. Its dark cover was coarse and worn, the silver lining on its edges disrupted in several places. The pages appeared as though they had been ripped and mended many times.

Her eyes flicked to the orc. He was so immersed in his work he did not see anything but the books before him. A pillar stood between him and his desk, conveniently blocking the view. Quietly as a sneaking sabre cat, she leaned to it and swept the papers carefully aside. It took her some effort to slide the heavy tome between the ones she was already holding, but the orc did not seem to notice a thing. She bit her lip in concentration and danced away on her tiptoes, leaving the orc librarian in the dark.


The afternoon dragged like a pack of horkers in the mud. The Illusion class was the same as usual. Drevis Neloren, their Dunmer teacher, had a strange habit of engaging in a dialogue with his own person. Some people joked about him practicing illusion magic on himself, resulting in split personality. The truth was he simply loved his subject so much that he had a tendency to contemplate aloud. Yrith found it mildly amusing, but this time, her thoughts were with the black tome waiting for her to uncover its secrets. She barely caught a word of the lecture, and when it finally ended, she was one of the first people to bolt out, scooting directly to the Hall of Attainment. On her way, she almost crashed into J’zargo, the Khajiit adept who proudly announced on every occasion that one day he was going to become the Arch-Mage. She quickly apologized before gathering herself, earning herself a twitch of his furry cat ear.

Just after she had entered the student dormitory, she was stopped by one of her classmates, a slight Altmer boy with crème-colored hair and olive skin. His name was Aernil and Yrith knew him to be one of the most conceited and detestable people around. This time, for a change, his usually smug expression was replaced with a somewhat forthcoming smile. Yrith raised a brow in question. The octagonal room quickly became crowded with all her classmates, forming an almost perfect circle around them. Much to her surprise, Cain stood in the center with face carved in stone while Qassir was leaning to the wall, keeping aloof from the others and enjoying a moment of peace. She frowned. Her stomach sent her a warning tickle.

“You know, Ravencroft… Yrith,” Aernil said in a gentle tone, “if I’d known what that Dunmer did to you, I wouldn’t have been so mean. I’m sorry.” He extended his hand for a shake. “How about we make peace?”

Yrith stared at the hand, confused. She looked at the faces surrounding them, some eager, some sullen, several of them just as baffled as she was. Cain was staring blankly at them, but somewhere behind that mask, Yrith could spot a mixed feeling of anger and grief. “And what might you be talking about?” she asked with utter cautiousness.

“Come now,” the Altmer chuckled. “You don’t have to hide anything from us anymore. We know you’ve been able to conjure all along but were afraid to show it. But it’s okay. We understand now.”

Yrith struggled not to gasp. How did they know? Who had told them? It could not have been Singird Larkwing, could he? He promised. He wouldn’t… or would he? She threw a glance at Cain, but denied that option immediately. The fiery-haired Dunmer looked weary and shaken. She could almost hear him praying for this to be over.

“How do you…”

Ha’risha, the bronze-furred Khajiit girl, appeared by Aernil’s side, gently patting Yrith on the shoulder. “Everyone knows that Cain has been exploiting you. Weren’t you the one who taught him to conjure that atronach today?”

Yrith tried to study Ha’risha’s face, but guessing a Khajiit’s feelings was the same as reading the face of a slaughterfish. She could see nothing in those golden eyes. To her, it seemed that the Khajiit were always smiling.

Ha’risha was quickly joined by a Bosmer boy with dark, curly family tattoo on his left cheek. Nelarin, the one who liked to follow the class leaders. If Yrith should pick one person who excelled at spreading rumors, it would be him.

“I saw you talking to him,” he nodded. “And that shield you cast in Restoration… you’re actually quite good at magic, aren’t you? You helped Cain, right? And then he scoffed at you and blackmailed you so you would keep quiet about it.”

Yrith could not believe her own ears. Her expression hardened. Her hands clenched into fists, eyes shooting daggers. Quiet but clear, her voice resounded in the corridor. “Weren’t you friends with him?”

The Khajiit laughed. Her laughter reminded Yrith of the sound of a saw working its way through a log. It was just as unpleasant as its owner. “With Cain? One could hardly admit to something like that after what he did.”

Yrith studied the friendly faces around her. They wore smiles on their lips and whispered words filled with compassion, all directed at her. Urag would be happy. She had finally found friends. They were eager to accept her, willing to overlook everything that had happened up to this point. And ready to discard a friend for it too.

A memory flicked through her mind. One with Ha’risha, talking passionately to Qassir, the audience favorite. Then the Redguard, flashing smiles at Yrith on every occasion. The dots connected.

She took a deep breath and straightened her back. Facing the broad-shouldered Khajiit girl, she looked tiny and helpless. And yet, she stood her ground, making sure her face showed exactly what she was feeling.

“Out of my way,” she whispered.

“Yrith?” Ha’risha peeped, keeping up her act of innocence. “Are you all right?”

“I said out of my way!”

“We’re trying to help! We want to be your friends!”

“If you want friends, then look there!” she spat, pointing at Cain. The dark elf was still standing there, the flickering shadows on his face, sharp in the blue fountain light, emphasizing his unease. Their eyes met and she saw nothing of his usual haughtiness. “I have nothing to say to you! Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“What’s your problem?!” the Khajiit girl hissed. “Is this how you treat your allies?”

“Calm down, Ha’risha,” said Nelarin, putting a hand on the catgirl’s shoulder. “She’s just confused. No wonder, after everything she’s been through.”

“Confused? Allies?” Yrith fumed, shaking her head in disbelief. “I have no need for allies who throw their friend away like an overused sock the moment he’s not of use to them anymore. Get lost!”

“But…”

Fine, she thought. They think she is good at magic. Then let’s keep it at that.

She raised her hands as though she was preparing to cast a spell and turned her palms toward the three obnoxious classmates.

“Get lost!” She added a hint of a fire spell for effect.

They backed away, eyes wide with fear. Yrith stomped her way to her room without another word, eyes still hovering over Cain. When he averted his gaze, she slid over to Qassir and hardly resisted the urge to freeze in place. The braided Redguard, still casually leaning to the wall with his hands cushioning his head, watched her intensely, lips quirking into a mysterious smile. Shivers ran down her spine as she broke off the eye contact by sheer willpower. Quickly as she could, she disappeared in her chamber, slamming the door behind her. Then, she slid down with her back to it, releasing an exhausted breath.

Ah, she thought to herself as she let the books slide from her lap to the floor, I did something incredible.

She closed her eyes and waited for her breath to steady. The last three days she had been a subject to Meridia’s twists of luck, Sheogorath’s jests, Vaermina’s nightly horrors, Mephala’s treachery and Dagon’s wrath. Just what had she done to upset the Daedra?

She flexed her fingers, forcing herself up. Her weak fire magic was enough to light a few candles and provide some coziness to the room in the form of warm, flickering light. She threw herself on the bed, wrapping her arms around the black tome she had stolen from the library. Not only will Urag be angry at her for rejecting her new so-called friends, she will incite his anger even further with this little feat.

She brushed the thought aside, setting the book on her pillow. Her fingers ran over the black cover of the large tome, gently sliding along the silver lining and neatly impressed ornaments. She threw a quick glance at the hourglass on one of the few scarce shelves on the walls, estimating the time she had until her scheduled trip to the sea. Assuming she could afford a while for herself, she opened the heavy leather cover and caressed the pages with the palm of her hand, reveling in the coarse feeling of the paper on her skin. She lay comfortably on the soft blanket, propping herself on her elbows, and her eyes focused on the jagged script that filled the pages. She shuddered a little as it was reminiscent of the daedric script, but read the first page nevertheless.

Riding the Currents of Time by Septimus Signus.

She turned the page to reveal a sheet covered in close text, its appearance almost screaming about the excessive amount of information included. Her eyes followed the first line immediately.

Introduction

The book you are holding in your hands is not just some ordinary piece of literature. It is in your possession because the gods wish so, and the first moment you came into contact with it, it became a part of your destiny. Be aware, dear reader, that from now on, your life is going to undergo a significant change.

Have you heard of the Elder Scrolls? Some say they only exist in legends. Some say they are a part of us. Some say they do not belong to this world while others will tell you the exact opposite. There are rumors that state that these scrolls transcend time. Curiously, all of the above solemnly swear that the knowledge contained there is forsaken and dangerous.

I have dedicated my life to the research of the Elder Scrolls, and I might be the first one to discover that anything and everything can be recorded there. In fact, anything and everything is recorded there. There is no such thing as a limit to an Elder Scroll. Their exact number is unknown and perhaps even nonexistent, their contents vary in both character and density, from the simplest things such as explanation as to why people cook their food to the complex matters like the concept of life and death, the origins and downfall of dragons or the Universal Principle (which I explain in my other works). I assume that the ultimate Elder Scroll would contain information about the origins and termination of individual kalpas. The key to understanding the Elder Scrolls, however, lies in their omnipresence and the ambivalence of the Truth.

If you say that an Elder Scroll is a unique object of certain specific attributes, it is just as true as saying that it is only a simple scroll with a simple message. If you say it does not exist, it is just as true as saying it exists and is right here. What people fail to understand, however, is that their omnipresence, their existence and nonexistence, incorporates not only the concept of “where”, name it place, location, position, or even sphere, realm, plane or universe, but also of “when”. Strangely enough, there is no difference between “where” and “when” for an Elder Scroll. It can be found at any time in any place, shifting its position not only forward or backward, up or down and right and left, but also before and after.

When thinking about how time is no more than another dimension for an Elder Scroll, I could not help but think why it is different for us. If an Elder Scroll can move in time freely, why can’t a person do the same? Many years I searched for an answer to this, trying to find a way to travel in time. I have discovered an old Dwemer document concerning this problem, but gained only the general outline as it was incomplete. I had to look for my information elsewhere, in realms unknown to most of the mortals. As a result of my efforts, this book was created.

It is meant to give its reader a complex understanding of the concept of time as well as a solution to traveling to the past and future. I paid a terrible price for its completion however, for the knowledge stored in this book is taken from my master. It was his utmost protected secret, which I dared steal from him and convey to whoever finds my work. If you are reading this, chances are that I have parted from your plane of existence.

You must be asking yourself why I didn’t save myself from my master’s wrath if I knew how to travel in time. When reading this book, you will discover that moving in time is very energetically expensive. The magic as you know it, the so-called official arcane arts within the boundaries of people’s tolerance and acceptance, do not apply here. It is fairly easy to move an inanimate object in time, but to move a living soul, a sacrifice has to be made. The size and nature of the sacrifice depends on many factors, including the size of the soul, its inner energy, the time distance you want to cover etc. Always remember that nothing is free in this world.

You could then argue with me that the Dwemer, among many other things, discovered certain ways to minimize these sacrifices. Indeed, they did. But I will tell you one absolute truth that no Elder Scroll can deny. When you read this book, always remember this one sentence. Carve it into your mind and don’t ever let it slip, for without being aware of it, you will condemn yourself.

You can never escape your destiny.

Now that you know all that you need to know, let us move on and take a sip from the bottomless well of knowledge. Happy reading.

Septimus Signus

Yrith’s hands were trembling, her mind overwhelmed with a flood of emotions and information. She had stolen a book about time travel from Urag’s collection! A book that could perhaps grant her unbelievable power if she desired it and was most likely kept secret from the public. Perhaps not even the collegium knew of its existence.

She remembered the name of the author, for Urag had mentioned him several times. According to what she knew, he had been an extraordinarily skilled mage, unfortunately obsessed with Elder Scrolls and some long lost Dwemer knowledge to the point where he could not hold a proper conversation. But this work seemed like a masterpiece, something that would, as Urag liked to say, open an entire new realm of research.

For Yrith, it held another meaning. She forced herself to take a deep breath and settle down, fighting the flush of excitement taking over her. If she could use this method, if she could travel in time, she would be able to undo the gravest mistake of her life. She could go back and warn her parents, or maybe prevent herself from conjuring the atronach. She could change things for the better.

Her eyes were fixed on the open book, scanning the prologue over and over again, and every time she did so, her resolve strengthened. This was a gift from the heavens and she was going to accept it with open arms. She knew what she had to do now, it was clear as the summer sky in Cyrodiil. She was going to bring her dead parents back to life.

Chapter 6: Avalanche

Chapter Text

Yrith’s gaze wandered outside of her window, following a single snowflake fluttering toward the crimson-lit statue of Shalidor. Days passed slowly in Winterhold, like the lazy floes bobbing in the Sea of Ghosts. As the middle of Sun’s Height approached, the weather stilled itself into mild snowfalls and evening clear skies with gentle rose-colored cloud lines along the western horizon. Sun’s Rest was quickly approaching, promising a long-awaited extra day of leisure.

Tonight’s walk to the shore should literally be a breeze. Yrith was expecting a pleasant stroll filled with warm air from the south. Even the city had become slightly livelier, with people leaving their abodes for hunts, fishing or trading trips down to Windhelm. There were rumors of the Stormcloaks preparing for a great battle, causing people to rush their businesses so they could come back before the first sound of war drums would carry over the mountains. Reports of sudden Imperial assaults and kidnappings occurring at random places all over Skyrim spread like wildfire, which the sworn Stormcloaks denied, claiming them to be false gossip meant to make people doubt the Stormcloak protection.

Yrith rarely took any of the political gossip to heart, but she could feel the tension in the air. The magical murders the College had been accused of did not exactly help either. On every occasion, people were turning on each other, spouting accusations and blaming their own brothers for betraying their homeland. As if someone had put a curse on them, Yrith thought bitterly. Even her parents had fought more after they had relocated from Daggerfall. Many times she had wondered why they had moved in the first place. Upon her inquiry, the only answer her parents had given her was: “Because the enemy is near.” Yrith had never learnt who this supposed enemy was.

She picked up her coat and blew off the single candle that had been permitting her to read. The book that lay open on Yrith’s table was the fifth book on the art of Conjuration she was devouring. In all the other subjects, she was still but a hopeless novice, but when it came to Conjuration, she was not willing to provide Singird Larkwing with any reason to mock her or reveal her secret. And, in some remote and sneakily hidden corner of her mind, there was that tiny voice that was telling her that it would be worth it to stay on his good side.

With a hint of a smile on her face, she left the room and made for the College entrance, stopping by the kitchen on her way to pick up the fish sack.

Cain was waiting for her outside, leaning to the low wall surrounding the first circular landing before the bridge to the city. He was staring at the sea, eyes tracing a pack of horkers lazily smacking their flippers against the wet sand. The last few days he had mostly been silent, rarely speaking to anyone at all and keeping to himself when the rest of the class, save for Qassir, Tanya Verus and, for some reason, Leyna Travi, busied themselves scoffing at Yrith for being a pitiful lying skeever. The look in the Dunmer’s eyes had changed, becoming somewhat distant and difficult to read.

But when Yrith approached him, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, hinting a smirk.

“You’re late,” he stated.

She glared at him, a thought crossing her mind that she had preferred him to be that distant, silent elf. “I am late by seconds,” she snorted.

She expected him to retort, but the Dunmer simply turned around, marching down the bridge. She followed his footsteps, watching him with one brow quirked up in bemusement. His back was bent and shoulders stooped down, a sight she was not used to seeing.

Walking through the city, Yrith watched the dangling shop signs and deserted courtyards. It was quiet, save for their own footsteps and cold wind brushing the treetops. Cold wind from the north, she realized with a frown. Not what she had been expecting. She looked around, as though the answer would lay there in plain sight, but found nothing. Soft glow came from the windows of the surrounding houses. The chill in the air had driven the citizens back into the warmth of their homes. But there was something else, an ominous presence in the air. Something she could not quite put her finger on.

They left the city and entered the ravine. Yrith listened to their footsteps just to have something to focus on, eyes locked on Cain’s heels. Cain’s left, her left, Cain’s right, her right, one, two, three, four, one… until there was one more pair. She stopped, looking over her shoulder. Nothing.

“What?” said Cain as he turned around to face her.

“I thought I heard…”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing,” she waved her hand to dismiss him. “Must be my imagination.”

The Dunmer rapped the stone wall looming above them with his fingers. It gave a soft echo that lingered in the air before fading into nothingness.

“Are you afraid?” he asked her.

She tried to search for mockery in his tone, but found none, although his expression was as unreadable as ever. She shrugged.

“Do you remember how I told you about the Lone Demon?”

“Again?” Yrith scoffed. “Don’t you think your jests are getting old?”

He laughed, gesturing for her to follow him down to the shore. “They are, are they not?” He let the sentence hang in the air, calculating his footsteps so he would not slip on the icy path. Soon, they could hear the fierce splashing of the sea from below, combatting the harsh wind. As Cain walked on the pier and bent down to pull out the fishing net, she heard him sigh.

“You see,” he said, “most Dunmer families worship the Daedra.”

“And?” Yrith held out the sack so he could fill it. She closed her eyes as the cold water showered her face, and licked the salt from her lips.

“It is common for the Dunmer to have clan patrons they can pray to. The higher ranking Dunmer worship the Tribunal, but they are inclined to choosing one particular deity they prefer. We are scorned by the rest of the world for this. Especially by the Altmer.”

“Well… yes, I know that. But why are you telling me?”

“My family is different. We do not worhip the Daedra.”

“Let me guess. The Lone Demon you were talking about?”

He nodded, forgetting the net he was holding. “Indeed. There are no written records about the Lone Demon and we are forbidden from ever mentioning him in writing or depictions.” There was another sigh, longer than the one before. He threw a fish into the sack with ferocity that made Yrith wince. “Compared to the Lone Demon, the Daedra are saints.”

Even against the darkening sky, Yrith could see the struggle in his face. She said nothing, deciding to let him speak on his own.

“I hate my home,” he said. “It is filled with anger and strife. And I hate this place too because it’s just about the same.”

“And what does it…”

“… have to do with the Demon? Everything! He exists to sow discord amongst people. His purpose is to turn them against each other, to teach them pain, despair, and anger. To torture them in life and rob them of their death. That is what my family does. That’s what they do!” he gestured toward the dark, jagged silhouette of the College, flapping the fish in his hand. He threw it into the sack and ran his fingers through his hair. Watching him, Yrith was happy that she did not share Singird Larkwing’s obsession with cleanness. “Mother said that the Lone Demon is in every person’s heart. But… seeing you stand up to them, I think he avoids yours.” He averted his eyes, hypnotizing the fish.

The sight made Yrith laugh. “All this just to say a little thank you?” she quipped.

“I am not saying thank you, okay? Just that… I approve of what you did.” He pursed his lips like a small child grumbling to his mother that his favorite toy had broken.

“Indeed,” Yrith said, eyes glistening with amusement. “Your approval was just what I was waiting for.” They finished collecting the fish, Cain setting up the nets again while Yrith tied the sack shut with a rough bast string.

“Less than usual,” Yrith commented, knitting her brows as she scrutinized the poor catch. She threw it over her shoulder and set out for the city. As she approached the cliffs forming the ravine, she heard footsteps again. Heavy as they were, audible even in the incessant murmurs of the sea, Yrith assumed them to belong to a guard. She looked up at one of the cliffs as the sound suddenly changed into a quiet rustle and then slowly escalated into a rumble.

“Wha…” Cain hinted behind her. As she turned around to face him, she could see him staring above her. Slowly, his eyes grew wider, fear reflecting in his face.

“M-midget!” he gasped.

“Yes?”

“G-get out of there!” he blurted out, pointing up at the cliff. “Get out! Now!” He bolted toward her, struggling against the soft, wet sand.

Yrith looked up. A mass of snow, pitch black against the dark sky, was sliding from the cliff, casting a threatening shadow at her and all about. She forgot her breath, face mirroring Cain’s fear. She released the sack, looking for the quickest escape route. It was too late. There was none. She would never make it.

“No!” she yelled the first word to come to her mind. She could feel her feet grow heavy, unable to carry her away.

“Midget!”

He drew closer. He would be brought down along with her. She knew the snow around here. It never melted. It was ancient, hardened by never-ending winter into massive blocks of ice. And all that ice was falling on her head.

Instinctively, she raised her hands. They flared with magic, then spread it around, forming a shield that shimmered in the dark. She stared at the mass of frosty substance sinking to where she stood. For a split moment, it seemed to stop in midair only to show her the hopelessness of her situation. And then it hit.

The impact broke the shield and made the ice shatter. The next wave took the form of icy rubble, sending her to the ground and burying her frame. She could feel the air getting squeezed out of her lungs, and the sound of Cain’s shrieks grew distant.

She couldn’t move or breathe. Cold spread through her limbs, penetrating her every muscle. She wanted to cry out, but the only result would be a load of snow in her mouth. She wanted to reach out, but the weight on her body wouldn’t let her move an inch. And so she lay there, motionless, mind heavy with spreading darkness. Out of all possible options, she would have never imagined herself to perish in an avalanche.

And then, just as she was about to fall into a hazy slumber, a gust of fresh, salty wind whipped her cheek. Cain was frantically removing the snow, setting her free from her icy prison. She gasped, drawing in the air and shaking in pain as the senses were returning to her.

“Can you walk?” he asked, his voice trembling. She stared at him, unable to process the words. The sound was there, but her mind would not function. The only thing she was aware of was the dull pain spreading through her body. She pressed her lips together and clenched her fists to contain a moan. Her eyelids felt so heavy.

“No, Ravencroft! Come on, open your eyes! Snap out of it, we have to get you up there!”

“I’m so tired,” she whispered.

“I know. You’ll get to rest. But first you need to get on your feet and use them. Can you walk?” He pulled her up into the sitting position, forcing her to squint at his face. His expression was hard and uncompromising, though she could see a hint of concern in his scarlet eyes.

With his aid, Yrith tried to stand. She hissed as a flash of pain cut through her leg like a white-hot blade, but managed to shift her weight on the other one, leaning against Cain for support.

“The fish…” she mumbled drowsily as he dragged her away. He chuckled bitterly, flicking her forehead.

“Go ahead and grab it if you’re up to it.”

She had to smile to that, but could not find the strength to utter an intelligible reply.

They ascended the slope, slowly, carefully. Yrith struggled to keep going, clutching Cain’s shoulder every time she had to put her weight on the injured leg. The cold bit into her flesh and made her shiver. She fought against the slippery path, her breath shallow and eyelids heavy with exhaustion. By the looks of it, Cain was in a similar situation, desperately trying to keep her from falling while barely holding up against the beaten ice.

Yrith knew that every step would get them closer to the College, yet she felt as though they were just trampling the ice in one place. She stopped squinting toward the smoke rising from the chimneys in the distance and focused on her feet instead. At least she saw the ground move underneath her which gave her some assurance of their progress.

After a short while of silent walking, Cain suddenly came to a halt. She gave him a questioning look, but the answer came promptly.

“Blazes, urchin, what happened to you?!”

On the road before them stood Qassir, face twisted in genuine shock. He hurried to support Yrith from the other side, gently sliding a hand under her upper arm. Cain greeted him with a not so forthcoming snort.

“What are you doing here, sandman?”

The Redguard hinted a shrug with his free hand. “Why so angry?” he taunted. He gave the Dunmer a curious scrutiny, then stopped at Yrith’s limp leg. “You know, when you stand up there on the hill, looking at a cliff, and the next moment half of the said cliff is gone, it does raise a suspicion.”

“Spoken like true outlander,” Cain snorted, face turning into a spiteful glare. “You go to a faraway land and the only thing that matters to you is to be there when something happens. If only you had made yourself useful and gone back to the College to send help.”

“Which you certainly seem to be in need of,” Qassir gave a sagelike nod. “So here, let me help.”

With one smooth movement, he gently took Yrith in his arms as though she weighed no more than a paper doll. He flashed Cain his brightest smile, white teeth mirroring the surrounding snow. The Dunmer’s eyes shot daggers. Yrith looked up into the Redguard’s face and he responded with a playful wink. She quickly averted her gaze, feeling her cheeks redden regardless of the chill still paralyzing her body.

“No worries, urchin,” he assured her with his usual grin. “This Redguard has you. We can leave the Dunmer to his own fate.”

“But…” she breathed, but flinched at the sound of the Dunmer’s outraged voice.

“What is your–”

“The fish,” Qassir said, nodding toward the pile of crumbling ice and snow on the sea shore. “You wouldn’t want to let that go to waste, would you? Go ahead and fetch it. I shall escort the little urchin to the College.” The smile he regaled Cain with, however innocent on the surface, was the most wicked thing Yrith had ever seen. She suddenly felt a strong urge to punch the Redguard in the face, and perhaps she would have done so had she not been feeling so weak.

“I don’t think s–”

“Be seeing you,” Qassir called to Cain as he set out, holding Yrith lightly against his chest. “Apologies for stealing your beloved, but it seems she needs slightly better care than you can offer.”

With that, he sped up, leaving the dumbfounded elf behind to fight the drifts of snow and merciless wind with the darkness of the night as his only companion. The girl in his arms stared at him in shock, unable to utter a word. Her disbelief only deepened when she shivered and her escort instantly pressed her closer to his body to warm her up.

“W-why?” she stammered, her slightly doubtful eyes fixed on his mysterious smile. “Why would you…”

“How kind of you,” he said, eyes shimmering in the moonlight. “Always defending that person, even though he would never have done the same for you.”

Despite herself, Yrith snorted, feeling slightly more awake than moments before. “I am not defending him!”

“Then what are you doing?” he asked and she could feel a touch of amusement in the statement. She waggled in his arms and hissed as her leg promptly reacted by sending a flash of pain through her body.

“Just the right thing,” she mumbled.

“The right thing, eh?” He stared into her eyes, forcing her to shift her gaze to one of the misted windows they were passing. After a few moments of heavy silence, he let out a soft chuckle. “You know,” he said, sounding distant, “in the big picture, the right thing may not always be as right as you think.”

Yrith froze. She knew these words. She had heard them so many times before. Her father used to repeat them to her whenever she had done something foolish and tried to defend it with “the right thing.” The last time had been moments before his death.

“What do you know?” she uttered through gritted teeth.

“Seems like I touched a sore spot, didn’t I? I am sorry.” She stared into his face. He did not sound apologetic at all. Yrith let out a quiet huff but chose to leave the statement without reply. Talking to Qassir was meaningless. She closed her eyes, simply wishing they’d arrive soon. They spent the rest of their journey in silence, only listening to each other’s breaths and the Redguard’s light footsteps.


The evening dragged on. Curiously enough, Singird Larkwing had spent the last few days more occupied with searching for information on the Ravencroft family than with his own research.

Winterhold had access to information from all over Tamriel. Urag gro-Shub was known for hist thirst for knowledge that he expressed by hiring numerous scouts and adventurers who would occasionally bring him long lost books or records snatched from various governmental offices which tended to be, naturally, marked as classified information. The existence of these files was an open secret to the College staff, as the College of Winterhold was exempted from any state laws as long as the unlawful acts were kept within the College grounds.

To Singird’s astonishment, there were several boxes of Thalmor reports and dossiers, secret messages from Ulfric Stormcloak to his commanders and allies, copies of the White-Gold Concordat and both Treaties of Stros M’kai, and even reports from some raids in Valenwood that Singird had never heard of before. Birth certificates and records of people crossing any province border in Tamriel were also included, containing even the hidden Khajiit caravans. But the Ravencrofts weren’t there. They weren’t on any of the Lists of Recognized Magi that every magical institution in Tamriel was keeping either. There were no records of them ever existing. He traced several Ravencrofts in High Rock and some in Cyrodiil, but none of them seemed to be related to Yrith’s family.

Singird thought of asking Urag gro-Shub about them directly, but chased the thought away when he imagined the scowl on the orc’s brute face which was sure to follow that question. He could ask Miss Ravencroft herself. But he needed her to trust him, and he could hardly achieve that by bringing tears into her eyes again.

With a sigh, he snapped the last box shut and returned it to its rightful place. It was way past sunset and he could not wait to enjoy his evening cup of tea along with a pair of smuggled rockies, as the Skyrim folk liked to call the infamous rock-solid cookies from High Rock, popular for their strong, spicy flavor. He left the Arcanaeum, taking his favorite route to the Hall of Countenance through the College roof.

The fresh wind and starry sky did wonders to his mood. He took a short moment to lean against the stone wall surrounding the roof and let his eyes wander freely over the snowy moonlit landscape. Up from this height and distance, the mountains on the western side and the small isles surrounded by thousands of floes on the south-east looked so small, as though he could simply crush them with his fist.

He glanced upon the shore and frowned, distrusting his own eyes. The area around the fishing piers appeared to be buried under a thick pile of ice and snow while the cliff above it had lost a good portion of its original volume. Knowing everything around Winterhold was protected and held together by powerful magic, he blamed the night for tricking his eyes. He blinked to clear his sight, but the image stayed. With a shrug, he turned away, mind drifting to his favorite tea.

He had just entered the Hall of Countenance when an echoing yell from below made him freeze. Curious about the source of the commotion, he hurried to the brightly glowing focal point and bent over the low wall surrounding it, just in time to hear the screechy voice of Colette Marence, the Restoration Master.

“By the Eight! Mister Tahlrah… Miss Ravencroft, what on Nirn happened to you?!”

Singird froze, staring at the column of blue light as the realization sank in. A wave of cold gushed over him. Despite himself, he darted toward the stairs, nearly sliding down to the lowest level. Several doors opened as he ran past them, revealing curious faces of his fellow teachers, but paid them little attention.

Down by the entrance door stood Qassir Tahlrah, Yrith Ravencroft resting in his arms, obviously shaken and wounded. Colette Marence was giving her person a careful scrutiny.

“What happened?” Singird asked as he joined her.

“Master Larkwing,” said Colette without lifting her face. “Later. She needs treatment. She is already quite late; this leg is going to take some time to fully heal. Mister Tahlrah, if you would please take her to my room.”

“Wait. Where is Mister Aldaryn?”

“Somewhere on the road,” Qassir hinted a shrug. Singird stared at him, finding only indifference in the Redguard’s face. He had to exhaust all of his self-control on preventing the sudden outburst of rage from dying his face crimson.

“Somewhere on the road,” he repeated quietly. “I saw a crumbled cliff down by the shore. Is he still there? Is he wounded as well?”

“Cain was fine when we left him,” Yrith said, her weak voice almost drowned by the incessant humming of the blue fountain. Singird let out a small sigh of relief.

“Mister Tahlrah, please,” Colette urged, holding the door to her room open for him. The Redguard gave a slight nod and entered. She turned to Singird. “Master Larkwing, if you would please wait here. We’ll be done in a moment. If a cliff really did fall down, then we need to head down at once and restore the magic protecting the place. I would appreciate your assistance.”

“Very well,” Singird muttered before watching Colette’s back disappear behind the door. He stared at it motionlessly, pondering the tingling sensation on the nape of his neck he always felt when things were about to go awry. He drew a deep breath and seated himself on the fountain wall, allowing himself some of the comfort that he liked to deny the students.

The door opened in a few moments, revealing Colette in a fur-padded overcoat and expressionless Qassir. They exchanged a few quiet words before the Redguard scuttled away, leaving the two teachers alone.

“How is she?” asked Singird, jumping up. Colette shot him a semi-amused look.

“Ah, the punished student? Suffering from guilty conscience, are we?”

He shot her a piercing look. “Not at all.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Master Larkwing,” she laughed as she opened the door, letting the cold breeze ruffle her carefully coiffured hair. “She’ll pull through. The worst damage was done to her mind, though. I can hardly cure that.”

Singird nodded, following her outside. “Not even a Master of Restoration such as yourself can mend one’s soul, eh?”

She chuckled softly. “I have been researching that, in fact. But soul studies are quite a difficult discipline, even for a mage veteran.”

“I suppose. Do you mind sharing your experience?” They entered the bridge, squinting against the wind. Singird shot a glance at the stormy sea, waves wearing caps of white foam reflecting the moonlight.

“I would,” Colette said, carefully searching for the safest route with her feet, “but so far, it has been quite difficult to piece the information I need together. I had to put all the Restoration books aside to fully engage myself in soul studies. Not to mention I have to make two copies of everything I write because someone constantly keeps stealing my notes.”

“If you need assistance with finding the culprit…”

“Ah, no,” she waved him off, finding purchase by clutching the wall on her side. “It’s not that bad. The Collegium is not willing to acknowledge the art of Restoration as a real discipline of magic, though. And I strive to change that.”

“So, how far have you gotten in your soul studies?”

She laughed. “That is a good question. In the great tangle of information I’ve sorted through, very few parts are actually relevant. I’d say the most useful one was about each soul being a specific manifestation of the world. It may sound simple, but it is not.

“You see, a soul can interfere with other souls and influence them, but it can never control them. When I heal a person’s body, I can feel their bones and tissues, I can hear their heartbeat, and if I send in my magic, I can patch the body up, just like I would patch up a piece of garment. But that is all possible only because I know the anatomy of one’s body and, to some extent, I can change it at will. A soul is not like that. It has no tangible structure, nothing you could see or feel with the primary five senses. We can feel a person’s emotions through a variety of impulses, but mending a soul with magic would require a completely different approach. You would have to seek its origins and find out what formed the soul into what it is now. But if you had this information, nothing would be impossible. Not even bringing a soul back from the dead. I can imagine how something like this could easily get out of hand.”

“To bring a soul back from the dead…” Singird stared at her in silent contemplation. “Miss Marence, if you don’t mind me asking, where did you learn this?”

“Oh…” Colette hesitated, seemingly troubled by something. Singird studied her soft features and the dark shadows in her face contrasted by the pale moonlight. They passed a guard giving them a small nod. Colette looked over her shoulder at the steel-clad man as though she was afraid he’d listen. She put up a soft smile with a hint of guilt and mischief. “You see,” she spoke at last, “I… sort of snatched them from Urag gro-Shub’s personal collection.”

Singird could hardly contain a chuckle. “The one whose existence he always so ardently denies?”

“That one, yes,” she affirmed. “I noticed he always goes to sort new and returned books at the same hour, so whenever I need something I can’t find elsewhere, I go consult his little treasure. So far, I’ve always managed to return everything before he could notice it was missing.” Singird noticed a spark of excitement in the eyes of his colleague who apparently took unexpected pleasure in tricking the orc librarian. That was a feeling he could easily relate to.

“One should not underestimate the Restoration Master,” he quipped. “So? Which book was it?”

“It was called Soul Genesis. There was no author, but it was labeled with the symbol of the Association of Wizards and Alchemists.”

“Association of Wizards and Alchemists? Is there such an institution?”

“Truth be told, before I started rummaging through Urag’s collection, I hadn’t heard of it either. There seems to be no trace of them anywhere, although he owns quite a lot of volumes with their seal. Apparently, Miss Ravencroft’s parents were members as well.”

“Hold on. There are mentions of her parents too?”

“Quite a lot of them, actually. They were active contributors to the soul magic studies back in the day. I wish I could have a copy of their series of essays on compact regeneration of soul and body. One of them spoke about how one can use the connection between their soul and body to maintain their health, both physical and mental. Although some of the things the Ravencrofts researched are rather disquieting. Apparently, they were one of the few people who knew how to concoct the Spirit Blight.”

Deep in his mind, Singird grinned and made a mental note to find out Urag gro-Shub’s schedule. Those few minutes of talking to Miss Marence meant more to him than the last few days he had spent buried in books on his own. He now had a clear lead for both his research and the Ravencroft mystery, and sure as the night sky above him, he would use it.

“I have heard of that one,” he said. “The only poison that can literally melt your soul into nothingness.”

Colette nodded grimly. They had left the warm lights and smoking chimneys of the city behind. From the distance, they could hear the whispers of the sea. “And the one that can only be countered by another strong poison,” she added.

“Still, considering her parents’ prowess…”

“Having some trouble with young Yrith?” Colette teased with a good-natured smirk.

“That depends on what you call trouble,” he smiled back.

“The usual,” she hinted, amusement gleaming in her eyes. “But she sure knows how to surprise.”

“Oh?”

“Well, let’s say that for the pitiful performance she’s been giving in my classes, she sure can make her wards count when it comes to it. That cliff would have killed her if it had not been for her magic.”

Singird’s smile faded, replaced by a concerned frown. “Then let’s be grateful she has it. I don’t suppose it would improve the College’s reputation if the world learned we lost a student in an avalanche.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

He let out a somewhat bitter chuckle, stopping just before the crumbled cliff. The Falcon’s Beak, as the locals liked to call it, had lost its head. All that was left was a dangerously grinning jaw of glistening ice teeth. “I am beginning to think that there are less and less things that can surprise me anymore,” he said, shaking his head at the sight.

“Aren’t you a bit too young to be saying that?” she gently nudged him between the ribs, causing him to scrutinize his own robe and smoothen it immediately. A corner of her mouth twitched. “Let’s survey the area first. It is a little odd for the cliff to fall off by itself. It has been a few months since we recast the protective charm, and that spell is supposed to last for years, if not centuries.” She made a step toward the crumbling remains of the cliff, but Singird promptly grabbed her arm.

“Wait. We should muffle ourselves before we trample the place down.”

“Fair point,” she nodded. No sooner did they take off than they both cast the muffle spell, preventing their steps from being heard or leaving footprints.

The two of them struggled against the blocks of ice in their path, having to use magic to prevent themselves from falling or touching the ground several times. Singird strayed a little from his companion, studying the snow around the perimeter.

Time dragged on, but neither of them found a trace of anything suspicious. After a few hours, when Masser decided to take refuge beyond the western horizon, the two of them reunited, worn and less than happy.

“Nothing,” Colette shook her head. “Perhaps our enchantment was simply faulty.”

Singird knit his brows. It was not his habit to admit defeat so easily. Had it not been for Colette, he would have searched past morning. He gave an unsatisfied sigh.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“It is becoming late,” she said, eyes drifting to the night sky. A soft veil of silvery green nebula started forming on its northern side, making the College seem like a dark, menacing fortress looming over the land. A chill in the wind made her visibly shudder. “We should reinforce it in case some foolish citizen decides to go sightseeing. Then we wait until morning.”

“Very well. After you, Miss Marence.”

Singird watched as Colette stretched out her arms, releasing her magic and letting it envelop the broken cliff. He promptly followed. After a lengthy while of draining their souls of their magic, the two of them set out for the College. For the last time, Singird looked over his shoulder at the jagged structure, threatening against the colorful horizon. He let out a deep breath, exhaustion weighing heavy on his shoulders. He nearly staggered over the gravel-like snowy surface around the cliff, eyes fixed on the thin line that separated the area from the smooth, foamy texture ahead. Suddenly, he froze, putting a hand on Colette’s shoulder.

“That,” he pointed to the line. “Do you see it?”

“You mean the–” Her hand shot up to her lips. “Divines preserve us!”

“Divines preserve us indeed. This whole time we have been looking in the wrong places.” Singird stepped toward the line, bending down to examine it. “Quite a clean cut,” he remarked grimly. “Most definitely caused by controlled magic.”

“But who could have done this? Why would someone want to compromise the College when we struggle to even survive?”

Singird left the question unanswered. He could not articulate his suspicion before Colette Marence. What a convenient coincidence that the Yrith Ravencroft who had been made to appear as though she had killed her own parents and attacked by an ice wraith that had strayed far from its territory was now an unfortunate victim of a very unlikely avalanche. He clenched his fists unwittingly. No, this was no coincidence. Whoever the culprit, they were not after the College. They were directly after Yrith Ravencroft.

“Whoever it was,” he mused, “they must have been exceptionally gifted in the arcane arts. Or there were more of them. How many of you took part in the last maintenance?”

“At least five members of the Collegium, if memory serves me right. Needless to say, we did not rely on our magic alone.”

“And to interfere with the local magic…”

“… you must be someone recognized by it,” she finished.

“Who else is recognized apart from the teachers and students?”

“Well, anyone who has ever gained authorized entry. Residents, former students, guests…”

Singird sighed, rising back to full height. “Let us go. There is nothing for us to do here.”

Colette gave him a look of concern, a deep wrinkle between her brows marring her beautiful face. “Rest in ease, Master Larkwing,” she said in a soothing tone, touching his forearm. “Come morning, I shall have Master Neloren examine the area for magical residue. We will get to the root of this.”

He gave a small nod, doubting her words as he did. Without another word, they returned to the College, each deep in thought, oblivious to the passing lights of the city of Winterhold or the crackling ice covering the ramshackle walls around the College bridge. Singird headed straight for his room, crashing on his bed without changing. For once, he did not care. His mind was too occupied with other things. He had no time to think about the dirt he had brought in on his person.

Just before sleep took him, he made a promise to himself. The next day, he would sneak into the library and steal his share from Urag gro-Shub’s precious collection.

Chapter 7: Guilty Conscience

Notes:

This is a new chapter that wasn’t in the first version but it’s super important. And… I wonder how many of you are going to hate me for this chapter and its implications. “Mirwen, I didn’t know you liked such cliché… Mirwen, I thought you were a decent person!” Ha! No, Mirwen’s fantasies are far from decent. Well. Enjoy. :D

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Pain. Stabbing, piercing, searing, white hot and dead cold at the same time. That was all she felt. An endless universe of inferno, darkness that instead of dulling all the senses penetrated them and locked her in a cage of eternal agony. There was no laughter this time, no happy memories, no smiles or tears of joy. Only torment tearing her apart.

She wanted to call for help, for someone to hold out a hand for her, but no one would listen. People fought and cried, each in their own little world of despair, and she could feel them all. She felt the women weep as they lost their husbands and sons in the war. She felt the men cry in pain, calling to their wives, knowing they would never see them again. She felt the horses falling under their riders, and the mice and small creatures being trampled into the ground under the heavy steps of their hooves. She heard the funeral chimes, the laments of the bereaved and the laughter of those sowing death. She saw the headsman’s ax fall on the father’s head and heard the son cry. Traitors walked free and spoke the laws while those with honor fell in the dust.

And their souls shattered, too weak to follow the path to Aetherius. They hurt. They withered. They ceased to exist.

She wept with them, feeling her own soul being torn to pieces. She wanted to live. To survive. She had to live!

There was hope yet, she knew. She had to rise. She would put an end to the suffering. She would break the eternal loop. A voice filled her head. Terrifying, paralyzing, deafening thrum that was not of this world.

“Thou shan’t save these souls. It is what they have brought upon themselves. Thou art powerless, mortal. Thou shall face death and succumb to it. And people will weep and loathe. So the stars have foretold.”

Then, the pain swallowed her a-whole and she let out a deafening cry.


With barely any sleep to ease his weariness, the new day welcomed Singird Larkwing with the usual Winterhold murk. He awoke moments before sunrise, throwing a drowsy glance out from his window. There was the sea, covered by a field of gently bobbing floes, barely discernible from the distance. Somewhere down, hidden behind the sill, was the still unrepaired cliff. He heard voices from outside his room, assuming that Colette Marence had called alarm and prodded half of the Collegium to venture out for inspection and mending. Despite the dark circles forming under his eyes, he found himself unable to fall back into his slumber. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he rose, examining his person.

Unsatisfied with the state of his robe, he changed it for a shiningly white tunic and a surcoat of deep blue color like the ocean depths, cleaning himself with a spell. The Nine knew he could use a hot bath, and nothing warmed more than a wood fire free of magic, but one could rarely afford such a luxury in Winterhold. With a sigh, he smoothed out the fabric of his new attire and made for the door.

By the time he left his room, the central corridor of the Hall of Countenance was deserted, half of the rooms belonging to the teachers opened. He strode down, peeking curiously into some of them, only to be disappointed by their unwelcoming emptiness. Upon reaching the ground floor, a sudden scream made him wince, eyes flicking to the door to Colette Marence’s room which was still shut. Brows knitted in alarm, he approached it and landed a knock.

There was no answer but a soft, almost inaudible sob. Recalling the last night, he assumed Yrith Ravencroft was still there. With a trace of worry nibbling on the back of his mind, he knocked again, louder than before.

“Miss Ravencroft?” he tried, but once again, no reply came from the inside.

He opened the door to find a trembling huddle of blankets and furs sitting on the bed. There was not an inch visible of the girl buried somewhere deep underneath them, and despite himself, Singird found the sight amusing.

Pondering what might have caused her to hide like this, he scanned the room. His eyes traced a table covered with neatly organized bundles of herbs and vials, standing just next to the bed. On the window sill lay a tray with half a loaf of bread and some Eidar Cheese, clearly untouched. Some feast, Singird thought, commending Master Marence for sparing her patients no expense in a land with no crops to be harvested or fed to cattle.

There was a basin of clear water and a folded pile that revealed a bedroll upon closer inspection. The shelves on the walls held mostly practical objects like an hourglass, mortars and pestles of various sizes, flasks and retorts, clean and protected with the slightest hint of magic to prevent them from scratching or staining. The only closet in the room was tightly shut. There were no signs of anything suspicious and Miss Ravencroft clearly hadn’t left the bed either.

He approached her, hand landing lightly on the rim of her blanket. “Take off those furs, Miss Ravencroft. There is nothing to fear here.”

Contrary to his words, she pulled the blanket closer to her body. It emphasized the shape of her person, back bent and arms wrapped around her knee while her other leg lay slightly twisted on the bed. Singird stared at it, taking guesses whether she was in pain.

“Are you going to stay like this for the rest of your life?” It took him all sorts of effort to adopt a tone that would not sound too unkind, but the only response he received was an uneasy waggle. With a bit of impatience, he tugged at the blanket. “Or are you assuming I am the same sort as your classmates, scoffing at every little thing and taking delight in watching others squirm with uncertainty?” He was painfully aware of how unprofessional he was being, badmouthing the students in front of her, but his words finally seemed to fall on fertile ground.

An eye peeked out from underneath the blankets, glistening with tears. She watched him with utter caution, slowly removing the outer layer of her covers. She was shy and hesitant, struggling to contain her sobs, and he could see pain mingle with shame in her face. This was not the cheeky mischief he had met on his first day as a Winterhold teacher. The sight sent a very unpleasant tingle down from the nape of his neck.

He sat down beside her, watching her in silence. She curled up in the corner of the bed, trying to hide her tears with the back of her hand and stay as far away from him as she could. He tried to move closer, but she would cower at his slightest movement.

“There is nothing to fear,” he repeated to her quietly, passing her the tray. “Care for a bite?”

She shook her head in denial, but he put it next to her nonetheless.

“Taking care of your health is one of your responsibilities as a student and a living person, Miss Ravencroft.” He gave her a piercing look, fighting the softness that tried to creep into his voice. Her brows furrowed, lips twisting in a gnarling scowl, but still, she did not utter a word.

This side of her irked him. The silence that came whenever something was amiss. She would never share, never trust. Convincing Miss Ervine to trust him would be easier than this. He sighed.

“Are you in pain?”

Hesitation. She seemed to genuinely ponder the answer and Singird frowned at that. One does not usually need to contemplate on whether they hurt or not. She slowly shook her head, but he spotted a hidden sign behind the gesture. She was not true to him.

They spent a while in silence. He waited, watching her as her breath steadied itself. Gradually, the fear receded from Yrith’s face, replaced by a wariness of sorts. Her eyes roved around the room, scanning, examining. They paused at the bedroll, then rested on the window.

“Master Marence went to mend the cliff,” Singird explained. She gave a slow nod. “I need to discuss the rest of your punishment with you, but that will wait until you are well enough to do so. We can’t possibly let you wander outside now that the local magic has been disrupted.”

There was an unspoken question in her eyes. He waited, but she kept her tacit approach, the only answer being her body language.

“Questions should be asked, not kept and taken to the grave with you,” he said, reproach in his voice. She bit her lip, then took a breath.

“If…” she finally spoke and her voice was quiet, as though she was afraid of being overheard by uninvited guests. “If they’re mending it, then why can’t I go out?”

Singird frowned. Out of all the questions she could have picked, she had to ask the one he could not give a clear answer to. She had always been truthful to him, yet he could not return the favor. Guilt was gnawing at him, forcing him to reason with himself. It was in her best interest, after all. But that wasn’t entirely true and he knew it.

“One would assume you’ll be relieved at the prospect of not going out anymore,” he said in a light, conversational tone. He watched as she averted her eyes and pursed her lips.

“I do, but… that still doesn’t answer my question.”

Singird cursed her obstinacy. She would not be satisfied until she got what she wanted.

“We can’t be certain what caused it. We shall have to investigate.” It was close to the truth as it could be. He waited for her reaction, but a simple nod was all she gave. He felt relief at that, and the fact that she did not seem shaken by the events of the previous night.

“Say, Miss Ravencroft,” he said, deciding to risk a few questions, “did you notice anything out of the ordinary before the cliff fell?”

“Out of the ordinary?”

“Yes. Something that could have caused the cliff to tear off. Weather conditions, unexpected occurrences, people… or just anything that caught your attention.”

She frowned in concentration as she tried to recall everything that had transpired, then slowly shook her head. “Nothing but a guard passing by.”

“A guard?” Winterhold was a small settlement where rumors spread fast. If a guard had been there, then, surely, he and Miss Marence would have been stopped by the one they had met on their way, would they not? “And they did not help?”

“Hmm… they were up by the cliff. I don’t think they even knew we were there.”

“Then how do you know it was a guard?”

She shrugged. “Even I can recognize the sound of a walking mountain clad in steel when I hear its footsteps.”

That hardly sounded like someone prone to magic, Singird admitted to himself, but what did he know? There was no rule stating that a mage cannot walk from head to toe in steel or possess skill in both magic and the art of sword. Then again, if it had been the same person who had killed her parents, they commanded illusion spells so powerful they could have easily tricked young Miss Ravencroft into thinking she heard a guard. He let out a deep breath. He could imagine easier tasks than to work against such a potent illusionist.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of help,” she murmured.

He looked up, snapping out of his thoughts. She was eyeing him with keen interest, a little tense in the shoulders, but no more afraid. She would be fine. He stood up and smoothed out the bed sheets where he had been sitting.

“I will be going,” he said, gesturing to the door. There was something in her eyes that made him hesitate. A plea, perhaps, a tinge of that fear he thought to have disappeared. She did not want to be left alone. “Miss Marence will be here in no time,” he assured her, words coming out strangely distorted as he could not decide on his tone.

“I want to get some books…” she began, but he silenced her immediately with a raised finger.

“Out of question. Rest, Miss Ravencroft. And eat,” he added sternly, forcing the tray into her hands. “I will come to check up on you regularly to make sure you are taking proper care of yourself. Though I do hope this moment of leisure doesn’t make you forget our agreement.”

The raven girl gave him a semi-defiant look, but behind that mask he could see amusement. So she was well enough to be entertained at his expense. He opened his mouth to scold her, then closed it with a sigh. Just this once, he would let her off the hook.

“Could I ask you to bring me some books from the library then?” she asked and he knit his brows, instantly regretting his decision.

“Are you in a place to ask a teacher for errands?”

“I just thought I would do some studying, since…”

He gave her a withering look. “Rest.”

The order came firm and he said no more. He left her to herself and let the door snap shut behind him. The library was his next destination. Urag gro-Shub would surely be awake by now, providing him with a chance to do a little observation. As he strode across the corridor and through the courtyard, he devised a plan in his head. After all, the library was not a bad place to spend an entire day. And perhaps he could pick up some ‘light’ reading for the young Miss Ravecroft to occupy herself with while he’s at it. Just in case.

He froze as he reached the foyer to the Hall of the Elements, hand on the scuffed brass handle of the entrance to the Arcanaeum. Just what have I become? he thought to himself with an internal scoff. A nanny?


The next two days passed in a flash. Yrith Ravencroft had been moved back to her own room in the Hall of Attainment, but Singird always found the time to go see her. It proved a difficult task, as her room was almost never empty. Curiously enough, quite a few people found interest in the Breton girl.

Aside from Colette Marence who always came to change her bandages and bring her a health potion along with a bowl of meat broth, and Lady Faralda who checked up on her foster child regularly, there was also Cain Aldaryn who supposedly brought Miss Ravencroft notes from the classes and liked to stay longer than necessary. Qassir Tahlrah too visited her frequently and with no apparent reason. Singird felt slight contempt toward the boys, grumbling inwardly that children these days had no decency.

On the fourth day, he was readying himself for another visit. Lurking in the Conjuration section of the Arcanaeum, he sifted through the tomes to find appropriate literature for her. The way she devoured books like a dragon does a man brought smile to his lips. During his visits, they mostly talked about Conjuration. Her approach was unusual. She claimed to be able to extend her mind into Oblivion, which, as far as he was concerned, was impossible for any ordinary mortal. But if, by any chance, it was true, she could indeed be a great asset to him. Soul studies. Things that he and Miss Marence could not do… what if Yrith Ravencroft could?

His finger slid over the back of a book. The Conjuration section did not have much to offer to Miss Ravencroft anymore. There was only so much books could give her. He scanned the shelves of neatly arranged volumes, then his eyes drifted elsewhere. An idea formed in his mind.

He passed the orc librarian, grumbling something under his breath as he sorted through the books. His usual zeal was replaced with agitation of sorts. Singird was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he would not be able to look into his secret collection anytime soon. Perhaps Miss Marence had been discovered. For the past few days, Urag gro-Shub had seemed distracted and irritable, and worst of all, he had been sitting on his books like a hen on its eggs. And so Singird focused on providing Miss Ravencroft with as much knowledge and information he could, considering it a future investment.

He cut through the Illusion section, then stopped in the small corner dedicated to Mysticism and soul studies. The book he pulled out was old as time, its original color indiscernible on the threadbare cover. Only its spine bore a fading inscription. Soul Integrity: Shaping the Reality. This would do. And if Yrith Ravencroft were to suddenly miraculously improve in Alteration, then Master Tolfdir owed him a tankard of Nord Mead.

He turned to the librarian, just in time to watch him place the last book and return to his desk. The orc’s eyes were shooting daggers.

“Just what do you need, lemon face?” he flared up, waving a paper in Singird’s direction. The Nord sighed.

“I’m taking this to Miss Ravencroft. And thank you,” he hinted a curtsy. Pity that Orsimer did not flush, for it would have made this whole display that much entertaining. Urag scowled and bared his teeth.

“No, you are not. She is not getting books from me anymore.”

“Oh? Since when are you two arch-enemies?”

“None of your business, the door’s over there,” the orc retorted. “And while you’re at it, take this to her.” Inserting the paper in an envelope, he sealed it and handed it to Singird. He took it, inspecting it curiously, but the wrapping paper was thick and far from transparent. The orc kept his hand extended. “The book, please.”

“In that case, I am borrowing it,” Singird said with a casual shrug.

“You are not allowed.”

“You wish to stand in the way of my research and the College’s progress?” Singird hinted a smile, barely keeping himself from fully expressing it as the orc grew absolutely furious.

“Go add that to the Anuad, Larkwing. Who are you trying to fool here?”

“Very well. Then I am returning this.” He held out the envelope. Urag hissed like a sabre cat, then threw up his arms and turned away, waving Singird off.

“Whatever. Go eat some troll dung,” he growled.

“My pleasure and good day to you too,” Singird sang, leaving the orc to his rage. Even at the bottom of the stairs, he could still hear him muttering under his breath.


Singird had never been great with Alteration magic, but curiosity had gotten the better of him. He twirled the envelope in his fingers, pondering what in Oblivion could have caused that orc to act so furious at the expense of young Miss Ravencroft who he obviously adored. He carefully slid a thread of magic under the seal, separating it from the wrapping. The paper inside slid out into the palm of his hand and he grinned inwardly with satisfaction. Unfolding it, he gazed at the single line that was written there.

You’ll return the book or else. Urag

The script was jagged and sloping, not the usual tidy Urag gro-Shub writing he was used to. That must have been some book.

He entered Miss Ravencroft’s room to find her shaken yet again. More often than not he found her cowering in some unspoken fear, but she obstinately refused to explain herself. Instead, she changed topic or let him keep up the conversation, forcing herself to regain her composure while he did. She had trouble sleeping. He could see it in the weary look in her eyes, her stooped shoulders and shaky movements. But every time he asked, she averted her face as though she was feeling ashamed. And Singird grew concerned.

She was gripping a book, staring blankly at the pages. Upon his arrival, she raised her head but turned away quickly, gentle flush spreading across her cheeks. If it was like this, he would just have to get straight to the point and leave her with no choice but to confess.

“This is the third time,” he said with an overdramatic sigh. “Miss Ravencroft, if you are unwell, you are allowed to say so. I’m sure Master Marence would find a suitable remedy.”

She shook her head, putting her book aside and wrapping her arms around a pillow. Again, she let the silence linger heavily in the air. He took the chair just beside her bed and seated himself, lowering his head to her level.

“Whatever you are dealing with, I want you to tell me,” he insisted, resolute hardness coating his words. She was forced to look at him, eyes red rimmed and tired.

“It is nothing,” she mumbled and he could sense her uneasiness.

“This nothing keeps you sleepless and weary. Do you not trust me?”

She kept gazing at him, silent doubt in her eyes.

“I will not laugh,” he assured her. “I will not scorn you. If it is truly nothing, as you claim, then I shall admit to that and drop the subject.”

She bit on her lip. Her eyes drifted somewhere behind him and he knew she was simply avoiding looking him in the face. She took a breath. Then another one. No words would escape her lips, just like back when he was forcing her to speak of her parents. Was it that serious?

That time, he had bribed her with tea. But there was no tea in Miss Ravencroft’s room. There was nothing that would give her comfort. Even the chair he was occupying was old and creaky and had no cushion to make him feel at ease. The walls were barren, the desk could only hold a portion of her study materials and the floor was cold and grey with no furs to provide warmth and the gentle feeling of coziness. He vaguely recalled his own room had looked like this in his student years, giving him a reason to spend most of his time in the Arcanaeum.

Singird groped about his pocket, withdrawing a crumbled rockie wrapped in a piece of paper. That was all he had.

“Here,” he offered, extending his hand. “Perhaps a taste of home would make you feel better.”

She took it and turned it in her trembling fingers for examination. Then she nibbled at it and a hint of smile played on her lips. She gave a silent approving nod.

“So?” he suggested.

“It’s just… these dreams I have,” she uttered softly, fingers digging into her pillow.

“Dreams?”

Hesitantly at first, she told him of her nightmares. As she went on, her voice grew steady and more pleading than unsure. She spoke of all the souls she could feel, of the pain piercing her body. She told him of all the emotions that infested her mind and threatened to swallow her every time she dreamt. Feelings poured out of her and Singird felt overwhelmed. By the time she finished, she was clenching her fists and tears rolled down in glistening streaks over her face. Singird clutched the edges of his chair.

“Just to clarify,” he said, “the pain you felt was… real? Did your body ache?”

She nodded, tasting the salt on her lips.

“Have you told anyone?”

“N-no! They… already think I’m a freak. I don’t want to…”

“It could be an illusion spell. We should have you examined.”

“I don’t feel like I’m under an illusion.”

“Well, that would be a poor spell if you could recognize it.” He gave her a smirk and her cheeks turned red like a ripe apple. “Many a life shattered under the stubbornness of their own masters. Do not let a fickle emotion threaten your life, Miss Ravencroft.”

She paused and fidgeted in her bed. “Why do you care anyway?”

He knew she was feeling cornered. At the first sign of urgency from his part, she would snap and bite back. He sighed. “Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?”

“You have not, but that doesn’t explain why you do it.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had no right to question her trust. He had not earned it. His interest was based on his own selfish reasons, and he would be lying to himself if he thought he cared for her. And she was no fool. She saw it in his eyes.

“We are digressing,” he tried.

“Are we?” she snarled. “If I perished right now, not a single tear would be shed. Or can you prove otherwise?”

He stared at her, incredulous of her words. Not even he would go that far. Her words were offending him and, curiously enough, hurting as well.

“Are you listening to yourself?” he breathed, hands clenching into fists. His head was filled with rage. He would have pinned her to the wall, had his dignity allowed it. “Will you tell that to gro-Shub’s face? Will you say that in front of Lady Faralda? Old Toddvar downtown was singing praises of you! Even that Dunmer boy seems to care. How dare you scoff at the affection they have for you!”

“I… I…”

“Is this what you’ve been doing here all the time? Pondering whether your life is in vain?”

“I was just… I thought… that no one would love a good-for-nothing like me.” Her voice was almost inaudible, as though she feared her own words. And maybe she did.

“Indeed,” Singird replied coolly, “no one would love a good-for-nothing like you.”

She stared at him, forgetting her breath, and he could see a fresh supply of tears welling in her eyes. The sight sent a sting of guilt Singird’s way, but he masked it with a somewhat gentle smile.

“But you do you and it is solely up to you what you become. Those people have a reason to think you are not the good-for-nothing you believe yourself to be.”

She clutched her pillow, gaze drifting beyond her window. There was nothing there but the usual snowy greyness. “How can you say that to someone who killed her parents?”

Yet again, she was forcing out a truth he could not give. He would not be putting her in danger. Not any more than she already was. It was a poor excuse crafted just to soothe his conscience, but true nonetheless.

“Because,” he said, the ice in his tone melting entirely, “I saw your eyes when you spoke of that day, and they were not the eyes of a murderer.”

Instead of receding, the tears now flew in rivers, falling in glistening drops from her chin. She cried a lot, this one, and he was not good with tears at all. He waited, watching her in silence. They were staining her robe and the blanket she was creasing in her fists, and he felt the urge to wipe them off just so they would stop. He stifled it, letting them flow. She hinted a smile through the pouring streaks, as though a great burden had just been taken off her shoulders. He made an attempt to return it.

“Reconsidering now?” he asked, handing her a handkerchief he withdrew from the depths of his robe. She took it shakily, but let it rest in her hand without using it. He frowned in disapproval, but let her have her way. A nod was the only answer she gave.

“By the way, Urag gro-Shub sends you a message. He seemed to be quite angry with you, so perhaps you could start by mending that.”

Her eyes widened as she unfolded the note. She clutched it, fingers tearing into the paper like hungry talons.

“Thank you,” she murmured unconvincingly. He quirked his brows, but did not ask the uncomfortable question. Instead, his next words surprised even himself.

“Say, Miss Ravencroft… how do you steal a book from someone like Urag gro-Shub?”

She raised her head, searching for mockery in his face. Tears stopped falling and the trickles dried out on her cheeks. She semi-chuckled, flushing with embarrassment.

“Well… I’ve never really thought about it but… I’d say it’s easy to steal from someone who trusts you…” she trailed off, averting her gaze. Singird let out a snort.

“I suppose. Larceny and honor don’t go together, eh?”

“You… don’t sound angry at me.”

“Because that is between you and gro-Shub.”

“So… why are you interested?” She was reading his face, he was certain of it. She knew he had not asked just so he could scold her. Interest sparked in her eyes, and despite himself, Singird found that quite amusing.

“Because he has something I need and pretends he doesn’t.”

She laughed in earnest. “That does sound like Urag.”

“Well, unlike you, my options are limited,” Singird said, still not believing his own words. But somehow, they had a miraculous effect on Miss Ravencroft and he welcomed it.

“Do you want me to help?”

“Absolutely not. You are in enough trouble already.” And how could he ever tell her that he was searching for clues on her parents? “I need something from his secret collection, and who knows what would happen if he caught you again.”

“Secret collection? Which one?”

Singird’s lips quirked up at the question. Young Yrith had no idea what she had just offered.

“The one containing books with the stamp of the Association of Wizards and Alchemists,” he said, eyes fixed on her in anticipation of her reaction. She froze and sized him up, and he could almost feel the questions exploding in her head. But she was not sad as he expected her to be. Only curiosity reflected in those silver eyes, and he felt a touch of relief at that.

“The AWA?” she asked.

“You know them?” Another sting of guilt followed the lie. Singird forced himself to stifle it.

“My parents worked for them.”

“They did?”

She nodded, smiling with a touch of pride. “They were spellbrewers.”

“Spellbrewers? And that is…?”

“Hmm, well… they…” even as she was deep in thought, her smile widened into a brightness he had not seen on her before, “they weaved magic into things. They could create books that would swallow your entire person, or shoes that would let you get from Daggerfall to the southeast of Black Marsh in one day. They could draw magicka from thin air and brew it into a potion at will.”

Singird did not even try to contain himself as his eyes widened in astonishment. What she had just described was outright impossible. Children often like to exaggerate. This must have been the case.

“You must have quite admired them, didn’t you?”

She pursed her lips and threw him a piercing look, a sulking child act at her best. “You are mocking me!”

“No. If I was mocking you, even your hair would catch on fire.”

“And here I thought…” she trailed off, sealing her lips, eyes pinning the floor.

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

“As you wish, Miss Ravencroft,” he said with a soft smile. “I shall be going, but before that, take this.” He handed her the book he had taken from the library. She took it and examined it, then looked up to him with a raised brow.

“Soul Integrity? That’s not… a Conjuration book, is it?”

“No, but it should help you with your studies.” How easy it had become to lie to her. It had taken him four visits to master the craft. And she was unsuspecting, grateful for every single book he had brought her and every little bit of support she received. He felt a sudden urge to leave the room as soon as possible. She brightened with thanks and he felt a stab in his chest.

“I’ll have it read by tomorrow then,” she said and with utmost care placed the book on top of the small column raised on her desk. Singird nodded, rising to his feet.

“Until tomorrow then. Rest well. I will be informing the teachers of your nightmares, so do expect a visit.”

With that, he left, letting out a long, weary exhale as the door snapped shut behind him. For a short while, he let himself just breathe to regain his composure. The Hall of Attainment was empty, its occupants out for a class, and he was grateful for it. He turned to the door and froze. Lady Faralda was standing there, deep frown on her face and a hand on her hip. He stared at her, lowering his head in a greeting, but she did not return it.

“You have certainly been spending quite a lot of time with my foster child,” she commented, voice cold as ice.

“Perhaps,” he gave a cautious reply.

“A word, if you please, Master Larkwing. In my room.” He studied her face but could not read anything of what was in there. Lady Faralda was as good at concealing her thoughts as any high elf. Measuring up to him in height, with stern look in her eyes and features as sharp as though they had been carved with a chisel, she commanded respect like no other member of the Collegium. Fortunately, she and Miss Ervine were on good enough terms to not blast the place into the air when a dispute arose between them. Not even Singird dared oppose her, and so he simply nodded and followed her in silence into the Hall of Countenance. She led him into her room, closing the door behind her as soon as they entered.

“What is this all about?” she demanded, turning to him without offering him a seat. Her voice was calm and velvety as always, with no apparent tension, and that alone unnerving.

“Whatever you might be talking about?” Despite himself, he was decided not to give anything for free.

“Oh please, Master Larkwing. Yrith has been hurt because you sent her out. I remember you spouting threats about expelling her just as you arrived. And you are the only teacher who keeps visiting her every single day. Auri-El help you if you lay a finger on her.”

Singird clenched his fists, look turning stone-hard. If this was a contest of wills, so be it. “Then why don’t you ask her what we do?”

There was just a momentary hesitation before Lady Faralda spoke, her voice a tone colder than before. “Because I want to ask the initiator.”

“Even if you will not get the answer you seek?”

“Oh I will, I assure you.” Her fists mirrored his own. Realization dawned upon him and he could not deny himself a triumphant smile.

“You will not ask her,” he said as he leaned against her own cabinet, “because she would not talk to you.”

“You will not dare…”

“Oh I will dare. Tell me, Lady Faralda, how much do you even know about your foster child?”

“Enough to be willing to feed her, and that is all you need to know. I, on the other hand, have asked a question to which I still don’t have an answer.”

Singird sighed, discarding the smirk that he had not even realized he wore. “Lady Faralda, please, for once, take off that mask of ice and stone and talk to her with an open mind. She will give you the answer.”

“Are you ridiculing me?”

Searing, red anger, churning and fighting its way out. And he would let it. He glared at her, face twisted in fury. “You are ridiculing yourself! For all that pride you have, you do not even realize the danger she’s in! You are blind to her reasons and to whatever led to her acting the way she does!”

“Indeed. While you know everything, don’t you, Master Larkwing? The young Nordic prodigy cannot be wrong.” In spite of her words, Lady Faralda was unsure on her feet and her eyes wandered around the room, searching for nonexistent support. Singird drew in a deep breath.

“For the Nine’s sake, you two are such a hopeless case.” She opened her mouth to retort, but he would not let her. “She said to me that no one would care if she died. And the fool of me told her off for discarding you so easily! I’m starting to wonder what came over me.”

There was silence. Everything in the room was still and Singird could swear that she had ceased breathing. Her mask was shattered. Faralda gaped at him, motionless as though a blizzard made her freeze in place.

“She said what?” she asked at last.

“You heard me.”

She gestured toward her chair. “Sit down, please.”

Singird sized her up, pondering whether it meant she was willing to listen, or just that it would be a long discussion. Reluctantly, he seated himself, watching as she sat on the bed across the room.

“What else has she told you?” she asked, amber gaze on his face. He shook his head.

“That I will not share. Whatever she told me, she can tell you as well. But I will tell you what she does not know and I do.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Miss Ravencroft is in danger. Someone is aiming for her life.”

She let out a snort. “How entertaining. Please, tell me something new. And just for the record, I thought you were the one. What proof do you have of it?”

“Proof? It’s…” Singird paused, unsure how to continue. He had promised he would not reveal her secret. Miss Ravencroft had the right to tell Lady Faralda herself. To deny her that chance would be equal to a stab in the back. He sighed. “Her parents were killed,” he said at last. “I can’t tell you how I know. I made a promise to her not to reveal what she’d told me and I intend to keep it. But I know. She was supposed to be made the culprit.

“After the first night of her fishing duty, a passerby guard told me she had been attacked by an ice wraith and she confirmed it. Those creatures are no fools, they know better than to approach human settlements. It had strayed far from its territory… or it had been planted there intentionally. And a few days ago, a cliff broke off and fell. I think Miss Marence and Master Neloren are already investigating this, but the only thing we are certain of is that the magic protecting the cliff had been breached. I hardly think it a coincidence that Miss Ravencroft was the one to take the blow. Would that be enough of a proof to you?”

There was a moment of silence when Lady Faralda searched his face for any kind of trickery. Then, she gave a slow nod. “You sound true and I shall believe you. But that brings a question. Are you investigating?”

“I am indeed.”

“And how far have you gotten?”

Singird let out a bitter laugh. “Straight to the point, huh? Close to nowhere. I assumed the best way would be to search for information about her parents. But she is sensitive about it and I can’t even be certain she knows what I am looking for.”

Lady Faralda rose and opened the door to look around. She cast a few spells and Singird could register a Detect Life, Detect Death and a few other detection spells he did not recognize. She then closed the door shut and sealed it with magic, casting shields and various protection spells ensuring their privacy. Then, she turned to Singird with a firm resolution in her eyes.

“One can never be careful enough,” she said. “I do hope I am not making a mistake by trusting you, but I must admit you have gotten much further than I have over the past six months, and with no initial information too. I will share what I can.” She sank back to her seat, looking worn out and much older than moments before. “Tell me, Master Larkwing. Have you ever heard of the Association of Wizards and Alchemists?”

“That name seems to come up in conversations a lot lately,” he nodded.

“Truly? Who else knows of them?”

“Miss Marence and, from what I can assume, Urag gro-Shub.”

“Miss Marence, hm? Then let us hope we are safe.” Or so she said, but Singird was quite certain she was going to seek out the Restoration Master and interrogate her. “Do you know what the AWA stands for?”

“Unfortunately not.”

“They are a secret organization that covers itself up with a not so secret identity. In truth, they have many identities. The AWA itself forks off to all the provinces in Tamriel under the guise of a simple guild of mages and alchemists that does nothing but provide simple services for those who pay for them. But there are departments that are much more than that. The AWA seems to rise and fall every now and then and that’s why no one pays much attention to their existence, but these fluctuations are strictly planned. There are, however, branches that have lasted for millennia and no one had ever even attempted to connect them to the AWA, such as the College of Whispers or the Psijic Order.”

Singird nearly fell off his chair, eyes widening in disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”

“Indeed, I found the information just as shocking as you do. There is, however, a connection. Do you know what Yrith’s parents did for living?”

“Spellbrewers, whatever that might mean. I have just been told.”

“Correct. Spellbrewing is… to put it simply, the art of manipulating the world around you directly with your magicka. It is a dangerous craft and you can rarely find anyone who is capable of performing even the basics. You see, the magic that holds the cliffs around the College is simple. We create an invisible shield and mechanically bind the matter in place. But hand it to Yrith’s parents and they will change its structure. The matter will be imbued with magic from the inside. It will be, if I use a ridiculous simplification, alive.”

“But that is… impossible.”

“It is not, but a single spell costs a tremendous amount of energy. There are people who know how to get around it to some extent. The Ravencrofts did too.”

“Which is why they had enemies,” Singird concluded, but the elf shook her head.

“No. They had enemies because they sought them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wish I could tell you more, but I cannot. I served as the AWA’s contact point, but that does not mean they let me in when it came to their secrets. The AWA is immensely interested in places holding large amounts of magic, and the College is one of them. But, unlike their other branches, the core institution is strictly political. Whenever a political conflict arises, they send their agents to investigate. There is something, or, possibly, someone they seek, but that is all I know. I am sworn to cooperate in their interest for a financial compensation – which, by the way, is what keeps Yrith fed and taken care of. The Ravencrofts were such agents. They came in search of something, but never shared more than they had to. And I believe that something is what got them in the end.”

“So you have no clue whatsoever?”

“I wouldn’t say that. We know it is something highly magical and powerful. We also know that it has to do with places of magic and the AWA is after it. It would probably help if I could enter the Ravencrofts’ old house, but it is protected with magic. I think the only one who can enter it is Yrith herself and anyone she allows to.”

“Then our objective is clear.”

Faralda shook her head. “No, Master Larkwing. That will come when we run out of options, but do not drag her into it. I shudder to think she can’t even protect herself from normal magic, let alone that… thing.”

To that, Singird had to laugh. Faralda shot him an incredulous look, but he only smiled. “Lady Faralda, I can assure you that Miss Ravencroft is fully capable of protecting herself.”

“Do not delude yourself now. She is unable to cast a proper flame spell. How can she protect herself from a real threat?”

“That is what you say. Care to bet on it?”

“I do not bet,” she replied coolly, “and I would certainly not be so foolish to bet on my daughter’s incompetence. But you make me curious.”

“Lady Faralda, you have not put a single drop of faith in your foster child. Give her a chance and she will shine.”

“Skill does not depend on faith, Master Larkwing.”

“There are cases in which it does.”

She half sighed, half laughed. “Human wisdom eludes me,” she said. “But you say so, then I shall give it a try. Just this once.”

“And I shall sanctify it,” he quipped. Lady Faralda shot him a look, one brow arched in disbelief.

“Master Larkwing, I think you’re in no position to be saying that.”

He chuckled, withdrawing a septim. “Care to bet on it?”

A corner of her mouth twitched. A sight Singird thought he would never see. “I do not bet.”

Notes:

I am giving up on trying to stick to the original game setting. I mean, I still try to honor the lore and stuff, but as far as buildings and such go, I just can’t. First off, the College rooms are different from the inside than they appear from the outside. Secondly, there are things without which the structures in Skyrim simply cannot exist. Like it or not, even the mages have to eat and relieve themselves from time to time. They also have to get their food somewhere – and no, I don’t think Skyrim magic supports pulling food out of thin air. I did not mean this when I spoke about “Harry Potter touch”. :) If they do research, they need appropriate space and equipment for it. And so on and so forth.

(Could go for ages about various places. My favorite is the Honningbrew Meadery which is not only entirely different on the outside than it is from within, but it’s also constructed in a way that would mean certain death for its inhabitants lest a fire broke out or a rogue got in. Just… priceless.)

So if there is a place that doesn’t quite fit what you see in-game (like windows into the College courtyard ;)), don’t mind it. Yes, I know. It is all intentional.

There are two essential clues about the culprit in this chapter and I’m looking forward to your guesses. By the way, the culprit has already been introduced, though there are more sides to them and piecing all together won’t be easy. I wish you guys good luck!

On another note… I GOT A NEW JOB! Starting next Wednesday, I’ll be an analyst in an IT company. Finally! That said, I do apologize if I can’t keep up my schedule and more delays occur. I think it will take some time getting used to, unfortunately. On the up side, it means my life is going to become more stable and that in turn might turn in the story’s favor.

As always, thanks to Tildemancer for proofreading my chapter.

Take care!

Mirwen

Chapter 8: Power Struggles

Chapter Text

Yrith yawned as she blew out the candles, rubbing her weary eyes. The darkness outside gave way to an auroral dawn, all too soon for her liking. Her body was stiff from lying down on her belly all night with her head buried in a book. She felt slightly annoyed. Contrary to her expectations, she had a lot less time to read when she was down with an injury. People just wouldn’t leave her alone. Whether it was Lady Faralda, Colette Marence, Cain, Qassir or, for some unfathomable reason, Singird Larkwing, she almost always had company. After a few days, she decided to keep her reading to the night time. At least it would keep her from the nightmares.

This morning, she would finally start attending classes again. To her discontent, her first class would be Destruction which she was sure she would fail. Lady Faralda had no tolerance for disobedience, so skipping it was out of question. Conjuration, on the other hand, she was confident at. Sadly, she hadn’t had the time to demonstrate it to Master Larkwing, and the blasted teacher took every opportunity to remind her not to forget their “agreement”. Though she had to admit she appreciated his care and the fact that he brought her books every time he came to visit.

Lately, he had supplied her with books on soul studies. She had curiously read them all and rejoiced. Singird Larkwing wouldn’t have known, and she secretly wondered why he had decided to switch to them instead of Conjuration books, but these were a valuable addition to the Currents of Time she had stolen from Urag. They were less magic and more science, focused on inner energies of a person and how they could influence the outer world. Most of them only contained theories and passive knowledge of certain phenomena, but combined with the work of Septimus Signus, Yrith could see a clear pattern. The outer world was a reflection of the inner one, and with enough power and determination, it could be reshaped. The question was, how to put it to practice. So far, even the Currents of Time eluded the answer and she had a feeling there was some hidden reason behind it.

With utmost care, she closed the book and hid it under several layers of papers under her bed. She wondered to herself how she had managed to hide this mess from Singird Larkwing all this time, and it brought a smile to her lips. Perhaps he would have let her off the hook even if he’d know what she had stolen. But now she had to face an angry Urag and she was not ready to give the book away yet.

Inhaling deeply, she readied herself. Lady Faralda, strangely generous for the past few days, had given her a new set of robes and a pair of soft buckskin boots which she took a great deal of time to admire. They fit perfectly, and she danced around in them happily, reminiscing about her mother and her dancing lessons. Yrith had never been a good dancer, but the lessons had been one of the scarce occasions on which she was allowed to have her mother’s attention all to herself. Prior to each lesson, her mother had always given a lecture on Breton culture and how that particular dance had come to existence. There were traditional dances celebrating the growth of crops and those that were refined for balls and social events. Performers also had their own dances, but her mother had strictly refused to teach them to Yrith, claiming them to be “too savage for her good upbringing”.

Yrith smiled at the memory as she readied herself, preparing a satchel with papers and a quill. She knew she would not need them. Sadly, Lady Faralda never made them write anything and the whole lesson would be Yrith’s failed attempts at producing a decent flame. But organizing her study aids helped her mentally prepare for the first day she would spend outside her room. At last, she gave her hair a quick combing and took a deep breath, stepping out into the corridor.

Early as it was, the common areas of the College were deserted. She stopped by the washroom and the dining room to pick up her breakfast before anyone else could hinder her. Her diet returned to the usual fish meals and dried fruits from southern holds of Skyrim. No bread and cheese or meat broth anymore. At these times, Yrith thought of High Rock and its markets full of people shouting over one another, offering fruits and spices both local and exotic. Things could not have been more different in Winterhold.

The corridors and courtyard were deserted, the only person lurking around being the annoying gossip-loving Altmer called Nirya who was usually assigned the kitchen duty. Now she was temporarily replaced by Cain upon Master Larkwing’s instruction. Yrith looked away when she passed her. The haughty elf despised her, just as she despised Lady Faralda, and Yrith soon discovered the feeling to be mutual. Nirya tended to use the word Arch-Mage in her every sentence, emphasizing how important she was to the College’s highest authority. The Breton girl doubted the Arch-Mage even knew of Nirya’s existence, considering she rarely even left her quarters. Most of the College considered their head a mystery, and for some reason, all the members of the Collegium shuddered the moment they had to go talk to the woman. Yrith herself had only seen a glimpse of her and never heard her utter a word. At times she pondered whether the Arch-Mage even paid attention to the College and its occupants.

Deep in thought, she entered the Hall of the Elements, only to find she was not the first. Leaning against one of the pilasters in the octagonal fountain room was Qassir, eyes scanning a paper which he promptly folded and hid in his sleeve upon her entrance. For a split moment, she could have sworn she saw a deep, pensive frown on his face, but he quickly replaced it with his usual mirth.

“As good as new, eh, urchin?” he said with that unsettling grin of his as he came to her. Yrith suppressed the urge to turn around and walk away and shot him a look.

“Would you stop calling me that?” she asked, aware that her tone might not have been the most forthcoming. His smile did not change.

“What do you want me to call you then?”

She shrugged. “Just Yrith.”

“Well then, just Yrith,” he quipped, tempting her to glare at him, “How are you on this fine day?”

She circled him, seating herself on the edge of the light fountain. The magic behind her tickled her neck and made her hair flutter about her person like a swarm of butterflies. It was a pleasant feeling, as though she could hear the College whisper to her.

“Same as the last night,” she muttered. Qassir had been her second most frequent visitor, after Singird Larkwing. Why he cared so much, she could not understand. He could have all the fame in the world. People loved him, but for some reason, he always found the time to talk to her, even if she gave him more than clear signs of her disinterest. He would always smile at her, always give hints she could not understand. She felt uneasy in his presence.

“And last night, you said the same about the one before. You’re not very prone to changes, are you?” The blue light flickered merrily in his eyes, giving him a somewhat ghostly appearance. He sat beside her, not waiting for her invitation. She did not respond. He pinched her cheek and she winced, this time letting her annoyance show. “Reporting a grumpy urchin with a clear lack of sleep!” he announced loudly, and she rolled her eyes.

“Qassir,” she groaned quietly, rubbing her temples, “just what do you want?”

He paused, and she listened to the silence, only defined by the humming behind her. There was an almost inaudible sigh before he spoke. “You’re not very fond of me, are you?”

She scowled. “I’m not very fond of people who don’t answer my questions.”

“Well then,” he said with a light, good-natured smirk on his face, “let’s say I just want a good friend? One that will stay true?”

“If that’s what you want, then why,” she raised her head and their eyes met, “do you talk to them?”

She did not need to specify. He frowned at her, this time not attempting to conceal it. “I will tell you a secret.” He leaned to her and she could feel his breath on her ear. “There are times when you simply need to get on everyone’s good side.”

“Right,” she hissed. “And that includes mine, doesn’t it?”

“Now now…”

They were interrupted by the sudden jumble of noises as the gate to the Hall of the Elements flew open with a long-drawn creak. The two of them shifted their gaze toward the entrance and saw most of their class approaching, chattering and laughing. Ha’risha, their new self-appointed leader, walked proudly at the front, whiskers twitching at something Aernil was telling her. When the group reached the fountain, they stopped, all gathering just one step behind Ha’risha. The bronze Khajiit put up a self-important sneer, scoffing in Yrith’s general direction.

“Well well, trying to snatch up some undeserved attention, Ravencroft?” she drawled and waited for her comrades to laugh. “If only Qassir had more than pity for you.”

Yrith rose to her feet, gritting her teeth. Qassir jumped to her side, but she pulled away, moving toward the crowd and straightening her back. Despite herself, she flashed Ha’risha her brightest smile.

“Please, don’t feel envious of me. All you need to do is skip some classes and be as bad as you can at everything you do. Success granted.”

The Khajiit bared her canines, preparing to retort.

“But then again,” Yrith continued just as she was about to speak, “there’s also the part where you have to play the poor victim of her bully classmates. Best of luck with that.”

The Redguard behind her let out an unconcealed chuckle and so did a few people on the other side. Ha’risha threw them a withering look over her shoulder, eyes flaring with rage. Without turning to them, she placed a quiet threat that carried through the hall like a paper glider.

“Whoever is on her side,” she pointed a hooked talon at Yrith, “step out and be warned.” She did not elaborate, but a few people behind her visibly shuddered. There was a moment of silence. Then, two pairs of footsteps separated from the group, one belonging to a fiery-haired Dunmer, the other to a stunningly beautiful high elf. Yrith stared as Leyna Travi joined her side with the grace of her own, her eyes like two beads of purest gold glistening in the fountain light. Ha’risha’s bronze fur bristled in outrage.

“I’m surprised the Dunmer even dared show his face amongst my friends,” she said. “But you, Leyna? What kind of machination is this? Tell me you jest.”

Leyna’s beautiful face hardened, an impenetrable mask with eyes of piercing frost. “You who damn your own people,” she said in that spine-chilling sharp whisper that carried through the whole room, “you who turned your back to the Moons and ridiculed the mother that gave you life just to live with a wealthy father who was granted a pretense of power by our people, you do not speak to me of jests. Go ahead. Throw away your name and shave your fur. You are a disgrace to your own kind.”

“How dare you…!”

“Ha’risha,” Aernil whispered, moving his hand to stop the Khajiit from launching. “Leave her. She is hardly worth your concern.”

The look Leyna gave to Aernil sent shivers down Yrith’s spine. There was more than distaste in the way the two of them regarded each other. They did not exchange one word, but a message was clearly delivered. Now, more than ever, Yrith was glad she was not part of struggles for wealth and power.

“Suit yourself,” Ha’risha spat at Leyna, passing the elf with her head high up, followed by the rest of her group.

Yrith’s gaze shifted between Cain and Leyna who were now standing at her side, brows arched up in question. The Dunmer let out an amused snort.

“I must say, Leyna,” he said as he sized the Altmeri girl up, “that was quite a performance.” He lowered his head, hinting a curtsy.

“Oh I know,” Leyna shrugged nonchalantly, tossing her head as only she could.

Cain rolled his eyes and muttered something inarticulate, but beneath the disdain, there was a genuine smile. He gave a quiet snort, then turned to Yrith and his face shifted into a frown. “So… uh. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… looks like we’re in the same boat now, so let’s pair up for the class. Outcasts like us should stick together.”

Yrith stared at him. That certainly did not sound like a compliment, but before she could give him a well-deserved caustic retort, Qassir stepped in, sliding himself between her and Cain.

“So sorry but the spot is already taken.” Yrith did not have to look at his face to know exactly what kind of smile he was wearing as he said this. Cain huffed in protest, fists clenched as though he was preparing for a brawl.

“Step aside, wise guy. You can pick whoever you want and they will follow you to the Deadlands. So leave the odd ones to themselves.”

“Exactly,” the Redguard countered with a soft, amused chuckle. “I can pick whoever I want.” He spread his legs in a semi-fighting stance, shielding Yrith from Cain’s view.

“Don’t pretend to care, sandman. You just want to look better compared to her.”

“And you certainly care when you just don’t want to look as bad.”

Yrith could not believe her ears. She glared at the two boys, hands on her hips and nostrils flared with rage. And once again, she was interrupted, this time by her newly found Altmeri ally who put a slender hand on her shoulder and gave her a placating smile. She then turned to the boys, smile transforming into a smirk.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” she sang and made them instantly look her way, “but as you are clearly busy with more important things, I shall be escorting the lady from now on. Have a lovely day.” She lowered her head and lifted the lower part of her robe like a skirt, hinting a bow. Yrith arched her brows in question, but the elf simply grabbed her and dragged her away, leaving the confounded boys staring at them.

“You…” Yrith started, unsure how to react.

Far out of the boys’ earshot, Leyna let Yrith go, smoothing up the Breton girl’s sleeve. She let out a deep breath, leaning to the wall and gesturing for Yrith to follow her.

“I must have startled you,” she said, smiling, but her eyes did not reflect it. Yrith expected to see contempt in them but was surprised to only find something she assumed to be sadness. “Don’t worry. I am not playing with you. Though I will understand if you suspect me.”

“Right…”

“But at least I did not insult you like those two,” she tried.

Yrith knit her brows at that. Leyna Travi had insulted her many times before, and she pondered asking the elf whether she had suffered a memory loss.

“By the way,” the elf flicked her another smile, “welcome back.” She extended her hand. Yrith stared at it and hesitated. But then again, she thought to herself, she had nothing to lose. As long she avoided trusting her entirely. At last, she took the hand and clutched it.

“Thank you,” she said with a hint of uncertainty. “So, about pairing up…”

“That is what I’m here for,” Leyna nodded. “You wouldn’t want to team up with one of those blockheads, would you?”

Yrith laughed at that, seating herself on one of the window sills. “May I ask you a question?”

“You don’t have to ask to do that.” The blonde’s eyes were welcoming and Yrith flushed with embarrassment.

“Why the sudden change?”

Leyna bit her lip and sighed. “I guess I realized that night when Ha’risha and Aernil first cornered you that I do not find this whole atmosphere enjoyable. My father…” she paused and there was visible pain in her eyes. Yrith realized she had seen this look on her before. There was something gnawing at the Altmeri girl. Something grave enough to haunt her for weeks. “My father always said I mustn’t stray from the path of justice. I think he’d be sad if he saw what I’d become. I did you wrong and I shouldn’t have.”

Spoken like a true Altmer, Yrith snorted inwardly. The Altmer may admit a mistake. But they never apologize.

They did not have to wait for too long until the arrival of Lady Faralda. The teacher rushed into the room, her robes flapping around her. She scanned the class and Yrith knew then she was counting. Lady Faralda never had a list of students with her, never took a paper and a quill. She simply did not need to put down any notes to absorb and remember every little detail. When she finished, she gave a curt nod.

“Good morning, class,” she greeted. “And welcome back, Yrith.” Her voice softened a touch before returning to its stone hardness. “Today, we are going to practice lightning. All of you should have mastered fire and ice by now, but lightning is an entirely different category. It is harder to master and more versatile. While fire and ice can only affect the outer shell of your target, lightning can drain its soul energy. Combine fire and ice and you get lightning.

“Today’s pair work will be different from the usual. This time you will not fight each other. You will work as a team instead. One of you will do the frost part while the other will heat the water created in the process. The purpose of this exercise is to make you understand how this works. I believe you all know the theory by now, so let’s move right on to the practical use. The coordination might be difficult at first, but teamwork is an essential part of magical practice, so learn to master it. Now, spread around the room, please. You will be firing at the walls, and none of you will direct a spell at a classmate or you’re out before you can say troll. Start now.”

Yrith paled and sighed. “All of us should have mastered fire and ice by now… yeah, right. I… I’m afraid I’ll drag you down.”

“Nonsense. Well, just between us, I’m not too good at Destruction either.” Leyna gave her an impish look.

“I don’t think you’d be a competition,” Yrith smirked.

“Well then, let’s put it to a test. I will cast an incomplete ice spell. Well, water, to be precise. You need to quickly heat it up so that I can cool it down again. When the freshly formed ice particle clash, that’s when lightning will emerge. Think you can do that?”

“Well, but… quickly means I have to use a lot of power, no? I don’t have this kind of power. I can barely light a candle.”

“Hmm, let’s just try, shall we?”

Leyna’s fingertips sparkled blue before casting an orb of water. It spun around as the elf tried to hold it in place with her magicka. She nodded encouragingly at Yrith and waited. Yrith stretched out both hands, producing a flame. It flickered weakly before fading out and the Breton could feel heat spreading in her cheeks.

“I don’t think I can…”

“Don’t worry! Just…”

They both jumped in surprise when they heard Cain’s voice. The Dunmer was spitting in rage, glaring at his Redguard partner who seemed to enjoy himself for some reason.

“We are supposed to be training! So would you just…”

“If you insist,” Qassir purred, his tone annoyingly calm. He cast a ball of water, but before Cain could react and heat it, Qassir pulled away and struck the wall with a lightning of his own. Cain bared his teeth as his hands clenched into fists.

“You…”

“That is enough,” Lady Faralda cut in, eyes narrowed into slits that Yrith was all too familiar with. “Shouting about like babes in their cradle years. I have given you a task, have I not?”

Cain lowered his head obediently while Qassir gave a reserved nod.

“And I don’t see you fulfilling it. Be glad I am not Master Larkwing. Each of you would have a month’s worth of extra duties by now. You will now split. Mister Tahlrah, you will join Yrith and help her master her spells. Since I have seen your lightning, I presume you do not need any help with that. Mister Aldaryn, you will team up with Miss Travi and train your lightning according to my instructions. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, Master Faralda,” Cain nodded quickly, and with apparent relief, he scuttled to Leyna’s side. The elf sighed, and so did Yrith as she shambled toward the smiling Qassir. Lady Faralda sized each of them up before leaving to survey other students.

“You just always have to have your way, don’t you?” Yrith growled, not even trying to conceal the animosity in her voice.

“Indeed.” His smile was angelic. And so, so unnerving.

“Didn’t you say it’s good to be on everyone’s good side?”

“Whatever might you be implying?”

“Him,” she said, pointing a finger in Cain’s direction. The Dunmer seemed quite content with having Leyna as her partner, producing a flickering ball of fire to heat up the Altmer’s water bubble. Then he suddenly looked at Yrith, eyes reflecting a silent invitation. She quickly turned away, back to the waiting Qassir.

“Well then,” he gave a little too pompous shrug, “have you heard the saying ‘exception proves the rule’?”

Yrith snorted. “How do I make you lose interest?”

“You don’t. Now, I was supposed to teach you some Destruction, wasn’t I?”

“How do you teach Destruction to someone who has no power? The only thing I’m good at is Conjuration. Obviously, it’s that easy to summon a creature and maintain the connection.”

Qassir raised his brows, regarding Yrith with queer curiosity. She shifted nervously on her feet. What was it with these long, hard looks people enjoyed giving her?

“No power, eh? Then would you explain to me how you survived an avalanche with a single ward?”

“Well, that…”

She felt the Redguard’s hand pat her gently on the head and suppressed the urge to pull away. He was smiling like a father giving a lecture to his favorite son on how to use a chamber pot, making her feel very much out of place.

“I don’t think lack of power is your problem,” he said. “Look. You want to create strong fire? Then look at it like this. Fire is not destruction. Fire is life. It is warmth and light. So you can light a candle, yes? Then instead of creating that small flicker of light, think of lighting a ballroom. Or warming up the whole house so your family can escape the winter cold. What will you do?”

Yrith took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Drawing magicka from her soul was the first step to almost every spell ever invented. Just like with wards, she would delve deep into herself, pull the energy out and transform it into whatever she needed. In this case, it was fire. There was nothing tricky when it came to simple fire. Magicka would clash with the air, create a spark and ignite a flame. Its strength depended on the amount of magicka invested. But that in turn relied on the caster’s ability to control their power. And every time Yrith looked into her soul, she could only feel turbulent chaos she was afraid to touch. Calm, she needed to be calm.

A fire that would warm up a house, she thought to herself. An image of homely coziness and winter night spent in the family circle or nestled down by the hearth with a book in her hands. That was something she could agree on. A fire to give life. A fire to preserve and provide comfort. A fire that felt right and welcoming.

As she opened her eyes, she saw a flame dancing merrily in the palm of her hand. It was bright and strong and brought a sheepish smile on her lips. Qassir nodded.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Yrith moved her hand and the flame followed, controlled by a tiny stream of magicka. She could not take her eyes off of it.

“So now you want to direct the flame at the wall,” Qassir continued. “Aiming can be difficult at first, but if you only want to create a simple flame spell, guiding it along your stream of magicka should be enough.”

Reluctantly, Yrith stretched out her hands, but as soon as she aimed at the wall, the flame flickered and died out, leaving but a trace of warmth behind. She felt a tug at the back of her mind, a feeling that prevented her from releasing her spell. A fear. Not a fear of something harming her. A fear of herself. She raised her head and gave Qassir a hopeless look.

“Well, urchin. You need to light the fire somehow. The firewood in the hearth won’t start burning by itself.”

“It will, if you’re crafty enough…”

“People have invented magic so they don’t have to be crafty. Try again, urchin.”

Yrith did. The fear grew stronger, reminding her of the night when her parents had died. Then the fires of Oblivion and her dreams. She looked around at her classmates. Many of them were now firing lightning at the surrounding walls, and the College took in their magic with soft hums. The College was always grateful and forthcoming, accepting magic as though it filled her with life. But people could not do this. As soon as she would fire at a living being, her magic would take their life and send their soul to Aetherius. She would truly cause destruction. She shuddered.

The class dragged on and Yrith grew tired. The final clap of Lady Faralda’s hands announcing the end of the lesson was like the chime of salvation to her. She let out a deep breath, waving Qassir goodbye as she quickly scurried away. She was almost at the gate when Lady Faralda’s voice stopped her.

“Wait just a moment, Yrith,” she called to her as she hurried to her side, opening the gate and offering Yrith a passage. The girl stepped out with hesitation, waiting for her foster mother to join her. “How… how are you feeling today?”

Despite herself, Yrith found the sight amusing. So, Lady Faralda, the graceful Altmeri Destruction master, was now asking after her health, and she clearly had a hard time even articulating the question. In a way, she reminded Yrith of her father. He too did not handle emotions well, and he was a Breton.

“Good, I suppose,” she shrugged as the two of them adopted a slow pace toward the Hall of Countenance. The snowflakes were falling gently on their heads, creating veils of silver frost as they tangled into their hair.

“No nightmares haunting you this night?”

So she knew. Yrith was wondering if Singird Larkwing had not forgotten. He had not brought up the subject ever since she had first told him about them and no teacher had come to check up on her either, but it was not like that uptight Nord to ever forget anything.

She pondered the answer. How could she tell Lady Faralda that she avoided sleep?

“Not this time,” she muttered, trying to not let her guilt show.

“Master Neloren is waiting for you in his room. Have yourself examined. Miss Marence claims she is unable to cure nightmares. I can’t assure you that you will be cured at all, but at least Master Neloren will be able to tell if you are possessed and how grave it is.”

Yrith shuddered at the thought. Lady Faralda certainly knew how to unsettle a person. She nodded in response, choosing not to voice her thoughts.

“And don’t forget to visit Master Marence later. She has a potion for you. I will see you around.”

There was a pause. They entered the Hall of Countenance, welcomed by a wild crackle from the fountain. Sparks of blue light glimmered around it, fluttering like a swarm of Luna moths. Yrith stared at the strange display, but Lady Faralda’s voice made her turn away from it.

“And Yrith?”

Yrith quirked her brows, waiting for what would follow.

“I’m glad to see you make a progress,” Lady Faralda said, then rushed to her room, leaving the girl there without waiting for an answer.

A smile formed on Yrith’s face by itself as she stood there, staring at the door closing behind her foster mother. Had she just praised her?


Master Drevis Neloren was bent over something on his table when Yrith entered his room. Without so much as looking at her, he invited her to sit down. She took his chair and felt immediately grateful for it. As she scanned the room, the images on the walls made her head spin. They were full of strange diagrams, models that were static but seemed to be spinning, twisted figures and shadow plays. Just next to the paper he was so intently reading stood a ball that changed colors, seemingly turning itself inside out incessantly. Yrith was certain she saw something move just beside it, but that something was just a mass of quivering air whose shape she could not quite make out. Just as she watched it with eyes narrowed in concentration, taking guesses at what it could be, Master Neloren folded the paper and turned to her.

“Pardon the mess,” he said and there was more pride than remorse in his voice. “This room is usually clean and cozy, but I was in the middle of something… just a moment please.” He waved his hands and the images shifted and changed before Yrith’s eyes, taking on different shapes and colors, some disappearing entirely. The most disturbing moving fractal diagram changed into a simple picture with a fireplace in it. Though Yrith could swear the fireplace still flickered and glowed, it was a welcome change. The ball on the table turned into one of those crystal balls with snow inside she had seen so many times in the Daggerfall markets. The room was nothing like moments before and she stared at the walls incredulously.

“No need to be astonished,” Master Neloren chuckled as he pulled another chair toward her. “That’s just a simple chameleon spell. Skyrim mages are not very fond of it, but I received some scrolls from Cyrodiil and decided to test it. It works wonders. Much better than invisibility, if you ask me. You don’t need to maintain it. It’s enough to slightly alter the surface of whatever you want to hide or change, and it stays that way. Simply brilliant.”

He kept watching her as though expecting acknowledgement. Yrith gave a slow nod. “Quite so,” she supposed.

“Sorry, I am rambling. You’ve come to have me take a look at you, have you not? Then take the bed, please.”

She raised her brows, slowly shuffling toward the bed as he led her.

“I know it sounds strange, but it will be safer. I don’t want you falling on the ground if something happens, not to mention I prefer having you relax. Illusion is quite a delicate craft, if you ask me. Never underestimate the effect of illusion spells. But before we start, can you tell me about those dreams you have? What do you see in them? How often do they come? And how long do they last?”

The whole speech was given in such a speed that Yrith stared at the Dunmer teacher for a long while before she was able to process everything he had said. She sat down on his bed, caressing the dark blue velvety spread that covered it. It was warm and pleasant on touch, and that itself made her feel quite at ease for some reason.

“Well,” she said, inhaling deeply to gather her thoughts, “they didn’t come too often at first, but now they come about every other day and it is getting worse. It’s like… I feel more and more feelings cramped inside me, wanting to get out. Like I am going to explode any moment.” She did her best to tell him everything, but talking to Master Neloren was not like talking to Singird Larkwing. As she forced the words out of her mouth, she realized how much she had come to trust the starchy Nord. No one had ever gotten so close to her, and it unsettled her as much as it made her feel safe.

When she finished talking, Master Neloren was muttering something inarticulate under his breath. She waited, watching an empty place on his wall where a picture used to be. Upon closer inspection, she realized it was still there, but the colors of its surface were adjusted so it seemed to have disappeared. Simply brilliant.

“Well then, Miss Ravencroft,” Master Neloren spoke at last, “I need to make something clear. I will examine you, but you need to let me into your soul. This experience may be quite unpleasant and it also involves the possibility of having me read some of your thoughts. I can only promise you that everything I learn here will stay in this room, save for the state of your health which I need to report. Would that be acceptable?”

Yrith stared at him, trying to read his features. Contrasting the light coming from the window behind him, she could barely see his face at all, and his ashen skin and crimson eyes did not help either. She did not like his conditions. Exposing her secrets again terrified her. But if she refused here, she would certainly turn into a coward in Master Larkwing’s eyes. And that might be even scarier. She bit her lip and took a deep breath.

“All right,” she said, her voice hoarse with unease. “Let’s do it.”

“Good. Then lie down please.”

She did and felt the velvet take her, inviting her to close her eyes. She resisted, watching as Master Neloren bent over her and placed his hands on her temples.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he told her. “I will now enter your mind. It will tingle, and you might feel some of your old fears and ails, but the process itself is quite harmless. Do not try moving away from me. You will be fully conscious, so if you feel like you can’t take it anymore, let me know and I will stop.”

Yrith nodded, feeling a lump settle in her throat. Master Neloren had just placed at the top of her list of the most terrifying people in Winterhold. She closed her eyes, and immediately, she felt magic penetrating her skin.

It was a strange feeling, not unlike the fountain of blue light tickling the nape of her neck, but much stronger. Strands of magicka crept through her person, claiming her soul. As the first memory emerged, she gasped.

It was one back from Daggerfall. Her father scolded her for snatching a book. It spoke about Elder Scrolls and how they are made from the fabric of time. It was supposedly an important book, but the six years old Yrith could not have known.

The memory jumped to the night her parents had died, then to the first encounter with Singird Larkwing. It followed her day in quick pace and stopped at the ice wraith incident before jumping again. Some more sessions with Singird Larkwing, then the embarrassing classes where she could barely touch her magicka, not to mention produce a spell. People cackling and chortling, laughing at her expense, and the insuppressible urge to escape. The pain in her leg when the avalanche buried her, and at that moment, Yrith winced and stifled a moan. The feeling of utter loneliness at those rare moments she was left alone in her room while recovering. And her dreams. Pain that overtook her body and made her sweat in fear. Master Neloren stopped there, making her relive moment after moment. She cried with pain and clutched the velvet cover underneath her. No more…

“No more!” she screamed, and the pain immediately receded as he pulled away. She was crying, shame fighting fear, but amidst her own tears she could see that she was not the only one who was shaken. Even Master Neloren was panting, clenching his fingers into tight fists. He pulled a chair closer and let his body sink in it.

After a moment of silence, he let out a heavy breath. “Well, that was… quite surprising to say the least.”

Yrith forced herself to sit up, breath steadying as she slowly regained her composure. She wiped the tears off of her face and the image of Master Neloren turned from a smudged haze to a crystal-clear view.

“Did you… did you find anything?”

The Dunmer teacher let out a bitter laugh. “If I found anything? There is so much I found I don’t even know where to start. Well, let’s see. The good thing is you are not possessed.”

“And… the bad thing?”

“I can’t help you with your issue.” Yrith gave a sigh of disappointment, but Master Neloren shook his head and continued. “Don’t take me wrong. There is a solution, but I can’t provide it. Neither can anyone else. Except yourself, that is.”

“What does that mean?”

“Let’s see. How powerful do you think you are?”

Yrith raised her brows. The question itself sounded ridiculous, but given he’d just seen her memories, she could not understand its meaning at all.

“Not much,” she muttered.

“Obviously,” he snorted, and she stared at him, half offended and half shocked at his straightforwardness. He chuckled at that, only to irk her further. “A while ago, I would have certainly agreed with you. But this… this changes everything. Say, Miss Ravencroft, how do you summon a fire atronach?”

She stared at him in question, then shrugged. “Quite normally. I spread my consciousness and call it to my side.”

“You see, what you just described contradicts the word normally. Normal people have to send just a tiny strand of magicka to Oblivion and seek their target. To spread their consciousness is unthinkable for them, simply because they don’t have enough power to do so. Miss Ravencroft, you are lying to yourself. You are well aware what you can do. Even if you can’t see it in the way you conjure, there are still your wards. And the flame you cast in today’s Destruction. So why do you think you can’t cast an aimed spell?”

She shook her head in silence.

“Think, Miss Ravencroft. You know the answer.”

“I thought we were supposed to talk about my dreams,” she mumbled, gaining herself a reproachful look.

“We are. It is related.”

“But I don’t…”

“Why could you create that flame today?”

Yrith frowned, trying to recall the class. A flame to warm a family. That was why. “Because… I was not thinking of harming anyone.”

“Exactly. So why can’t you cast proper spells?”

“I… I’m scared…”

“See? You do know what’s stopping you. Now, any normal person would be thrilled to learn they have such power. But I suppose it won’t please you. In any case, you can’t just run away from it, Miss Ravencroft. Your magic is different. You need to tame it and keep it under control, or else it will consume you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, let’s say there are currents of magicka coursing through the whole world and even across dimensions. Most of them are weak, tiny sparks of magic that can be left behind by anything that breathes or is imbued with magic. They are nothing unusual. At some places, the magic is stronger, like here, in Winterhold. There are others – the Throat of the World, the White-Gold Tower in Cyrodiil, or our Red Mountain in Morrowind. The Crystal Tower also used to be such a place of power. These places leak their magicka into the world and thus are connected to it. The closer to them you are, the more you are influenced by their presence, but is also the other way around. As their magic flows along the currents of magicka, they are affected by the outer world. You are like a walking place of power. Your magic is leaking, but unlike these places, you can feel it. You can feel everything it touches, and it may not be a pleasant feeling at all. It reflects in your dreams. The things you see… they are quite possibly real.”

Yrith’s eyes bored into Master Neloren’s. Was he being serious with her? She could not conceive what he was telling her. It was simply impossible. She took a while to process his words, then her stomach knotted when she fully realized what he meant by ‘real’.

“No way,” she breathed.

“Quite shocking indeed, but there is but one explanation for the dreams you have, and it corresponds with everything you have lived through. You are afraid of your own power, and that alone stops you from excelling in your studies.”

“But you said I need to… tame it?”

“You do. It will only get worse if you do not gain control over your magic. Stop skipping your classes, Miss Ravencroft. We will help you conquer it.”

“But what if I…”

“There are no what if’s. You have all the awareness you need. Now you only need one thing, and that is to put trust in us.”

“I’m… scared,” she repeated, now fully voicing her concerns. Strangely enough, she felt relief as the words left her mouth, as though she had been waiting for the chance her whole life.

“I know. And you are right to be scared. After all, only a fool wouldn’t be. You were right about Destruction magic, but it is not called Destruction for nothing. Think of it this way. Before the avalanche took you, you gathered fish every day. What was it like to kill those creatures?”

“I… didn’t really think about it… they were for food after all.”

“Correct. You found purpose in killing them. But by doing so, you took their life. That was magicless destruction. Magic is no different from taking a blade and slashing it. How you use it is solely up to you. You need to realize that Destruction is meant to destroy before you use it, just as you need to know it when you’re wielding a blade. Even the firewood you burn when creating the homely warmth used to be a beautiful tree. Never forget that.”

Yrith dropped her eyes, pinning them to the floor. That was her own philosophy working against her. Master Neloren was right and it was vexing. She had nothing to counter that, and so she stayed quiet, waiting in an uncomfortable silence. It seemed to her that there was a colorful pattern on the floor, but she could not be sure with the chameleon spell on it. She fixed her eyes on it so she would not have to think about what to say.

“Well, I think we are done here,” Master Neloren nodded as he rose from his seat. “Just a piece of advice for you, Miss Ravencroft. If possible, do not speak about your power to anyone. Many would be thrilled at the prospect of having a mere portion of it.”

She nodded, gathering herself up. When she reached the door, she stopped, throwing the teacher a pensive look.

“Master Neloren?”

“Yes, Miss Ravencroft?”

“I heard a voice in my dreams. It seemed to speak to me.”

“Ah, that,” he said with a sigh as he cleaned his desk with a single wave of his hand. “That is the one part I don’t understand. If my guess is correct, someone has a very strong magical connection to you and they use it to communicate with you. Be wary of it, these connections may prove fatal if the person on the other end of it means harm. As I said, Miss Ravencroft. Do study and learn to control your magic. Learn to protect yourself.”

She nodded her thanks and left the room. The fountain on the other side of the door was now shooting blue sparks all around, hissing and crackling, the column of light dancing ferociously from one side to another like a tornado. Master Neloren rushed outside before she could close the door behind herself, pulling on a strange pair of gloves with a star-like ornament in a rope-patterned circle at the back of the hands.

“Polluted again? It’s been days since I cleaned the focal points!” he grumbled to himself, raising his hands and plunging them deep into the pillar of light. “We’ve been having so many uninvited guests it’s uncanny. I swear Enthir’s gonna have it one of these days!”

Yrith’s brows quirked up at that, but Master Neloren did not pay her any heed. With a shrug, she left the Hall of Countenance and let the cold air from the courtyard hit her in the face.

She froze as soon as the door snapped shut behind her. Just before her stood Urag gro-Shub, a number of books under his massive green arm, and his face hardened as he looked down at her. She took a step back and crashed into the door, its studding boring into her back.

“So,” he said slowly, his voice sharp at the blade of a knife, “I don’t suppose you’ll share with me where certain book from my collection went?”

Yrith was silent. Urag’s eyes were pinning her to the ground and she found herself unable to turn away from them. He was beyond furious. There was another feeling which she couldn’t quite identify, but it certainly wasn’t glee.

“No, I suppose not,” he answered his own question. “Well then. Shall I bust into your room and take it myself? Of course, then you’ll be risking that I’ll take more than that.”

Yrith took a deep breath, struggling to prevent her voice from trembling. “Urag… can’t I have that book just a while longer? Please.”

“You sure are cute and your eyes are pretty, but my books are worth more than that. So cut the charade.”

Yrith stared at him and felt panic conquering her thoughts. So this was how Urag looked when he was angry. She bit her lip, clenched fists pressed close to her body.

“I… I know they are. But… this is really important to me!”

“It is, isn’t it? But a no is a no. Now give it back.”

“I can’t.”

“I am not giving you a choice, in case you haven’t noticed. Stop trying my patience or…”

“Your patience?! Honestly Urag, there are things that are more important to me than your patience! I…” Yrith gasped, not believing her own words, and her hand shot up immediately to cover her mouth. She had nowhere to run, unless she wanted to go back to the Hall of Countenance and answer to the teachers who would surely side with Urag and perhaps discipline her. She did not want to fight him. But she had to have her parents back!

The orc took a few breaths, clenching his fists and releasing them again as though two sides were struggling against each other in his mind. “Look, Yrith. That book is dangerous. Return it to me before you hurt yourself.”

“I will not!”

“For heaven’s sake, Yrith! Time goes on and there’s a godsdamn reason for it! Don’t go defying the world’s fundamental rule on a whim! You don’t…”

“You think I’m doing this on a whim?! I too have a godsdamn reason to defy it!”

“But certainly! Just because you refuse to accept what happened and blame yourself for things you couldn’t have done…”

“Yes, I refuse, all right! But how could you ever…” She froze, eyes widening in disbelief. “Wait… who told you I was blaming myself for anything?”

“Well, that…”

Yrith gave Urag a long, piercing look. Now she was the one with reproach in her eyes, and the Orc librarian looked so small and helpless, like a lost child.

“Look, Yrith…”

“No,” she hissed, “I will not look, nor will I listen. You and your wisdom! To Oblivion with it! Just…” she took a few breaths, searching for words, but could not find the right ones to express how she felt. With a sigh of resignation, she shook her head. “Never mind,” she said and circled the orc, refusing to look him in the face.

Rage swirled and gurgled in her, dying the surrounding snow red. Trusting Singird Larkwing was the biggest mistake she had ever made. Did he find it amusing to go around and tell her secret to others like it was the news of the day? Or did he simply think that telling Urag did not count?

“Yrith!” the orc called from behind, but she ignored him. Deep inside, guilt was gnawing at her. Urag had every right to be angry with her, but she couldn’t bring herself to face him. Not now. She paced across the courtyard and into the Hall of Attainment, letting the door shut with a loud thud. And there he stood just before her, the person she wished to hit in the face.

Singird Larkwing’s eyes mirrored surprise at her sudden appearance, but he chased it away with a slight shrug and nodded her a greeting. She snorted as she made toward her room.

“Enjoying yourself giving out my secret?” she spat.

“I… beg your pardon?” She had never seen such a shocked look on his face. Somewhere deep inside, she might have felt sorry for him, but that feeling was entirely stifled by rage.

“What a fool I’ve been! I thought you had your morals and all. But obviously, you’d do anything to humiliate me!”

“Miss Ravencroft, what are you talking about?”

She glared at him, knuckles on her hands turning white. “But if you thought Urag would scoff at me like you do, you were wrong,” she hissed through gritted teeth. Then she turned on her heel, rushed into her room and slammed the door behind her, leaving the conjuration master staring at it in confusion.

Still clenching her teeth, she tossed her satchel on the ground and hit the wall with her fist. It took her several deep breaths to regain a hint of composure.

As she turned around, she gave a long, thoughtful look to the bed on the other side of the room. Somewhere underneath it was hidden the book that had started all this madness. Now she was scared to even approach Urag to return it. She really had a knack for pushing everyone dear to her away.

With a sigh, she sank on the floor, seating herself with her back against the door. If only her parents had never died. Then she wouldn’t have had to deal with this.

Ever since that incident, she had never gone back to her house. She did not know if Lady Faralda had put her parents’ ashes away, or if there had been any change to the house. She had seen it many times from the outside and it seemed to wither. Now, she felt a sudden urge to go see it. Master Larkwing had warned her not to venture outside of the College. But she could care less what that traitor said. The mere thought of him made her blood boil.

She tilted her head back, hoping the coldness of the door would chase the anger away. It felt somewhat soothing, and so she closed her eyes and let herself get absorbed in the feeling.

After a while of silent rumination, she gathered herself, muffled herself up in her coat and left for the city.

Chapter 9: Tongue of Might

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Just when he thought everything was developing smoothly, an accusation came from the side of Miss Ravencroft like a bolt from the blue. A misplaced one to say the least. Singird was confused, angry and, even if he did not want to admit it, hurt. Despite planning to use her, he did not remember doing anything that should hurt or enrage her. Besides, he was a teacher. This kind of behavior was unacceptable. How could she. How dare she!

He turned on his heel and glanced over his shoulder to give her door one last look. It was pointless to stay here. She would not speak to him, of that he was certain. But he was going to have a good word with the one who had made her doubt him. Urag, she had said? He sighed. Any other name would have been better than gro-Shub’s.

The blue fountain he had just passed gave a wild crackle. Paying it no heed, he stepped out into the cold. His attention was quickly drawn to her sister, the fountain before the spread arms of Arch-Mage Shalidor. The blue stream grew wilder with every passing moment, swirling and crackling, and the surrounding snow created tiny tornadoes around it. The courtyard soon appeared dark and stormy, despite the gentle snowfall dyed light pink in the sunlight that surrounded the College. Singird felt his braid skip in the sudden gust of wind that whipped him. With a furrowed brow, he glanced over the premises of the Academia, finding the other focal points just as ferocious.

He hurried into the Hall of Countenance and just as he entered, his eyes found Drevis Neloren, engulfed in the blue light, raised hands clad in his ornate tuning gloves. He was battling the stream of magicka, carefully combing the light strands, taming them and funneling them with the precision of a dwemer automaton, yet new and new streams gushed from the ground, threatening to swallow him.

It took Singird a few moments to recover from the initial shock before he jumped to the Dunmer’s side, raising his hands with a ward spreading to cover his back.

“Master Neloren,” he yelled, trying to clamor down the deafening hums and crackles. “How can I help?”

“By putting that down, foolish boy!” the Dunmer returned, too occupied with fending off the magicka to turn around. “You’re only giving it more fuel. Do you want to kill us?”

Singird retreated, letting the ward fade. This was just what he was missing. A grumpy old Dunmer telling him off for trying to aid him.

“Is there anything else I can…”

“Oblivion take it!” the master of Illusion relieved himself, ducking as a particularly vicious current poured where his head used to be moments ago. “Yes, Master Larkwing, if you want to help, come here and give me your hand. How much energy can you take?”

“Uh… I beg your pardon?”

“Magicka. What is your capacity?”

“I have not calculated…”

“Oh, for crying out loud! Just come here and give me your hand!”

As soon as he extended his hand, Drevis Neloren grabbed it, creating a small rune on it, not unlike the star on his gloves. It glowed bright blue, the same color as the wild stream, and Singird suddenly felt a wave of energy entering his body. He staggered, gasping in shock, and for a moment, a myriad of stars danced before his eyes.

“What…” he tried to catch his breath, grabbing the knotting stomach with his free hand. “Where in Oblivion does all this energy come from?”

“You young ones,” Master Neloren grumbled as he let go, “you know nothing of this place. Back in my day, our masters taught us history and all kinds of magical sciences. Magic is not just simple waving of your hand, throwing spells around and wasting your magicka on a whim…”

His fingers moved swiftly through the current, weaving and guiding it to the skies. It sputtered and wriggled, but slowly, it became more and more docile under his hands. When he finally removed them, the fountain was back to the elegant pillar it used to be. The Dunmer let out a relieved breath.

“Pardon me, Master Larkwing. I got carried away, for the magic, you see… it comes from the College herself. It is a defense mechanism against possible dangers or intruders. If I was her Protector, I could have tamed her easily. But like this…”

“Protector? That isn’t just a myth?”

The Dunmer raised a white brow. “A myth? What did your parents fill your head with?”

Singird suppressed a frown. There had not been much conversation going on between him and his parents in their life. They had pushed him to master the arcane arts as well as the art of combat, to be critical toward himself and strive to be successful. They had taught him to read and to interpret texts, to tell blueberries from nightshade, to know a lark or nightingale when he heard one. They had fed him and taught him the value of hard work. But he had never been encouraged to believe in myths and heroes. Whatever people whispered amongst themselves could not be true unless he had a solid proof of it. The tale of the College’s Protector was one of such gossip tales.

It spoke of a great mage who would eventually become one with the College. Literally, it would mean that the magic holding the great structure together would be at their disposal. The Protector’s task was to shelter the College from harm, whilst she would do the same for them. No harm could come to the College as long as they were alive, and they could use the College’s magic to protect themselves, but only to protect and not for selfish purposes. Using her magic to their own benefit would result in severe punishment.

“Shame on you, Singird Larkwing,” Drevis Neloren grumbled, beckoning to follow him outside, to the next tempestuous focal point. Singird winced as the Dunmer’s words tore him from that little corner of his mind. “To become the College Protector is a great honor, and that honor once belonged to your family. Although, I must admit, Ulfar Larkwing was quite underappreciated, thanks in no small measure to his personality. But he did not fail to protect us when the Great Collapse struck Winterhold. Now, can you take in more magic?”

Singird stared at him with a dropped jaw. “Ulfar Larkwing? My great-grandfather?”

That was not a name he was expecting to hear. Ulfar Larkwing, the very reason Singird had come to Winterhold in the first place. As much as he was unwilling to believe in myths, a single mention of his great-grandfather was enough to convince him they were true. After all, the man himself was a myth. The only one Singird believed in. The only one his parents had believed in.

He let out a breath. This conversation could not have been a coincidence. After all, Singird did not believe in coincidences.

“Yes, that one. It was when my hair was still more ebony and less silver, and my head was much lighter.” Master Neloren pulled up his sleeves and flexed his fingers, eyes following the path of the fountain currents. “So can you take in more magic?”

“I suppose. What was he like?”

“Master Ulfar? Well, he was… eccentric. Spent most of his time in books, and when he wasn’t reading, he liked to whisper to himself. Rumor had it that he was trying to enchant things with words. I doubt it. If that was true, he would have gone to the Greybeards instead. Now stand here, please.”

Singird stepped to the place the old Dunmer was pointing at, letting him proceed with the fountain and fill him with magic again. It was a strange feeling, exhilarating, yet frightening. His own person drowned in the magic, yet he felt the power in his hands and wondered if he could now expand his consciousness into Oblivion just like Miss Ravencroft. Was this how she always felt?

Master Neloren continued his work, directing the streams again until the fountain was calm. “Well, I think I will have to find a new assistant for the next one, or else you might end up like Miss Ravencroft.”

“So I am now on par with her?” Singird smiled. What a strange coincidence, that Master Neloren’s thoughts matched his. But then again, there was no such thing as a coincidence.

The Dunmer laughed. “Now don’t get your hopes too high, Master Larkwing. That was an exaggeration on my part. Miss Ravencroft’s power is far beyond our grasp. Speaking of which, I wanted to talk to you about her.”

“You did?”

“Yes, well… could you come with me to my room for just a moment?”

Singird quirked up a brow but followed him without a word of protest. Master Neloren’s chamber was the plainest-looking room he had ever seen in all of Skyrim, yet he knew his eyes were deceiving him. The Dunmer was known to experiment with anything and everything he had ever gotten his hands on. As though reading his thoughts, the said elf pulled something unseen away from his desk, beckoning for him to sit on it. Singird waited with his brows still raised, earning himself a chuckle.

“Oh, do pardon me,” Master Neloren said, summoning a sphere of dark violet light. As he released it, a chair appeared before Singird and he accepted the invitation.

“Strange,” the Dunmer mused, scratching his chin. “I would have sworn Miss Ravencroft saw it when she was here. Perhaps I accidentally let that self-concealing spell act up.” He groped about his cupboard, withdrawing two tankards and a bottle. “I am afraid my glasses have not so mysteriously disappeared,” he commented as he poured a dark, murky liquid into the tankards, “so these will have to do. Here you go.”

“What is it?” Singird asked as he accepted the tankard, failing to conceal the suspicion in his voice.

“My sujamma spiced brew. Do have a taste. It is not poisoned, nor flavored with any kind of hypnotic.”

Sujamma, of course. The traditional Dunmer drink that made every Nord’s tongue burn. Fortunately, Singird was used to exotic beverages and managed to earn himself a nod of acknowledgement as he took in a mouthful.

“What did you want to talk about, Master Neloren? Does it have anything to do with Miss Ravencroft’s dreams?”

“Indeed it does. Or, rather, with their root cause. I notice you have discovered it for yourself, yet failed to realize the two things were connected.”

“Truly?”

“Her power, Master Larkwing. She is leaking it because she has no place for it anymore. That said, her magical capacity is… how to put it? Interdimensional, maybe. If she spreads her consciousness, she can easily reach Oblivion. Perhaps for her, reaching Aetherius would take about the same amount of effort as reaching Oblivion for us. She is like… a divine walking Nirn’s surface. Alas, she is mortal. Do you understand what that means, Master Larkwing?”

Singird frowned. He didn’t want to admit he did not understand. Thinking wrinkled his face, but that was all he achieved. “So, how is it affecting the dreams?”

“I thought you a bright one. What she sees are occurrences around Nirn. Her magic leaks, but stays connected. She has not transformed it or released it in any way. It touches everything and reacts to it. She can feel the pain of others, as well as their joy.”

“That’s… impossible.”

“I would have thought so too if I hadn’t experienced it myself. Master Larkwing, can you imagine what will happen if she dies while holding onto this power?”

Singird could not decide if he paled at the prospect of Miss Ravencroft dying, or at the thought of what would come next. Powerful mages always left something behind and it was rarely pleasant.

“We would all…”

“Exactly. Unless you drain her of her magic first, she is going to take us with her. If she truly perishes, that is.” Drevis Neloren allowed Singird a moment to process the dreadful thought before continuing. “Now, I know her power appeals to you. Ever since you found out about her atronach, she’s had your full attention.”

Singird opened his mouth to defend himself, but a wave of the Dunmer’s hand silenced him.

“You probably expect me to scorn you, just like Lady Faralda or Urag gro-Shub would. Or just like you secretly scorn yourself, for that matter. Don’t look at me like that, your face says it all.” He sipped from his own tankard. His silence annoyed the young Nord. Fortunately, it did not last long.

“But in all honesty, I don’t care. If you plan to use her power, go ahead. Use it all up, though I doubt you will manage to do that. Or teach her to exhaust it herself. Train her so that she uses it for the most trivial tasks. I don’t give two septims about which path you choose – just pick one that will not put us to a miserable end. I will support you as long as you make sure we survive. So, do we have a deal?”

There was lull, filled with quiet sipping, before the obvious question came. “One question, Master Neloren.”

“Yes?”

“Why me?”

The Dunmer chuckled, obviously having expected the query. “She trusts you. More than you would admit.”

Singird gave a bitter snort, finishing his drink with one mighty gulp. “That was before. Not anymore.”

“Don’t make a fool out of me, Master Larkwing. I spoke with her this morning. I was there with her, in those moments you reached out to her. Quite peculiar. You see, in her memories, all faces are blurry and obscure. All except her parents’ and yours. She remembers every detail of it and can trace the slightest hint of the, what do you call it? Gentleness? In your eyes. Humans are fickle, true, but even in a human, trust like that can’t be extinguished that easily.”

“Master Neloren… what in blazes are you suggesting?”

“What does it look like I’m suggesting?”

Singird took a breath to steady his heart and mind. “If you’re so worried about her sending us to Oblivion, then why didn’t you convene a committee?”

Drevis Neloren gave a hoarse laugh, pointing at the window. “You already know the answer, Master Larkwing. It is out there… but maybe not quite. She has been attacked repeatedly. I am no fool. The one who does this is close, perhaps listening within our walls. They are witted enough to have managed to escape our attention for over six moons. Public knowledge of her power could lead to catastrophic conclusions.”

“True, I suppose.”

“And since you have already taken the initiative to investigate the matter, I believe I am putting her in the right hands.”

Singird pierced the Dunmer with a sharp look, trying to read in his crimson eyes. “You know awfully lot about my activities here.”

“It seems your mind is clouded beyond reason. I told you I saw her memories. And by that, I mean all of them. Mastery of Illusion magic comes with a few perks. But we are digressing. Do we have a deal, Master Larkwing?”

Singird clenched his fists. This was not fair. Every answer would mean certain defeat. To control Miss Ravencroft and strip her of her freedom entirely, or to let her run free and risk her life along with the whole College?

“So, if I go back to my previous questions,” he said, carefully choosing his tone not to sound too demanding or too soft, “did you even tell Lady Faralda?”

“You avoid answering my question,” Drevis Neloren sighed. “But to answer yours, no, I did not. Lady Faralda is an Altmer. I do not mean to sound prejudiced, but elves… they are unpredictable. I should know, being one of them.”

“Pardon my audacity, Master Neloren, but that sounded awfully close to an insult to yours truly and my kinsmen.”

The sound of the Dunmer’s cackle filled the room. The air quivered. Singird could swear he saw a picture flicker where it hadn’t been moments before and then disappear again. A picture of the battle for Imperial City with men standing on top of the walls, gripping kettles of molten oil, and armies of elves outside, holding their magically lit hands up. “Many consider predictability a fault. I do not. Predictable means you always know where you stand. Human faces are like open books. Revealing, teaching us lessons that would have otherwise been inaccessible to us. It means dependable. Would that word suit your ear better?”

“Considerably,” Singird nodded. “But given you know us so well, you should be aware of how our conscience works. I can promise I will do whatever I can to protect both Miss Ravencroft and the College. But when our paths clash, I won’t restrict her.”

“That will suffice. She will follow you.”

“I do hope your… predictions will not turn against you, Master Neloren.”

“I have trust in my judgement. After all, it has not failed me for those few hundreds of years I have been here. Now, I should go calm the rest of the College, shouldn’t I? And I believe you too have your work cut out for you.”

“Indeed. Can I ask you one last question before we part?”

“Shoot.”

Singird smiled at the expression. The Dunmer were known to pick up every piece of slang they heard in the streets. Master Neloren, despite his literacy, seemed to be no exception. In spite of his words, Singird would exclude his race from the rest of the mer. After all, their ancestry said it all. The Dunmer were all but unpredictable.

“You don’t seem to be so smitten with Miss Ravencroft’s power. I’d say a master of the arcane arts such as yourself would surely desire it.”

“Perhaps a master of the Conjuration school, or one specializing in Destruction. Alteration depends heavily on power capacity and Restoration exceeds them all. An unskilled illusionist may wish for power. I, on the other hand, don’t need it. A true illusionist knows that the real art depends on your how you use your power, not how much of it you spend. When you face an enemy, you use their own power against them. That is why most thieves specialize in it. They are masters of intricacy – and that is exactly what I do.”

“For that, you seem quite open with me.”

“Then I am doing a good job.”

The smile Master Neloren gave Singird was literally disarming. The Nord paled a tone and his eyes shifted elsewhere. Naturally, he would know how to appeal to Singird, and also how to disconcert him. Now, more than before, he felt embarrassed and defeated. He hid it behind a mask of stony indifference, although he knew now that the Dunmer could likely guess his every thought.

“I suppose I should be going,” he muttered evasively, rising from his chair.

“I wish you luck, Master Larkwing.”

“Likewise,” he nodded.

When they entered the corridor of the Hall of Countenance and the entrance door snapped shut behind the Dunmer, Singird let out a deep breath of relief. Now to hope Master Neloren is as true as he claims.

Before he could think of what to do next, an angry yell nearly made him jump in surprise. Out of her room shot a fuming Colette Marence, deep wrinkles lining her otherwise beautiful face. A stray lock of hair had broken free from the complex entanglement of braids on her head. She froze before Singird, taking a breath and clearing her throat.

“I, uh… sorry for…” she threw up her arms and pointed to her room, “that. Master Larkwing, did you see someone sneaking out of my room?”

Singird raised a brow. “Certainly not. Has more of your research gone missing?”

“That too, but I’m missing a few valuable potions and some ingredients that I’d gone to great lengths to obtain. Ancestor Moth wings, Void salts… the fool thought they could trick me if they only took a portion. Hah! I have my stuff counted to the last speck of glowdust!”

“Ancestor Moth wings and Void salts? Just what sort of draught are they planning to make?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. The only thing I do want to know is who did it.”

Singird shook his head in apology. “I did not see anyone, I’m afraid.”

“Indeed. Sneaky little thief. I am off to ask Enthir. I swear the thief-friend and his Khajiit groupies are going to be the death of me.”

“Good luck, Miss Marence.”

The slight woman hinted a bow. “Don’t you forget you promised to help with the research,” she reminded him gently. He nodded as she stormed out, following Drevis Neloren’s footsteps.

A moment after, Singird too took the same path. He knew where he needed to go.


When he arrived in the Arcanaeum, Urag gro-Shub was literally buried in books. Empty shelves dominated the pile that soon revealed a silver-haired robed Orsimer, muttering curses under his breath. The orc was beyond his usual grumpy disposition, angry veins popping on his temples, but behind that mask of rage was something else – a hidden sadness, desperation.

Singird approached the orc in silence, taking a while to examine the unusually disorganized library before he cleared his throat theatrically. The librarian winced, raising his gleaming eyes to meet Singird’s. The Nord frowned at the conflict he saw in them, something he would not have been able to connect with Urag gro-Shub before, and almost felt sorry for the green brute.

“Oh great,” the orc growled, trying his best to hide behind a mask of anger. “Of all the people on Nirn, you are the last I want to see, Larkwing. In case you have not noticed, I’m in no mood for conversation. Now scram.”

“I can see that,” Singird stated matter-of-factly. “But if you don’t mind, I wish to talk, and I wish to do it now.”

Urag clasped his hands together, the single clap thundering through the tall halls of the Arcanaeum. “Wonderful!” he spat. “Would you mind telling me since when the world bends to your will?”

“Since the first orc became a mage librarian. And before you say another word, I want to ask about Yrith Ravencroft. Do I have your attention now?”

The orc huffed, picking up one book after another, moving them quickly to the shelves to clear his path. Then he took three steps toward Singird, stopping inches from his face. He raised a green fist, eyes spitting fire.

“You want my attention?” he whispered. “I’ll give you so much you’ll regret it. I tell you what, Larkwing. Never mention her name before me. Never talk to her and never even look her way. You’re playing with fire here.”

Singird scoffed, not moving an inch. “How adorable. So protective of her you are, yet a man of violence toward one you could stand side by side with. I hope this bad mood of yours has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve just been accused of revealing certain secret of hers to you. As far as I know, I am the one who should be agitated, and for a damn good reason too.”

“Oooh, Larkwing is swearing now. Should I be af… wait a moment. What did you just say?”

“That I ought to be in a bad mood. And…”

“No, not that. You mean to tell me that of all the people she could have picked, she told you? She told you her secret?”

“Finally,” Singird said with a deep sigh. Unwittingly, he took a book and put it on another one, edges perfectly aligned. His fingers found the spine of the next one.

“Stop that,” the orc grumbled, grabbing his hand. “You’re breaching my system. And answer my question.” Then he shook his head, clenching a fist. “Actually, don’t. I can very well imagine what happened between you two. You extorted it from her, didn’t you? She would never tell you willingly. She wouldn’t even tell me.”

Singird put up an unreadable mask, his eyes pinning the orc to the ground. “What does it matter how she told me?” he said quietly. “Are you mad at me for gaining her trust where you failed to do so? But I have lost it and I am not happy about it.”

“Well, be amazed. Your happiness, or unhappiness, for that matter, doesn’t bother me one bit. Now get out of my library.”

“I refuse.”

“Shall I remove you myself then?”

“One word is enough,” Singird pressed. “I just need to know how you know.”

The orc snorted, grabbing the first book he touched to let its velvety surface calm him. “You do, don’t you? Trust me, even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Then you have no reason not to tell me.”

The glare that came from those yellow eyes almost made Singird wince. He took a breath, forcing his face to remain that impenetrable mask he so liked to wear and so rarely managed to maintain.

“Fine,” he uttered dryly. “Have it your way. She told me herself. Happy now?”

“Are you pulling my nose?”

“No, but I’m soon going to pull something else. I told you you wouldn’t believe it. I did as you asked, so get lost.” Urag waved the book as though he was trying to chase Singird away with it. The Nord sighed, ready to retreat, but then his eyes caught the ornament imprinted in the lower part of the book cover. A flask standing on a maple leaf with three letters embedded in it. AWA.

He froze, eyes slowly rising from the weathered imprint to the orc’s face. This was a chance he could not afford to miss. “I don’t recall seeing this book here before,” he stated innocently, as if it was natural for anyone to know all the books in the library from top to bottom. In truth, the only three people who did were himself, Urag gro-Shub and Yrith Ravencroft.

“I gave you what you wanted, Larkwing. Now…”

“What do you want for that book?”

Under the green of his skin, the librarian paled. He took a breath, then clutched the book, his fingers almost penetrating its cover. Singird could swear he saw a spark of magic before it sank into it. “What is your problem, Larkwing? Is your mind set on slowly draining the sanity out of me? What is this book to you? And what is Yrith to you, other than one of the many pitiful students you so pompously scoff at?”

Singird gave a sour smirk. “And what is she to you other than a lost kitten that you found and took pity on? We could go on and ridicule each other’s reasons. I am proposing another way.”

“What could you possibly offer for her that I can’t get elsewhere?”

The question brought a smile to Singird’s face. How he could find the confidence to so soundly utter his next words, he did not know. Later on, he would laugh at their folly, but at this moment, he stood proud. “An impartial mind. Single-mindedness in protecting her. Those traits that men and mer alike take for granted but are in short supply nonetheless. Laugh at me all you want, but I am not the careless bastard you believe me to be. After all, she opened up to me.”

“Of course, and now you think you’re special,” the orc snorted, a corner of his mouth twitching to reveal several of his yellow teeth. “Am I supposed to be impressed? You’re a young sprout who’s barely reached his manhood. You know nothing of this world, Larkwing, and even less about the things you just cannot change.”

“And I will continue to know nothing unless you actually tell me something. I am no fool, gro-Shub. Even if you’re an orc, your face says it all. You’re dreading something and it concerns her. So…”

Urag’s glare took the words out of his mouth. The orc pressed the book into Singird’s hand, eyes shooting more than fire and daggers. “Take the damn book and get. Out.”

“So are you…”

“Get! Out! Now!”

Singird backed out of the door, eyes widened in actual fear. Never in his life had he seen the orc so angry. Yellow eyes flaring with rage and pointy teeth bared like a roaring sabre cat, his muscular posture seemed to fill the whole library. He could cut the tension with a knife and delve it into the orc’s fury where it would remain standing.

The Nord was grateful for the chilly air that welcomed him once he left the building. He clutched he book tightly, teeth gritting more with agitation than the cold. He always wished to respect the old librarian, yet found himself unable to as the Orsimer brute reminded him of his ancestors, Malacath’s loyal fighters, astute warriors who were as strong as they were relentless. It was the animosity in the orc’s tone that discouraged Singird every time. Now, however, he had a feeling that Urag’s anger was not directed at him. Not even at Yrith Ravencroft. Something else disturbed him, and Singird felt as though it was almost in his grasp. Almost.

He locked himself in his room. There was a report from the advanced class students, Onmund, Brelyna and J’zargo, waiting for him to correct it, but he set it aside. There were also notes from Colette Marence which she had asked him to help with, but at this moment, other people’s concerns, such as a bit of lost research, seemed pitiful compared to the matter at hand. With a sigh, he opened the book on his desk, carefully smoothing out its pages.

Tongue of Might by Collective of Authors, the title page said in an ornate script. As Singird turned to the next page, the letters became simpler and easier to read, written with careful precision which reminded him of Urag gro-Shub.

Preface

The book you are holding in your hands is not just an ordinary textbook. It is a millennia old text that has been continually revised and supplemented with knowledge of each passing generation. It is a well that holds the key to our past, present and future.

Some people believe words hold the true power in this world. Not just the words in the dragon tongue, but any words. We do not believe. We know. Others believe the Divines are real. And once again, we are certain of it. Dragons be our witnesses that every word written in this book is true as the dawn and dusk, for Akatosh, the Dragon God and the head deity of all Divines, spoke the Tongue of the Old when he bestowed his gift upon St. Alessia. The same tongue that was used when Anu and Padomay created Aurbis from their own discord. It is 29th of Sun’s Dusk, year 188 of the Fourth Era, and up to this day, few can understand the tongue and none can use it.

While the dragon words of power can without a doubt create storms and disintegrate one’s soul most effectively, the Tongue of the Old is capable of altering the reality itself. It can create rifts in matter, cast souls into nothingness or assemble them from it. It can shift time, split it into timelines, rejoin them and even create time loops without end or beginning. The nature of this tongue is so complex that even the most powerful mortals can grasp but a few words and it takes them more than a lifetime to comprehend them, for each and every one of them carries the weight of an infinite number of realities which intertwine, coexist and, at the same time, are in constant conflict. To an ordinary mortal, paradox is the exact opposite of reality. To a divine, it is its nature.

This book is a collection of findings that various scholars have been assembling throughout history. Its purpose is to cover the basic knowledge of the tongue. However, do not expect a vast research material, dear reader, for even the most capable ones were only able to record but a few lines.

If you ever stumble upon any piece of information that is not written in this book, please, record it. Perhaps one day, this tome will lead to the salvation of men, mer and beastfolk alike. Perhaps one day, we shall all live in harmony.

Singird sat still and breathless. Lady Faralda’s words about the AWA were enough to make him feel overwhelmed, but a tongue of the divines was something he would not have imagined in his wildest dreams. Gathering his determination, he chased away his doubts. There would be enough time for scoffs and disbelief later. What mattered was that he was holding a book published by AWA in his hands.

He caressed the paper and sifted through the pages, searching for names. Carefully, chapter after chapter, he scanned the titles and captions, prefaces and conclusions, keeping a quill ready for notes. Yet, he found nothing. Throughout the whole book, there was not a single name, not even a pseudonym or a reference. Singird cursed his luck. A book without names was as good as shoes without soles. Just what kind of credibility would such a book hope to achieve?

Ready to set it aside, he flipped the pages for the last time just to punish the insolent tome, as if it was its fault that no names were recorded in it. And just as he did, a tiny spark of magic let loose a folded piece of paper which had been attached to the inner side of the cover. As he opened it, his eyes rested on a line written in the familiar calligraphic style. Singird recognized Urag gro-Shub’s handwriting.

The walls have ears and time won’t bring the dead back. It only takes more lives.

Singird stared at it for a while. At first, he thought the message was meant for someone else. Perhaps the old orc had accidentally used it as a bookmark and forgot it in the book. Then he read it over and over again, finding more sense in it every time he did. He had misjudged the orc. They stood on the same side.

The walls have ears… did that mean there was something the librarian was afraid to tell him? But how was he supposed to understand the rest? And did it have anything to do with Miss Ravencroft? If so…

Time won’t bring the dead back…

Could that mean her parents? Then the last part would mean her. But he already knew her life was in danger. What was he missing? There had to be some kind of clue the orc had given him. Singird bit his lip, a gesture that he had probably caught from Miss Ravencroft. It seemed he had somehow managed to gain the librarian’s trust, but it made him none the wiser. Urag gro-Shub would not associate himself with Singird. He made no effort to do so, and the only help Singird had received from him was a book and a scribbled note.

He picked the book up and studied it. Just an ordinary book with lots of seemingly forbidden knowledge inside. If only he could believe the orc had had a reason to pick this exact book. Singird opened it again and started reading. Then his eyes drifted elsewhere, frowning at a sudden recollection. How had Master Neloren said it?

“Master Ulfar? Well, he was… eccentric. Spent most of his time in books, and when he wasn’t reading, he liked to whisper to himself. Rumor had it that he was trying to enchant things with words. I doubt it. If that was true, he would have gone to the Greybeards instead.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Singird mused aloud, but he already knew his assumption was wrong. He let out a deep breath, burying his head in his hands. He would. Lust for power runs in the family.

He stopped his fingers from burying deeper in his hair, not wanting to damage his perfectly kept braid. A smile formed on his lips. If anyone could see his face, they would likely run away with their tail between their legs. He smiled like a mad treasure hunter who discovered a pile of gold and then realized there was a dragon sitting on top of it a moment too late.

What a peculiar coincidence that Urag gro-Shub would hand him a book that would let him closer to discovering the secret of his family. The same Urag gro-Shub who would not lift a single finger for him. What a strange concurrence of circumstances that the investigation of Miss Ravencroft’s case led him back to his own ancestors. But was it really so?

At this point, Singird was ready to believe that his encounter with Miss Ravencroft had a definite cause. After all, there was no such thing as a coincidence.

Singird lit a candle and began reading anew.

 

Notes:

Merry Christmas, everyone! Well, almost.

I apologize for the extra long delay. Life has been busy these past few months. Work, work, more work… it has been fun though. My colleagues are the best I could hope for – those kind of people who would rather starve to death than go to a meal without you (confirmed, they did it!), my work is interesting… and I’ve been promoted. After three months which was my probation period. Like holy cow, I did not expect that!

On top of that, I got married so… yeah, life’s been fun, mostly. At least I’m glad I can finally say something other than “I was sick for a long time”. :)

Anyway… for the story. I wonder how many of you are going to scold me that this looks less and less like Skyrim. Well, actually… I am making it fit into the existing lore, but you’re going to find out later. Other than Mirabelle Ervine who is supposed to be dead and the Dragonborn being replaced with his sister as the Arch-Mage, I don’t think I made any changes to the original lore. I prefer to extend, not change entirely.

For those who read the first version… well, this is where I start taking a different path. Not that I’ve changed the story, but, well… I realized there are many ways to write a story and the one I picked this time makes me a lot happier.

And I have a question for all of you. In the first version of this story, I had a chapter with Alteration class. It was totally unimportant for the story itself, but it felt pretty good and featured Yrith getting good at magic and actually making friends in her class. I introduced some of her classmates and made them seem more alive. But still… it didn’t really progress the story. So… do you think I should include it, or should I skip it? Whenever I think of it, I end up arguing with myself. On one side, I think it’s good to let the readers have a breather and help them know my characters better. On the other, some people don’t like it when I include stuff that’s not directly related to the plot. I dunno… help, please? :D

Anyway, for those who have stayed with me – thank you! Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Many thanks to Tildemancer for proofreading my story!

See you guys next time!

Mirwen

Chapter 10: Where the End Began

Chapter Text

Yrith paced over the bridge, paced through the ancient ruins of Winterhold, paced past the remains of the last house, not changing her tempo, not straying or granting a single look to the scarce passersby. Her freshly cured leg kept sending warning signals to her, but she paid it no heed. She was furious and cared for nothing more than letting the rage out as soon as she could. Two faces flashed in turns before her eyes, a white-haired orc and a young Nord, both pointing an accusing finger at her. They didn’t understand. No one understood.

Through the veil of clouds, sunlight caressed a snow-covered roof and broke into a myriad of glittering stars as it fell on the crystalline icicles sinking from its edges. She halted, eyes resting on a barred door, and let out a deep sigh. Why she had decided to come here, she did not understand. The place was full of memories, both distant and overwhelming. She looked over her shoulder, searching for the cliff that had once felt the first spark of her own magic. Her eyes found the trail of her first atronach, long buried in snow but still clear in her memory.

Her gaze returned to the house, standing there with its withering walls and shattered windows, abandoned and lost to the time. Cobwebs wreathed the doorframe, making it seem to have swallowed half of the door wing. She reached for them, then pulled back, not wanting to touch them. Instead, she released a tiny strand of magic through a shaky finger, inspecting it, testing its strength before using it to remove the webs. It worked, and she felt a tiny bit of self-satisfaction from it. The things she could do if Master Neloren was right. She would never have to listen to Singird Larkwing. She would never have to listen to anyone.

She grabbed the door handle and fought the frost that kept it in place, first by sheer force, then another strand of magicka. She turned it into fire, a tiny flame that would let her back home. There was no malice in it and it was satisfying. The door gave way and she entered, setting foot on the threshold of her old home after more than six months of absence.

The house had not changed. There were still the same depictions of various magical and alchemical experiments on the walls, there were shelves full of books lining the corridors, and drapes with simple flower patterns over the gaping windows, torn, filthy and heavy with frost. The floor was scorched and dust had settled in the corners. Back when Yrith’s parents had been alive, there would not be a single speck of it, but now the house was barren and dreary, and the feeling of comfort it had once offered was long lost.

Yrith proceeded further inside, more because she did not want to stop than out of need or curiosity. The place reminded her of the pain in her heart. The past came to life once more and she walked in her own footsteps until she reached the laboratory. Only now the cinders were long cold and the bodies of her parents had been removed. There were still shards of vials and torn pieces of paper laying about, remnants of her childhood. She squatted, grabbing a handful of ashes and glass fragments. One of them cut the side of her hand and she watched thoughtfully as a drop of blood appeared in the wound. Then, suddenly, she heard footsteps in the house and froze.

They approached through the main corridor, light, womanly. She pressed herself to the wall in silence, hands stretched toward the entrance to strike if need be.

She let them sink back to her hips as the slender figure of Leyna Travi emerged from the doorway.

With brows knit tightly together, Yrith rose back to her feet. “What are you doing here?” she asked, trying not to sound too unfriendly or suspicious which was exactly how she was feeling.

The Altmeri girl raised her hands in a gesture of peace, lips curling in a hint of apology. “I was just…” her eyes wandered as though the right words were waiting for her somewhere on the floor, “wondering where you were going.”

“Did you… follow me from the College?” She couldn’t have overheard her conversation with Singird Larkwing, could she? Or worse, with Urag…

“Yes, but… don’t take me wrong,” the elf waved her hands all too fiercely, “I did not stalk you or anything! I was just curious where you were going. And… had nothing to do.”

There was the strange undertone of uneasiness, something Leyna Travi had been expressing quite frequently the past few weeks, and perhaps subconsciously. Yrith wanted to ask about it, but failed to find the right words. She sighed, pondering what to say to her new elf friend at all. They spent a while staring at each other’s feet, the awkwardness of the moment weighing on their shoulders until Leyna broke it at last.

“What is this place anyway?” she asked, switching to a light, conversational tone. She scanned the room, fair brows quirked up in something between curiosity and poorly concealed distaste. A corner of Yrith’s mouth twitched.

“This,” she said, “is… was my house. My parents’ place.”

Leyna drew in a quick breath and gave Yrith a look full of sympathy. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d actually lived here before.” Her eyes roved around the room. Yrith could almost feel the struggle in her mind.

“Whatever you want to say, say it,” she sighed. “I prefer people spitting in my face to not knowing where I stand.”

Leyna laughed. For a brief moment, the worry left her face, leaving behind a soft smile, so uncharacteristic for her kind. “Your honesty is quite soothing in the vast sea of pretense we have to face up there,” she waved her hand in the general direction of the College. “I did not want to… spit in your face. I was just wondering about what happened to your family.”

Yrith’s eyes slid over the ashes on the floor, the singed shelves and tables, broken alembics and dried-up potions. “My parents died in an explosion,” she muttered evasively.

The elf gave her another sympathetic look, her golden eyes darkening once more. “Say, is it… difficult to live without parents?”

Yrith searched hard for contempt in Leyna’s face but found none. There was genuine concern in her question, as well as something else. Was it fear? Or perhaps Yrith’s mind was just playing tricks on her?

“Unimaginably so,” she said grimly. “Worst thing is, no one really understands how you feel.”

Leyna paled, eyes sliding down to the floor. She turned away, eyeing the curtain of icicles in the window. Yrith could swear she saw something glisten in the corner of her eye.

“Why are you aski—”

“You know,” Leyna interrupted, “it gets… lonely here. Can you feel it too? The strange veil of solitude that enshrouds us and fills us with the feeling of separation? You weren’t here when we assembled. Most of us were… well, still highborn children, naïve, full of pride and derision toward the whole world. And also filled with bitterness. Those who were not outright deported did not understand why their parents had sent them here. But we could at least confide in each other. We talked and experienced things together. But things started changing around the time you joined.”

Yrith clenched a fist. A cloud of dust sank from it onto the ground. “So you think I broke you apart?”

Her Altmer companion gave a bitter laugh. “Yes. And no. I think you reminded us of who we were. You accentuated the difference between yourself and us. We were of noble origins, meant to rule over your kind, and you were the prototype of, as we say it, filthy broken commoner. Your aloofness worked in our favor. Or at least we thought so.”

She paused, a slender finger reaching for a pellucid thorn of ice. She touched it and a drop of water rolled down into the palm of her hand.

“I hated it,” she continued, “how uncivilized this whole conflict had become. They thought you filth and acted on it. I was the same, and I despised myself for thinking that way. And then… you changed.” She turned back to Yrith, golden eyes glistening with fascination. “Ever since the day you were forced to attend Conjuration for the first time, you’ve kept your head high. You stood up for your ideals like a true noble. And we… started doubting ourselves. That’s when I thought that perhaps you’re not so different after all.”

Yrith frowned, studying Leyna’s face. It was not the face of a close friend as she would imagine it, but there was no contempt. Then again, contempt was the only emotion she could feel certain of when it came to dealing with elves. When there was none, she could not penetrate their masks at all.

“So you only talk to me because you think I am one of you? Is that right?”

Leyna shook her head. “I talk to you because… I think I can identify with you. Because despite being the same as us, despite knowing the same pain, you can somehow see through the pretense. We all know there’s something wrong with this place, but you are the only one who admits it.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Well,” the elven girl sighed as she drew a circle on the ash-covered window ledge, “none of us came to the College of our own free will. Not us, not you. Circumstances forced us. The only difference is that unlike you, we don’t know what circumstances. But we all feel the same unbearable loneliness.”

Yrith took a moment to gaze deeply into Leyna’s eyes. She was surprised when the proud elf averted them.

“If there’s anything you want to tell me…”

“There is. And I will. Just… not now.”

“Why did you follow me then?”

“I just… didn’t want to be alone.”

Yrith nodded. That part she could understand. After all, loneliness had been her only companion for a long time. Before she met Singird Larkwing.

“Say, Yrith… why did you come here? Doesn’t this place bring back painful memories?”

Good question. Why had she come here?

“It does. Lots of them. But it also carries good ones. Things from my childhood. Maman’s smiles and stories I used to read.”

“What was it like when your mother smiled at you?”

Yrith raised a brow. “What kind of question is that?

“Well, I was just… I mean… I don’t think elven parents do that. Not in Alinor. We smile, but it’s… different.”

Yrith stared at her, pondering whether she was being ridiculed. Then again, she had never seen a happy Altmer. But Leyna knew enough to be able to convey her thoughts. Perhaps there was still hope for her. She took a breath. Was she being challenged here? Fine. Let them come.

“Different, huh? Say, have you ever wished for something really badly?”

“Like food or coin? My family always provided for me. So no, I don’t suffer any shortages.”

“No, I meant something that would make you feel good. Happy.”

“Like… a fashionable gown?”

“Well… like a person that would appreciate how beautiful you look in it.”

“Of course they would. They always do.”

Yrith gave her a crooked smile. “I… guess they do. Come with me.”

She beckoned for Leyna to follow her to the remote corner of the room. A small door led to a neighboring chamber, inconspicuously concealed behind a working bench and a broken laboratory apparatus. She blew the ashes off of the handle before entering a narrow corridor lined with semi-empty bookcases. The place looked like a whole new world, lit by sunlight from a small crevice between the house wall and the mountain side in which the library was hollowed.

“This is our family library,” she announced solemnly. “I was forbidden from entering back in the day. I did it anyway.” Yrith danced through the shelves with an impish smile and pulled out a few volumes. She did not have to look at the titles, knowing the place by heart. She remembered the fabric of every book she had ever held. These were her favorite stories, Chance’s Folly, the tale of Eslaf Erol and the Legend of Princess Sayda. “Do you like to read?”

Leyna took a book from Yrith’s hand and examined it. The title imprinted in the rough linen surface was weathered and covered in dust, but still readable. ‘Thief,’ it said. She raised a brow. “I do. Father always made sure to supply me with dictionaries, historical documents and arithmetic handbooks. But what are these?” She waved the book in her hand as though the answer would fall from its pages.

Yrith laughed. “Dictionaries and arithmetic handbooks? Your father really didn’t want you to… stray from your path, eh?”

“Don’t insult my…”

“I am not. Teach me to read your dictionaries and I will teach you to read the belles-lettres. Maybe they will help you find the true meaning of happiness.”

“If you say so.”

Yrith pressed the rest of the books in Leyna’s hands and made her way through the aisle, one finger brushing the spines of the books she passed, leaving a trail in the dust. She stopped at the end, eyes resting on a book laying on an otherwise empty shelf. A thin, well-thumbed volume that seemed as though it would shatter upon the first touch. Nevertheless, Yrith took it carefully in her hands, blowing the dust from it. This one’s title was scribbled in plain ink, smudged over the many years of its existence. ‘A Man of Two Faces’.

“This one I stole one too many times,” she said with a hint of pride in her voice. “It kept me company when my parents were mad at me or didn’t have time. The story made me infinitely happy. Do you know the tale of Princess Astarie who fell in love with a daedra?”

“That sounds like something the Dominion would have burned to ashes.”

“Well… I…”

Leyna extended her hand. Yrith hesitated. She wouldn’t burn it, would she?

“I wouldn’t,” she said as though she was answering her question. “Can I have it?”

Yrith handed her the book with uncertainty. As Leyna opened it, she read out loud:

“‘To our beautiful daughter with love. May all the dark places lead you to the light.’ Well, your parents certainly seem to be quite forgiving, given they wrote this in a book you liked to steal.”

“They were… wait, what did you just say?”

“That your parents must have been…”

“No. The thing in the book. Show it to me!” Yrith yanked the book out of Leyna’s hand, ignoring the shocked look on her face, and stared at its first page. How was this possible? “‘May all the dark places lead you to the light.’ I don’t remember this to be there.”

“Well, it is certainly there now.”

Yrith flipped a few pages. This was definitely the same old book she loved to steal. The first part of the inscription was the one her mother had written when she finally decided to give the book to Yrith. It was her handwriting, and she recognized the strangely curly T at the beginning. She had asked her mother why she had written it this way. “Because it reminds me of your smile,” she had said, wearing a gentle smile herself. It could not have been another book. But…

“What is this?!” Her eyes widened at the page she had just opened. Countless ink blots covered the letters, making it seem sprinkled with cinders. She felt Leyna’s breath on her neck as the elven girl leaned to peek over her shoulder.

“Someone ought to change their quill here,” she commented.

“But this wasn’t there before! I swear this book is as old as Nirn itself, but one year ago it was clear as the summer skies.”

“Hmm. May I see it?”

Reluctantly, Yrith let go. Leyna frowned in concentration as she took the book, her face touching the crumpled pages. Then, her fingers slid over their surface, studying their fabric. Moments passed. Yrith shuffled around and back again, waiting, impatience swelling in her chest. In the quiet that prevailed, she could hear Leyna’s every breath and every speck of dust that fell on the old planked floor.

At last, Leyna handed it back. Yrith grabbed it, cradling the book like her own child.

“The good thing about dictionaries is that they teach you many useful things,” Leyna said. “Like decrypting ciphers.”

“Ciphers?”

“Look closely. The stains are much newer than the writing. Their edges are still sharp and the ink is darker. And notice how they only cover the characters and nothing else. Each blot covers one, and only one character. Each covers it entirely and the gaps between them are fairly regular. There are no blots in the white spaces around. And then there’s the initial message. ‘May all the dark places lead you to the light.’ I think I know what ‘the dark places’ are referring to.”

“That’s… you mean it was done on purpose? But why would my parents leave a cipher?”

“I wouldn’t know. But it’s worth a try, no?”

“I guess it can’t hurt. How about we sit down in the kitchen? Or, what’s left of it anyway.”

Leyna nodded. The two of them made their way across the whole house, settling in the corner of the small, but well-equipped kitchen. The ladles hanging from the pegs on one of the walls were filled with dust and cobwebs, and the flowery patterns on the dishcloths spread over the cabinets were faded by the tooth of time. Faint light came through the only unharmed window in the house, dimmed by the glazed frost that lined its edges. Leyna and Yrith took two of the four chairs surrounding a dusty lacquered table, putting the book on top of it. From the depths of her robes, Leyna withdrew a quill, a paper and a tiny flask of ink.

“I always carry these with me,” she answered to Yrith’s raised brows. “My father is, among other things, a scribe. He always emphasized how important it is to keep your writing tools at your side.”

Yrith nodded. “Handy. Shall we start then?”

“Yes. Let’s see… first, we need to write down the characters the blots are hiding. The first one is this. I’m assuming the word is Pirate, so the letter is P. This one though…”

“Q. It’s a name, Quallia. And the next one is u from you.”

Leyna scribbled the characters down. They went through the text, marking down every blotted character, discussing and double checking, careful to maintain their order without missing any. As they worked their way through the whole story, a sequence of letters formed before them, occasionally interrupted by a comma.

PQUCMQ . OH . CRQ . BCMZHQ . HZND . CRQ . MCD . BCKQ . OH . CZMQ . URCC . RCRRQNQD . ZB . NOC . NOXM . HCXLC

While Leyna watched it with pride in her eyes, Yrith pulled her hair. “It’s just a bunch of nonsense!” she groaned.

“Patience. Simply hiding the words like that would be too easy, don’t you think? No, we just uncovered the cipher itself. Now we do what I learned as a child.”

“You’re still a child though.”

“Well… that’s not the point. Do you know how ciphers work?”

“No?”

“There’s always a key. You start by taking the shortest words and guessing what the characters in them represent. Let’s wager on this message being in our common tongue. The shortest words would be OH, CRQ, MCD, ZB and NOC, out of which only OH and CRQ appear more than once. So, which are the most common two- and three-character words you know that could appear in a sentence more than once?”

Yrith scratched her head. “Is… no, not that one,” she thought aloud. “Of… on… in… at… it… for… and…”

“Correct. Let’s not forget about the articles.”

“An and the,” Yrith nodded. “But it’s strange. Even if I limit myself to the words that are most likely to appear more than twice in one sentence, I end up with ‘an’, ‘of’ or ‘it’ for OH and ‘the’ or ‘and’ for CRQ. Then look at the word RCRRQNQD. I can’t imagine so many N’s or H’s in one place. Not even if CRQ meant ‘for’. And the word before that, URCC, makes no sense either. Are you sure the letters only correspond to one character?”

“I see your point, but if it was as you say, it would be an almost unbreakable cipher. That’s not how… wait!”

Yrith winced, watching as Leyna opened the book again, sifting through its pages.

“Let’s do it again,” she said. “This time we’ll distinguish between the capital and small letters.”

“Right!”

Letter by letter, a new cipher appeared on the paper. When Leyna finally put the quill down, the two of them stared at it, smiles slowly disappearing from their faces.

pQucMQ . oh . CRQ . bCMzhQ . hzNd . CRQ . mcd . bckQ . oh . CzmQ . uRcC . RcrrQNQd . zb . NoC . noxM . hcxLC

“Don’t you think,” Yrith uttered into the silence, “that all these words are way too short to take any guesses?”

Leyna nodded, letting out a sigh. “I wish I had one of father’s dictionaries here.”

“The Arcanaeum is quite well supplied.”

“If only the librarian wasn’t an orc,” Leyna shuddered. “It’s getting late. I think we should work on it sometime later.”

Yrith threw a glance at the window. The light outside was fading as the sun descended to the western horizon. Soon it would reach the Winterhold ridge and the humps of snow covering the land would darken in the stretching shadows of the mountains and the great statue of Azura. Yrith was silent, unwilling to remind her companion that they had just missed the Illusion class. Master Neloren will be furious. In the back of her mind, she was already devising what she would tell him.

They left the house. Yrith threw one last look at its run-down walls and windows gaping like wild beasts with teeth of broken glass and sharpened ice.

“Can I keep the paper?” she said. “I’ll let you have the book.”

Leyna nodded. “I think we are missing a hint though. Perhaps it’s in the book somewhere.”

“Perhaps,” Yrith supposed.

“By the way, didn’t we just miss Illusion?”

“You noticed.”

“Who do you take me for?”

Yrith laughed. “So how does it feel to skip a class?”

Leyna took a while to answer, eyes gazing absently in the distance as she pondered the answer. “Unbelievable,” she said at last.

“Does it make you happy?”

“Is happiness defined by tight chest and frantic thoughts on ‘how in Auriel’s name am I going to justify my absence’?”

“Erm… I suppose not.”

“But I guess there’s also the feeling of doing something I’ve never done before. It is…”

“Exciting?”

“Perhaps.”

“Exhilarating?”

“If that’s the word for it.”

“Thrilling?”

“Maybe. But you keep saying the same thing!”

“So do you!”

The two of them laughed. Yrith glanced at Leyna’s face, noticing a strange, crooked smile that was both happy and sad. So were her eyes. The Altmeri girl definitely craved happiness. And definitely feared something. Questions arose in Yrith’s mind, but she was too afraid to ask. They fell silent, passing the houses with smoking chimneys.

On the remote side of the city of Winterhold, just by the base of the College bridge, Yrith could spot a few guards, the visors of their helmets up as they sipped from the tankards they were holding in the hands numb with cold. Only one of them wore no helmet, letting his wheat hair fall on his shoulders in wild locks stuck together by sweat. On the back of his monumental frame loomed a mighty battle axe attached by thick buckled straps. As the two of them approached, he turned to them with a gleam in his eyes, revealing the Stormcloak bear on his chest and wrists and the amulet of Talos around his neck. Yrith’s eyes brightened with surprise.

“Toddvar!” she exclaimed as she ran to greet the friend she had not seen a long time. “So good to see you!” The other guards watched her in amusement, then laughed and went back to their previous conversation.

“Look at you, the fine lil’ lass!” the man beamed as he crushed her in a bear hug. “How you’ve grown o’er the last year.” He let go, taking a long look at her as he stepped back. His face darkened, and it wasn’t just the shadow of the nearby tree extending over his person. “I heard what happened to your parents. Sorry for not coming to you sooner. Been busy down here.”

“But you’re here now. Are you going to stay for a while?”

“Afraid not. Been bouncing back and forth between Windhelm and Winterhold. There’s stuff to do. We’re preparing for war and the elves ain’t making it no easier. Speaking of which, who’s that?” Toddvar pointed a finger thick as the handle of his axe at Leyna.

“Oh, this is my new friend, Leyna Travi. Leyna, this is Toddvar.”

“Travi?” he repeated, rolling the name on his tongue with strange distaste. “Are you by any chance related to Selas Inarion Travi?”

“He’s my father,” Leyna said, pride fighting apprehension.

“Yrith.”

“Yes?”

“Are you hobnobbing with a Thalmor spy?”

“What?! She’s not a spy, Toddvar!”

“Indeed,” he breathed, his face stone-hard and voice cold as ice. Yrith stepped back, hands clenching into fists. She took a breath.

“I’ll… meet you at the College,” she said quietly as she turned to Leyna, nodding to the bridge. Her friend caught the hint.

“See you around then.” She scuttled away. Yrith’s eyes followed her silhouette to the first focal point. Then she turned back to Toddvar, brows knit in agitation.

“That was uncalled for,” she grumbled.

“No, Yrith. Be careful who you associate with. Ever heard of Selas Travi? He works for an authority that interrogates ‘continentals’, as they call them there. For them, it’s an equivalent for savage. For us, it means Nords and all the other honest people living in the mainland. Do you know how many folks he’s tortured? Can you imagine how many folks died ’cause of him?”

“But Leyna is not her father!”

“She is his blood. And elf blood is always rotten. Be on your guard, Yrith. The world is not safe these days.”

“Fine.” He did not have to tell her. Over the last month alone, she had faced an ice wraith, an avalanche and a body of more than unfriendly students. But Leyna? No. She did not believe it. She did not want to believe it.

“I’ll have to go. Stay safe, m’lass. Seven months back, the world lost two fine folks. We don’t wanna lose another one. And… be good to our little Singird, will ya?”

“Singird Larkwing? You know him?” Yrith snorted, trying to shake off the memories she had almost managed to discard. “Not a chance.”

Toddvar laughed, patting her on the head like a father would pat his favorite daughter. “He has… a complicated past. But he’s an ally you can trust.”

“All right then. I’ll… try.”

“I have to leave for a few weeks, but let’s keep in touch. The Stormcloaks have a courier in the city. If you catch him before he runs off to Windhelm, you can send me a note. Or leave it at Haran’s and she’ll give it to him once he stops by. Take care of yourself.”

“You too, Toddvar.”

Yrith waved at him as she entered the bridge, glancing over her shoulder at his receding frame. She left the narrow path behind her all too soon, facing the gates to the College where a scolding awaited her. Reluctantly, she entered to see Colette Marence pace across the courtyard. Just as she was about to slip into the Hall of Attainment, the Restoration master called to her, irk apparent in her voice.

“If it isn’t Yrith Ravencroft sneaking about! Hold it right there, you mischief!”

Yrith froze, turning to face the fuming teacher. She stopped inches before her, sizing her up like a criminal.

“To my room. Let’s go.”

Yrith bit on her lip, shuffling over to the Hall of Countenance and Master Marence’s chamber.

“Well well,” the teacher said when they stopped, not bothering to close the door. She took a flask from a drawer just opposite her bed and pressed it into Yrith’s hands. “Look at you, wandering around as you like. Master Larkwing nearly dies with concern for you, even changing your punishment to avoid putting you in danger again. You don’t even stop by my room to get your healing potion,” she pointed at Yrith’s recently mended leg, “and now Master Neloren is asking for you because you did not attend Illusion. All the while you stray outside, disregarding all those who are concerned about you! Do you have any words to justify your actions?”

“No, Master Marence,” Yrith peeped, eyes pinned to the ground.

“Then perhaps you’d like to say something else?”

“I am sorry, Master Marence.”

“Now listen to me, young lady. I will not see you do this again, or you will wish to deal with Master Larkwing instead of me. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, Master Marence.”

“Good. Now off you go. And drink that potion.”

Yrith scurried to the door, but then she stopped, glancing over her shoulder. She hesitated before turning back. “Erm… Master Marence?”

“Yes?”

“You said Master Larkwing changed my punishment?”

“That he did. Has he not told you? I suppose he’ll do that soon. Mister Aldaryn has been assigned the kitchen duty. He has been… trying to prepare our meals. You will have some other task. Now if you’ll excuse me. There’s a meeting I cannot afford to miss.”

She stormed away, leaving the door open behind her. Yrith spotted several other teachers hurrying outside. She wondered what the commotion was about but did not dare follow. No sooner than the door snapped shut behind the last person did she leave Master Marence’s chamber. She drank the potion on the way to her room, blinking in surprise at its sweet taste. These things were known for their insufferably bitter flavor. It seemed Master Marence had adopted the habit of putting snowberries in her potions. That was a good habit.

As she entered the Hall of Attainment, her eyes drifted upwards, to where the kitchen was. Cain as a chef. She could hardly find a more entertaining image to think of. With a short stop to her room to drop off the cipher, she made for the stairs. After all, it was not every day she could find something she was better at.


A knock on the door tore Singird out of his own thoughts. He raised his head to check the hourglass on his shelf. The crystalline sand emanated soft, almost invisible glow in the darkening room. It was getting late. The hours he had spent reading in his room left his back stiff and sore.

“Come in,” he called as he rose to meet the guest. A split moment later, the door flew open, revealing a panting Nirya. Her expression was even surlier than usual. Nirya had a reputation for letting everyone around know exactly how ‘happy’ she was to see them. The feeling was generally mutual.

“Miss Ervine would like to let you know that all the Collegium is to report to the Arch-Mage’s quarters at once,” she said without greeting. “She was stressing she does not like to be kept waiting.”

Without another word, the Altmeri woman turned on her heel and left. Singird rolled his eyes. Nirya was exactly the kind of patron you would love to spend your time with.

He cleaned his desk and searched for a suitable place to hide the book he had received from Urag. When he put it in the wardrobe amidst his carefully folded robes and shirts, his heart ached, but it was, after all, the one place Singird Larkwing would never use to store a book. Or so people seemed to think. He enchanted it with a simple dithering spell that would hide it from prying eyes. A well-seen mage would not be fooled, but it would at least stall them. With a nod to himself, Singird left the room.

It was the third time in his life he visited the Arch-Mage’s quarters, but this time, it was not Arch-Mage Savos Aren who had made them his own. A crooked bare tree with lights floating about dominated the spacious octagonal room, surrounded by plants of all kinds. Bookcases lined the walls, accompanied by an enchanting device and an alchemy lab. That was all that had stayed.

Current Arch-Mage seemed to have a passion for flowers, having decorated almost every shelf and desk with them. They were overgrown, taking the strangest of shapes, and Singird had a feeling it wasn’t mother Nature who had gifted them with such forms and vibrancy. The bright dragon tongue flowers took all colors of the rainbow instead of just the usual blue, similar in shape to an actual dragon head sticking out its tongue. There were pitch black death bells, dangling like chimes in the wind. When Singird approached them, the even gave the same clinking sound. Then there were mushrooms, growing out of the stone walls as though they were full of unexpected life. Some of them belched white smoke, rising to the ceiling in fluffy puffs. The air was damp and warmer than the rest of the College. The place was breathing with life. It had certainly changed since he had last been here.

In the center of the room, around the central tree and its garden, several tables formed another octagon. Chairs were lined along them, several occupied by members of the Collegium. Some were gazing stiffly at the tree, others exchanging quiet conversation. Mirabelle Ervine, the Master Wizard of the College, stood at the far end, watching the assembly with a hawk’s eye. Singird frowned. He knew that look. It meant something was very, very wrong.

He sat down beside Lady Faralda. Tolfdir, the old Alteration master, joined him from the other side. Despite his age, he kept his head up, eyes bright and sharp. Tolfdir was known for his vitality and passion for venturing out to discover old secrets, even if he rarely expressed it openly.

“Good evening,” he nodded as he seated himself. “Quite a gathering we have here. What do you suppose is going to happen?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Singird shook his head. “What about you, Lady Faralda?”

“Who knows. The only thing I’m sure of is that Mirabelle never calls anyone without a reason.”

“True. I just hope it’s not another Eye of Magnus.”

“The Eye of Magnus? I only heard about it. Was it that terrible?” When the mysterious orb of magic, the Eye of Magnus was found in Saarthal and almost destroyed the College, Singird had freshly left the to help his parents with the family farm. It was then when the old Arch-Mage, Savos Aren, gave his life to save the Academia. Singird had only heard rumors about it, but it was the first and the last time he had ever admired Aren. The old Dunmer had a way of ridiculing everyone around. It took him years to acknowledge a person, and even then he would never fully respect them. As for Singird Larkwing, he enjoyed mocking him at every occasion. Singird shuddered at the memory.

“To have to watch Mirabelle struggle for her life after she almost followed Arch-Mage Aren to the grave? To watch the anomalies devour the citizens of Winterhold, and to reap Ancano’s harvest afterwards? To resuscitate the Dragonborn and his sister when they came back from Labyrinthian, almost torn to pieces? Yes, it was terrible. I may be the only one who approves of the Psijics’ choice though. The Eye of Magnus has no place in Winterhold.” Tolfdir rapped his fingers on the empty table before him, watching more members come and take their seats. “They could have at least brought us some water,” he added quietly.

“You certainly aren’t,” Faralda said. “As much as I love the arcane studies…”

She was interrupted by a clap, strangely suffocated in the heavy air. The door snapped shut under the spell of Mirabelle Ervine, watching the small sea of heads that had gathered around the table. She cleared her throat and waited for all the guests to quieten.

“It seems we are complete,” she nodded as she scanned her audience. Singird’s eyes met Urag gro-Shub’s. The orc was sitting on the opposite side, obviously in an even worse mood than before. Singird could imagine. He had witnessed several times how the overzealous librarian dealt with people who tried to drag him out of the Arcanaeum. For Mirabelle to be able to convince him, things must have really been serious.

“How are we complete?” Colette Marence asked, straightening in her seat to watch Mirabelle firmly in the eye. “The Arch-Mage is not here.”

“The Arch-Mage has a very important business to attend to. Which is why I will be hosting this meeting.”

The Master Wizard waited for comments to arise. When there were none, she continued.

“I have grave news for all of you, and a matter I want to discuss. We have been contacted by several Thalmor representatives.” There was a quiet murmur at the word Thalmor. Everyone in the room feared it. Even in the white-blue glow of the floating lights, Tolfdir paled visibly.

“Thalmor?” the word rose from the crowd like poison. “What do they…”

“Please, let me continue. The Aldmeri Dominion is demanding we hand them Leyna Travi immediately. Selas Inarion Travi, her father, is… was, the secretary in the Office of Provincial Studies in Alinor. He was very influential. And now he has deserted.”

“He deserted the Thalmor? In their own territory?! What a fool!” Arniel Gane, the local Dwemer researcher, slapped his own forehead.

“Fool?! Ha! The bravest soul on Nirn!” someone countered.

Mirabelle clapped her hands again. “Enough! We are not here to debate on the thin line between bravery and foolishness. We need to decide how we will handle this matter. If the Thalmor take Miss Travi, we will be sending her to her death at best, but more likely torture. If we keep her…”

Phinis Gestor rose from his seat, a disgruntled vein popping out on his temple. “Surely you can’t be serious! You keep her and you’ll be sending all of us to death! We can’t possibly defend ourselves against a Thalmor army!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Drevis Neloren opposed. The Dunmer seemed to be the only one who was calm, leaning comfortably to the backrest of his chair.

“Well,” Lady Faralda said matter-of-factly, “it depends on how badly they want her. Indeed, Selas Travi was an influential man from a long dynasty of leaders, but I’m quite positive that the Thalmor won’t want to waste their resources on his little daughter who is hiding in a fortress on some godsforsaken cliff in the far north.”

“I dare disagree,” Singird finally joined the discussion. “They went as far as contacting us just to get their hands on her. The Thalmor never waste their energy on empty threats.”

“What does that even matter?!” Tolfdir jumped up on his feet, skeletal hands digging into the table. “What is the point of this whole discussion? We are civilized people here. We take care of our own!”

“Tolfdir, you of all people–”

“Yes, I of all people! I am no trauma-stricken old geezer who can’t stand a challenge, as many of you seem to think. I just want the best for us!”

“Best for us? I thought we weren’t dealing in politics, and for a damn good reason! Let’s just hand her over and be done with it!”

“I concur! We can’t antagonize the Aldmeri Dominion!”

“Are you people listening to yourselves? Since when are we so…”

“Enough!” Mirabelle thundered over the heads of the Collegium. Many members were on their feet, eyes shooting daggers at whoever dared to oppose them. Four people were still in their seats. Urag gro-Shub who had not uttered a single word during the entire meeting, Drevis Neloren, relaxed and listening to the others with unconcealed interest, Faralda whose unsettled frown spoke its own about what she thought of the whole situation, and Singird whose face mirrored Faralda’s. “Everybody please sit down. We are not here to argue. As much as I want to respect each of you and your opinions, we need to find a common ground. I will now call your names one by one. I want you to share your opinion and your reasons. Colette. Keep or give?”

“Keep,” Colette Marence said resolutely. “Miss Travi is one of our students, after all. By giving her away, we won’t be any better than those Dominion butchers.”

Mirabelle nodded. “Nirya.”

“Obviously give. Why would we risk our necks over a child of some runaway who doesn’t even belong here?”

Singird clenched his fists. Talk about despicable superficial hypocrisy. He struggled not to snort out loud to let the sleazy Altmer know exactly how he felt about her.

“Phinis.”

There was a lull. Everyone held their breaths, waiting for the old Conjuration master’s answer.

“Give,” he said at last. “While I would love to agree with Colette here, this is not just about Miss Travi, not even the College. By keeping her, we put in danger every single member and a student, as well as the whole City of Winterhold and everyone who will stand in the Dominion’s way as they approach.”

Half expecting his old master’s words, Singird only let out an inaudible sigh. He loved his old master dearly, but some things he simply could not agree on. He wished for him to reconsider. He wanted to believe in him. But at least his reason seemed to make sense.

“Faralda.”

Another moment of silence. Singird could almost feel her struggle. Lady Faralda had been born in Cloudrest and raised by members of the Thalmor. This certainly did not classify as one of her favorite topics.

“Keep,” she uttered quietly. “Miss Travi is a talented student and a fine addition to the College. Even if there’s a battle, she could still contribute. I do not wish to see her go.”

Singird stared at her. And here he was convinced that the Altmer were good at lying. Faralda’s lips trembled. She was more than bothered by the sudden turn of events.

“Master Larkwing.”

“Singird is fine,” he said thoughtfully. “Keep. I do like my family’s neutrality, but when it comes to the Dominion, I don’t want to let them have their way. The more we do that, the more power they have and the more death they sow.”

“Tolfdir.”

“Keep. I already said we take care of our own and I stand firm on this one. When you stood up to Ancano, Mirabelle, I thought you the bravest person I’ve ever met. I expect others to follow your example.”

“Thank you. I… appreciate your kind words,” Mirabelle nodded. Singird could swear he saw a hint of flush dying her cheeks. “Arniel.”

“Give. This is too much of a risk. Our research could be in danger. Our lives could be in danger. I will not put my life on the line like that.”

“Drevis.”

Master Neloren too took his time to ponder the question and prepare the answer, but when he spoke, his voice was firm and his face determined. “Give. I don’t like it and I think we would have a solid chance to win if we decided to hold our ground against the Dominion. But the truth is, we are few and if any of us decided to leave, the tables could turn in favor of the Thalmor. I don’t think it’s worth the risk.”

“Sergius.”

Sergius Turrianus was the local master of enchanting, a man who liked to seclude himself almost as much as he liked to order people around when they dared approach him. He was the one and only member who was entirely opposed to the idea of accepting young students. When he spoke, Singird felt little surprise.

“We are involved in a political conflict here. It’s a situation we were never supposed to find ourselves in. The College was always neutral. Either choice is bad for business and our reputation. I am saying give, just so we can eliminate the problem once and for all. I don’t think the holds would thank us if we antagonized the elves.”

Faralda shot him a look. Singird felt her rage as she dug her nails into the table. Calling the Thalmor “elves” was not the best word choice he could think of.

“Well then, it is five to four in favor of give,” Mirabelle said, letting out a sigh of disconcert. She turned to Urag, the last member. “Urag?”

The librarian bared his teeth and scanned every face in the room. They were motionless, waiting, assessing their chances. He let them do so for a long while. It was a crude way of showing what exactly he thought of every member in the room. And it was very effective. Singird heard knuckles crack as the attendants clenched their fists. Yet again, he, Faralda and Drevis Neloren were the only ones who stayed calm.

“Humbug,” the orc spoke at last as he stood up. “People in the cities are in danger, our research could be lost, blah, blah, blah. How many of you actually think that? How many of you care for more than saving your own pathetic hide? I’ve said it from the beginning. Magic is not for everyone and accepting coin for teaching rich whelps who were cast out of their own families only served to impair us. Yet… it was agreed upon. And now that little outcast to whom we provided shelter, whom we nurtured and cultivated, doesn’t even have a semblance of a family. And we are still so eager to get her out of our way.

“We all joined the College, pledging our lives to this institution. We are also all free to leave at any time. But all of you are sitting here, squabbling like brats who don’t know any better. Are your beds warm enough? Does the local wine suit your delicate tastes? Is the view you get from your windows pleasing? You don’t want to give that up, do you? But responsibility… that you would abandon at any time. I hope you are proud of yourselves.”

He paused to take a breath. His glare alone would be enough to send a frost troll running with its tail between its legs, but his words rendered everyone absolutely speechless.

Singird tried to guess their thoughts. If the five people who had said “give” were now silently cursing the old orc, or whether they were rethinking their life choices.

Urag let himself sink back on his chair. “Keep,” he said. And then he fell silent.

Five to five, and that was it. All the members were stealing glances of each other, waiting for someone to utter a sound. Mirabelle Ervine waited too. Obviously, she did not want to make the final choice herself. A moment passed and she let out a sigh. And just as she was about to speak, the silence was broken.

“Mirabelle?” Phinis Gestor whispered, shifting uneasily in his seat.

“Yes?”

“May I change my vote?”

Singird smiled. Good old Master Gestor. Despite his general confusion and fears, he always made the right choice in the end.

“You may,” Mirabelle gave an approving smile. A few people chuckled. Singird let out the breath he had not even known he was holding.

“Urag, dear Urag,” Drevis said as he shook his head. “You can’t just throw around words like ‘responsibility’ like that. I mean… oh, blast it to Oblivion. I am changing my vote too.”

There were chuckles here and there, until they turned into the merry chimes of laughter. People shook their heads, incredulous of the worries they’d had just moments before. Only three of them, Nirya, Arniel and Sergius, did not join the rest in their mirth. Their faces were sour, their frames stiff. No one paid them any heed. Mirabelle took a few moments to scan the room before she clapped her hands once more, demanding quiet.

“It seems most of us have come to an agreement,” she said. “We should now—”

“A fine agreement it is,” Sergius grumbled, rising from his seat. “So it was decided to keep Leyna Travi. But what do you do once the elves,” Faralda winced again, this time ready to jump up if not for Phinis Gestor who extended his hand to stop her, “march into Winterhold and attack us?”

“We will deal with the threat when it comes. For now, we need to decide what exactly we are going to tell the Thalmor.”

Singird raised a hand. “May I suggest something?”

“Yes, Master Larkwing?”

“Singird is fine,” he repeated. As the youngest in the Collegium, it felt strange to be the only one called by his title. He could almost swear Mirabelle did it just to mock him. Perhaps just to walk in the footsteps of Savos Aren whom she had loved dearly. “How about we stall for time? We don’t need to give the Thalmor a direct answer, do we?”

“I am surprised you of all people should come up with something like this, but it seems like a sound idea indeed.”

“No, it doesn’t! Won’t that just incite the elves?”

“Enough with the elves! I am an elf! And I am incited right now!”

“Lady Faralda…”

“Faralda is fine… Singird. Don’t stop me, I’ve had enough of his…”

“But he’s right, isn’t he?”

“I beg your pardon?!”

Singird took a breath. He had to tread carefully on this battleground where every word could mean antagonizing the entire Collegium. His parents had prided themselves to be impartial, unmoved by any events that did not concern them directly, yet they had somehow managed to stay on everyone’s good side. Until the day they were killed. What was that thing his father used to tell him?

The only person you can trust is yourself. That doesn’t mean you cannot make others trust you.

He disagreed. Trust must be mutual. But it must also be true.

“I mean… not literally. He is right that you are an elf. And they are elves. You grew up among them and know how they think. Am I correct? Can we not use it to our advantage?”

“You dare… I am different!”

“Of which I have no doubt, and it is exactly what gives us the advantage. You understand us. You also understand them. I know you have a way with words, La… Faralda. I am convinced you’d find the right ones to resolve this situation.”

“Master Larkwing, that is highly inappropriate…”

“No. He is correct. I have the knowledge and experience necessary to deal with the Thalmor. After all, I did convince them to let me leave Alinor with no blood spilled. But… the risk is great. The only way to make an orthodox Thalmor listen is to convince them they’d profit from it. What could we possibly offer them?”

Drevis Neloren snorted. “Power,” he said.

“No!” half of the Collegium yelled in unison.

“Absolutely not,” Tolfdir joined, voice firm and so was his face. “That would make the whole Eye of Magnus incident pointless. Savos Aren would have died in vain.”

“Knowledge?”

“Out of the question!” Urag growled. “The library will stay pristine.”

“We can offer them both. As long as it serves to our advantage in the end.”

“And do you know how?”

Through the veil of apprehension, a smile flickered on Faralda’s face. “Let me explain.”


When the meeting was finally over, everyone’s stomachs were growling with hunger. Singird felt tired, ready to retreat in his bed after the dinner. The sun had long vanished under the western horizon and the moons were hiding behind a thick blanket of clouds. The blue fountain in the courtyard seemed to be stifled by the surrounding darkness. Everyone was silent, with no strength left to discuss the recent events. But then, as they passed the focal point, the door to the Hall of Attainment flew open, revealing a panting Cain Aldaryn.

The Dunmer’s face was frantic, lined with horror. He was shaking, clenched fists pressed to his thighs, and when he spoke, his trembling voice was hoarse.

“M-midget… Yrith Ravencroft!” he cried. “Please, help! She’s… not gonna make it!”

Singird paled, jumping to his side before anyone else could react. “Where is she? What happened?!”

“Up there,” Cain pointed a shaky finger at the top of the Hall of Attainment. “Please…”

Singird did not wait for him to finish. Without a second thought, he darted inside.

Chapter 11: The Brink of Existence

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

The Hall of Attainment was lively this time of the day, full of quiet murmurs and loud laughs, passionate chattering, clapping of the boots on the stone floor and incessant echoes. Yrith did her best to blend in, ignoring the words that flew around her like streams in a river. She heard her name a few times, thinking to herself sardonically she had become quite popular. Out of the corner of her eye, she took notice of Qassir, waving at her and inviting her to keep him company. She quickly shook her head and made her way up to the kitchen.

It was empty, save for a Dunmer boy standing by a desk, one hand propped against it while the other was gripping a knife. His only company was the cold oven and a cask full of fish. The kitchen was almost as barren as the rest of the Hall of Attainment, reflecting the state of necessity the College found itself in. If it was up to Yrith, she would have named it the Forlorn Tower, for everything seemed grey and forgotten here, compared to the rest of the College which was cozy and bright with magic. She gazed at the lone figure before her and pondered how much he had changed. How much he reminded her of herself.

His back was bent as he observed his own work. Several unevenly cut pieces of salmon which would definitely burn at their edges while the cores would stay raw and tasteless. Yrith took a step toward him, but then she stopped, deciding to observe. He was not aware of her presence yet, struggling with the fish. But when he took the knife and sliced the next fish as though he was facing an enemy, stance firm like a warrior with his feet spread to maintain balance, an insuppressible laugh escaped her lips. He turned around and his face went from troubled to irked.

“What are you gawking at?” he snapped, waving the blade in the air. Yrith was relieved he was so far.

“Nothing,” she shrugged. “Just observing the situation.”

“So you have come to entertain yourself at my expense. Great, I’ve obviously met your expectations. By the gods, I do hope Larkwing will make you do something that involves a lot of Destruction magic.”

“Fine,” she said matter-of-factly, one foot slightly turned in a hint of departure, “if you don’t want me to help, I’ll just leave.”

The Dunmer snorted. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about help.”

“So?”

With the knife still in his hand and a smirk on his face, he crossed his arms over his chest, twirling it in his fingers. “Suit yourself,” he said theatrically.

Yrith felt the red dye her cheeks. How dare he! “You little… ungrateful…!”

“Yes? I thought you were leaving.”

“I am leaving!”

“Then go ahead. I’ll manage. Well, after all, you’ll be the one eating my cooking.”

“Ah, Oblivion take it! Give me that knife.”

“But I thought you were…”

“I’m not leaving.”

Cain laughed. Yrith had never heard him laugh like that. It was pure, full of mirth, and so uncharacteristic for a Dunmer. The voice filled the room and its space, darkening as the sun outside was slowly fading beyond the mountains, suddenly felt brighter. She watched him thoughtfully and had to respond with a smile just as sincere.

“I thought so,” he said as he handed her the knife, blade pointing at his person in utter caution for her safety. Yrith could not comprehend where the sudden affection came from, but she could not bring herself to doubt him. She gripped the handle, brows shooting upwards in a question. He caught the hint. “Ignorance is not your strong point,” he added with a shrug.

She pondered whether that was an insult or a compliment. Deciding not to think on it too much, she took the knife and a new fish to work with.

“So, about the salmon…”

She remembered it well, the way one cuts a fish along its spine and removes its fins, the way to make the slices thin so they become crisp and tender when they are fried. Back when her parents were alive, just after they had moved to Winterhold, the city still had a fishery of its own. She often came there to help, having few reasons to stay at home. She was always welcome there and often rewarded with fresh fish to take home. Upon her return, she would always get a pat on the head and a word of praise from her mother.

“This,” she said as the knife slid through the rosy meat, “is how you cut it. You want the meat to be tender and seasoning to blend in, so…”

“Well, troll’s dung. That thing we eat here is never tender, and I’ll be a blasted daedroth if it ever was seasoned.”

“That’s because it’s made by Nirya.”

Cain’s face twisted in the sour memory of the smug Altmer. Nirya, the local errand girl who was so convinced she was the greatest, or, rather, the only real contributor at the College. The elven outcast who liked to get delusional about Lady Faralda and her supposed jealousy toward Nirya, too absorbed in her own dreamworld to see that no one gave two septims about her.

“That… I can’t argue with.”

The two of them laughed. As Yrith sliced the fish, Cain sifted through various kitchen equipment in search of another knife, asking one question after another. Yrith was amused. The rich boy had never seen a kitchen with his own eyes, much less used it, and now he was curious like a little child on an exploration trip, wondering why there was a large spoon with holes in it or why the ladle he had just picked up had teeth.

“So you’ve never visited the kitchen in your manor?” Yrith asked, unable to imagine what his life could have been like without the chance to snatch things from the chefs. She had always believed every noble had to have a history of stealing treats from the kitchen. Then again, perhaps it was not so exciting when one could just ask and they would be delivered right away.

“Is that a jest? Of course I haven’t, that’s what we have footmen for.”

“Right.”

“Still, I’m wondering why all this is necessary when we have magic. Can’t we just magically slice all these? Or, rather, turn them into a feast with a single spell?”

Yrith shrugged. “Can you actually do that?” She laid an umpteenth slice into a stoneware bowl before her.

Without a word of warning, Cain pulled up his sleeves and fired a meteor of icy shards at a fish Yrith had just prepared for cutting. She jumped back, pointing an accusing finger at him.

“What in Oblivion are you…”

“Well, that didn’t exactly go as planned,” he mused as he inspected his work. All that was left of the fish was a mass of shapeless pink-flushed matter, hardly reminiscent of the creature it used to be.

“Obviously,” Yrith uttered dryly, wiping the remnants of the fish from her robe. At the back of her mind, she was grateful Master Larkwing could not see her like this. “Maybe we should return to the more… mundane methods.”

He let out a snort. “This is even more boring than having to go fetch them.”

“Quit complaining. You can heat up the oven with your magic.”

“Yes, mom.” A corner of Yrith’s mouth twitched, but she let the comment slide. After all, she was the uninvited guest here.

It had gotten dark when the two of them were finished. Occasionally, a student’s head peeked in from the staircase, inspecting whether it was time to eat. There were a few spiteful comments addressed at the two of them for being slackers, slowbones and other nasty words beginning with S-L, but they only laughed them off. Yrith caught herself smiling for no reason. Despite the rough beginnings, she was starting to enjoy the day. There were people she could call friends now. She could not feel the weariness the lack of sleep had brought her, only strange comfort she had not felt in a long time. Once or twice there was the feeling that nothing could go wrong now. The feeling of happiness she was trying to teach to Leyna… she was now living it.

She picked up a roasted salmon fillet. It was a good piece. Much more appealing than the ones from Nirya, made with care and precision. Ransacking the local supplies, Yrith had found a long lost jar of Nibenese sour pepper which she immediately decided to use. Now she watched the final product with pride.

“I want to see them say anything bad about it now,” she said as she nibbled on the fish. She felt a tingle in her belly, making nothing of it. She realized had not eaten the whole day.

Cain joined her, back against the wall and mouth stuffed to the brim. They enjoyed a moment of silence before the students started flooding the room, snatching portions to fill their hungry stomachs. Yrith watched as Ha’risha, accompanied by her usual group of lackeys, passed them on their way. The Khajiit girl picked up the fish, twitching her whiskers as she let it hang from her claws.

“After all the coin that was invested in this place, we still get to eat this,” she remarked, dropping the fish on the floor. “Made by two delinquents instead of a certified chef. Say, Aernil,” she turned to the crème Altmeri boy at her side, “would your parents approve of this?”

“Absolutely not,” came the expectedly smug reply. Cain clenched his free fist, his grip tightening around a fork as he stepped forward, but Yrith grabbed his shoulder. Before she could say anything to placate the irate Dunmer, another voice came across the kitchen, silencing all the others.

“Well well, that’s a pleasant change. Not only is our urchin a good mage, she’s also a good cook. Now, what was that about approvals or whatnot?”

Ha’risha stared at the approaching Redguard, tail and ears drooping down in unconcealed shame. If it was anyone but Qassir, Yrith would have laughed. Her eyes met with his and her stomach knotted. Had she not helped Cain with the meal, he would not have bothered coming to their aid, of that she was certain. The Dunmer boy beside her glared at him in apparent displeasure. Yrith tensed. Why did there have to be discord at every occasion she met her classmates?

“I hate my home. It’s filled with anger and strife. And I hate this place too because it’s just about the same.”

How much effort did it take for Cain to not give in to the anger he harbored deep inside? How much did he resent the world that had treated him with nothing but hostility? He could smile. He knew joy. But this world refused to give it to him. Her stomach churned and tumbled, perhaps with disgust. Brows knit in anger, she blocked Cain’s way with her own body, but the moment she stood face to face with both Ha’risha and Qassir, her vision blurred and her mind went blank. She could not utter a word. Rage gnawed at her from the inside but the words got lost somewhere on their way, before they could surface. Was she afraid?

“What now, commoner? Are you going to wave your hands like before? The same trick won’t fool us twice.” Ha’risha’s voice sounded distant. Yrith felt a stabbing pain in her chest and belly. Had she swallowed a fin? But she had made sure she pulled them out before putting the fish in the oven.

“Midget?” Someone touched her upper arm.

She inhaled and pain overtook her. It shot through her whole body and reached the tips of her fingers. She fell on her knees and heard a burst of laughter, shaking the whole kitchen and deafening her person in a sudden wave of clarity. She gasped.

“Now that’s more like it!” the Khajiit girl sneered and the rest of her group laughed.

“Shut up, you stupid cat, she’s choking!”

“And? It’s not my fault she left fins in the fish…”

“Silence!” Yrith could hardly concentrate on the words around her, but the angry voice of Qassir caught her by surprise. “She’s not just choking, this is…”

“Disgusting!”

“Midget! What is that thing?”

Yrith could feel something dripping from her mouth. It was heavy and viscous. Her blurry vision spotted nothing but dark stain on the floor that was slowly growing wider. It was as though she was being decomposed. Her body felt heavy and light at the same time as energy left her. Something was devouring her from the inside, feeding on her flesh and soul alike. She was being drained, and the nightmarish visions returned to her. One by one, images of tormented people she had seen and felt before flicked before her eyes, then slowly dissolved into nothingness. She was fading. Her very existence was evaporating. But that was impossible. In a brisk moment of realization, she knew what this was. The deadliest, most terrifying poison of them all. The one that would make death final and ultimate. But it could not be. It simply couldn’t.

“Death…” was the only thing she managed to squeeze out through the tightening throat and chattering teeth. Deathbell, she wanted to say. Deathbell, Nirnroot and Nightshade, the deadly trio that was her only hope now. But she could not finish, her own body was betraying her.

“Let me see her! I know some healing spells!” a girl’s voice demanded. It was clear and melodic, and it hurt her ears. Yrith had a feeling she had once known its owner, but the memory of her flickered and died. She could not remember. Not anymore. Everything was fading, the feelings, the memories, all that she knew. There was only pain, piercing, numbing, searing and freezing. She wanted to breathe but could not find her lungs. Only nothingness filled her body. She could not feel herself hit the ground. She could not feel the hands that lifted her gently and wiped the strange black fluid off her face, only to be stained by another burst.

“NO! Healing spells will only speed up the disintegration! I will…”

“Disintegration?! What in Oblivion…”

“No time to… godsdamn blazes! Stay with her, Dunmer, don’t let her pass out. I’ll bring an antidote.”

“There’s an antidote?!”

The sound of footsteps grew more and more distant. Voices mingled, cries of despair, disgusted snorts and gasps alike. Yrith was now watching the flicker of her own soul from afar. She wanted to grasp it, absorb it, but she could not reach it. It was drifting apart, further and further away with every breath she attempted and failed to draw. There was an existence inside her, alien, feeding on her life, taking the space that was meant for her. She wanted to cry out, but she could not. She should be afraid, yet even fear avoided her, drowned in the sea of nothingness along with everything else. She was fading. The world was fading. The voices were fading.

“Hold her…”

“No!”

“Wait…”

“… will get help…”

“… hurry…!”

“…’s dying!”

“There’s more…”

The words blurred into quiet murmurs, then almost inaudible hums. She could not feel anything anymore. She could not remember either. She did not know how she had come to exist and what her name was. Names, words… useless labels attached to various forms of energy. Energy that did not belong to her anymore. A higher existence took it, one that should have possessed it from the beginning of time. She would give it willingly. She had no right to have it. No right to exist.

There was silence, and then, even the silence began fading. There would be no more grief, no more pain, no—

Something tore through the nothing and broke the silence. A cry that came through as a quiet rustle as though it was muffled by a thick mass of curtains. There were more, and they brought pain. Yrith struggled. Why should she come back? Why come back into that tempestuous world where even breathing is exhausting? Why fight and suffer when one could just give in?

“—croft!”

A familiar voice. One that promises safety. One that cares. She hesitated. It was still so far away, and the pain was already excruciating. Retreat, go back into nothingness where there is no pain. She wanted to cry out, but she had no voice nor breath to work with. She was empty. Though slowly but surely, the voice filled her. It gave energy, life. It brought back memories she had left behind, somewhere far away.

“Stay with me!”

The words shook her. She wanted to cover her ears, avoid the insuppressible aching, but it came again, and again, calling for her, seeking her attention and prodding her to come back. The tension returned. Pain shot through her, reminding her that she still had a body of her own. It flashed through her fingers, brimmed over her limbs, flooded her head and chest. She let out a deafening cry.

“Hold her mouth open, we have to get this in!”

She tried to open her eyes, but the light hurt them tremendously. Tears dripped from her face in waterfalls and mingled with the puddle of dark fluid that had soiled her entire body.

“Midget!”

“Is she responding?”

“I don’t know!”

“Stop shouting so loud!”

“Miss Ravencroft!”

“Yrith…”

She coughed as a new wave of pain seared her throat. Someone was holding her jaws, tightly securing them in an uncomfortably gaping position. It was hard to breathe through the mass of matter that was being forced into her. She tried to struggle, but she had no strength left. A muffled cry was the only reaction she could give. Someone beside her squealed with joy.

“She is responding!”

The matter was bitter and painful. She felt it sink down her throat and infuse her inner tissues. It was fending off the nothing that had threatened to absorb her, leaving around pain that was entirely physical, brutish and very, very real. She groaned and her eyes cracked open. The light from the candles hurt and blinded her. Tears made everything a smudged blot. She gasped for air, and suddenly, she could breathe. Every breath pricked her lungs like a stinger, but it also sent in new life. She kept inhaling, gaining a steady tempo as her vision sharpened.

She stared into the face of Singird Larkwing. She could barely discern his features against the light behind him, but the dread in his eyes that he tried to hide behind his typical stone-hard mask was apparent nonetheless.

“Miss Ravencroft? Are you with us?” She knew his voice was but a whisper, yet it still sounded so loud and sharp to her ears. Her head hurt. Her whole body ached and trembled. She did not have the strength to reply. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted many other people gathered around in a circle, all watching her, but they were all just blurry figures in the murk. She closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.


“Caw, caw,” the crow lamented in the dark. It sang its cries and tore the silence. The unpleasant sound was strangely muffled, as though the poor bird was covered by a thick blanket, but the ominous voice still sent shivers down her spine. It spoke of dark times and foreshadowed eternal night. It wept like a banshee, yet its voice creaked like that of an old hag. “Caw, caw!” it went again.

Yrith opened her eyes and the darkness dispersed. It took her a moment to adjust to the bright light of the day. She blinked, trying to discern the number of floating shapes that wriggled before her. Unsuccessfully for a moment, she forced herself to focus. The shapes were laughing at her weakness, tormenting her eyes. She closed them and opened them again, patiently, systematically. With every breath, the blurred room became sharper, and finally she could see the window just by her bed, and the crow sitting on the ledge outside. She did her best to frown at it, and the black bird, as if sensing her irk, rose with a flap of its wings and disappeared in the distance.

With all the effort she could muster, she turned her head around, scanning the room. She was feeling weak, but also uneasy. The window opened to cloudy skies, which meant she was not in her own room. She only knew one teacher whose room was this high up. Just as she suspected, she found Singird Larkwing sitting at his desk, absorbed in a book. The room was so silent she could hear her own breath, and, as always, perfectly organized. She was not lying on Master Larkwing’s bed. Instead, it seemed another one had been moved to this room just for her. Was she dreaming?

She tried to pull the blanket that was draped over her closer. It was warm and comfortable, much warmer than her own down in the Hall of Attainment. Her aching body found the little comfort it could and it was not enough. She let out a soft moan, barely audible but loud enough to attract the attention of Singird Larkwing.

He turned around so abruptly Yrith could only see a smudged silhouette. “Miss Ravencroft! You’re awake.”

Had her body allowed it, she would have flushed like a ripe apple. The concern in his voice was so apparent, banging at her with urgency she had not known from him before. He hurried to her side, and in an instant, she felt his hand on her forehead. A wave of cold came over her, his hand feeling like ice. She shuddered visibly. He knit his brows in return.

“We need to do something about this fever,” he said.

She tried to raise her eyes at him, but her head felt too heavy. In a split moment, she was panting as though she had run a great distance.

“Stop. You are too weak yet.”

He did not have to remind her. She could not even clench her fists to let out her frustration. If she could at least bury her head deep under the pillow. But she was left at his mercy, feeling entirely vulnerable. She closed her eyes in exhaustion.

“How long…” she tried and her voice was but a whisper, much quieter than she had hoped for it to be.

“How long have you been here, you mean? Four days, and it looks like you will need much more than that.”

“Four…!” she would have sat up, but the moment she tried to flex the necessary muscles, remnants of the pain that had claimed her back in the kitchen paralyzed her. She hissed and felt moisture in her eyes.

“By the Divines, you’re stubborn as a mule! Stop waggling around like this, you need to rest!”

There were so many questions she wanted to ask. So many unknowns she needed to uncover, but she felt the bed sucking her in like quicksand. The blanket was so warm and heavy, and she felt her eyelids sink, drowning her in darkness once more. She heard Master Larkwing call her name before slumber took her.

She woke up into a moonlit night, with her lips and throat parched and stomach growling with agonizing hunger. Master Larkwing lay on his bed, deep in his dreams, but there was a decanter on his desk. If she could just reach it… but it was so far away. She drew in a few breaths. With a fairly swift movement, considering her condition, she swung herself up on her feet. For a moment, she stood by the bed, daring herself to take the first step. As she did, the world suddenly turned upside down.

Next thing she felt was the hard corner of the table hitting her head before it crashed onto the carpeted floor. She cried out with pain, spitting curses in her raspy whisper. She could barely hear the rustle that came from Master Larkwing’s bed before he appeared at her side.

“Why in Oblivion can’t you listen just for once?” he sighed as he slid an arm under her to pick her up. “What were you trying to do anyway?”

“Water…” she said, grunting as he lifted her. For someone of such a thin figure, he was surprisingly strong.

“I could have brought it to you.”

“You were… asleep.”

He lay her back on the bed, propping her against the wall with a pillow as a cushion, and gently wrapped her in the blanket.

“You could have woken me up,” he continued.

“I… didn’t want to… disturb you.” The barely audible mutter reflected how small she was feeling, fussed over by her own teacher, weak and in need. And then he only made it worse.

“What a silly argument,” he said as he patted her on the head. “It’s what I’m here for.”

Inadvertently, she glared at him. “Who are you and what have you done with Singird Larkwing?” was what she would have liked to say. She kept it to herself. So he was ridiculing her now. Surely it must be so amusing to watch her struggle like that.

He came quick with a mug full of water, holding it to her lips so she would not have to strain herself, guiding the water in her mouth with a stream of magicka. It was humiliating. Yrith averted her gaze so she would not have to look at the infuriatingly considerate teacher.

“Why am I here?” she asked. It was an obvious question, yet she felt a tingle of embarrassment as she posed it. This was perhaps the best place she could have ended up at, but she would never admit it to Singird Larkwing.

The teacher gave a long, weary sigh. He did not hurry with the answer, letting the silence linger. It was not a heavy silence. He seemed to ponder the right words, staring at his own magically imbued fingers.

“We needed to keep you at a guarded place and my room is the biggest in the College. When I’m out teaching or researching in the Arcanaeum, Lady Faralda and Miss Marence take turns watching over you.”

Yrith watched the water sparkle in the moonlight and the blue glow. So much effort just so she could live. So many people discarding their comfort or even risking their lives for her.

“Did you… were you the one who cured me back then?”

“No,” he shook his head and she could trace an almost unnoticeable hint of shame in his voice. “That would be Qassir Tahlrah.”

Forgetting her previous state of mind, Yrith stared at him. Qassir? Her own classmate? Impossible. It would mean that he was much more than he had made himself out to be. How in Oblivion had he managed to create the antidote? Unless…

“Could he… be a spellbrewer?” she mused, more to herself than the teacher at her side. He froze and the water splashed onto Yrith’s blanket. He immediately dried it up with a spell.

“I beg your pardon?”

“N-nothing!” How could she possibly tell Singird Larkwing about Spirit Blight? The fact that she had been warned about it by her parents who knew how to concoct it was disquieting enough, but to frame Qassir who had always come to her aid when she was in danger? Then again, that too was disquieting. He had come when the avalanche had almost buried her alive. He had come when she had been poisoned. And the fact she had been poisoned…

She had not thought so far. Why was this happening to her? Just who could hate her so much that they would try to kill her with Spirit Blight? Had she made such powerful enemies? Was the AWA trying to punish her for killing her parents? Or had she just been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Master Larkwing was telling her something, expressing disapproval at her denial, something about protecting her, but she could only hear a soft echo of his voice, watching his mouth move and his brows knit. Her turbid thoughts put shutters on her ears. She realized something that had been lingering in her for a while, something she was too busy to see. She was afraid. Or, rather, terrified. Perhaps someone was aiming for her life. The stories she had read about valiant heroes who were on the brink of death all the time, those who fought for the whole world with no fear or remorse… she had thought she knew them so well, but suddenly, she could not identify. Whoever the culprit was, they had tried to corrupt her with a concoction that would shatter her soul. There would be no Aetherius for her, not even Oblivion. She would cease to exist entirely. The nothing that had tried to take her… it was too dreadful to think of.

Her back slid over the pillow as she curled up, hugging her knees. Despite her state, she felt energy gather in her, threatening to cast loose. It was difficult to breathe, to overcome the torrent of emotions that washed over her in waves. What if no one is there to save her next time? And if it really was the AWA, how could she ever escape?

She felt a grip on her shoulder. It made her wince and recoil before she realized it was just Singird Larkwing watching her with a frown that was not unkind. She raised her head to meet his gaze. It was blurry and smudged. She was showing him this face again, this weak side of her that she hated so much. Why was it always him?

“Miss Ravencroft?” he asked with that unsettling urgency. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“I…”

She was afraid. Afraid of death, afraid of suffering, afraid of nonexistence… and afraid of telling her teacher that she was afraid. But she felt it surface, the suffocating need to shout it out to the whole world. She needed to release it, to set those feelings free. Disrupted by sobs, she took a breath.

“I’m… scared,” she whispered, and her own voice sounded strangely distant to her. But it brought her unexpected relief. Gaining the slightest bit of self-assurance, she clenched her fists. “I’m so scared!”

She was not ready to explain herself, but Master Larkwing did not ask for it. He froze, waiting for the longest three heartbeats in her life. Then he slowly nodded and did something Yrith would have never expected.

His arms closed around her in a tight embrace.


Singird was dumbfounded by his own actions. What had he just done? Was he really hugging Miss Ravencroft as though she was his own? How would he explain it when he finally let go? Concern did not justify it. He was her teacher, not a parent, or…

He maintained his grip. It was better than to look her in the face. In that crying, sad face that knew suffering like no other. He was taken aback by her honesty. Despite everything that had happened between them, she had decided to rely on him. Or perhaps she just needed to rely on someone and he was the only person nearby, but he felt slightly happy about it nonetheless. It was the kind of happiness he would have never expected to adopt.

He realized now that it was more than a teacher’s duty or his lust for power that led him to protect her. When he saw her that night, suffocating and drowning in the black matter that her own body had produced, his heart nearly stopped. Not because he saw something disgusting or unclean before his eyes, and not because of the possibility to lose her power. He was genuinely terrified he might lose her, this little girl he had been lying to, the girl whose sense of responsibility was far too great for her own good. The girl who, despite all that, was at times like the Skyrim gale that goes where it pleases.

It had taken him hours of talking and all his wits and resourcefulness to convince Lady Faralda to leave her in his care. He did not want her to leave his sight. Whenever she did, something happened. His room was enchanted with innumerous protective spells, a joint effort of Lady Faralda, Master Neloren and yours truly. While she was there, she would be safe.

He held her tightly. She was burning like embers, still shaking with fever mixed with her fear. She shifted in his arms, obviously unsure of his gesture, and he could not blame her. He was unsure himself. He had felt compelled to return her honesty, but this was something beyond his expectations. His body had simply moved on its own.

He had to let go. If he was to ever have a normal conversation with her, he had to let go.

And so he did.


His arms gripped her tight and it was hard to breathe. Yet it was also comforting, a little safe haven she had found amidst all the struggles. He had betrayed her, or so she thought, but perhaps she was mistaken. Throughout their interactions, he had never expressed anything but care. And now, somehow, he knew exactly what she needed. Despite himself, he went out to give it to her.

She shifted uneasily. She wanted to accept his gift, but she was unsure if she was allowed to. She could smell his scent. It was a scent of cleanness, like freshly starched linens, but it also had an undertone of exotic spices. Everything that was Singird Larkwing was contained in that scent. Hesitantly, she reached for him, but then, like a tide that’s reaching its low, he drew away.

She raised her head to meet his gaze. It was full of conflict that was more internal than directed at her, and she knew her own eyes mirrored it. There was silence, a mix of heavy atmosphere where none of them knew what to say with something more. A mystery they both wanted to explore. Yrith had forgotten about everything. Her mind felt blank. They looked at each other for a long while, silent and motionless, until she finally decided to break it with a single word.

“Why?” she said.

He did not hurry with his answer and she waited, patient, yet anxious. Then he hinted a smile.

“You seemed like you needed it. And you haven’t gotten the chance since…”

It was not like Singird Larkwing to not finish his sentences. It was more unlike him to be considerate enough to not articulate words that could put salt in her wounds. Who was he and what had he done with Singird Larkwing?

She nodded in thanks, unable to voice the answer. In the quiet of the room, she could hear snowflakes softly tapping on the window. The dark of the night was receding, giving way to the greyness of the upcoming morning. The glow of the hourglass dominating the shelves was fading. She had woken Master Larkwing up at such an ungodly hour.

“Time sure flies,” he stated absently as he rose to his feet. “I’ll get you a meal. You need to build up your strength. I think Lady Faralda should be here any moment.”

With that, he retreated to his cupboard in search of food. Yrith watched him for a while, but then her weary eyes closed by themselves and once again, she submerged into the darkness. By the time she woke up, her meal would be long cold and Master Larkwing would be gone for a lecture, leaving her in the care of Lady Faralda.


Days passed. No nightmares tormented Yrith in the nights. Her magic had been drained entirely by the Spirit Blight and she was only slowly regaining it. She did not have to feign anything this time. She was truly powerless, unable to cast the simplest of spells. The only difference was that Singird Larkwing was not angry with her and she felt much worse than before, knowing she had no way of protecting herself against anything.

Master Larkwing kept her in his room, only letting her out in his, Lady Faralda’s or Master Marence’s company. He returned to his usual grumpy disposition, but at times she could spot softness in his voice, like water under a thin layer of ice, bubbling with warmth from its depths. Yrith was not happy about the lack of privacy her self-proclaimed protector did not seem to care about, but he did supply her with books to spend time with. After a few days of Yrith’s constant pleading, he divided his own room with a curtain to let her have a semblance of her own space, but he still insisted on having her in his sight most of the time.

Yrith felt uneasy. Lady Faralda often left for “important business”, Colette Marence seemed agitated because her healing techniques were useless against the after-effects of the Spirit Blight, and Master Larkwing emanated a strange vibe of anxiousness which added to her fear. Her new friends were out there, learning magic. Despite never being left to herself, she felt more alone than ever.

She could not insist on going outside. She was still afraid, still shaken from all that had transpired. There were times when she could not even concentrate on reading anymore. She would just lie on her bed, chin against her knees, and try to forget everything. Other days she would stare out of the window and envy the dragons out there who dominated the skies without anything threatening them. She wished to soar and be free. And she wished to have friends by her side.

“Master Larkwing?” she called to him one day, averting her eyes from the book she was supposedly reading. In fact, she had been staring blankly at it for a good while, pondering the words she should choose to address him. Master Larkwing was prone to moodiness and her words often caused him to snap. It took her some courage to speak up. He took his eyes off the fish he was examining for poison, giving her a thoughtful stare.

“What is it?” he asked simply. He put no feelings in his words, no indicator of his current frame of mind. She bit her lip.

“I was thinking… could I maybe… visit some of my classmates?”

“No.” He returned to the fish, imbuing it with detection magic.

“Or maybe we could invite them over…”

“No.” He did not even turn around the second time. His eyes scanned every inch, every single dot or irregularity they found. It floated in the air before him as though it was swimming in the ocean where it belonged.

“Not even for a short while? If I could just speak to Leyna or Cain for a minute…”

The fish landed on Master Larkwing’s desk with a plop. With a sigh, he put it on a plate. His eyes turned to Yrith, brows knit in strong disapproval. She winced and turned away.

“Miss Ravencroft,” he said as he joined her on her side of the room, “do you even realize what kind of danger you’re in?”

Yrith stared at him for a while. What kind of question was that? How could she not know? All that fear and frustration and loneliness she had been feeling suddenly swelled within her, trying to make their way to the surface. She gritted her teeth and stood up to meet his gaze. In the end, he still did not understand anything.

“You mean the danger of losing my entire existence which I have no means of protecting myself against? Of having my soul shattered? I… what’s going to change if you confine me here? What will it matter if I regain my magic?!” Rage. Burning, blazing rage. She felt it rise within her, take out the words she could only use when she was angry. The walking book act, as Cain liked to call it. Why was this happening to her? What had she done to deserve this? “No magic will save me from the Spirit Blight…”

“Miss Ravencroft…”

“… and no magic will protect me from the AWA!”

“Miss Ravecroft!”

“Nothing I do will ever…”

“Miss Ravencroft, slow down! Listen to me, for the Divines’ sake!”

She stared at him, rooted to the spot. He gripped her shoulders, dark eyes pinned to hers, face stone-hard as usual, but not unkind. He was not angry with her. She could only spot concern.

“Sit down,” he pointed at her bed when she finally caught her breath. “Let us talk.”

She sank down, feeling defeated. Why wasn’t he angry? Why didn’t he give her the reaction she was expecting? She would have snapped right back at him. She would have returned the favor tenfold and slammed the door behind herself, only to feel better. There would be no need to apologize because she’d have the right of it. She glared at a curl on the carpet pattern as though it was its fault that this happened.

“I know you are lonely,” he said as he joined her. “And I know you’re afraid and angry. You have every right to be. Someone’s aiming for your life and you don’t even know why. But please, be patient. We are trying to find out as much as we can about them. For the time being, we have to keep you safe. And that means keeping you away from potential suspects.”

She turned her glare up at him. “You don’t mean Cain and Leyna, do you?”

“I can’t be certain about Miss Travi, but Cain Aldaryn was with you every time something happened.”

“He didn’t do it!”

“As much as we want to believe that, we have to be careful. And you too, Miss Ravencroft. Do not let your trust turn into gullibility.”

Yrith clenched her fists. How could he! There was no way Cain could ever do this. After all, he could not even master expanding his own consciousness. There was no way.

“Cain isn’t a spellbrewer,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“Indeed,” he mused, “but you’ve said that about Qassir Tahlrah. Care to explain?”

He really did not understand anything. She watched him closely, the face that was not just worried, but also curious and a bit of something else, something mysterious. She had already told him so much… but not nearly enough. She herself could not grasp the whole truth. She had asked so many questions when her parents were alive, of which only a small portion had been answered. She was frustrated and worried every time something happened to them. And now Singird Larkwing was in the same position. He was asking, yet he was not getting answers in return. She was being cruel to the person who had made her life at the College bearable. The first one to take her side, although he had no obligation to do so. She bit her lip.

“Can I ask a question first?” she peeped. She knew she was out of her line, and she had been ever since the first word of this discussion. But there were steps to be performed before she would trust him fully.

He raised a brow. “What is it?”

“Why do you help me so?”

Master Larkwing froze visibly. His face darkened with something very lonely and painful. Was it… guilt? He let out a deep breath.

“One day, you had to ask this question, didn’t you?” he mumbled, and it sounded more like a thought to himself than an actual question. She did not understand it, and so she just waited. She could almost hear his thoughts clicking, like the cogs inside a dwemer irrigation mechanism. He had asked her to be patient, and just this once, she would be.

When he finally looked her in the eye, he seemed somewhat ragged and defeated. Yet still he managed to conjure up a soft smile.

“I suppose,” he said, “I owe you a lot. So much more than you can imagine.” He rose, withdrawing a teapot from his cupboard. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Ravencroft. I’ll… tell you everything. It will be a long night.”

 

Notes:

Well… I was so anxious writing this chapter. This was one of the few that weren’t really outlined beforehand. I can’t plan emotion that well, it sort of has to write itself. I hope you liked it. :)

There’s one thing I’d like to address. I made a mistake with the book names. In the previous chapter, I introduced a book called A Man of Two Faces (the one with the cipher). If any of you remember my chapter 5, I mentioned it there, but it was under a different name – Tale of the Pirate Princess. That was a mistake on my part. Tale of the Pirate Princess was actually the old name for the book which I then decided to rename because A Man of Two Faces added some symbolism to the story. So I apologize for the confusion. Chapter 5 has already been edited and it now shows the correct name.

Thank you guys for all the kudos, comments and bookmarks I got from you!

Thanks to Tildemancer for the proofreading.

I would also like to include special thanks to RealityGlitch who has been a great inspiration for me for the past few weeks. She’s been constantly providing me with tons of comments with helpful feedback and we got to chat a lot about how we write our stories. She’s a great writer as well as wonderful reader and valuable friend. You should really go check out her profile. :)

See you guys next time!

Mirwen

Chapter 12: Of Doubt and Treachery

Chapter Text

“So,” Singird said as he sipped from his cup. It was his favorite smuggled tea which he deemed fitting for an occasion like this, “I suppose it’s time to reveal what I’ve kept from you since the day I made you confess about your parents.” He was uneasy. He knew this moment would have to come sooner or later, yet he felt so unprepared. How would she handle it? How would she take the fact that he lusted for her power, and that there was a killer on the loose who had murdered her parents in cold blood and now was after her? He was worried she might hate him. And he was worried she might hurt.

She sat there, with those big, silver eyes pinned on his person, waiting patiently for him to start. He had to smile. Always so curious, this one. When it came to gaining information, she could be so focused. So intent on finding more about him, and about herself. He knew that this time, he would have to be open with her. She had shared her story with him. He would have to do the same.

“Let me start with a story of mine,” he said as he leaned against the backrest of his chair. “I come from a long line of mages. My parents grew up down in Falkreath, but they received their education in Winterhold. They were scholars of sorts, with their heads deep down in some sort of research, but they never shared it with anyone. They never took sides, and whenever someone came asking for help, they were ready to give it. They did not care for race or origins, allegiances or patron deities. The only thing they did not let anyone touch was their research. I was often left on our family farm with my uncle so I would not get in the way. It was infuriating, but they did feed me and provide good education for me, including the magical one. I can’t speak half badly of them.”

Singird felt his own brows furrow as he spoke. He had almost forgotten how it had felt for him to be left behind. In a sense, he was similar to young Miss Ravencroft who had conjured an atronach just to chase away the feeling of loneliness. She nodded in understanding. For a brief moment, he felt the urge to pull her closer, but he resisted. This was not the time. There were things he had to overcome on his own, and she had enough burdens on her shoulders.

“I was always curious what it was they were doing. I am not the type to sneak up on people.” Miss Ravencroft winced at that and he could almost touch the guilt that gnawed on her consciousness. He could picture her with an ear pressed to the door, listening to her own parents. In a sense, it was adorable, although he could picture himself trying his hardest to discipline her for that kind of misdemeanor. “But occasionally, I had a good chance to listen. Most of what my parents said sounded like gibberish to me and I could not make much sense of it, but they often spoke about my great-grandfather, Ulfar Larkwing. I daresay they were obsessed with him, yet somehow the information they could find on him was scarce and mostly just in the form of rumors.”

He paused to take another sip and watched the greyness outside the window. There was a crow on its ledge, as it lately liked to be. Ever since Yrith Ravencroft’s first night, it liked to sit there and caw endlessly. The girl often chased it away, disturbed in her sleep or in reading. Now it was silent, as though it was listening. Singird knew it would not hear a thing through the magical protections that were renewed twice a day. Nothing would come through without him noticing.

“What happened to him?” she asked, gripping her own cup as though it was the only warm thing in the room.

“He died in the Great Collapse. Or so it is said, but my parents thought otherwise. They were convinced that there was more to it than the Collegium claims, and so they investigated. You can imagine they weren’t very popular around here. I took after them,” he chuckled. “It continued for years. Around the time the magical murders started occurring in Skyrim, they were invited by Jarl Siddgeir to join the Imperial army. To someone like my parents who prided themselves on their neutrality, such an invitation was an insult. At the same time, I was invited to serve as the Jarl’s court wizard. I was… too naïve to realize what that meant. I went along with it, seeing it as an opportunity to find my place as a mage. The invitation for my parents soon turned into obligation and I was not allowed to leave the court before their service was over.”

He fell silent again. The biggest failure of his life was always a sore subject for him. Perhaps no one but he and Jarl Siddgeir knew of it. And now, Miss Ravencroft. Not even his friend Toddvar knew, and perhaps if he did, their friendship would be over that instant.

Singird opened his mouth to continue, but then he noticed the look Miss Ravencroft was giving him. It was full of sympathy. He froze in shock. Had he made her feel sorry for him? The girl who had gone through so much more than him? He had no words to soothe her. This was his own mistake, and she was probably comparing it to her own. How could he say anything to calm her when he had not forgiven himself?

“When my parents received permission to return for a few days,” he said, determined to finish his story, “they went straight to Winterhold. They did not even stop by to see me, the only thing that held them back was that Winterhold was deep in the Stormcloak territory. They negotiated an exception for themselves. As long as they would carry no weapons and avoided populated areas, they were allowed to pass. They swore on their neutrality long before they were recruited, and strangely enough, they were mostly respected for it. Alas, nevertheless, they never returned. All I received was an obituary from Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm and a few documents regarding their death. The Jarl claimed they died an honorable death while helping some people escape a landslide. Their remains were supposed to be kept in the Temple of Talos, but I never got to see them. There were only ashes.”

“Do you think Ulfric’s men killed them then?” Miss Ravencroft was watching him so intently, the sheets underneath her creased in her clenched fists.

“Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. I don’t think it’s relevant. Killed is the key word here. I am quite certain this whole thing was a setup and it was made to be absolutely unassailable. Except I dug out our family history and death at a young age seems to be the usual symptom of being a Larkwing. There were all kinds of disappearances. I searched for anything that could give me a clue on their death, but the only thing they left behind were their notes on Ulfar Larkwing. After some months of research and calculations that I covered up as ‘tending to our farm’, I managed to reconstruct this.”

He handed her a paper, the same one he had shown Master Gestor some time ago. She took it gingerly, first regarding it with cautious curiosity, but then her eyes widened. She recognized what it was immediately. He had trained her well.

“A summoning ritual circle!” she breathed in triumph. “But this one is… are these constellations? What do they mean?”

“Not just constellations. See this little symbol?” he pointed at the circle in the middle. “That is an anchor. This whole diagram symbolizes the exact time and place of my great-grandfather’s death.”

She stared at him, then at the paper, then back at him. He could almost feel the cogs in her head turning. When he let the silence linger, she shook her head.

“Are you… are you planning to… summon him?”

Despite her disbelief, she caught on quickly. “Exactly. That is what my parents were trying to do and that is what I will try to do as well.”

“So how do I…”

“This ritual,” he continued, sensing what she was about to ask, “is not just some ordinary conjuration spell. To reach Aetherius, you need incredible amount of magical energy. Amount that I could not possibly possess.”

“And that’s why you need… me?” If Singird did not know better, he would say she was excited. Happy that he wanted to use her. Grateful for what he thought was the worst kind of deceit. Her silver eyes sparkled with interest she could not hide. She was gazing at the paper, holding it like a holy relic, no doubt calculating in her head.

“Indeed,” he nodded slowly. He waited for a reaction, but she was so immersed in the paper she almost discarded his existence. “Miss Ravencroft?”

“What? Oh…”

“I know this experiment could be dangerous, so if you don’t want to…”

“I want to! I’ll help!” There was a strange emphasis on the last word. So that was it. She wanted to feel useful. Did she think she owed him something? Or perhaps she thought she owed the world something. Of course she did. He was feeling guilty over what had happened to his parents, and he was not even the one to kill them. Miss Ravencroft still thought she had killed hers. She was feeling responsible and useless, and anything that would give her purpose she would accept. The realization dawned upon Singird with horrible distaste at his own actions. How could he ever use this girl?

“Miss Ravencroft…”

“When do you think I’ll regain my power?”

“In a few weeks, perhaps. But…”

“Then I better prepare myself.”

“Miss Ravencroft… please, hold on. I said I’d tell you everything and that is what I intend to do. There is one more thing left.”

She looked at him, brows quirked up in question. She must have noticed his unease as the excitement retreated from her face. He took a breath. No more secrets, he promised himself. No more pretending.


“But… that’s impossible!” she said for the umpteenth time. Singird was at his wits’ end. He had never expected her to refuse to believe in her innocence. She was so convinced she had been the one to kill her parents, so intent on repeating she was at fault, over and over again. No matter what kind of evidence he brought up, she always managed to find a gap in his reasoning. True, he could not present any solid proof to her, but why did she refuse to be relieved? It was as though she would lose something important if she admitted the truth. He could not understand.

“After seven months of dreading what you believed to be the truth, when you could finally put all that blame behind you… it’s impossible?”

She did not reply. Her hands and feet played a strange game of tag on the bed. She was fidgety with unease which he could not comprehend. There were no tears, no relief, no anger and no gratitude. She was in complete denial. Singird got a strange feeling there was something she was not telling him, but how could he ask without even a hunch?

“Say, Miss Ravencroft. Why did your parents move to Winterhold?”

She stared at him, her eyes becoming distant for a split moment when she searched for a memory. Then she sighed. “‘Because the enemy is near,’” she said colorlessly. There was an undertone of pain in her voice, internal struggle she could not quite cope with.

“What does that mean?”

She shrugged. “They never told me. This is all I got for an answer.”

“So they were chasing someone?”

“Maybe?”

“Have you considered that someone could have gotten ahead and killed them instead?”

She winced, but again, there was no response. She grabbed her cup and downed it in a single movement, pretending she had not heard the question. A corner of Singird’s mouth twitched. He was becoming very impatient with her.

“And have you considered that someone might be the one after you?” he pressed. She pursed her lips.

“Or it could be the AWA trying to get back at me for killing them,” she muttered, one fist obstinately clenched, fingers nearly tearing the sheets, while the other gripped the cup with such strength that Singird was worried it might crack.

“And how would the AWA learn about it?”

“They have their ways. That person can concoct the Spirit Blight… only the AWA can do that.”

“Speaking of which…”

She nodded. There was a lull. She finally put the cup on her end table, frowning at the crow still sitting there in silence, patient and motionless.

“Same applies to the antidote. It can only be spellbrewed, and I don’t think there’s anyone beside the AWA members who can do that.”

“Which would mean Qassir Tahlrah is either a spellbrewer, or knows someone from their ranks,” Singird concluded. He knit his brows. Qassir Tahlrah was shady enough to be anyone at all. Singird had considered the option that it was the mysterious Redguard aiming for Miss Ravencroft’s life. He had appeared out of nowhere and had been suspiciously close when the avalanche took her. But why would he save her then? Letting the Spirit Blight devour her without revealing anything would have been the easiest thing to do.

And then there was Cain Aldaryn who was with her every time something happened. But how could these children be capable of such horrendous feats?

“Say, Miss Ravencroft. Why do you think it could not have been Cain Aldaryn?”

She shot him a look that clearly said what she thought about his opinion. “Because someone from the AWA would never argue with me that expanding my consciousness is the wrong way to do it. It was their literature I got it from.”

“Sound argument, but only half-right. You underestimate people’s ability to pretend.”

“If Cain is fake, then I’m Saint Alessia,” she sputtered. Singird fought hard to suppress a glare. Under any other circumstances, he would not tolerate such behavior from her. He sighed.

“Very well. Can you tell me anything about the Spirit Blight then?”

“Not much.” Gazing upward, she looked up like a student trying to remember a definition from a textbook. “It’s the only poison that disintegrates a person’s soul. It becomes nothing more than lifeless energy and it’s unable to return to Aetherius. The Blight destroys memories, feelings, everything that makes a person an individual. My parents could make it and they also knew the antidote. Other than that…” She shook her head.

The only new piece of information for Singird was that her parents could make it. He shuddered, wondering why the Ravencrofts would need to make such a deadly concoction. And what did the recent events mean then? The person trying to kill Miss Ravencroft had clearly decided to play an emotional game with her, seeing how normal attempts to kill her would not work. They had almost succeeded at it. It had taken Singird a great deal of effort to convince her it was not the time to give up yet. He was certain the person who had done it must have known the whole family well. Out of the mages he knew, there was only Lady Faralda, but she could have done it so many times before. Other mages from the College could be lying about not knowing them to cover up the truth, but there was the tingling sensation at the back of his head, telling him there was something he was missing. An important fact he kept overlooking, but it was definitely there somewhere.

“What about the black fluid you disgorged?”

She shivered at the memory. He could feel the shadow of pain cross her face, but she shook it off. “I’ve… never heard of anything like that. It was… strange. I think… I think the Blight started taking effect much sooner than I realized and… this was the result. Though I read the effect was supposed to be quick and immediate. I guess not even the AWA literature is always correct.”

“Or you were made to believe so,” Singird mused aloud. “Say, Miss Ravencroft, is there anything else? Anything related to your parents or you that could help. Did you ever have any enemies? Other conflicts? Did your parents suggest anything?”

“Well…” She looked away, bright red flush dying her cheeks. A crooked smile flashed over her lips, a timid sign of her guilty conscience. He knew that face well, and if he should pick one expression that would represent Yrith Ravencroft in his eyes, it would be this one. “There is the cipher.”

“Cipher?”

“Yes. We… found it with Leyna a while ago in my parents’ old house.”

Singird’s eyes widened in disbelief. With Leyna Travi… that meant after the avalanche incident. After he had gone out to warn her about venturing outside. He felt color retreating from his face. She was already lucky to be alive, but this…

“You went to your parents’ house,” he repeated quietly. It was not a question, he did not need to confirm. But he was angry. The kind of cold angry that would freeze the blood in her veins. And it did. She looked at him, eyes wide with panic. “Just when did you do that and why in Oblivion could you not take my advice for once in your life?”

“I was angry,” she peeped. “It was right after the argument with Urag…”

The day of the Spirit Blight incident. Anything could have happened.

“Tell me everything,” he demanded. “Every single detail of what happened that day.”


“So this cipher you found… where is it?”

She groped about her robes, finally withdrawing a crumpled piece of paper. It was torn at some places and stained by the Spirit Blight, but the symbols on it were still discernible, if a bit smudged. Singird frowned in disapproval at the lines of text that covered it, some crossed or blackened out in a very disorganized manner. Below them was some sort of a code.

“We could not find a way to decrypt this,” she shrugged as she handed it to him. He took it, staring at the characters of the cipher, some capital, some not. It hurt his eyes and there was something peculiar about it. The same letter would have a different counterpart depending on whether it was capital or small, but was that really it?

“The words are too short,” he shook his head. “One can’t possibly hope to decipher this.”

Miss Ravencroft nodded. “That’s what we thought too.”

“In that case, there must be some kind of key. If this can’t be decoded using the standard method, then perhaps we’re looking at it the wrong way. If this message was meant for you, I suppose it’s something only you would be able to figure out. The method suggested by Miss Travi could be wrong entirely.”

“But I don’t know what…”

“We have time. Think about it. You said it was from a book? Could it be something that concerns the note in it? Or its story? A memory that connects you to it?”

She stared at the paper, shaking her head. “My parents always loved to overestimate me,” she sighed as she threw herself flat on her bed. Singird snorted.

“Your parents loved you,” he told her gently. “If this is a message from them, then they must have put it together just before they died. They had faith you’d be able to get to the root of this. No doubt they wanted to protect you.”

She shot him a glance, cheeks dyed with soft pink. She did not utter a single word, but he felt the gratitude that flicked from behind the curtain of grumpiness she had raised over her face. He smiled. At times, she was like a mirror image of his own person. The question was whether that should make him happy or worried.


“Is the mid… I mean, Yrith, all right?”

The lesson had ended, but three students, Cain Aldaryn, Leyna Travi and Qassir Tahlrah, remained, asking after their friend. That is, Cain Aldaryn and Leyna Travi remained while their Redguard classmate pretended to be idly standing nearby, very much interested in the plain paving of the Hall of the Elements. The rest of the class had left, grouped around the babbling Ha’risha who loudly announced how dull and useless Conjuration is in comparison to Illusion which can get a person very far. Unfortunately, Singird could not discipline novices for stating their opinion, no matter how much he wished for it at times.

He looked at the querying Dunmer. Cain’s crimson eyes were pinned on him as though his life depended on the answer. Singird did hope Miss Ravencroft was right about her supposed friend. “She will be,” he said evasively. He could not risk revealing she had lost her magic, even if it was likely that the culprit already knew.

“When is she coming back?”

“When the time is right. Now go. You have an assignment to work on, and the exams are coming close.”

The boy muttered something under his breath, but gestured to his Altmeri friend to leave. The two of them gave Singird a slight bow before excusing themselves. Qassir Tahlrah followed them shortly, but just as he approached the closing door, a thought occurred to Singird.

“Mister Tahlrah,” he called to him. The Redguard glanced over his shoulder, brows quirking above the deep blue eyes. “A word, if you will?”

He chuckled, picking a slow, relaxed pace to close the distance between the two of them. “Did I mess up my last assignment?” he asked in a light, conversational tone. “I did think it was a bit off…”

Singird swallowed the caustic remark he was so close to spitting. This… boy, or whatever he was, always so easygoing, always fooling around as if he had nothing better to do. He wielded magic like a wooden stick, and there was not a disaster that could shake him. Now that he thought about it, Singird did not even know who his parents were. There was just this boy who came out of nowhere and laughed everything off. A Redguard on top of that, belonging to a race that was said to be the least magically gifted.

“No, I want to discuss Miss Ravencroft.”

“The urchin? What about her?”

“Perhaps we should take this somewhere else so we can…”

“There’s no need. I’m quite comfortable here. So what is it about the urchin?”

How audacious could one boy be? Qassir Tahlrah was annoying enough when he was showing off in class, but this was a whole new level of casual arrogance, as Singird would call it. He suppressed a glare, forcing his stirred thoughts to behave. “You saved her back then.”

The boy gave a theatrical shrug. “Whatever might you be talking about?”

Singird stared at him in disbelief. He was playing with him! Leading him on, and now Singird, the initiator, was feeling unsure. Was it safe to talk to him? Who was he, and why was this youngster so good at both magic and manipulation?

No, he would only say as much as was absolutely necessary.

“The Spirit Blight,” he said. “You managed to get an antidote for it.”

“Ah, that thing that almost got her? It actually has a name?”

Fists clenched, Singird fought the urge to punch him in the face, savagely, like an animal. With no magic, just to let out his frustration. Qassir Tahlrah could turn his every word against him. No matter what he said, he could not beat him in his own game. But all things considered, there had to be a limit. Whatever he was trying to pull, sooner or later, he would have to bump into a wall. Very well. If it was going to be like this, so be it.

“It does,” he uttered colorlessly. “And you managed to get an antidote. How did you get your hands on it?”

The Redguard circled the central fountain, by no means in hurry. Then he stopped and leaned comfortably against the cold wall, flickering blue light deepening the shadows in his tanned face. Somehow, Singird could imagine him with a pipe, unconcerned, smiling like a Khajiit offering the finest brewed skooma in Tamriel.

“Interesting. So this antidote is something that is hard to obtain, I take it?”

Another question instead of an answer. Singird’s fingers flexed and clenched into fists again. He took a breath. Relax, he told himself. This is exactly what he wants. He wants to drive you into a corner. He makes weapons out of your questions… then you should do the same.

“Which makes me question your methods and resources,” he stated, face hardening into his iron battle mask.

“Doubt is very popular these days,” the boy returned thoughtfully. “I helped a friend. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“It is the right thing to do, and that is exactly why I am asking. What if some others will need to… help a friend?”

“Then perhaps those others should first admit to having a friend.”

“You are digressing.”

“Am I truly? Or is it just you who interprets it that way?”

Singird was at his wits’ end. How in Oblivion was he supposed to react to that? Was Qassir Tahlrah simply avoiding answering his questions, or was he trying to tell him something? Then again, if he wanted to elude the conversation, he could just leave. Was it entertaining to toy with his teacher like this? Or was there a hidden purpose behind those riddles?

“Why would you say so?”

“Why indeed? A sound question, yet I must ask another one once more. Who do you blame for the current events?”

“No one,” Singird cut resolutely. What kind of question was that?

“Then who do you suspect?”

“How dare you…”

“Dare what? Ask a question? Then you’re afraid to answer it?”

The Redguard smiled. He was the epitome of wickedness, cruel, wide smile spread over his face. Chills ran down Singird’s spine upon looking into his eyes, but there was something behind that veil of twisted artifice that brought doubt in his own judgement.

“Afraid? No. But you asked a question that has no answer. It could be anyone, though if you’re suggesting otherwise, I cannot see it.”

“True,” he nodded, “it could be anyone. How convenient, isn’t it? There are so many who could take the blame. So tell me, Master Larkwing, what do you expect me to say?”

“Something that would make more sense than what you’re saying now.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you’re leading me on and I might just have enough of it.”

There was a lull. The boy’s face grew darker with shadows that had not been there before. His smile vanished, replaced by a deep frown. Eyes like two sapphires were underlined by darkness that not even the pale fountain light could penetrate.

“I am, aren’t I?” he breathed. “How truly convenient. Then perhaps, Master Larkwing, I have just demonstrated the tactics that person uses to lead us all on. I cannot give you the answer you are looking for. But you can find it yourself. Here.” He tapped his chest where his heart was.

Singird now openly glared at him. He had just been ridiculed by one of his own students, a boy in his teens that pretended to know all the truths of the world. “Why can’t you just answer a simple question?”

“About the antidote, you mean?” the Redguard laughed bitterly. “Very well, I shall give you an answer to the last one. Two answers, actually. Because first, that knowledge would be useless to you. You are either suggesting that I am aiming for the urchin’s life, or you think I have some extensive knowledge about her… enemy, so to speak. In both cases, you are mistaken. And second,” his voice dropped so he was barely audible in the humming of the fountain, “I am not entitled to tell you.”

“Wha…”

The boy rose and moved toward Singird. On his way, he picked up a piece of paper lying on the floor, likely dropped by some student on the way out. He unfolded it, quickly scanned the first line and folded it back. “This seems to belong to Leyna Travi,” he stated matter-of-factly as he placed it on the fountain wall, just beside Singird.

He stopped just a few inches from him, leaning closer. Singird could feel his breath on his neck, face twisting in distaste, but he froze as the Redguard spoke.

“I am taking a risk by telling you this,” he said in a low voice. “Consider it a personal favor. They are on the move. I shall be leaving Winterhold. But they will be back. They are drawn to this place. Beware the end of Last Seed.”

He pulled away, making for the entrance. “And Master Larkwing,” he called to him as the gate opened before him into the grim, snowy courtyard, “you know what else you have in here?” His hand reached for the chest once more.

Singird was about to tell him to stop with the foolish jokes, but instead, he just shook his head, half curious what the answer was going to be.

Qassir Tahlrah smiled again, this time in earnest, and the air around him suddenly became brighter. “Yrith Ravencroft,” he said. And with that, the gate closed behind him, leaving Singird speechless and confounded. And, for some unknown, mysterious reason, also hot in the cheeks.


It had taken Singird a few moments to shake off the daze that came afterwards. He had asked so many questions, yet instead, it felt as though he had been the one being questioned. Or, rather, tested. The boy had admitted to knowing something, yet just like Urag gro-Shub, he refused to tell him. Singird could only guess whether they shared the same reason. One thing, however, he was now certain of. There were many people and many places in Winterhold that held pieces of the puzzle, yet somehow, general distrust made it difficult to put them together. Distrust that was perhaps more than simple wariness. It was fear of each other. Qassir Tahlrah was right. Someone had planted the seed of doubt among the people here. Someone who would grow stronger when others grew weaker, someone who took advantage of discord.

He sighed as he leaned to the fountain wall and closed his eyes. He let the blue, ticklish light stream of magicka wash over his face. It was cold and warm at the same time, helping him concentrate and ponder the Redguard’s words. He played the whole conversation over and over in his head, trying to make sense of it. He had not learnt who Qassir Tahlrah was, nor had he made any progress in finding the culprit. Yet he still had that tingling feeling that there was something he was missing, and it had nothing to do with the magic caressing his head.

At last, he rose. His hip grazed the paper that still lay on the fountain’s edge. He picked it up, opening it to scan its contents. It was a letter by the looks of it, written in the Altmeri language. Singird had once learned the script, and so he recognized the name Leyna at the beginning, but the rest remained hidden. Deciding he would return it to its right owner later, he folded it again, but just as he did, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another name somewhere in the middle of the letter. Yrith Ravencroft.

After a lightning-fast contemplation, he changed his destination from his room to the Arcanaeum.

The library was surprisingly lively this time of the day. Students and teachers alike paced from one book case to another, flipping pages in books and taking notes in preparation for exams that would take place in Frostfall. Students would then be sorted into expert classes where they would continue their education. Singird had no doubt the Destruction class would have the most applicants while Restoration would probably have the least. But he knew for sure whom he wanted in Conjuration, and he would not care if she was the only one to join.

He scanned the room. Fortunately, most people were gathered in the magic section of the library. The language studies department was completely deserted which worked in Singird’s favor. Avoiding the orc who loomed above the library like a hawk, watching for the first careless soul to make a sound louder than a quiet hum, he slid into the lifeless corner and pulled out a few dictionaries. Fortunately, the letter was concise, written in simple modern language, apparently in hurry, made to be easy to understand. The translation Singird made was rough, but there was no time to give way to his perfectionism. As he approached the end, he grew anxious, and when he finally finished his work, he felt color retreating from his face. This could not be right. By the Nine above, this could not be right.

Leyna,

Things have changed. Chaos now reigns the Dominion. People are turning on each other, stabbing their allies in the back. Alinor is not safe anymore, not even for our kind. I have been forced to take refuge elsewhere. Do not worry for me, I am safe. But you are not. I apologize. I sent you away, hoping you would be safe in the far north, but time has proven me wrong. Watch out for the Justiciars. Here is hoping the College staff will have enough dignity to protect you, but if the worst comes to the worst, escape. But do not leave alone.

There is a girl in Winterhold, going by the name Yrith Ravencroft. Become her friend. Gain her trust. Even if you are to turn the whole College against you, she alone must become your ally. It is essential that you bring her with you wherever you go.

If by any chance the two of you manage to stay safe in Winterhold, you will take her to the promised place when the time comes. You will know when that is.

You must not fail, Leyna. Many a fate depend on this arrangement.

Stay alert, daughter of the Travi.

Auri-El guide you.

Your father,

Selas Inarion Travi

This must have been a cruel joke. Leyna Travi, Miss Ravencroft’s first friend at the College. The very person he had defended before the Collegium, the person they had decided to risk their lives for. He had stood up for her, and so had Lady Faralda and Urag gro-Shub. Had she befriended young Yrith only so she could betray her afterwards? Was she planning to sell her out, to harm her? What would he do about it? Confront her directly? No, that could result in a disaster. But what of Miss Ravencroft? The poor Miss Ravencroft who still might have no friends at all?

He clenched his fists, crumpling the letter he was gripping in his hands. Several people winced as they passed him, letting him know that the expression he wore could not be classified as friendly. He was not feeling friendly. If Leyna Travi was behind all this…

He took a breath and cursed himself for the thought that had almost seized his mind. Slowly, calculating his every movement to maintain control, he returned the dictionaries into place. Their backs were in a perfect line, their titles were in the right order, even the colors matched as they should. With gritted teeth, concealing his expression, he left the Arcanaeum. As he reached the College roof, he drew in the fresh air. The breeze was cold and refreshing, and the view was as astonishing as ever. The icebergs contrasted the dark sea that carried them on its currents. The mountains were tall and mighty, and the statue of Azura ruled them from above. Yet, somewhere beyond it, a column of dark smoke rose to the skies, revealing a camp that belonged to either the Imperials, or the Stormcloaks. The war was close.

The College of Winterhold was fighting a war of its own. A war that made people doubt each other. Singird could not put his trust in anyone. That was, anyone but Miss Ravencroft. But then again, she was the main reason for his doubt. It was because of her that he often got heated. It was because of her that he was scared and doubtful. And… it was because of her that he was hopeful. Before he knew it, she had filled his whole life. He had known her for a month or so, yet he felt as though he had known her for ages.

In fact, he did not mind being upset over her. He was more than willing to fight this war for her, to protect her and support her until she would be able to stand for herself. What he did mind were her tears. When she was broken and hurt… that was when he ached. He felt this stabbing pain in the chest, like a white-hot knife piercing him over and over again.

He stopped just before the entrance to the Hall of Countenance with his hand on the handle, staring into a knab in the wooden door. Suddenly, he realized that Qassir Tahlrah was right. Singird had forgotten all about his original motives. His actions were driven by her, and the insuppressible need to protect her. And the pain he felt when he realized how hurt she would be upon hearing about Leyna Travi’s treachery… deep inside he decided that he could never tell her. He could not bear to break her. After all, Yrith Ravencroft was really in his heart.

He pulled the handle and entered the tower. His room was just a few paces away. She was somewhere inside, waiting for him, with her head buried in a book. Upon opening that door, she would not be the same anymore. He would see her in a different light. Now this was a situation.

Chapter 13: The Arch-Mage

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Wake up, my child,” the voice said. It breathed spite and venom, it was malice itself. And yet she felt something else in it. A touch of emotion that perhaps no one had ever noticed. Loneliness, void. Silent plea that had never been answered. It was a voice that resented her for what she was, yet it was longing to become just that. It yearned for warmth it had never known, and it could only give coldness in return. “Wake up, so that you see. Awaken, so that you feel me devour you. You belonged to me long before you were even born. Open your eyes.”

Yrith turned with unease, clutching the blanket that was wrapped too tightly around her. Her magic was swirling inside her, rising like a high tide. It was flooding her with fire and ice, piercing her skin, suffocating her. Day by day, it grew stronger, more overwhelming. With each passing moment, it filled her with new feelings and perceptions. She saw images flick before her eyes, leaving her with a feeling of utter helplessness. Everything she saw, she could only observe and ingest. She could not erase the bitterness from her tongue. And in the end, all the images dissolved into darkness that clouded her mind.

“Wake up.”

“No…” she moaned quietly. “Leave me…”

“Miss Ravencroft. Wake up!”

Something was shaking her, clutching firmly her shoulders. No, someone was. She would not let herself succumb. She fought against the grip, but she could not move. Magic, she needed magic. She was so full of it… She let it flow, fill the palms of her hands. It was cool and soothing. Now she only needed to…

“Miss Ravencroft!”

Her eyes flicked open. She gasped, staring into the face of Singird Larkwing. He was leaning over her, hands still on her shoulders, but he retreated with a sigh as soon as the glow of her magic faded. They stared at each other for a while. She felt his cold hand on her forehead. Then he withdrew a handkerchief out of nowhere and wiped the sweat from her, gently like a caring mother. She closed her eyes, absorbing the tranquility of the moment.

It had been like this the last few days. He was there when she felt scared or uneasy, he was there to wake her up from her nightmares. In the times of loneliness, he would exchange stories from their childhoods with her, and in the times of despair, he would embrace her, uncertainly at first, but as time passed, his grip grew firmer and tighter, and she found herself wrapping her own arms around him, seeking his warmth and claiming it for her own.

She lay there, thinking of all those times, until he removed his hand.

“You were dreaming again,” he said, an obvious fact, but his words brought comfort.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” she muttered as she raised herself on her elbows, just for the sake of politeness. She doubted her own words. The room was bright with sunlight and his desk carried a humble breakfast. A wooden plate with a slice of bread and two small pieces of goat cheese, and a jug of tea, no doubt smuggled though one of the Khajiit routes.

“You did not. How are you feeling?” Hearing his tone, she looked into his eyes. He did not say it out of care or obligation. Those eyes were bright with expectation. There was purpose in his question.

She shrugged. “Could be worse.”

“You are handling your dreams better than before.”

“They’re not that bad… yet. But I keep hearing a voice in my head. As if someone was constantly watching me. Do you think I’m… hallucinating?”

“I don’t know, but we cannot discard the possibility that someone really is watching you. Let us rid you of your dreams, Miss Ravencroft.”

“How?”

“Your magic is returning. You might as well keep your end of the bargain.” Yrith stared at him. He crossed the room, waving to her casually to get up. From the inner part of the window ledge, he took a bowl with fresh, cold water and placed it on her end table before disappearing behind the curtain that divided his room.

“My end of the bargain?” she sputtered, jumping from her bed at once. “You did not even keep yours!”

She heard a sigh beyond the curtain, accompanied by sudden footsteps. “Let me just make this clear, Miss Ravencroft. I did not…”

He fell silent. Just as she was taking her night robe off, he returned to face her. She froze, covering quickly the bared parts of her body, and he was just as quick to let the curtain fall back in place. Yrith’s heart was racing. It was just Singird Larkwing. Her own teacher. But she suddenly could not find a way to steady the frantic pounding and stop the hotness from flooding her cheeks.

Fast as she could, she washed herself, heedless of the cold that bit into her skin, and took shelter in the safety of her robes. She peeked into his half of the room, treading lightly to the other side. Master Larkwing was sitting by his desk, eyes on a still closed book. He did not raise them when she approached, only shoved the meal over to her side of the desk and beckoned for her to take a seat. She did, biting into the cheese.

“Don’t forget the bread,” he reminded her.

‘Yes, dad,’ she thought to herself. They spent a few moments in silence. Then he broke it, clearing his throat.

“So, as I was saying, I did not say anything to gr… Urag gro-Shub. In fact, he said you’d told him yourself when I confronted him.”

Yrith let the cheese sink back onto the plate, swallowing hard the bite she had taken. She replayed every moment she had spent with Urag since the death of her parents. This just didn’t fit. She had never mentioned anything concerning their death. He had addressed the topic several times, but every time she would just shake her head or reply with an evasive “I don’t know.” There was just no way…

“Urag? Did Urag really say that? But I didn’t… why would he lie to you about it?”

“I have yet to understand that. Do not let your mind be clouded with doubt, Miss Ravencroft. That old brute is ruthless and likes to speak in riddles, but I can assure you he’d give his life for you.”

Yrith nodded, pushing the plate away. She rested her head against the table, letting in the soothing coolness. “A lot of people let their minds be clouded with doubt lately,” she said pensively.

“Way too many of them,” he agreed. “Eat your breakfast. We will be going out.”

“For a stroll?”

“For training. Now eat.” He opened his book, engulfing himself in its pages. She wanted to ask him for details, but she knew it would be pointless.

She ate her meal, if she could call it that, in silence, watching his face. He was so calm, so serene. Over the time she had spent in his room, she had adopted a habit of watching him, often at the expense of her own reading. He liked to immerse himself in texts on magical science, or any textbooks or history books at all. When he put his books aside, he took a place by the window, gazing far into the distance, watching the thin horizon line where the Sea of Ghosts met the sky. Much like her, his mind was almost never present. He was always deep in thought, often taking long to react when she had something to say. At times, she pondered what it was that occupied his mind so. Occasionally he would give her a look full of concern, staring at her for a long while before retreating back to his own world. For some reason, it always made her smile.

When she finished her breakfast, Master Larkwing motioned her to follow him, leading her to the Hall of the Elements.

“Are we going to practice Conjuration?” she asked on the way, listening to the echo of their quick-paced footsteps.

“No. Conjuration alone won’t save your life when you stand face to face with real danger. We will hone your reflexes.”

Yrith paled. She was prepared to shine before Master Larkwing, but now her confidence crumbled like a house of cards. She was not fast, she could not rely on her instinct. Whatever Master Larkwing was expecting of her, she was sure to fail him. And most of all, she hoped they would not be practicing Destruction.

The huge brass gate of the Hall of the Elements opened before them upon the touch of Master Larkwing’s magic. He led her in, to the fountain where he halted, scanning the place as though he was searching for something. Yrith shifted her weight nervously.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“First off, wait for Master Tolfdir. He should be here any mo…”

The door to the Arch-Mage’s quarters, the only one in the College that Yrith had never used before, opened with a loud, long-drawn creak. From beyond it emerged the man in question with a look of a madman in his face, beads of sweat coming down from his temples in glistening streaks. His overcoat was askew, stained with dirt down on the side that touched the ground. Master Larkwing welcomed him with a raised brow and Yrith could almost feel the disapproval that tried to force its way to his lips.

“Master Tolfdir,” he greeted coolly. “Did anything…”

“No, everything is perfectly fine, thank you,” Master Tolfdir hurried with his answer, huffing as he adjusted his garbs. “Please, just… don’t ask.”

“Very well.”

Yrith wondered what kind of thing might have happened at the Arch-Mage’s quarters. She had never seen the infamous head of the College herself. At times, she even doubted her existence, but once in a while, she heard a word or two about her. Curiously enough, no one ever spoke of the Arch-Mage in superlatives, despite the fact she had been elected for the position by the Collegium. She half hoped Master Larkwing would insist on knowing, but true to his word, he did not bring the subject out.

“Shall we begin then?”

Master Tolfdir was busy beating his overcoat. He raised his head at the question, staring absently at the two of them for a good while before finally giving a slow nod. “Yes, yes, I suppose we should,” he said as he straightened his back. “Miss Ravencroft. It has been a long time.”

She hinted a curtsy. “Good morning, Master Tolfdir.” She felt her cheeks redden. The last time they had seen each other, she demonstrated to him the poorest use of magic on Nirn. She was surprised he had agreed to waste his time on her.

“So, we are here to train you today. Do you feel prepared?”

She shook her head and felt a lump settle in her throat.

“That is good. Relax those shoulders of yours a little. We are not putting you to torture here. It is good you don’t come ready. Life is often going to find you unprepared.”

That did not make Yrith feel any better. On the contrary, she felt all the color retreat from her face. “Are we going to train Alteration then?” she peeped.

“Indeed. Master Larkwing has asked me to help with your first lesson. The practice of Alteration magic will help you gain control over your powers. You will learn how much power exactly you need for specific tasks and how to manipulate your magicka. And, of course, you will also hone your instincts on the way. Alteration is what I would call easy to use and hard to master. But we will be working on your mastery right from the start.”

“But… I don’t even know the basics.”

“You know them in theory, right?”

“I’ve… read a few books, but…”

“Then you have all you need. You are only going to practice one spell today, and that will be telekinesis. And before you say anything,” he raised his hand to shush her as she opened her mouth, meaning to point out that telekinesis was an adept spell and she could hardly do the novice ones, “yes, you can perform it. There is no special trick to telekinesis. The only reason it is considered an advanced spell is that it requires a lot of magicka. I take it you have plenty of it, correct?”

She nodded.

“Good. Then Master Larkwing, if you may.”

Pulling up his sleeves, Master Larkwing let out a stream of magicka, directing it to the place where the glowing pillar from the fountain met the ceiling. Upon the clash, a dark sphere appeared in the light, seemingly absorbing all of it. Yrith stared at it as it descended, stopping two feet above the fountain’s surface. She raised a brow at it, posing a silent question.

“We can thank Master Neloren for that,” Master Tolfdir said in response. Yrith wondered how many more hidden objects lay scattered around the College. Knowing Drevis Neloren, there could be thousands of them. “Well then. Would you be so kind, Miss Ravencroft, to pull that ball out of the fountain?”

Yrith waited for further instructions, but there were none. Her gaze shifted to Master Larkwing, but he returned it without a word. Master Tolfdir was looking at her with expectation.

“Pull it out… with telekinesis?”

“Exactly. Just a stream of magicka to latch onto it and take it out. Go on.”

Yrith stared at the sphere, flexing her fingers. Just how in Oblivion was she supposed to use a spell she had only read about? Then again, she had done it before, when she summoned her atronach for the first time. And she had killed her parents with it…

She took a deep breath. There were two skilled magisters with her this time. She would learn it properly. And so she called forth her magic, felt it tingle on her fingertips before she released it. It lunged forward, claiming the dark sphere ahead, but the moment it touched the fountain light underneath it, Yrith felt a shockwave hit her and send her staggering backwards. A force so strong it overwhelmed her, a presence so grand it made her feel like the smallest speck of dust in the vast greatness of Mundus. It spoke to her, absorbed her…

She gasped and broke the connection, shivers running down her spine.

“Miss Ravencroft? Is everything all right?” Master Larkwing wore that concerned look of his, the same one she woke up to from her nightmares and the one he had shown her after the Spirit Blight incident. But perhaps this was just her own power acting up. Perhaps she just needed to get used to it and understand it, and there was no need for him to worry.

She shook her head, feigning a smile that was all too weak and unconvincing for her liking. His frown did not go away.

“If there’s anything troubling you…”

“I’m fine. I just… I guess I really can’t control my magic too well,” she smiled sheepishly. She turned around quickly, summoning her magic again to avoid further questioning. Whatever it was, she’d be prepared this time.

The impact hit her again, but she simply let it wash over her, ignoring it as she tried to grab the ball. Her magic slid around it, encompassed it, but no matter how much of it Yrith used, the ball would not budge. She pushed and pulled and tried to shove it out of its place, but it stayed there as though it was chained to the fountain. Master Larkwing strode over and put a hand on her arm.

“Try to use less power and work on your technique instead.”

So he said, but how? She had read all about it, how her magic should be an extension of her arms, how she should be able to manipulate things with it. But even so, the ball was just an orb of magical energy, impossible to grab. She sighed and closed her eyes, trying to recall the words from the books. And the moment she did, the world changed around her.

The stream of magic she was holding up spread evenly throughout the space. She could touch anything and everything around her, feel its fabric, its substance, even its origins. She could see, even if the colors were inverted and strangely distorted, yet her vision came in sharper than ever. It was similar to what she saw in her dreams, dark, yet so clear. She could feel the objects around her, become a part of them and let them become a part of her. She could feel the College, an organism which felt and saw just like she did.

That was what she had felt before, a being that stood guard above her and everyone inside, an entity that was perhaps older than Nirn itself. She could connect with it and explore the whole grounds with her mind. She could locate every person and every snowflake. The moon orbs held by the statue of Arch-Mage Shalidor sent a slight tingle her way, a focal point in itself that connected the College with Masser and Secunda.

She pulled away, too overwhelmed to continue, and focused on the Hall of the Elements instead. She felt the fountain, the sphere, and the two people standing at her sides. The elder was calm and wise, regarding her with an eye that had seen its share of the world. The younger was full of energy he did not want to expose. Passion he kept to himself, feelings that seemed cramped within that small body of his. His heartbeat was fast and his eyes fixed on her person. The feeling of sudden proximity made her own heart race. She retreated and reached for the ball.

Pulling it out of the fountain was so incredibly easy. She felt more than control. She felt harmony, as though there was no difference between moving the fingers on her hands or manipulating objects that were twenty feet away. She smiled as she felt the dark orb getting closer. Keeping it at the same height, she navigated it toward herself, stopping it a foot away. The sound of Master Tolfdir’s voice next to her made her wince and open her eyes at once.

“Splendid!” he praised. “That was an exemplary display of the use of telekinesis. I must say I am impressed. Wouldn’t you agree, Master Larkwing?”

Yrith could only devote a small portion of her attention to the two teachers. The sounds and the sudden burst of images before her eyes made it difficult to concentrate on the sphere. Her magic worked differently with her eyes open and with so many impulses assaulting her senses. She had to reduce it to a tiny stream which was so much harder to handle. The ball bobbed up and down in the air, trying to slip out of her grasp. Only now she realized that what she had used to draw the ball out of the fountain was not the telekinesis spell at all. And judging by the disgruntled sound that came from the side of Master Larkwing, he knew it too.

“I would like to know,” he said, his tone low and reserved, “why it is that Miss Ravencroft is suddenly struggling to keep the ball in the air?”

“Oh, I am sure this exercise must have been exhausting. Shall we take a break?”

Yrith wildly shook her head. A break would mean a chance for Singird Larkwing to ask about what she had done. She was not prepared to answer his questions. Not when she did not understand it so well herself. She bit her lip in shame, feeling the sting of guilt for cheating Master Tolfdir. She needed to make it right and she needed to do it now.

“Very well, if you insist, we shall continue. In the next exercise, Master Larkwing and I will push against each other. While one will try to take the ball to the ground, the other will drive it upward. Your task will be to maintain its height at a steady point.”

Yrith froze. She could barely maintain her hold on the ball as it stood, yet now she was to face the combined forces of her two masters. She felt defeated before she even started. How could she ever hope to control her magic?

“Ready?”

With a deep, shaky breath, she nodded. She resisted the urge to clench her fists, concentrating on the stream of magic coming out of her hands. The two teachers at her sides exchanged a silent sign and let out their magicka. The ball quivered, and suddenly it was so much harder to control it. It became heavier, then lighter, then heavier again, almost touching the ground. She needed to find a way to keep it steady. Perhaps if there was just one person pushing at it, she could balance it from the other side, but this was almost impossible. The only way she could think of was to cut the pressure out. Prevent them from accessing the ball. But she was certain that was not what Master Tolfdir meant.

She spent a while trying, gritting her teeth, but time did not seem to help. She felt as though she hadn’t the slightest control over the ball and it was entirely in the hands of her two teachers. She sent in more magicka, but it only shook the ball to no effect. She let it encompass it, but that only helped the two masters who used her own power to manipulate the ball. She let out a helpless sigh.

“How?” she asked, fighting the desperation from sneaking its way to her voice. “How am I supposed to do this?”

“Try to…”

“Figure this out for yourself,” Master Larkwing said in a voice cold as ice. “No one is going to help you when you face an enemy.”

“But I am not facing an enemy!”

“Then treat it as if you were.”

“Master Larkwing, aren’t you a little too harsh with her?”

“No. She has all the knowledge she needs. She only needs to use it.”

Master Larkwing’s words stirred anger within her. How in Oblivion was she supposed to train her reflexes and control when she could not even master the basics? She tried to recall everything she had read on Alteration and the telekinesis spell, but no book she had ever touched mentioned similar exercise. She assumed it was something that could only be learned by practice. But she was so bad at it.

Then again, Master Larkwing had told her to treat them as enemies. And an enemy had to be defeated at all costs.

She decided to close her eyes again. She felt their magic… and took it away. The more they would send, the more control she would gain, and the ball was steady in her power once more. She opened her eyes ajar, trying to maintain it. It was difficult, yet not as much as the first time. The two teachers ceased their attempts.

“Well then, that was an interesting take on it, but you did gain control in the end,” Master Tolfdir commented. “Although, as much as I am ashamed to say so, I feel compelled to ask how.”

“It does not matter. Miss Ravencroft failed. What she did had nothing to do with telekinesis. That was not control what she displayed. She overpowered us.”

Yrith could not raise her eyes to meet Master Larkwing’s. The anger in his voice sent shivers down her spine. He was right and it was vexing. She felt so powerless, so useless compared to those who only had a portion of the power she had, yet wielded it with such mastery. She was small and weak, a child who understood nothing of the world, and she was supposed to face a person capable of spellbrewing. Yet again, the thought made her tremble in fear. Why did it have to be this way? What had she ever done to deserve this?

“It would count as a success though,” Master Tolfdir opposed, only to fall silent again under the heavy look of Singird Larkwing.

“In this particular situation? Yes. In a hundred of others? No, it would not. We will try this again, Miss Ravencroft, and you will do it properly. Shall we move to the third exercise, Master Tolfdir?”

The elder mage shook his head in resignation as he raised his hands to cast a spell. A labyrinth appeared before them, its walls glowing with magicka. The tunnels turned and wound their way to the center of the maze that was the focal point. Yrith stared at it, following the path to the fountain and trying to memorize as much of it as she could. No doubt she would be asked to navigate the ball through it. She needed to be prepared.

“Studying the maze will not help you,” Master Larkwing said as if it caused him utter pleasure to shatter her hopes. “You will now be forced to react quickly to changes while keeping the ball under control. You will need to constantly find new routes. We will be shifting the walls as you proceed.”

Yrith scolded herself inwardly for being that naïve. As if Master Larkwing ever made anything easy for her. She looked at the walls, trying to imagine how she would twist them if she wanted to make the passages difficult but not impossible. Then again, if she was Master Larkwing or Master Tolfdir, she would probably choose to react to the ball’s movement. This would be the biggest challenge yet, and she had failed the previous two. She contained a sigh, waiting for the signal to start.

It came all too soon for her liking. Shakily, she led the sphere to the maze, calculating the path ahead. It already took a large portion of her mental capacity, and she was terrified of the moment she’d be forced to change route. The two masters waited, letting her well into the labyrinth so she would not have the option to back away easily. Then, it was Master Tolfdir who struck first, much more mercilessly than she had anticipated. He cut off not one, but two of the passages ahead, forcing her to go back. She realized a moment too late that by doing that, he had opened a different path she could have taken. A careless mistake. In a fight, this would have cost her life. She gritted her teeth.

Master Larkwing proved to be just as ruthless. The two of them faced Yrith like a worthy opponent, constantly trying to drive her into a corner, tricking her as she worked her way through the maze. After a while of drifting and turning, the ball was locked inside with no way out. She let out a breath, cutting the magical connection. The maze shifted back into its initial state and Master Tolfdir guided the ball out.

“Perhaps we should end here for today,” he said, but Master Larkwing shook his head.

“We will take a break. I can accompany Miss Ravencroft to the courtyard if she needs fresh air.”

“I’m fine,” she muttered. Of course she needed fresh air. Alone, without anyone lecturing her on how she should man up. She retreated to a niche between the tall pilasters that circled the Hall of the Elements, hugging her knees as she sat on the window sill. It was not even noon, and yet she felt tired like never before. She rested her back against the cold wall, refusing the piece of a sweet roll Master Tolfdir offered her, miraculously conjuring it from the depths of his robes. She kept her eyes closed and let just a tiny bit of magic out to feel her surroundings. It was somewhat soothing, giving her a feeling of security when she knew about everything around. Inadvertently, she reached out to Singird Larkwing, feeling his heart. She did not find any anger there, only concern. She opened an eye to look at his face. He was discussing something with Master Tolfdir, his gaze constantly drifting toward her and back, and he wore the same ice-cold expression she had seen on him moments before. She let her magic retreat. At times, he was so hard to read. Yet when she thought about it, this unapproachable nature of his was somewhat appealing.

The exercise continued after a short while. Yet again, Yrith led the ball through the maze, struggling with the control, wincing every time the passages shifted. Time dragged, but she stubbornly shook her head every time Master Tolfdir offered to end for the day. Occasionally, she took a peek at Master Larkwing’s face, searching for a trace of softness, but she never found any. In and out, the sphere kept advancing and backing again, reacting to the changes. After a while, it became an almost automatic process, but Yrith still could not find her way. She was driven to a dead end for the umpteenth time.

Impatiently, she closed her eyes and reached out with her magic. Then she opened them ajar to feign concentration. She could feel the masters’ hearts, the movement of their fingers as they controlled their magic, the strands of magicka extended toward the maze. She could anticipate what they would do before they even sent the impulse. That was it. She would succeed this time. The ball obeyed her perfectly and the road ahead turned according to her expectations. She could see the paths and all the alternatives. It was so easy to navigate the sphere to the center and connect it with the fountain again. At last, she succeeded. But the only thing she gained was a piercing look from Master Larkwing that stabbed her in the heart.

“I would suggest you do it properly next time, Miss Ravencroft.”

She could only reply with silence. Shame mingled with the feeling of injustice. She had been, after all, encouraged to imagine she was in a real fight. And it was natural to do anything in a real fight. She pursed her lips, stifling the words of defense.

“I suppose we should give Miss Ravencroft some time,” Master Tolfdir said, raising his hand to placate his agitated colleague. Yrith stared at him. So even he now realized what she had done. And even he disapproved.

“Perhaps.”

“I will excuse myself for now. Miss Ravencroft, I suppose we will be meeting each other soon. Think on your use of magic. And practice. There are many ways to hone your instincts and they don’t have to be magical.” With a short nod to Master Larkwing, Master Tolfdir left the room. Yrith pinned her eyes to the floor, unwilling to look in her mentor’s face.

They spent the way back to Master Larkwing’s room in silence. Yrith listened to their breaths, to the sounds of the magical fountains, the weeping wind and crunching of the snow under their feet. She thought of what to say to him, but nothing came to her mind. Upon entering the Hall of Countenance, they passed a disenchanted Mirabelle Ervine, giving a piece of her mind to J’zargo, the only other Khajiit in the College beside Ha’risha.

“It is moonsugar again. How many times has it been now?!” The Master Wizard stood with hands on her hips, eyes flaring like a thousand of heated suns. Her slight Breton posture was much more threatening than that of Urag gro-Shub on his bad days.

The Khajiit stood proud, furry ears shooting upward while he gazed at her with no sign of remorse. “J’zargo has been telling you it is not for skooma. J’zargo does not drink skooma. But moonsugar slows down the effect of potions. J’zargo needs it for his experiments.”

“I am not interested in your excuses. There shall be no moonsugar on the College grounds. Are we clear on that?”

Yrith could not hear the Khajiit’s answer. His voice faded as the door snapped shut behind her. There she was again, in her prison and haven in one. Crossing the room, she threw herself on her bed. The curtain hid her momentarily from Master Larkwing’s sight before his magic reached it.

“This will stay open,” he said curtly. Without another word, he sank to his chair, staring out of the window in silence as he so often liked to do. Yrith observed his silhouette. It was just like in the morning, his frame motionless and his mind so distant, yet now there was tension that had not been there before. She closed her eyes and once more, she let her magic touch him, observing him from the inside. His heart was unsteady, like the ocean waves in a storm and the ice floes that flip-flopped on top of them. Then its pace suddenly quickened at she retreated, but not fast enough to go unnoticed.

“What are you doing?” he asked. There was no anger or agitation in his voice, but it made her hot in the cheeks nevertheless. She opened her eyes to see him gazing at her, his face demanding answers.

“I…”

With a soft sigh, he motioned to the empty chair by his desk. “Come sit with me, Miss Ravencroft.”

She shuffled to his side of the room, feet dragging like a prisoner going for his execution. Master Larkwing stood up and opened a barrel standing by his cupboard. It was filled with ice wraith teeth preserving a few pieces of fish. He took one out and placed it on a plate just by his seat. She stared at him in anticipation. He took his time, imbuing the fish with detection magic as he always did. The blue glow from his fingers made the features of his face sharp, emphasized by the dancing shadows.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. Yrith frowned. Surely small talk was not the reason he had asked for her presence.

“A little tired,” she said. Lies. She was tremendously exhausted, but also anxious. By the look in his eyes, he already knew.

“Say, is it more exhausting to try your hardest to achieve what has been asked of you, or to cope with the emotional strain that comes with finding a way to elude it?”

Her hands clenched into fists before she could even process the words. She jumped on her feet to look him in the eye, bright red in the face, eyes fire and lightning. “You… what do you know? You have no idea! I was happy, you know! I have this power and it is my only worth! There’s nothing else I…”

“Sit down.”

“I can’t use magic like all of you do! I’m useless, I know! Is it fun to spit in my face and laugh at my expense?!”

“Miss Ravencroft, sit down! Now!”

She sank into her seat, shaking, tears welling up in her eyes for the umpteenth time in his presence. She wished to run away, but there was nowhere to hide. She wanted to punch him in the face, but she would never dare. He stood there, calm as ever, pulling at the strands of his magic like a bard would on the strings of his lute.

“Do you know why I tried to teach you the way I did?”

She shook her head.

“Then take a guess.”

“To torment me,” she muttered. Despite himself, Master Larkwing struggled to keep a straight face.

“I am not amused.” He was clearly amused. Yrith wondered if he did it on purpose to stop her tears from falling. Either way it worked and she felt a hint of smile tug at her lips.

“To teach me some basics…”

“True, but why do you think I did it?”

Why indeed? She gazed into his face and felt shame burn her cheeks again. As if she had not known that Singird Larkwing always had a reason for everything. He had always stood by her side like a silent guardian, without a word of complaint, and she could only return the favor by cheating and acting like a spoiled brat. She bit her lip.

“To… protect me… somehow?”

“Correct. And do you know how the basics can protect you?”

“I… no. I don’t know. They’re… limiting.”

“Indeed, they are limiting. Which is exactly why you need to master them. They guide you to use your wits and be resourceful. They force you to fit within the constraints of your limited options and discover paths you wouldn’t have otherwise considered. They teach you to think outside the box. That is why every beginner must start with them, and that is why a lot of skilled magicians failed in what they did. They also provide foundation for the common principles of magic, and these principles are what most magic users follow when they use their powers. And even if they don’t strictly follow them, they are somewhere beneath everything they do. To understand them is to understand half of your enemy.”

Yrith pinned her eyes to the floor. She had no words to counter that. She felt defeated by the logic in Master Larkwing’s reasoning. The momentary silence felt heavy on her shoulders, but fortunately, it did not last long.

“I am not against you finding new ways of handling your magic,” he said in a tone much gentler than moments before, “but you do need to grasp the common knowledge and practices. Knowing these will also help you know your own weaknesses. It will ultimately make you stronger.”

“But…” The room was darkening as the day slowly retreated. Perhaps he would not see the struggle in her face in the dim light, but she could not bring herself to raise it. “I don’t know how. I’m not capable of…”

Master Larkwing let the magic fade. He rose and joined her, putting a hand on her back. She shuddered as he spoke, so close to her she felt his breath on her face. “You are fully capable of casting magic properly. You only need to try.”

“But…”

“Do you think others don’t struggle on their first try? You made progress today. Considering you had never tried this before, the step you took was a tremendous one. It was your telekinesis that made the ball move through the maze, that much is a fact. Do not feel ashamed of not succeeding. You should only feel ashamed of giving up when you have not tried your best.”

The tears started falling again, not in streaks, but in rivers, leaving salt on her lips and soaking her robes. In the end, it was he who encouraged her again. She wanted to jump on her feet and embrace him like he had done so many times before, but fear of growing too close stopped her from acting.

She looked up through the blurry film on her eyes, drawing a breath to speak, but a fierce knock on the door took the words away. The two of them turned after the sound. Yrith quickly wiped the tears from her face, struggling to put up a neutral face.

“Come in,” Master Larkwing said, stepping before Yrith to hide her. Again, she felt a wave of immense gratitude.

The head of Lady Faralda peeked in. Yrith could not see her face, but she could clearly recognize her voice. There was more than disconcert in it.

“Apologies for interrupting, Singird, but we are being called out. Everyone is to assemble in the courtyard, students, teachers and staff alike. From what I understood, it was another murder and it was close.”

Immediately, Master Larkwing tensed. He took a moment to ponder his reply, drawing a long breath to gather his determination. “That is grave news. But shouldn’t I stay here with Miss Ravencroft?”

“No. Take her with you.”

“If the murderer is the same person who is after her, wouldn’t that be exactly what they want?”

“Hardly. I would like to see them try against the whole Collegium.”

“Very well. We’ll be there in a moment.”

Lady Faralda gave a quick curtsy before excusing herself. The room fell silent, lit by the crimson gold of the setting sun as it found a gap between the clouds. Yrith stood up, still shaken. Master Larkwing handed her a handkerchief to wipe the rest of her tears as though he had one prepared for every occasion. She accepted it with a nod of thanks.

“Miss Ravencroft, whatever happens, stay by my side. Grab me if need be, just don’t let yourself be dragged away.” His tone was urgent, making her heart shrink with worry.

“Do you think something will happen?”

“Chances are one on one. I do hope it is just me, but it’s always better to come prepared. Shall we go?”

She nodded and the two of them left the room. When they reached the courtyard, it was already filled with people. As soon as they emerged from the Hall of Countenance, she could feel Ha’risha’s glare at her. At the same time, she spotted Cain and Leyna waving at her. She waved back timidly, nodding toward Master Larkwing upon Cain’s invitation to join them. The Dunmer stooped his shoulders, earning a pat from Leyna.

Around the statue of Arch-Mage Shalidor stood almost the entire Collegium. Lady Faralda discussed something quietly with Master Tolfdir. Drevis Neloren stood like a silent sentinel, eyes roving over the whole courtyard as though he was expecting a sudden explosion. Sergius Turrianus and Arniel Gane were frozen like two statues, minds somewhere deep in their own worlds. Phinis Gestor was rubbing his temples. Next to him stood Mirabelle Ervine, her eyes shifting between the College entrance and the gate to the Hall of the Elements. She looked agitated, enraged even, lips pressed into a thin line.

The advanced class students marched toward the crowd from the Hall of Attainment, led by the ever-frowning Nirya. She then joined the teachers, pretending to listen to their conversation in her self-important act while being completely ignored.

Yrith followed Master Larkwing to the bundle of teachers. He stopped a few steps away from Lady Faralda.

“I just hope this won’t influence my negotiations,” she heard her whisper to Master Tolfdir. Then she turned around to greet Master Larkwing. “You are here. Make yourself comfortable.”

He raised his brows. “Whatever might you mean?”

“She means the Arch-Mage is not here yet,” Master Ervine remarked, crossing her arms over her chest. “It seems she is not quite bothered with the current situation.”

“Somehow I do not find that surprising,” Master Larkwing said, voice ice-cold. Yrith wondered what kind of history he had with the Arch-Mage. She was eager to see the legend in person and caught herself glancing at the Hall of the Elements even more often than Mirabelle Ervine.

The sun had sunk well beyond the horizon when the huge brass gate finally opened with an ear-splitting creak. The blue light of the fountain revealed the figure of an Argonian woman. Her head was proudly raised while the hood of her robes hung from her back. She was thin, skeletal almost, with nothing but two proud horns in place of her ears, reminiscent of an emerald skinned dragon. From her left horn hung a set of brightly colored feathers which reached to her neck, coiled with a number of golden chains. Her eyes of green and gold glided over the gathered crowd, wild and hungry, as though they belonged to a beast which was constantly forced to choose between hunting and becoming prey to another. At a closer look, many scars lined her face and neck and wrinkled her skin. Her expression, however, was a gentle one, likely the calmest face present.

The small crowd of teachers split in two groups and formed an aisle for her. She stepped forward, into the light until her features were bluish pale. She nodded to the students and beckoned to them in greeting. Master Tolfdir hurried to her side and whispered something in her ear, but she returned it with a simple shrug and a dreamy smile. He shook his head and knit his brows as he retreated. The Arch-Mage turned to face the mass of bodies before her and everyone fell silent.

“So many people gathered here on this occasion,” she spoke. Her voice was just as dreamy as her smile, too soft for an Argonian. Not even an Altmer would be ashamed of singing in such beautiful alto. Yrith watched her wrinkled body and savage face, mind trying to connect it to the voice that came out of that mouth without success. “So many bright minds, both young and old. I suppose this is where I deliver my grand speech.”

Mirabelle Ervine cleared her throat. “This is not a parade, Arch-Mage. We are dealing with…”

“Yes, yes, of course. It is very unfortunate. Very unfortunate indeed.”

“Arch-Mage…”

“Corpses, torn flesh, deformed eyeballs and…”

“Arch-Mage!”

The Arch-Mage shrugged theatrically, giving an angelic smile, if that was even possible for an Argonian. “People get so dull these times, don’t you think?” she said matter-of-factly. “People die every day. The routine gets boring, but you can find beauty in decay. Nevertheless, dear Miss Mirabelle, you are the Master Wizard. I hereby name you my spokesperson. Please, be so kind to explain to these souls what happened. I have important matters to attend to.”

“You always do.” Mirabelle Ervine spoke in a quiet voice, yet every word carried through the courtyard, clear and razor-sharp. “Very well. I will deliver the speech, but please, be so kind to stay and make a decision… for the sake of these souls. I believe a moment or two will not affect the state of those… important matters you speak of.”

“Clever words. I suppose I could stay and listen then. The floor is all yours.”

Master Ervine took the Arch-Mage’s place, clearing her throat. “There have been two murders in the city of Winterhold,” she said, plain, with no flowery language and no sidetracked comments to adorn her speech. “One was the Winterhold guard captain. The other one was an elven courier.”

Quiet murmurs spread through the crowd along the few gasps and sighs. Yrith could hear both thrill and concern, students and teachers alike whispering to each other excitedly. Mirabelle Ervine raised a hand to silence them.

“The two of them were stripped of their belongings,” she continued. “The culprit is unknown. They were found just under the College bridge, broken from the fall, but there were clear signs of magical injuries on their bodies. This is a dark day for all of us. We have lost the last bit of faith that rested here in Winterhold. I ask of you to tread carefully and not leave the College. The outer world is not safe anymore. Now Arch-Mage, if you will.”

She stepped out of the light circle around the fountain, beckoning for the Arch-Mage to take her place, but the Argonian did not seem to follow. Instead, she nodded, putting a hand on Mirabelle’s shoulder.

“Very well said,” she sang. “You would make a much better Arch-Mage than I am. Now if you would excuse me…”

“Arch-Mage! All of us are waiting for a decision. And perhaps some instructions on what to do are in order.”

“Decision? Is that not what you are here for, Master Wizard?”

Mirabelle Ervine took a deep breath, and another one after that. Yrith could almost feel all the curses she had ready on her lips, but pride and dignity did not allow her to let them be heard. “No, Arch-Mage,” she whispered. “I only see to their completion.”

“Then I grant you the permission to…”

“Arch-Mage!” That was Tolfdir, unable to hold his own anymore. Yrith had never seen the old Master so agitated. Master Ervine raised a hand to silence him, eyes still on the Argonian.

“Arch-Mage. We need the decisive word.”

“Very well. Then I suppose from now on, no one will leave the College without an officially signed permission until the issue is resolved. And… someone should probably resolve it.” Every word was said with a smile, in a light conversational tone. The Arch-Mage played with the feathers on her horn, staring somewhere into the distance. The murmurs rose to a storm upon her speech. Even Master Larkwing at Yrith’s side growled with poorly concealed impatience. “I suppose that is all.”

“Is it really? How are we supposed to conduct the investigation?”

“Well then,” the Argonian said without changing her tone, ignoring the question entirely, “I believe this College should have enough competent mages to deal with a petty matter like this. Now if you'll excuse me.” With that, she waved to the teachers, turned toward the entrance to the Hall of the Elements and disappeared behind the massive studded door.

Shocked silence reigned after her departure. Teachers exchanged incredulous looks, students stared with their mouths open. No one noticed the snow which started falling from the skies, fluttering around and landing on their clothes and hair. They just stood there, a sea of statues frozen in time. Yrith looked from person to person, waiting for the silence to break. Then, the lone voice of Phinis Gestor spoke, sounding thunderous in the quiet.

“What in Oblivion was that?”

The question hung in the air for a moment. Then several heads nodded and the courtyard filled with quiet mutters of agreement. Mirabelle Ervine sighed and wiped her forehead.

“Everyone is to return to the Hall of Attainment,” she said wearily. “You will receive further instructions as soon as we make the final decision. No one,” she looked over the gathered people, “absolutely no one is allowed to leave the College without our approval.” She raised her hands, releasing a vermillion bolt out of it. It spread over the main gate as it reached it, sealing it shut. “This seal will not break upon the strongest of impacts if you do not carry the Sign of Accord with you. Please, report any strange sightings or suspicious acts to me or Master Tolfdir. Dismissed.”

The students, now chattering amongst themselves as if someone set the time back in motion, slowly dispersed in all directions. Master Larkwing exchanged a few words with Lady Faralda and Mirabelle Ervine before prodding Yrith toward the Hall of Countenance. She followed obediently, eyes on the last few of the students, searching for her friends to tell them goodbye. Cain was nowhere to be seen, but she found Leyna dragging her feet through the snow. She raised her hand to wave at her, but lowered it instantly. The Altmeri girl’s face glistened with tears. Yrith froze at the sight, wishing for a chance to talk to her.

“Miss Ravencroft, don’t fall behind.”

She sighed, feeling her heart sink. She could not be there when her very first friend was suffering. She could not give her a shoulder to cry on. And Cain was still nowhere to be seen.

For a split moment, her eyes met with Leyna’s. Yrith opened her mouth to call to her, but her friend only shook her head. She gave a sad smile that seemed like an apology. Then she turned around, white-gold mane waving around her like a veil, and retreated to the depths of the Hall of Attainment. Yrith stared at the closing door, head full of questions and face long with worry. Master Larkwing was calling to her, but she could not hear his words anymore.

 

Notes:

This chapter is dedicated to all those who suffer extremely low self-confidence. Think of Singird, guys. You can do it!

Chapter 14: Of Darkness and Light

Notes:

A little warning for sensitive souls – this chapter might be unsettling for some of you. I do not go into much detail when describing physical atrocities, but they are still there. You have been warned.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“No, you cannot see them. How many times do I have to tell you before your tiny magician minds finally accept the truth?!” The scrawny ginger Nord with freckles all over his face stood with his arms crossed over his chest before the barracks entrance in a would-be threatening posture. Singird alone would have sent him flying had he decided to punch him with his fists, and that was something to say. But even he was not so foolish to doubt the rightfulness of the new guard captain.

“Can’t you see it is for your sake as well? Please, by all means do list us in your protocols and send it to Jarl Ulfric for all I care. You can record our every action here. We are on the same side. If we don’t find out who is behind this, the murders are going to continue.” Drevis Neloren, standing by Singird’s side, chose the voice of reason. Nevertheless, the man did not move an inch.

“Coating your words with honey will not help you. Who do you take us for? Do you think we don’t know what a cover-up looks like?”

“Listen…”

Singird put a hand on the Dunmer’s shoulder. He fell silent, raising his brows in question.

“I assume you have heard of General Toddvar?” Singird said, looking the man straight in the hazelnut eyes. The captain stared at him, obviously assessing his stance.

“Who hasn’t? What of him?”

“He is a very good friend of mine. I hear he sleeps with a picture of the Stormcloak bear in a field of stars under his pillow.”

The man now openly gaped at him. Despite his composed face, Singird felt a lump settle in his throat. This was a risky move which could either gain him absolute trust or an immediate death sentence. Back in the day when his parents had served the Imperial army, a legate came to visit him in Falkreath, carrying a message from his parents. He had shared a story about Stormcloak secret signs and what it meant when someone mentioned a picture under a general’s pillow. If the passphrase was correct, the person would immediately earn the trust of the Stormcloaks. If it was wrong, they would be considered a traitor or an intruder and sent for execution. That day, Singird had learned the signs of all Stormcloak generals including Galmar Stone-Fist and Toddvar Ansgarsson. And now he was using the secret to speak of a person who had never shared it with him.

The ginger man sized him up, brows knitting in doubt. There was a moment of silence. Singird felt the chill of the evening wind as it shook his frame. Drevis Neloren kept watching him, question still in his face.

“Come in,” the man said in a neutral tone. The Dunmer’s expression brightened but Singird knew the real test was yet to come. They were led through a series of corridors and small rooms. Singird drew in the scent of the dark, stained wood the walls were made in. It brought back memories of his hometown, the green, sunlit forests of Falkreath, the smell of moss and pines and the sound of woodpeckers carefully picking up bark beetles. The Larkwing family farm was made the same way the Winterhold barracks were, with bright windows and dark cozy corners inviting to spend the long nights in the light of a single candle.

There were a few men around, most of them minding their own business. A sturdy man with a mop of curly chestnut hair was cautiously wiping his blade, turning it into a mirror. Two guards engaged in a quiet conversation raised their heads to see the guests. They stared briefly at Singird, and slightly longer at his Dunmer companion, but then they simply shrugged and continued their discourse.

The captain led them into a small chamber whose equipment counted a single bed and a small table carrying a chandelier and a jug of water. The bed was occupied by a Nord man who looked more like a bear than an actual person, brown-grey hair sticking out from every inch of his person. He lay there with his huge hand over the massive belly, huffing quietly to himself. As soon as the three of them entered, a pair of dark eyes glistened from beneath the thick fur and he rose on his elbows.

“Well well, look what the cat dragged in,” he growled, sounding like a bear even as he spoke.

“Hafnir. These two want to see the corpses. They claim to be friends of General Toddvar.” The slight ginger man hopped to the bear’s side and whispered something in his ear. The bear man gave Singird a long, inquisitive look. Singird returned it, mustering all his willpower not to back away from the room.

“Well well,” the bear man said again. “If it ain’t young Larkwing coming for a visit.”

Singird’s brows quirked up in question. “Excuse me, have we met before?”

“Who? We? Nah, I don’t think so. But I know a friend of Toddvar’s when I see one. Well, you look like you could use a bit o’ dirt under those nails of yours.”

Singird threw a quick glance at his nails. Light, glossy, round… perfectly clean. There was nothing wrong with them. He looked at the man to see him grin at him, but he was not amused.

“Feel free to look around, young lad!” the man continued. “As long as you don’t touch anything that’s not yours.”

Singird let out a breath as he bowed. “Understood. We are in your debt.”

“Hopefully we will be in yours soon! Now if you’ll excuse me.” The bear man lay back on the bed, turning his back to the guests and face to the wall. Singird quickly backed out of the room before the brute could change his mind.

The captain led them down to the cellar. They found themselves in a small room with walls of round stones and fine grout. A few torches were attached to them, casting flickering light over two bundles on the floor, covered by dark cloth. The cold of the room sent shivers down Singird’s spine, and by the looks of it, Drevis Neloren, wrapping his arms around himself, did not feel any better.

“Here you are,” the ginger man said. “You are free to touch the bodies. You are not allowed to take them away, damage them or desecrate them in any way. I will be excusing myself. Leave whenever you want.” Turning on his heel, he made for the stairs. Singird and Drevis Neloren were left alone, staring at the two heaps before them.

“Shall we?” Singird asked gingerly, hoping his companion would take the first step. Master Neloren let out a deep sigh, for once letting the gravity of the situation show on his face.

“Together then?”

“And no magic.”

“No magic.”

They nodded at each other, both taking one end of the dark cloth. As one man they pulled it away, revealing two bodies with incessant scars crisscrossing their skin. Each corpse was laid with its hands over the chest, a wreath of snowberries and mountain flowers atop of it.

“If I didn’t know better, I would almost believe they are alive,” Master Neloren said with a hint of acknowledgement. “I have to give it to your people, you sure are skilled in preservation.”

“Questionable if that is actually a good thing,” Singird muttered as he bent down to study the bodies closer. “The draugr can terrify the best of us, and they are not known for their kindness.” The bodies made his stomach knot in repulsion. All the way to this place he had been preparing in his mind for what he would see, yet no amount of time and contemplation could prepare him for this sight. He averted his eyes to take a breath.

“The draugr are a reflection of who they were in life. So are our ancestor ghosts. There is a lot of misconception concerning our dead, but for some, the act of staying on the boundary of worlds is not nearly as selfless as one might think.”

Singird forced himself to smile as he turned back to the corpses. “People are still people, regardless of the race.”

“Wise words. Have you found anything?”

He clenched his fists, studying the bodies with eyes half-closed. “Quite a lot, but still very little. These wounds,” Singird pointed at a strangely curved and jagged scar, “could not have been caused by any weapon, nor standard magic. The flesh was literally torn out, severed from the body, and it was no claw that did this.”

“Strange. I have never seen anything like this. It is as though someone is purposely leading the guards to think it was done by magic.”

“That might as well be the case. Either way, we should look for traces. Do you think there will be enough after a whole day?”

“Under normal circumstances, there would be enough left even years after their death. You can read a person’s history from their bones. But I have a suspicion about the craftiness of our enemy. I hope I am mistaken.”

“Let us find out then.”

Master Neloren nodded and the two of them raised their hands, engulfing them with magicka. They let out a strand each, caressing lightly the surface of the bodies, inch by inch, cautiously studying their fabric. Singird’s brows knit in concentration. He proceeded slowly, restraining his movements to almost unnoticeable gestures, absorbing, feeling the rough, ripped skin as though he was touching it with his hands. He felt his stomach tumble and pressed his lips tightly together to stop the wave that was rising inside him. When he reached an especially wide wound, gaping open in its full hideousness, he winced. A spark of bright white magicka shot from his fingers. Master Neloren gasped, breaking his own connection.

“Pull away!” he shouted, but Singird was slow. His breath betrayed him, eyes growing wide at the myriad of colors that burst before him. He could not severe the link, the magic drew him in, pulled him closer to that bright light.

“Damnation!” Drevis Neloren spat, directing his magic at Singird. It hit him hard and sent him flying to the wall. The impact struck him breathless. Through the thousands of tiny stars dancing before his eyes he could see an orb of light encompassing the bodies. Bolts of magic from the inside made cracks in it, but every time they did, the barrier was strengthened by another wave of magicka. Singird forced himself to stand, trembling on his feet. Master Neloren was barely able to stand his ground. Gritting his teeth, Singird sent in his own magic. The barrier shone brighter, dying the walls snow-white.

Bolts kept assaulting the shield, but they grew weaker with every strike until they were reduced to tiny sparks. The two of them pulled back, letting the barrier absorb the last bits before it dissolved. The room grew dark.

“Still in one piece?” Drevis Neloren asked, hurrying to Singird’s side. Singird let himself slide along the wall, letting his heart steady itself.

“I think so,” he breathed.

“I apologize if I was a bit ruthless…”

“You saved my life.” Singird closed his eyes. The investigation had not even begun and he was already feeling dead tired. “Magical trap, very clever. That person must have anticipated the College’s involvement.”

“It is more than that. Had we not stopped the explosion, it would have destroyed the whole barracks and everyone inside.”

“You believe it was calculated?”

“It is only an assumption, but I do indeed. So far, everything they’ve done was planned with absolute precision. And if they want to destroy the College, having us accused of blowing up the entire Winterhold guard would certainly work in their favor.”

Singird frowned. “I still think there is something we are missing. The College’s downfall can’t be their only motivation.”

“We can only assume.”

Sudden footsteps made Singird lift himself up with the help of Drevis Neloren. He huffed as he leaned to the wall, still feeling weak and shaken. The newcomer pounded down the stairs, his every step resonating throughout the small room.

“I heard some noises. Is everything all right, Larkwing lad?” It was Hafnir, the bear man, treading down to find the source of the commotion.

Singird made a quick assessment. Here was a man who may or may not have been involved in the murders. If he was, then he already knew everything that had transpired just moments ago. If he wasn’t…

“There was a trap in the bodies,” he said truthfully. “If an unskilled mage had touched them, this entire building would have been blown to pieces.”

The man halted, dark eyes watching Singird from under the thick unnaturally long brows. Singird registered the shocked look on Drevis Neloren’s face. He sent a nod of reassurance his way.

“You are saying we are being dragged in your internal struggles,” the man said slowly. Of course he would interpret it this way. And he was not wrong.

“That is one way to say it, but we are on your side. That person was ruthless enough to sacrifice an entire unit.”

The man scratched his wild beard, thinking in silence. For a moment, crackling of the torch fires was the only sound filling the room. Then he sighed and rubbed his hairy temples.

“Leave this place, Larkwing lad. This will be the last time we have collaborated.”

Singird froze. He had miscalculated. Waves of hot and cold flooded him. Any resistance could prove fatal, but he could not afford to lose this chance. He glanced at the Dunmer at his side. Drevis Neloren shook his head in disbelief.

“We really need to stay here,” he said in a peculiarly strained voice. Singird stared at him, ready to scold him for his manners, but then he noticed the strand of magicka coming from his mouth. “Let us continue our investigation.”

“But…”

“You want to let us proceed and forget this entire matter.”

The bear man shivered visibly. Then he stooped his shoulders in resignation and let out a raspy whisper. “I… indeed. That sounds… reasonable. Do continue, please.”

He retreated back to where he came from, leaving the two of them alone. Singird let out a shaky breath, wiping beads of cold sweat from his forehead.

“That was…”

“You young ones,” Drevis Neloren was shaking his head. “What in Oblivion were you thinking?”

“I… I apologize. I made a mistake.”

“That you did, a cardinal one. That could have been the end of us.”

Despite himself, Singird flushed, feeling like a child that had gone out to play instead of doing his chores. “You saved me… again. That was very impressive.”

“Unfortunately, it wasn’t. That man’s mind was weakened. He was already being controlled.”

Singird’s heart skipped a beat. “I… beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. We are well deep in the enemy territory and whoever we stand against, that person’s influence stretches far. Let’s get this over with.”

Singird nodded, feeling the weight of the moment on his shoulders. Face clouded with uncertainty, he knelt down to inspect the corpses, the sight of them adding to his already stifling queasiness. Master Neloren joined him, brows knitting as he enveloped one of the bodies in the glow of his magic. There were no more explosions. Not a single spark left the bodies, but the deepening frown on Master Neloren’s face told Singird there was still something wrong.

“I can’t believe this,” he said, letting his hands sink to his sides.

“What is wrong?”

“Do you remember what happened when I went to inspect the avalanche site?”

“Nothing I know of…”

“Exactly. Nothing happened. It should have. Magic leaves traces, residue that can last from years to millennia. But back there, I considered the possibility that the culprit simply erased them. Or that my magic was too weak to identify them. But these are fresh corpses. They should be overflowing with leftover magic. Especially the elf,” he waved his hand to the corpse of a thin, pointy-eared man. “But there is none at all. As if their souls…”

“The Spirit Blight,” Singird said as realization dawned upon him.

“These two were not poisoned though.”

“No, but the method is the same. That person is strangely partial to tearing their victims’ souls apart.”

“That they are,” Master Neloren said with a sigh. He rose to his feet, watching the bodies with resignation. “But why would they do that?”

“Maybe to achieve just that. Erase traces. If the dead can’t talk, they reveal nothing.”

“Why would they try to do that to Miss Ravencroft though? It’s not like we would have found any traces if she’d died.”

Singird clenched his fists. The idea of finding Miss Ravencroft’s corpse, deprived of the last bits of her soul, incited anger within him. He could not let it happen. “Maybe to prevent her from taking the whole College with her?”

“I doubt it,” Master Neloren shook his head. “First off, they did not seem to mind when it came to this place. And secondly… well, even if you tear someone’s soul apart, the energy has to go somewhere.”

“But it’s not here.”

“No.”

“Then…”

“To gain power!” both of them exclaimed at once. Singird’s hand shot up to cover his mouth. Drevis Neloren raised his head to glance cautiously at the stairs. Then he sighed, letting out all the tension and weight of the freshly gained knowledge.

“Let’s go,” he said. “There is nothing left to do here.”

Singird nodded. They slid the dark cloth carefully over the bodies. Singird muttered a short prayer to Arkay before leaving, knowing fully well that no Aetherius awaited the poor tattered souls. They left in silence, hurrying past the mostly sleeping guards, avoiding unnecessary attention. Even when they reached the entrance gate to the College under the starry sky, they only exchanged a few words before raising their Sign of Accord and nodding each other goodbye.


Ten days had passed since the investigation. Just like the rest of the Collegium, Singird was now confined to the College grounds. There would be no more visits to the Frozen Hearth, no more strolls through the silent snowy night and no more talking to the Winterhold citizens. But unlike the other teachers, Singird did not mind. Most of his time he dedicated to Miss Ravencroft and her training. And over those few days, she had exceeded his expectations.

The progress she had made was more than impressive. To most, it would be unthinkable. Her reactions still needed improvement, but her magic was something Singird would have never thought possible. She wielded it with absolute ease, making the world succumb to her at will. She could create impenetrable wards, manipulate things from the inside and summon creatures that would last her forever no matter how many more she conjured. She could cast balls of fire and start a small blizzard. She had changed. The look she wore when casting her spells was one of pure determination. She trained whenever she could, even in his room. She slept with textbooks, a feat Singird scolded her for on many occasions. She did not complain anymore. But she did not talk much either, and it scared Singird beyond anything.

He watched her as she listened to Master Neloren’s explanation of the invisibility spell. She observed him intently, devouring each and every word he said. At times, she interrupted him gingerly with a question, all the while keeping her eyes on him, with her fists clenched and pressed to her thighs.

When the training began, it only took her several tries to become fully invisible. Master Neloren stuttered on his reaction, proceeding to the next phase of the training.

“I must say I am impressed,” a voice issued just next to Singird and he winced. Faralda had materialized by his side out of nowhere, watching her foster daughter with unconcealed interest. “You were right about her.”

She wore a smile that said nothing of her thoughts. Singird sighed, letting out a bitter chuckle. “Thank you for the recognition,” he said.

“You don’t look very pleased with her progress. Wasn’t it you who so fiercely protested against her studying here, claiming that she was a useless good-for-nothing?”

He stared at the slight Breton girl, now trying to master detection spells. Faralda was so right. He was not pleased. He deeply regretted ever complaining about Miss Ravencroft. She was everything but a useless good-for-nothing, and now he wished she would be.

“True. How can I be pleased with this? She is becoming a weapon. A human weapon.” He felt how his nails dug into the palm of his hand, but the pain it brought him was nothing compared to what he felt inside.

“You should not take it that way. It is for her own good.”

“Is it though? Is this necessary? She never wanted to… can you not see it? The look in her eyes? I know that look. It belongs to someone who lives in denial of their own desires for the sake of… something else.”

There was silence, defined by the humming of the fountain and Miss Ravencroft’s magic. Faralda gazed at her face, keeping words to herself. She had certain pride in her eyes, but there was a slight hint of doubt that had not been there before. They stood there for a while, just watching, and the silence grew heavier with every passing moment. Miss Ravencroft chanced upon an obstacle. Master Neloren kept invading her with mind-controlling spells and she had a difficult time fending him off. He used her own soul power against her. She was gritting her teeth and Singird could feel the growing anger in her, but she did not snap or complain. Every time she seemed about to burst out, she took a breath and flexed her fingers to calm herself down. She was fighting two battles at once.

“That incident with Leyna Travi,” Faralda said suddenly without taking her eyes off Miss Ravencroft, “is not going to be easy to deal with.”

Singird stared at her in question. Did she know? Did she have any idea that it was connected to Miss Ravencroft’s case?

“Of course not,” he said, feigning ignorance. Faralda laughed.

“You did not ask,” she pointed out. So he was being led on. Again.

“I was expecting you to go on,” he shrugged.

“Truly.” It was not a question. A simple statement, perhaps an acknowledgement. She hinted a smile that he knew she showed just out of politeness. “You said that courier must have had his soul ripped off.”

“That I did.”

“I have been thinking. Did you see Leyna Travi’s reaction that day when the Arch-Mage announced his death?”

“I admit I was not quite paying attention to her.” Of course he hadn’t. His eyes had been solely on Yrith Ravencroft. An assembly of so many people, all listening to the queer Arch-Mage… it would have been so easy to stir chaos. Anything could have happened.

“She was… dismayed. Genuinely broken. Most of us Altmer do not even know what that word means.”

“Which made you assume that she had been expecting someone.”

“Someone sent by her father, perhaps, yes. You said the two corpses had their soul shattered and here is Yrith who became a victim of a murder attempt by the Spirit Blight. Curious how things add up, isn’t it?”

If Singird could pick a word to describe the situation, it would likely not be curious. He would call it frightful. Suspicious. Disquieting. But not curious. He did not like it. Whoever the enemy was, they were someone influential and most likely involved with the Thalmor. The name itself was enough to send a person to their knees. He had never had a personal experience with them, but a single look at the faces of those who had assured him he did not wish to. Then again, Faralda did not know what he did. She had no idea what Leyna Travi was planning. How close the enemy was. By the gods above, what a good actress she must have been.

“Say, Faralda,” he said, watching Miss Ravencroft succumb to yet another onslaught, “how do the elves express feelings? I must admit I suspected them of not having any at all.”

Faralda laughed. “Your question offends me, dear Singird,” she said with a bitter smile, “but it is indeed a valid one. You are so young… but imagine living for hundreds of years. For a fifty-year old human, it is painful to watch the seasons pass, to observe as everything around them withers and dies. They grow white hair, they become weary, and eventually, they decide to set out on the journey Aetherius. But imagine being an elf, whose great-great-grandfather had seen the wonders of the Merethic Era. When your king Ysgramor reached the shores of Skyrim, he was an old, seasoned warrior. At that time, we had been around for hundreds of years, yet we were still so young. How would that… discrepancy reflect in one’s mind?

“We do not age like you do. Our body does not easily give in to our state of mind. And therefore, it is not the body that adapts, but the mind that follows the pattern that is so alien to you. We feel deeply the sorrows of this world. We see our own history. Perhaps that is the reason why many of us Altmer, the higher race that derives directly from the Aldmer, the elder ones, think themselves to be superior. I do not identify with that line of thought, yet I understand it. We see our own history so clearly. We see the seasons pass and many armies fall. I was around when the Nerevarine vanquished Dagoth Ur. I saw the gates of Oblivion open, and I lived to see them close. I observed as the Empire of Tamriel shattered into pieces when the last Septim had fallen in the dust. I watched my own people plunder the lands under the guise of cleansing them of sin and heresy. And I have witnessed the dragons return.

“Over those hundreds of years, you realize how powerless you are. There is nothing you can do. Mer, men, beastfolk, all the living things… they will pass whether you want it or not. And you either follow them, or you are alone. The pain is so overwhelming, and with every loss, it becomes deeper, paralyzing. In the end, you can either succumb to it, or learn to shut those feelings away. But it does not mean you feel nothing at all.”

Singird stared at her, suddenly feeling deep respect for the master of Destruction. Just how old was she, despite wearing the form of a woman in full bloom, not even a mother yet? She had so much to say, so many thoughts, yet kept it all to herself. There must have been so many feelings hidden behind that mask. So many memories, people she had met and lost, emotions she had abandoned out of the fear of being crushed by them. She was watching her foster daughter, her face still nigh indifferent, yet he could see something in her amber eyes he had not seen there before. A flicker of life that had seen its share.

“I do not envy Yrith,” she added thoughtfully.

“Whatever you’re implying?”

“Even if I am alone, I still have my own world I can retreat to. I have that little place in my mind that helps me cope with things. But she… she feels everything with her magic. She feels us all and there is no place left for her. I can’t imagine having nowhere to escape. All those feelings that invade her young, inexperienced mind… it is no wonder she has trouble facing Drevis. This exercise is so vital for her.”

He gazed at the scene before him. Miss Ravencroft and Master Neloren were locked in a battle of minds, eyes squinting in concentration while their hands blazed crimson. For Miss Ravencroft, this exercise was harder than others. She did not have to control her surroundings. She had to focus on her mind, prevent Master Neloren from taking over while fighting to subdue him at the same time. It was not a battle of power. She needed to constantly adapt, choose carefully when to back away and when to charge. It required patience and technique, and that was her weakness. Her ability to touch everything with her magic and feel the life around with it was useless to her, disadvantageous even. Yet, she was not entirely losing. She was keeping her opponent at bay, even if she could not penetrate his defenses.

“What do you mean, she feels us all? She can control things with her magic, but she cannot read minds, can she?”

Faralda raised her hand to cover the smile that played on her lips. “You amuse me, Singird. Is it your ignorance, or wishful thinking, that made you pose that question? Of course she cannot read minds, but that does not mean she doesn’t feel what we do. Do you remember those dreams she had? Drevis made it clear that they are caused by her own magic, mingling with the magical currents that traverse the world. There are no boundaries for her. Magic is still magic, and a soul is nothing more than concentrated magicka. It is as though we are a part of her. I am quite certain she can feel everything we do if she so desires.”

Singird could not find any words to counter that reasoning. Deep in his mind, he had known it for a long time. It was neither ignorance nor wishful thinking that led him to his conclusion. It was simple denial. If she could feel him, then she knew how his heart raced every time he looked at her. She knew how he ached when she cried, and how great his fear was when she was in danger. And she knew how reluctant he was to let go when he embraced her. It was not fair. He knew nothing of her feelings. She was keeping them to herself, rarely talking outside the facts. He wished to know. There were so many things he wanted to know about her.

Master Neloren had announced a break. Miss Ravencroft nodded without a word, sinking to the wall of the focal point. She was obviously more exhausted than usual, and her face revealed she had faced more than just Master Neloren’s mind attacks. Faralda beckoned to her, inviting her to join her and have a drink to refresh herself, but the girl just shook her head, staring at the floor and keeping to herself. Singird’s eyes drifted to Drevis Neloren, but the Dunmer too seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts.

“My words seem to strike a chord in you,” Faralda remarked. “It is unsettling to have yourself exposed like that, is it not? And you’re not even an elf.” She gave Miss Ravencroft a look. For the first time, Singird could see genuine concern in her eyes, mixed with pride and… affection, perhaps? “She is very much like her mother in both looks and her stubbornness. Look after her, Singird. You are right. There is something in her eyes that speaks of hidden secrets and determination whose source I cannot figure out. In the end, we may have to fight her before anything else.”

“Let’s hope that moment never comes,” he breathed.

“Do you truly believe that?” He met her eyes. Faralda’s query was more of a statement than a question. Leaving it lingering in the air, she excused herself, leaving Singird to his thoughts. He let out a deep sigh, waiting for the training to resume.


The day dragged on. Miss Ravencroft grew more tired with every attempt, yet she refused to retreat and take a rest with obstinacy of her own. When the light from the outside dimmed, leaving the duty of lighting the room to the blue fountain, Master Neloren broke the magical connection between them for the last time.

“Let’s call it a day,” he said. “The night is already falling.”

“No! One more time, please. I can still go on.” She was leaning against the wall, obviously struggling not to pant.

“I can see your thoughts, Miss Ravencroft. You are tired and on the verge of collapsing. You will not help anyone by overstretching yourself. Go take a rest. We will continue next time.”

She opened her mouth to protest but closed it again. Singird could see the struggle in her eyes as she tried to come up with a convenient argument, but she could not find a way to beat her own tactics that Master Neloren was using against her. She stooped her shoulders, taking her place at Singird’s side with the face of a child who had just lost her favorite toy.

“I will be excusing myself then, Master Larkwing.” Drevis Neloren hinted a curtsy. Singird nodded and watched him disappear beneath the entrance door. He turned to the girl beside him. She looked up at him and he noticed the dark circles that formed under her eyes, emphasized by the flickering pale light. The confinement was certainly not good for her, even if Singird tried to take her out for strolls regularly.

“How about we take the upper route for some fresh air?” he suggested her, but her gaze immediately dropped to the floor. He waited, but when no answer came from her, he tapped her on the shoulder. “Miss Ravencroft?”

She winced as she raised her eyes again, trying to avoid looking in his face. It seemed as though she was about to cry. “Yes?” she asked absently.

“The roof. Shall we go through there for a change?”

She looked up at the ceiling and bit her lip. “You mean through the Arcanaeum…”

He had almost forgotten. She still had not reconciled with the old orc. She had not brought up the topic either, even if at times she seemed to ponder it. He gave her a soft smile.

“Haven’t you just learned the invisibility spell?”

She stared at him, forgetting her worries for a brief moment. “You mean…”

“You are so eager to improve, yet you don’t consider the possibilities. Shall we test your new skill?”

“I would consider them if I had a reason to believe you’d let me,” she protested, pursing her lips. He wondered since when these brazen responses of hers had caused him to laugh instead of thinking of suitable disciplinary action. Of course she would not expect him to encourage her in her mischiefs. But it would not harm anyone, or so he kept repeating to himself, and she needed a moment of leisure.

“Let’s go,” he prodded. She raised her brows in surprise, but he went ahead without another word, entering the stairway to the Arcanaeum.

As expected, Miss Ravencroft had no trouble with the invisibility spell. Hidden beneath their enchantment, the two of them passed through the corridor, sneaking past a small group of students gathered there to discuss the thesis they were preparing for their expert class admission exam. Some were planning to make it a joint effort. Singird frowned. He made a mental note to himself, thinking that he may just let his tongue slip before Faralda. He had to admit sneaking around unnoticed brought some unexpected benefits.

Aside from that, it also brought thrill. He had never done anything like that before and now he could see why Miss Ravencroft enjoyed it. It was like floating around, unaffected by anything in the world, observing and seeing things from an entirely new perspective. He felt almost reluctant to leave the Arcanaeum, watching as people shuffled through the infinity of tomes and scrolls, observing the ones who tried to sneak a book out of the library and silently giving points to Urag gro-Shub whose keen eyes did not miss a single one of them.

“You there!” the orc bellowed, pointing in their direction. He felt the slight figure of Miss Ravencroft next to him tense. Urag gro-Shub stopped inches from her, yanking a book out of the hands of Dorien Lafayette, a young Breton boy who was known to excel in the Alteration school. The boy cowered, averting his eyes. “That dictionary is one of a kind. You dare take one step outside of this library with it and the daedra whose language it contains will haunt you to Oblivion!”

“But I need it for Conjuration…” the boy defended, but the orc stayed firm, crossing arms over his chest.

“Ah, truly. After so many moons of studying here? Do not let Larkwing find out you neglect your studies.” With that, the librarian’s eyes wandered directly to the place where Singird and Miss Ravencroft were. Second wave of panic took over Miss Ravencroft. Singird gritted his teeth and grabbed her sleeve, dragging her away before they could be discovered entirely. They reached the roof just in time for the spell to wear out.

He let out an exhausted breath. “Well, that was… unexpected,” he said. Miss Ravencroft materialized just by his side, scanning her own body and trying its tangibility. “Perhaps next time we ought to pick the safe route after all.”

She inhaled deeply the fresh evening air, walking toward the edge of the roof to take a look at the landscape. The Sea of Ghosts at the foot of the College cliff was dyed deep purple, reflecting the image of the starry sky above. The air was clear like pure crystal. Far on the east, they could vaguely recognize the outline of the island of Solstheim, bathing in the ashes cast by the thick plume of the Red Mountain.

“Thank you, Master Larkwing,” she said suddenly. She gazed at him over her shoulder, eyes shining in the moonlight, her face adorned with a smile that spoke of thrill and adventure. “I enjoyed it.”

Singird froze. He looked her over, scanned every inch of her face, every wrinkle, the curls on her lips and the spark in her eyes… he burned that image into his mind. That was a happy Yrith Ravencroft, right before his eyes. She was weary, and somewhere behind that smile was a pile of worries that could not be erased, but at this very moment, she was happy, and he was the one to give her that happiness. He thanked the gods for the night that concealed the flush that burned his cheeks. But then again, she could quite possibly feel it with her magic.

“Miss Ravencroft.” He joined her by the wall, watching the floes that bobbed lightly on the sea, rippling the starry reflection and creating ribbons of quivering light.

“Yes?”

“I… I’ve been wondering… about your magic. The way you use it is unprecedented. What can it do? What do you feel when you control it?”

She hesitated, fingers rapping on the stone wall she was leaning against. He heard how her breath quickened. “Well, I can… see with it… touch things, manipulate them… feel the magic in them.”

“So, basically, you feel everything around you.”

“Basically.”

“You said that in your dreams, you feel people’s pain, happiness, fear, joy… can you feel these things when using actively your magic?”

She turned away, eyes penetrating the Arch-Mage’s tower. “No, I don’t think so,” she whispered.

“Well then,” Singird said as he circled her, blocking her view. His eyes met hers and she was forgetting her breath. “Could you say it again while looking me in the eye?”

She took a step back, nearly tripping and falling over the wall. He grabbed her firmly, steering her away from the edge of the roof.

“So?”

Unwillingly, she looked up at him, face twisted in apprehension. “What do you want me to say?”

“Have I ever asked for anything but the truth?” he chuckled gently. She bit her lip and took a breath.

“So you want to hear that I feel with my magic. You want to hear that I can listen to people’s heartbeats, that I feel when someone is in pain, and that I also feel when someone is in… when you’re in… why do you do this to me?!” she was almost crying those words, shifting and waggling to free herself from his grip. “Why are you so unfair? You go and give me hope. You give me home, and comfort, you hug me and you… what do you want to hear? I can feel, yes! But sometimes I think I only feel what I want to feel. I…”

Singird stared at her. His hand shot up, to her face, touching it lightly. It was burning. He could not see her flush in the pale light of Masser and Secunda, but he could feel the hotness in her cheeks and the tremble that shook her body. He could feel her quick, shallow breath. And he could hear her words. She averted her eyes, falling silent, but he had heard enough. If only he could believe it… she had said it, it must have been true. Yet he had to replay those words in his head thousand times.

Sometimes I think I only feel what I want to feel…

“And what do you want to feel?” he asked her quietly.

She did not respond. She clenched her fists, looking everywhere but his way. Singird felt his chest tighten.

He needed to analyze, to confirm… but his thoughts gave way to unexpected desire. A hunger that was not easy to satiate. His mind went blank. His heart picked up a pace. He felt hot, despite the wind rising from the north, despite the cold night and the colorful veil of aurora that flickered above their heads. Miss Ravencroft’s eyes were roving in a frantic motion. He pulled her closer. This could be his best move. Or his worst. But there was no way back. Not now.

He froze for a moment, eyes sliding over her slight figure. She was his student… was what he would have thought a few weeks before. But not anymore. She had become so much more than that.

He took a shaky breath. Damn everything to Oblivion. He could spend eternity pondering his options. But he was a mere human with no eternity at his disposal. He wrapped his arms around her, not minding the gasp she gave as her eyes turned to him, seemingly on their own. Whatever her words meant, now it was too late to ask. He seized her chin, pulling her up. Her eyes widened, but not in fear or discomfort. It was expectation which he was more than eager to fulfill. And so he did.

The feelings mingled. His lips locked around hers. He claimed her, feeling the touch of her skin, and her raven hair tingling his arms. He felt her warmth, and her breath, and the heartbeat that matched his own. He felt her slender arm wrapping around him, closing the nonexistent distance if it was even possible. She did not resist, playing his game instead, dancing in the rhythm he had set up for her, answering with the same fervor as he expressed. He closed his eyes, but opened them anon just to see if she was still there, if he was not dreaming. She was. So tangible and real, yet he could feel her own emotions as though they were his own. As if…

He gasped. A wave rose in him like the tide. She glowed almost unnoticeably, the blue of her magic surrounding her frame. It reached him and absorbed him, filling him with a feeling so strong it almost sent him to his knees. She was letting him know. Everything she had been afraid to tell him, she was giving him now. Her fears and insecurities, but also her love and passion. The wrath she harbored for the one who dared hurt her and her dear ones, as well as the care for those she considered her friends and family. Her grief and suffering, and the comfort and happiness she had found here. Her magic was incredible. He could almost visualize it. Images were passing before his eyes, both grim and colorful. He felt her hot tears on his face. He finally pulled away, leaving her breathless and weak in her knees.

She looked at him through the tears, half smiling, half crying. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He pressed her against his chest, letting her tears soak his robes. “Don’t be,” he said. “We both did what we needed to.”

“Is it wrong to say my dreams came true?” She pulled away, fixing her silver eyes on him. Her face was so serene. There was no concern in it. Only the calm of the moment.

“Is it wrong to say I longed for those words?” he returned with a smile.

She turned away, gazing into the distance. The world looked so small from the top of the College, as though it was theirs and theirs alone. On this night, Singird allowed himself to think so.

“I was scared…” she breathed. “Scared that I mistook your feelings for something else. You’re… you’re my teacher.”

“And you are my student,” he said as he joined her, wrapping his arm about her, “and I was just as scared that I might hurt you if I ever let you know how I feel.”

“So you drove me into a corner,” she uttered dryly, but he could feel the smile in her words.

“That really wasn’t my intention.”

She drew a breath to say something, but no words escaped her lips. She let the air out again, choosing to stay silent. The night was bright and peaceful, and her body felt warm against his. He looked up at the stars above and they seemed so much closer than before. Singird smiled at them, allowing himself a few more moments of bliss before steering Miss Ravencroft back to his room.

He felt in a daze. It was a dark night, yet everything around seemed so bright in the light of a handful of candles that he lit with a single motion of his hand. She was there by his side, and for the first time, she did not scurry away to her side of the room. She wore a distant smile, likely having her head full of thoughts, and so did he. They spent a while just looking at each other with no words breaking the tranquility of the moment. Then she chuckled nervously.

“I should…”

“Stay for a while. I will make us a meal.”

She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

Of course she wasn’t. He too felt his stomach tighten and the only thing he craved at the moment was her person. “Then tea?”

She nodded, seating herself by his desk. Singird fumbled about his cupboard in search for his favorite smuggled tea, but just as he found it, a knock came down on the door. He sighed, cursing in his mind whoever had decided to disturb him at such an inconvenient time.

“Come in,” he said, making his chagrin apparent in his voice.

The door flew open and Singird had to send his magic to stop it from hitting the wall. He frowned at the panting figure of Drevis Neloren who, despite his already ashen skin, seemed unusually pale. He looked at him with urgency and Singird froze inside.

“Master Neloren… did you forget something?”

“No…” he rasped, leaning against the doorframe to catch his breath, “I didn’t… we’re in trouble, Master Larkwing. We’re in serious trouble.”

“What happened?”

“Remember Hafnir? That bear man from the barracks?”

“Yes. What of him?” Singird felt a familiar tingle at the nape of his neck. He knew the answer before Drevis Neloren articulated it.

“They found his corpse. Right there, in his bed.”

The spell of the moment was now completely broken. Singird felt his heart sink as he realized what he had just been told. Another murder. But this time, he bore his share of responsibility.

Notes:

Making up for the lost time, I decided to put this chapter up a little early. Hope you enjoyed it!

As always, many thanks to Tildemancer for proofreading my chapter.
Also, special thanks to RealityGlitch and iNiGmA for their continuous feedback, awesome evening talks and a bunch of wonderful comments. If you want some quality fanfiction from the Transformers or Harry Potter universe, check out their profiles, guys! They’re wonderful authors!

Mirwen out!

Chapter 15: Dead End’s Revelation

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Even up there, so far from the shore, on top of the Green House, the cry of the seagulls was loud and strong. The sea stretched wide and far, sparkling crimson in the setting sun, and just before the golden line of the horizon, the tall walls of the Whitefort city loomed above the gentle blanket of mist. Warm evening breeze invited to a walk through the Daggerfall streets, to infinite adventures and explorations. There was salt in the air, bringing the scents of Hammerfell desert spices and Elsweyr forests. First stars flickered in the sky, still dim and feeble in the lilac hue. A beautiful lazy day was to be followed by a wondrous night. Or so she thought.

“Hey Ravy!” someone called. She rolled over to the side of the roof, looking down through the ruffled vines of ivy. A boy stood on the street, not even four feet tall, a mop of chestnut hair curling wildly about his round, somewhat girly face. He waved at her, lips curled up in a smile but eyes bearing a shade of loneliness. “No vineyard tonight, m‘fraid. Ye’re being called.”

“Called? Where to?”

“Where, where, yer home, where else? Yer old man’s face looked like one of them castle hounds with bloody eyes and pucker sniffers, so you better scoot up fast.”

Yrith swung herself to her feet, quickly making her way down, finding the protruding bricks and gaps in the mortar with absolute precision. She landed two feet from the boy in the squatting position, a move the local gangs liked to call the Assassin’s Leap.

“Dad’s home?” she asked with concern. “I’m gonna have it tonight. See you, Albi. Thanks for fetching me.”

“No probs, Ravy! Same place tomorrow?”

“You bet!”

The two of them scurried away, each heading their own way. Yrith crossed the cobblestone bridge, eyes avoiding the dirt of the duckweed-covered river below. The house of her parents was just past the barracks on the right side of the street, with its wood-hatched gable, so typical for the Daggerfall architecture. She slowed down when she reached it, treading carefully around the window. She slipped inside in absolute silence and a chill ran down her spine as the shadow of the entrance corridor wrapped her in its coldness. The door to her father’s study was closed. Just as she was about to enter, she froze, hearing her own name.

“You should leave Yrith here,” someone said. “It’s not safe for her.” Yrith frowned. She knew the voice. They called him Erethis The Lean. He was an elven officer from the AWA, a frequent visitor to their house. To Yrith, he was a typical high elf snob who never as much as greeted her. Why he should mention her name all of a sudden, she had not the faintest idea.

“And if I leave her here, who’s going to take care of her? Who’s going to provide for her and give her home to come back to?” The agitated voice of her father made Yrith shudder. He was not angry with her. He had not found out that she liked to spend the evenings atop of the Green House. The ire in his voice was much deeper than that. What was happening? Where were they going?

“Damasy, please. Have you forgotten…”

“No, I have not. But for the sake of the Old Gods, Yrith is my daughter. You said the Association has been compromised. I will not leave her here with no one to watch over her.”

“You are taking her deep in the enemy territory. The last time this happened, more than half of Winterhold went down in the sea. All that glory… all those people… gone in one splash. That… thing is no mere spellbrewer. He’s a…”

“Don’t you dare pretend to care, Erethis. You never even looked her way before.”

“Things were different then. I did not need to.”

“She’s coming along.”

“She has friends here. This is her home.”

“She will find new ones.”

“And Winterhold’s a cold, barren place. There’s nothing there.”

“Erethis, leave this place. There is nothing for you here.”

“You want to get your daughter killed?! Damasy Ravencroft, don’t you have a heart?”

“I have more of it than you do. And Yrith is not a child anymore. She will shine.”

“Of that I have no doubt. But she is different and you know it. Let us handle her.”

There was a rustle, a thud and a gasp. Somewhere outside, a pair of roused doves took off with wild flapping of the wings. “Handle her?” Yrith’s father snarled. “I should put you down for that statement alone. She will handle herself. Don’t treat my daughter like some sort of abomination. She will live her life and make her own choices. And no one, not even you and your pathetic gang, is going to change it. Are we clear?”

“That… gang is still paying good coin to keep you going,” Erethis coughed out. “You’re a fool, Ravencroft. She will never be accepted. She will wish she was born to Oblivion instead.”

“Wishful thinking.” By the sudden gasps and coughing fit, Yrith assumed her father must have let go of his unwelcome guest. “Get out. I don’t ever want to see you in my house again.”

“It won’t be long till it’s not yours anymore.” Erethis let out a snort. “And you will remember this moment. Mark my words. You will regret your choice.”

“Get out.”


That night, Yrith was taken away, shielded from prying eyes by the darkness of the moonless skies. She knew that the next day, Albi would be waiting for her in the usual place. It would be the first time in her life when she would break a promise to a friend.

She glanced over her shoulder. The city of Daggerfall was dotted with golden lights coming from the street lanterns and tall castle windows., cloaking the streets in soft glow whose warmth she had known her whole life. The familiar scents of the marketplace and cobbled pavements were so far away. Yet the road ahead was so long.

She looked at the bent backs of her parents, burdened by heavy rucksacks, walking relentlessly forward. A lone tear slid over her cheek and hit the rocky ground under her feet.


Yrith opened her eyes to the gloom of the night. It had been a while since she had last had a dream from her past. She had almost forgotten about the events of that fateful night when her parents suddenly dragged her away from home without giving her any answers. So much had happened since then. She had lost so much, but she had gained also.

“You were dreaming again,” a voice issued beside her. She winced, turning in her bed to face Singird Larkwing, or, rather, his nigh motionless silhouette. She kept her blanket wrapped tight around her, trying to save as much warmth as possible. She was still in her day novice robe, not having changed since the last night, but it could not chase away the cold that had crept under her skin. The candles had long died out and the eastern horizon, barely visible over the window sill, was a shade lighter blue than the rest of the sky. The dwarven paperweight cast its pale turquoise glow unto the desk on the other side of the room.

“It wasn’t the usual,” she said weakly. She was tired. Excessively so, having only slept for the short while since Master Neloren’s arrival.

“A regular nightmare then?” There was apparent relief in Master Larkwing’s voice.

“I dreamt of the night we left Daggerfall.”

He nodded, moving from the chair he had been sitting on to the side of her bed. He took her hand. A bold gesture, yet she responded automatically, closing her fingers around his. The memories of the previous evening seemed so distant, but every action and reaction they shared gave her a feeling of rightness.

“Do you miss it?” he asked. There was no restraint in his voice, nor did he push her. She felt at ease in his presence, like never before. Despite herself, she gave a light smile.

“I haven’t thought about it,” she replied truthfully.

“Or more like you haven’t had the time to think about it?”

She chuckled. He was a keen observer. “It is strange,” she said. “I feel like I am starting to forget all about that place. Even the things that happened there. There was this elf… Erethis. He tried to talk my father into leaving me behind.”

Master Larkwing frowned. “Why would anyone do that?”

“I don’t know… but father told him to stop treating me like some sort of abomination. I… at that time, I couldn’t understand what he meant. But maybe he knew about my power. And my parents knew… while I had no idea.”

“That is… disquieting.”

Yrith shifted in her bed, clutching her pillow with one hand and Master Larkwing’s fingers with the other. “So in the end, even if they were killed by someone else, it is still my fault.”

“Why? Because even then they were after you? Don’t you think it was your parents’ choice to come in their pursuit? You could not have known. They told you nothing at all.”

“True, but…”

“But?”

Yrith fell silent. The mere thought of someone wishing for her death still paralyzed her. She sat up and her eyes wandered out to the rising sun just to avoid his. She was not a fighter and no amount of training could ever prepare her for the encounter. She could not even face her own classmates properly. And every time she did, she just wished to disappear.

“M-master Larkwing,” she said at last, but was silenced immediately with his finger on her lips.

“I am no master of yours,” he shook his head. “Not anymore. You know what to call me, don’t you? Yrith…” He added her name in a whisper. She felt hot blood in her cheeks and instinct forced her to look him in the eyes. They smiled at her mysteriously, invited her. She bit her lip, not feeling in the slightest prepared.

“S-Singird?” she tried, cautiously as though she was stepping on a bobbing floe. He nodded approvingly.

“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

She let her lips curl up in tacit reply.

“So? What was it you wanted to tell me?”

She took a breath. “Do you think… I mean… when can I return to the classes?”

He froze. If there had been a hint of mirth in his face, Yrith’s question had wiped it all away. He sighed.

“Selfish and shortsighted as it may seem, I hoped this day would never come,” he uttered quietly. “But I suppose you have a good reason to ask?”

“It’s just… I feel that if I stay here, I will never be able to face the world. Much less… whoever it is that tried to poison me.”

She gasped as he suddenly locked his arms around her, pressing her against his person as if trying to squeeze all air out of her. She could feel him tremble, but he drew breath after breath, mustering the courage to talk. It felt strange, being the one who was somewhat in control of her feelings while he felt helpless and scared. She closed her eyes and let him take over.

“I don’t want to let you,” he said. “I dread the moment you get hurt, and thinking of losing you is just… paralyzing.” He buried his hand in her hair, letting her feel every bit of his worries. For a while, the two of them sat there in silence, letting the dawn dissolve into morning. Then he broke off and looked into her face. Yrith felt a sting of guilt. His eyes had never been darker.

“But you drive a hard bargain,” he said at last. “Your words are as painful as they are true, and I can’t cut off your wings when you decide to soar.” He laughed helplessly. “You have become so strong. But promise me, Yrith… promise me you won’t do anything reckless. Stay in sight, don’t get into fights you cannot win. Don’t draw unnecessary attention to yourself. And…”

“I can’t possibly do all of that,” she said with a light chuckle. Then her smile faded. “But I will try. I too have something I don’t want to lose.”

“You are so eloquent now.” His look was gentle and caring and it put her at ease.

“You have made me so,” she said, filling the words with gratitude. He nodded in understanding.

They stayed like that for a long while, watching the day pass. A dragon glided over the sky far to the south and its cry tore through the air, reaching them even through the closed window. Then it disappeared in the mountains and the land was serene once more.


That morning, Yrith had left her bed with not a wink of sleep. Singird was sulking and would not talk to her, leaving her to examine the dark circles under her eyes and eat by herself. He would not look her way when she readied herself and he would not see her off when Master Tolfdir came to fetch her for her first class in forever. She left in a bitter mood, and the sight of her classmates’ glares when they arrived in the Hall of the Elements did not help her humor either. To Master Tolfdir’s surprise and the amusement of the whole class, she took a deep breath and slapped her cheeks. She straightened her back as the echo slowly faded, eyeing the class with new determination.

Something was missing. She scanned the small crowd, shattered into a number of groups. Cain and Leyna stood in the rear, the former with anticipation in his eyes, the latter studying the floor in silence. Her friends were there. But something was still missing.

“Today,” Master Tolfdir said when the laughs and hums from the crowd died out, “Miss Ravencroft will be rejoining us. As you know, she has been a victim to a murder attempt. However, I trust this incident will not cloud your judgement. I ask that you treat each other with proper respect – and that goes both ways.”

He nodded to her and she left his side to join the class. Cain was waiting for her, arms crossed over his chest, wearing the smug look she remembered from the old days, but she knew he was not true.

“Well well, way to go with dramatic departures,” he said. “What took you so long?”

Yrith blinked, pondering the answer for a split moment. Then she shrugged. “Hibernation?”

He broke into a grin. “Well, your timing is a bit off, but maybe the winter comes early in Daggerfall.”

She laughed, and even the gloomy Leyna at his side hinted a smile.

“Welcome back,” she sang in her beautiful alto, though her eyes seemed to drift elsewhere. Yrith studied her closely. Her elven friend looked beyond tired, and Yrith suspected the smooth, fair skin under her eyes was the result of a very convincing chameleon spell concealing the dark circles that had originally been there.

“It’s good to be back,” Yrith said, and she meant it. Looking at the tall blue-lit windows of the Hall of the Elements with the eyes of a mere student was somewhat comforting, as if a great burden had been taken off her shoulders. She scanned the rest of her class. Some people were not so secretly pointing at her. There were whispers and murmurs, but Yrith had been expecting as much. But something was still missing.

As Master Tolfdir began a lecture on protective skin charms such as oakflesh, Yrith examined the room. The fountain was as she remembered, the walls still weathered by the tooth of time. The windows were tall and the distant howling of the wind outside was barely audible through their magical structure. Her classmates were there…

She froze.

“Where is Qassir?” she asked her friends in whisper.

“Didn’t you hear?” Cain replied as he scribbled something in a seemingly hastily bound notebook. “He disappeared shortly after you were poisoned. No one knows where. But ever since then, the murders…”

“Shush,” Leyna scolded him, knitting her brows. “I know he’s a strange one, but surely he would not kill a person, no? And why would he save Yrith when he had the chance?”

“Well, I still need to figure that one out…”

Yrith frowned. “Cut it out, will you?” she hissed. “You don’t want to become like that prejudiced lot…” she waved to the rest of the class and froze. It was dead quiet and everyone was looking at her. And clear as the Hammerfell sky, they must have heard her.

“Erm…”

“Well, Miss Ravencroft,” Master Tolfdir spoke into the silence, “I was just saying that you could demonstrate to us the correct usage of oakflesh.” The class laughed. Yrith felt a hot flush in her cheeks. Cain patted her on the shoulder. Leyna’s face mirrored slight amusement, perhaps even satisfaction.

“Right,” Yrith mumbled as she pulled up her sleeves. She took a breath. A tiny amount of magicka would do. Nothing to attract attention, or at least not more than she already had. She called for it, letting it spread over her body and harden like a second, more resilient skin, creating a natural armor. There were murmurs among the people, some appreciative, but most derisive. She tried her best to ignore them.

“Very well. Mister Feiran, could you tell us what Miss Ravencroft just did?”

Nelarin Feyran, the tattooed Bosmer, took his glassy eyes off Ha’risha whom he had been eyeing with admiration and straightened his back. “Oakflesh,” he said in a mannered voice, “is a novice-level Alteration spell which gives its caster protection similar to armor. It is created by spreading one’s magicka evenly over the surface of their body and hardening it enough to absorb physical damage but not enough to prevent the caster from moving freely. The structure of oakflesh is an emulation of leather armor, even if the magicka itself is reminiscent of oak bark in appearance.”

A corner of Yrith’s mouth twitched. A Novice’s Guide to Alteration, chapter 3: Protective Charms. That was what Nelarin had quoted.

“Thank you,” Master Tolfdir said, “but that is not an answer to my question. Anyone else?”

“She cast stoneflesh instead of oakflesh,” Dorien Lafayette said after a moment of silence.

“Correct. As you know, stoneflesh is a stronger version of oakflesh and it creates a harder shell with a different texture. Miss Ravencroft expressed strength and capability. However, you should always cast spells adequate to the situation. Should you face an enemy, or even just negotiate with a stranger, revealing your strengths too soon may work against you. When healing or lighting a torch, using a spell too strong could cause harm. To be a mage means not only to use magic, but also to use it wisely. Control is important, remember that. Now, Miss Ha’risha, would you demonstrate oakflesh for us?”

Yrith sighed, ignoring the bronze Khajiit who stood to attention and raised her paws to cast the spell. Being told this in front of the whole class certainly felt different than when Singird scolded her during their sessions. Although, as she suddenly realized, from him it hurt in a whole different way.

Cain patted her again. “Don’t worry about what he says. That was still quite impressive.”

“No, it wasn’t. Stoneflesh isn’t even an impressive spell to begin with. He’s right. I can’t even control what I do.”

“You just need practice, that’s all.”

“I don’t need practice. It’s just…”

That there was too much untamed magic in her. That she was different, a special case which needed special handling. A freak who could not function like everyone else did. An abomination.

“… forget it,” she shook her head.

“Well… fine. I just wanted to help, you know.”

“I know,” Yrith said quietly.

They spent the rest of the lesson in silence. Master Tolfdir instructed everyone except Yrith to practice stoneflesh. She alone had to try oakflesh, “for the sake of control.” Once again, she was the one practicing the basics while everyone else had moved on to the more advanced part. She gritted her teeth. It was all a part of the training, she told herself. She must not become discouraged.


The lesson had finally ended and Yrith felt drained of her willpower. While others struggled to even find enough magicka to perform their spells, she fought to suppress her own in order to gain control. She sighed.

“Master Aldaryn offers you a private lesson,” Cain said, hinting a wink as he stuffed his notes into his knapsack.

Yrith smiled. “Thank you. I’m not sure it would help though. I mean Si… Master Larkwing and some others tried to do the same.”

“True, but they know so much that maybe they have long forgotten what it feels like to be a beginner.”

Yrith raised her brows, more questioning her own judgement than his words. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she too, by immersing herself in advanced literature rather than novice guides and by taking the words of her experienced mentors too literally, prevented herself from grasping the basics.

“Fair point,” she said with new determination. “Let’s do that.”

“That was quick. Do you have time tomorrow after Illusion?”

She sized her Dunmer friend up. He was so eager to help, and it brought a smile to her lips. Singird would not let her. He would reason with her and suspect Cain of trying to lure her out. He would be against her leaving his or other teachers’ sight. She bit her lip.

“I do,” she nodded. She would make it work. Somehow.

“Then it’s a deal. I need to run to the library. Damn Faralda is making us work our arses off, and Larkwing’s even worse,” he snorted. “What expert class are you taking, by the way?”

Yrith had never considered she could even qualify for expert classes. Now the question found her unprepared. Restoration came to her mind first, the school which she respected and valued. But that choice would enrage Singird. He would surely expect her to sign up for Conjuration. She laughed inwardly as she imagined his face, creased with wrinkles and sulking just as he had been this morning.

“That’s a secret,” she said with a smile.

Cain snorted. “You’re not making it easy for me, you know that? Anyway, are you coming along?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. There’s something I need to take care of.”

“Well, then you know where to find me. However strange it sounds. And by the way,” he added as he stepped closer and pulled her into a brief, friendly hug, “it is really good to have you back.”

Yrith blushed inadvertently. “Who are you and what have you done with Cain?”

He left with a laugh, waving at her before he disappeared behind the door to the Arcanaeum.

“Then I’ll be off,” Yrith said to Leyna. The Altmeri girl, who had been silent until now, suddenly put a hand on Yrith’s arm.

“Wait,” she said with urgency in her tone. She looked around. They had been left alone. The crackling of the fountain drowned her quiet voice. She pressed her lips together, unable to voice whatever was on her mind.

Yrith raised her brows and waited.

“Do you have just a moment? Somewhere out of sight…”

Yrith looked around, as though a secret door should appear out of thin air at any moment. Out of sight, she said, but the only place she could think of was the Midden. It was forbidden for the students to enter it. Ice wraiths lurked around every corner and there were rumors of dead risen from their corpse piles and a troll waiting for unsuspecting victims. A year prior, four advanced class students had disappeared from the College after some strange discovery in the Midden that none of the Collegium members wished to talk about. And somehow, Yrith did not feel brave enough to venture inside.

She grabbed Leyna’s hand and hurried toward the entrance gate. Someone would be here to pick her up soon and this was her only chance to gain herself a moment of freedom. The two of them crossed the courtyard, not minding the occasional snowflake that fluttered to the ground, grey against the milky white skies. They fought their way through the small crowd of students gathering near the entrance to the Hall of Attainment and slipped inside the blue-lit corridor. Yrith pulled her friend in her own room, locking it with her magic. Then she let out a breath, scanning the place.

It felt so strange, coming here after such a long time spent in Singird’s chambers. The coziness Yrith had once felt here was gone with the wind of time, the only remainder being a vague memory. There were still several piles of paper on her table, crumpled with moisture and grey under a thin layer of frosty dust. The last speck of sand in the hourglass standing on the shelf by her bed had long descended. The room was grey and still. Yrith gave a worried look to her bed, or rather, the unseen contents underneath it. Somewhere in those dark corners would be the book she had come here to fetch. But not when she had company. She raised her hands to cast a few protective charms she had learned from Master Neloren.

“Would this suffice?” she said with a sheepish smile, turning back to Leyna. Her friend looked around and slowly nodded.

“Yrith, I…” Leyna inhaled, searching for the right words. Then she shook her head and sank onto Yrith’s bed, resting her face in her hands. “Where do I even begin,” she uttered with resignation.

Yrith frowned, remembering Leyna’s crying face just a few days before. “That murder in Winterhold,” she said as she joined her, “it has something to do with it, doesn’t it?”

“I am scared,” Leyna whispered. “My father… he said I would be safe here. Back when he sent me here, he repeated this to me so many times. But now he is…” The hands under her face clenched into fists. She glanced to Yrith, then to the floor. “I… need to calm down.” She talked more to herself than to Yrith.

There was no tea or water Yrith could give her shaken friend. The room offered no comfort whatsoever, and she was afraid to light a candle. Someone on the outside could notice. Yrith groped about her pocket and found a small leaf package. Opening it, she stared at the pastry in the palm of her hand. A rockie from Singird, a memory of her homeland.

With a soft smile, she passed it to Leyna. What an irony, that Singird had offered the same sort of comfort to her in this very room when she was to speak about her nightmares. Leyna took it with a silent nod of appreciation.

“Do you know what my father does for living?” she asked as she nibbled on the rockie, more to occupy herself than out of interest.

Yrith shook her head.

“He is the secretary in the Office of Provincial Studies in Alinor. I assume you know that Alinor is the capital of the Summerset Isle and currently also the name of the whole country?”

A nod in response.

“Well, Alinor is now ruled by the Thalmor. And they’re…” Leyna’s lips trembled at the memory of her homeland. She took a breath. “They’re as ruthless as the rumors say. If you ever go against the Thalmor, chances are that you soon mysteriously disappear from the surface of Nirn, along with your friends and all the members of your family. And my father… the honorable Secretary of Provincial Studies, did exactly that.”

Yrith put a hand on Leyna’s arm, the only gesture of solace she could think of. She doubted this elven girl could be comforted with an embrace such as the ones Singird had offered her. She had no words for her, and so she just waited. Leyna took a while, staring on the floor, before she decided to continue.

“He was searching for something. I am certain of it. My father would never run away out of fear. He is a proud elf. He spent so much time in the local library, studying, researching, draining knowledge like water. The only occasions he even looked at me were when he taught me the art of linguistics and then the moment before my departure. And if he left, it means that he has run out of material or the Thalmor did not like his research. Or both.”

Leyna stood up and paced across the room, staring through the window into the snowy courtyard. The fluttering robes of Arch-Mage Shalidor, frozen in stone for eternity, caught the blue fountain light from one side and the snowflakes from the other. She propped herself against the window sill, staring pensively at the sight.

“This place is so quiet,” she said in low voice. “So peaceful… as long as one doesn’t look under the surface.”

“What are you trying to say?” Yrith asked, unsure what to make of her friend’s words.

“That day before we parted ways, he kept saying I’d be safe here. He said it far too many times for me to believe it. And he touched me on my cheek and…”

Leyna gripped the window frame, inhaling deeply to calm herself.

“I don’t trust this place. I think he was trying to convince himself, rather than me. But we are not safe here. You… you’re the living – fortunately still living – proof of that. But I don’t think this all is just a coincidence. I was sent here for a reason.”

Yrith joined her friend by the window. Cold air passed through the gaps between it and the wall, giving her shivers. “Is there a single person who has it easy here?” she asked thoughtfully.

“No. I don’t believe so. This place is cursed. We are cursed. And it is no coincidence.” Leyna turned her golden eyes to Yrith. “The people in our class… they are all from families dealing in shady areas.

“There is my father with his research, and I know from a few of our family visits that the Thalmor have spent vast resources trying to figure out what he was looking for. Then there is Cain. The Aldaryns have roots within the houses of Indoril and Telvanni. A very strange combination, but they left the traditional teachings a long time ago to follow some strange, dark deity that overshadows the daedra when it comes to committed atrocities. Cain is their youngest son. He has three much older brothers and a sister, and, as you might have guessed, no future. Paying for his studies here is easier than taking care of him. Ha’risha is the daughter of a former Khajiit chief. She left her own family, renounced her kin’s customs and was adopted by a Bosmer mage serving the Dominion. Aernil and Nelarin’s families always had close ties with the Camorans and the Mythic Dawn, but never joined for unknown reasons. To be more precise, they have ties everywhere and can dig out any information you dream of. But the things they ask for in return – I don’t even want to know. Tanya is an only child and a daughter of a strange Altmer-Imperial union. I think her parents are spies of sorts and have killed more people than I ever even saw in my life. Dorien’s family looks like the typical High Rock merchant clan – except the things they trade are all artifacts of unbelievable value like varla stones, functional dwemer dynamos or keys to places you didn’t even know existed, and their clients remain ever silent and ever unknown. Saelar’s father is the type of man who will stop at nothing to get to the top, and he is very good at it. None of his victims ever fell by his own hand, but they sure did by his doing. And Ildreth and Jearis… their families have always stood on the opposing sides when it comes to political views, but they never fought and never schemed against each other. The Dominion has their eyes on them. They expect conspiracy, but the Rissis and Finorans are very good at covering their tracks.”

Yrith stared at Leyna with eyes wide open, trying to process the sudden flood of information. “How do you know all this?”

Leyna shrugged. “I listen. When my father took me to visits, no one paid attention to a girl that had not even reached her twenties. Take some canvas, a thread and a needle, and no one will even notice you are there.” She let out a bitter laugh. “But on these visits, I have never heard the name Tahlrah, not to mention Ravencroft.”

Of course she had not. Yrith’s parents had been no nobles, and they had always profiled themselves as no one important.

“Well…”

“Yrith, you are different. Impartial. And I need you to help me.” Leyna’s eyes were suddenly pleading, and Yrith was convinced that it was only her upbringing that stopped her friend from grabbing her shoulders.

“Help you? But… how?”

“Those two people who died… one of them was a messenger. An elven courier. I was expecting a message from my father, an invitation… but he was only a decoy. Yesterday, I finally received a note. It was brought by one of those Nord couriers, the ones roaming Skyrim. And it was encrypted. My father… he is close. I need to see him, he might need help… but I can’t go alone.”

“Leyna… you know that we would be risking our lives by leaving the College…”

“Would we? Or are we risking our lives staying inside? Does it even matter? I will not coat my words in honey. I think someone wants you dead because you are a threat. You break our lines and make us see reason. I have told you before. You are different, and for that reason alone, you challenge us to think upon our views of the world. You don’t even have to do anything and you could still turn the tides. You are someone to be feared. The safety we are given here… I do not believe in it. They have managed to get to you before and I don’t see why they shouldn’t be able to do it again. Come with me, Yrith. You can turn back at any time. But I need you with me.”

The intensity of Leyna’s plea made Yrith step back. She shakily bit her lip, staring at her friend’s silhouette against the window and the white skies behind it. “I… I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

She felt so small, and there certainly could not be any way that she, a simple girl whose only aspiration in magic was to conjure a friend to keep her company, could be a threat to anyone. Leyna’s father was a politician, that must have been the reason she talked like that. She had seen so much, and feared so much. And her father was out there while she was here… feeling utterly helpless.

“You will understand… once we’ll meet him. He will give you answers. Many of them.”

Yrith’s eyes drifted to the bed and the hidden treasure beneath it. Of course, regardless of threats and perils, she would have done anything to see her parents again.

She let out a breath and gave a slow nod. “I’ll… I’ll see what I can do.”

Leyna hinted a smile, tattered by worry. “Tomorrow when your lesson with Cain is over, meet me here.”

She slipped through the door and disappeared in the Hall of Attainment. Yrith watched it for a while, feeling her stomach knot. So many dangerous promises she had given out today. And here she was, hiding from the teachers’ sight.

At last, she turned to the bed and groped underneath it. The book had to be there. She pressed herself to the cold floor, squinting in the dark, but there was nothing to be seen. She kept searching with both her hands and her eyes, touching every inch of the stone under the bed, inhaling the dust and the frozen moisture. Yet, there was nothing. Panic overcame her. This could not be true.

“Looking for this?” a voice said behind her.

Yrith hit her head when she suddenly tried to sit up. With a painful gasp, she quickly pulled herself out to see the uninvited guest, rubbing her head where it hit the bed. Her eyes widened at the sight of the Arch-Mage, sitting comfortably on Yrith’s desk, back propped against the wall behind her. In her lap lay the exact book Yrith had been looking for. The Arch-Mage’s green and gold eyes observed her attentively, but nothing could be read from her lizard face. Yrith’s eyes roved to the door. It was closed and protected, just as she had left it. The Arch-Mage must have been here all along. Yrith paled at the realization.

“Young and curious,” the Arch-Mage said gently. “I still remember how it felt.”

“A-Arch-Mage…” was the only thing Yrith managed to articulate.

“Miss Ravencroft, is it? I must say you have a very… unusual taste in literature.”

“That’s…”

“Do take a seat, please. The floor must be very cold and uncomfortable.”

Incredulous, Yrith forced herself up and took a seat at the edge of her bed. She waited, but the Arch-Mage did not seem to be in a hurry to explain herself. With something that was likely a smile, she let magic envelop her fingers. Next to her on the desk appeared a silver tray with snowberry tarts. That was not a chameleon spell that had hidden them from Yrith’s sight, but true invisibility. She stared at the Arch-Mage. Despite her appearance, the Argonian lady must have been a very powerful mage.

“Help yourself,” she invited. “And pardon me for borrowing your room. During your absence, it has become a nice sanctuary to hide from prying eyes and incessant requests.”

“When Leyna was here, did you…”

“Hear the whole conversation? A very serious one, wasn’t it? And now you are expecting me to go and stop you.”

Yrith could only respond with silence, staring at the floor.

“Say, did you finish this book?”

The sudden change of subject made Yrith raise her head again. The Arch-Mage was tapping the page, looking at Yrith with intense curiosity.

“Almost, but…”

“It is not finished.” She extended her hand to pass the book to Yrith, adding a tart on top of it. Yrith gave her a disapproving look, but accepted it anyway. Taking a bite of the tart, she sifted through the pages. The sweet taste of snowberries filled her mouth and brought back a distant memory. She shushed it, staring at the book. The Arch-Mage was right. The last pages were empty. Only at the bottom of the very last one, in an almost unreadable script, there was one sentence.

My master has come for me at last.

Yrith cursed her habit of never looking at the final pages of the books she read. But this could not be true. If the book did not have the answer she was looking for, then why would Urag be so angry with her?

“But…”

“Do you know the master that Septimus Signus is talking about?”

Yrith shook her head.

“Neither do I. Intriguing, where some roads lead us, isn’t it? Just when it seems you are about to reach your goal, you run into a dead end. And sometimes, a revelation comes when you least expect it.” She filled her mouth with a tart, staring thoughtfully at the window. “I think you should visit your friends in the library. Study for your expert exams a bit. Talk to Mister Lafayette and ask him about his trouble with Conjuration. Perhaps you could even help him and gain a new ally. An ordinary moment of study time would do you good, don’t you think?”

“What…”

“Off you go, Miss Ravencroft. I need some time for myself. I will hold onto this.” The book slid out of Yrith’s hands, fueled by the Arch-Mage’s magic, until it landed back in her lap. She smiled angelically at Yrith as she beckoned toward the door which opened seemingly by itself.

Without a word, Yrith dropped a quick curtsy and excused herself. The Arch-Mage gave her shivers. She would have to tell Leyna to meet elsewhere to avoid her lizard sight. But something in the Arch-Mage’s voice told Yrith she should at least consider her advice. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps a while of ordinary studying was just what she needed. And perhaps it was finally time to face Urag. After a brief contemplation, she made for the Arcanaeum.

The library welcomed her with murmurs and quiet rustling of pages. She inhaled the heavy dust-filled air and searched for the orc. When she found the stepladder on which he was standing, searching for something in the highest shelves, their eyes met. She froze, forgetting her breath for a while. Then she forced herself to step into the corridor and follow the aisle to his stand.

“Been a long time,” he grumbled as he stepped down to greet her.

“It has,” she nodded shyly.

They stared at each other for a moment. Then he suddenly pulled her closer and buried her in his muscular, green arms.

“And thank Malacath you are still in one piece, you reckless piece of mother-orc’s tusk!”

“U-Urag…”

“Do you have any idea how worried I was? It has been so long!”

“I… I’m sorry…”

“Well, you should be. But wait till I get my hands on the bastard that’s trying to have your neck. They will be sorry.”

Yrith smiled into Urag’s stitched robe. “It is good to see you again,” she said.

“Likewise,” he grumbled. “Well, I suppose you came in search for books? Don’t overdo it with your magic here. I hear you have been causing quite some uproar within the higher circles.” He grinned at her mischievously as he let go. Yrith laughed.

“I will try,” she said with a wink.

She left him deep in thought. He had not addressed the book. She was certain he remembered it, but her own safety always came first. How unfair she had been to snap at him that day. How terrible she must have made him feel. She felt a sting of guilt stab her in the chest.

“Urag!” she called to him, rushing back.

“Hmm?”

“I… I’m sorry for…”

He ruffled her hair. “That’s in the past.” Then he turned back to his books.

When Yrith left him for the second time, she did not even realize how big the smile she wore was. She entered the study hall feeling a lot lighter than moments before, and the first thing to welcome her were the raised brows of her classmates. She just shrugged them off, finding Dorien Lafayette among them. Nodding to Cain as she passed him, she approached her Breton classmate who was gripping the same dictionary he had been fighting over with Urag a few days before, during her little adventure with Singird. Now that she stood before him, she had no idea what to say to a boy whom she had never spoken to before. He was one of those who often gave her cold looks, but never spoke to her aloud. Yrith had no idea what he thought of her.

“H-hello,” she tried hesitantly. There was a burst of laughter.

“Ravencroft is trying to talk to Lafayette now?” someone sneered. “Oooh, how dangerous!” Yrith did her best to ignore them. She bit her lip, but no words came to her. The boy stared at her in expectation. Then he sighed.

“Look, dolt, if you’re only here to chat, don’t waste your time. Unlike you, we actually need to spend our time studying.”

Dolt… she was not liked. Not at all.

She pointed at the dictionary. “Is that for Conjuration?”

Another sigh. “Don’t know why you care, but yes, that’s for Conjuration. And no, I am not sharing it with you.”

“There’s a better book if you want to learn the daedric script in practice. There are graphs of ritual circles… and you can create patterns from them. It is called Techniques of Summoning in Graphemes and Shapes.”

A bit of concentration to confirm where the book was and then, with a wave of her hand, she fetched it with her magic. She handed it to the boy before her and he accepted it with question in his eyes. He gave the book a doubtful look as he scanned its pages, but that quickly turned into surprise.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this, and I hope you are not expecting anything in return. But this sure looks useful. Suppose I’ll leave the dictionary for those who want to feel fooled by how these characters aren’t at all the characters they actually look like in our common script.”

“I suppose they do…” Yrith laughed nervously. She gave a look to the dictionary, still open in his lap. He had a point. The characters were indeed quite similar to the common script, except they represented different sounds. How inconvenient. Although…

She gasped as realization sank in. “Wait, what… say that again?”

“That I’m not giving anything in return…”

“No. The characters…”

“That they look like ours but they aren’t what they seem to be? What of it?”

Yrith stared at him. There it was, the answer she had been looking for. Everybody saw that, except for her. If she had studied like a normal student, struggled with the dictionaries, complained about the foreign scripts… she would have found out so much sooner. She laughed. More raised brows followed, but she just shook her head. How had the Arch-Mage said it?

And sometimes, a revelation comes when you least expect it.

“You, sir,” she said to Dorien, “are a genius!” With that, she scurried away, taking the steps to the College roof by two as she hurried to Singird’s room. The wind up there whipped her cheeks and fought against her, and it almost felt like eternity before she finally stormed into the room, catching her breath.

Singird jumped up, face twisted in anger. “Yrith! Where in Oblivion have you been?! I hear you disappeared just after Alteration. The whole College has been looking for you since then!”

“With the Arch-Mage,” Yrith replied without thinking. “And then at the library.”

“The Arch-Ma…”

Yrith waved him off impatiently. “Singird! I found the key to the cipher!”

Singird stared at her, taken aback. For a brief moment, anger fought thrill in his face. Then it changed completely and his eyes widened.

“You did?”

“It’s so simple… it never even occurred to me. The hints are all in the book. The great elven princess Astarie, and her daedric lover, ‘a small fry’… the capital letters are in the elven script and the rest is daedric.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. What would you achieve by that?”

Yrith gave him an impish smile. “Just wait and see.”

The two of them worked through the text together. First a daedric letter, an elven one, two daedric ones… the further they progressed, the deeper the frown on Singird’s face.

“This is atrocity,” he commented on the uneven line of text that appeared before them. Yrith smiled as she patted his shoulder. Surely this must have been a visual torture for a person like Singird. Yet she found this side of him immensely adorable.

When the text was completed, Yrith looked at it, feeling a mixture of fear and accomplishment. Singird kept frowning.

“And now?”

“And now we look,” Yrith said, taking the piece of paper with the finished message and extending her hand to look at it from distance. Singird let out an incredulous breath.

“How, for the love of the Nine, did you figure this out?”

“I had help,” Yrith said quietly. Clear as the day, the message stood there, right in front of their eyes.

BEWARE OF THE STRIFE. FIND THE MAD SAGE OF TIME. WHAT HAPPENED IS NOT YOUR FAULT.

A cipher in a cipher, Yrith thought to herself. But the last sentence even she understood. They had known. They had known they would die, and they had been prepared for it all along. And Singird was right. She had not killed her parents. Up until now, she had refused to believe it. She had denied herself the peace of mind she rightfully deserved out of fear of someone proving him wrong. But they had known. They had even known she would blame herself. How could they have perished so easily then?

She sank into her chair, letting the paper fall on the desk. A tear slid down her cheek and dropped with a quiet splash on the back of her hand. Singird’s hand wrapped around her shoulders before he pulled her to his chest, holding her close and tight, deep in the warmth of his embrace.

 

Notes:

Regarding the huge delay, I will just say one thing. Working people don’t have it easy… :’(

Chapter 16: Come, Little Children

Notes:

I changed the Midden and made a few secret tunnels that are not so secret in my interpretation. But it should still be as close to the lore as possible.

If you can, please review and let me know if you like it so far. Or just to say hi. I welcome every comment I get – they are one of the sources of my motivation. And I love to hear from you! You guys are important to me – I’d just like you to know that.

And without further ado, let’s move right into the drama!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“So? What is it that you and Leyna are so secretive about?”

The wind was warm with the passing summer. Cain was leaning to the wall surrounding the College roof, letting it caress his fiery hair. The day had gone past peaceful, even if Singird had spent half of it sulking, not talking to Yrith for the sole reason she preferred to spend her time with her friends. She was getting used to seeing this side of him, happy that he cared, charmed by his weak side, but also saddened by the lack of trust he put in her. But then again, she too was betraying it at this very moment, and the plan they had devised with Leyna that morning was not going to put her in better light. But there was a complication. A complication that stood right before her.

“Why don’t you ask Leyna if you’re so curious?”

Cain had not heard the whole conversation. But he had caught enough to make him pose countless questions instead of providing the training session they were supposed to be having.

“Hah! Have you ever asked Leyna anything personal? She could chop your head off with the look she’d give you.”

“Then perhaps she does not want to share. I am not obliged.”

Cain sighed. “I know we were never close to begin with… but you’ve drifted so far away. Keeping secrets, commanding magic I could only dream of… did you even see your face when the two of you talked?”

Yrith could imagine. After all, it was not every day when someone invited her to the Midden. She was still not convinced it was the best idea, but it was the only idea she and Leyna could come up with. The only way to leave the College unnoticed. And she had promised. One should never break a promise, that was what her parents had taught her. She believed in their teachings.

“It is none of your concern,” she muttered. “I thought we came here to practice.”

“We did. It’s just…” Cain shook his head in a gesture of utter helplessness. “You know, it’s just been two days and I can’t get you out of my head. Even when you talk to us, it seems like you’re looking right through us. As if we were not there at all. What is happening to you, Yrith? Is it your magic that seems to be so far beyond imaginable? Or is Larkwing giving you a hard time?”

“So it wasn’t about Leyna, was it? Then what, Cain? What is it that you want to hear?”

“No… it wasn’t about Leyna. Has anyone told you how many times I came to Faralda or Larkwing, pleading to see you just to make sure you were all right? And the answer I got every time… She’s not ready yet. Ready for what? What have you gotten yourself into? And what does Leyna have to do with it?”

Yrith stared at him in disbelief, ready to snap. But then she just sighed and shook her head. “I commend your imagination,” she said. “But you are wrong. She only asked for help with certain matter of hers.”

“And you agreed?”

“That I did. Why do I get the feeling you don’t trust Leyna?”

Cain stood there, rubbing his temples, and she could almost feel the cogs in his head turn as he tried to come up with some solid reasoning. “I trust her,” he said with sadness creeping into his voice. “I just don’t trust her judgement. And I… I’ve seen enough of you getting hurt.”

Yrith smiled gently into the sunset. “Thank you, Cain. But I’ll be fine.”

“You know, Yrith…” he took a step toward her and pulled her into a hug before she could back away, “if you ever need someone to rely on… remember that I am always here.”

Her cheeks flared with a flush when he let go, disappearing in the Hall of Attainment. She stared at the door for a long while, thinking how she should have asked him about the lesson. Perhaps he had not intended to teach her from the start.

She shook her head to chase away the ache in her chest. There was a more pressing matter at hand, and it waited for her down in the courtyard. She cast a quick invisibility spell and slipped through the door to the Hall of Attainment, following Cain’s footsteps.

Down on the ground floor, she sneaked into the dark corner behind the stairs. The things she had smuggled from Singird’s room lay there intact under the chameleon spell. A pair of breeches, a warm coat and a rucksack filled with dried fruits, smoked fish, a waterskin and two tiny vials of potion against exhaustion. In the best case, she would not even need these things.

She hesitated before donning them. Singird would kill her when he found out, and she did not doubt he would find out. But Leyna was waiting for her, relying on a friend. It had been so long since anyone had relied on Yrith. She could not disappoint her.

With one final swift movement, she flung the rucksack over her back and left the building.

Leyna was waiting for her by the trapdoor to the Midden, carefully hidden behind a bush just by the Hall of the Elements. Yrith did not dare take off the invisibility spell before she was inches from her, and her elven friend jerked in surprise upon seeing her.

“You startled me,” she said with a hint of a smile.

Yrith looked her over. Leyna’s usual novice robe was replaced by soft leather trousers and an overcoat which seemed to be made of a thick layer of dark cobwebs, a fine piece of elven craftsmanship. Her long, golden hair was plaited into a braid, the lower part hidden under the coat. She had changed from a mage to a wayfarer, taking the same precautions as Yrith.

“Shall we then?”

Leyna nodded. The two of them pulled the trapdoor, wincing at the loud creak it gave. Yrith went first, securing Leyna from below. Then the door snapped shut and they were left to themselves.

Immediately, Yrith felt the cold grip her entire body. The Midden was colder than the surface, walls covered in frost, but underneath them, she could faintly recognize the smell of mold. The floor was littered with debris of all kinds and, to Yrith’s horror, with bones. She looked at Leyna with worry in her face.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked, her voice drowned in the heavy air.

“This is my father’s life we’re talking about. I will find him no matter what. It’s just a few bones. I’ve seen worse.” She kicked what Yrith suspected to be a collarbone. It hit the wall with a dark clank. Yrith felt shivers run down her spine but said nothing.

They went down, into the depths. The thick stone walls made Yrith feel uneasy. The stale air was hard to breathe and the dark tunnels seemed to be endless. The cobblestones were slippery, sometimes hidden underneath several layers of ice, and the cloudlets of steam rising from their mouths were thick with the contrasting warmth. A strange echo seemed to follow them, causing Yrith to turn around from time to time, scanning the walls as if something was to emerge from them. Just several steps into the tunnels Yrith froze, looking at the crossroad ahead.

“Now what?” she asked as she turned to Leyna. Her friend shrugged and crossed it without a second thought.

“They say that when you don’t know the way, you should follow your nose.”

“Leyna…”

“Just follow me. I’ve seen the map of this place. We’ll be out in no time.”

“I sure hope so…”

Descending the stairs ahead, the two of them could spot a soft glow. It grew stronger with every step, flickering and ominous in the dark, quiet maze. Yrith stared forward, trying to recognize its source. She felt vulnerable. If something came at them from behind, there would be nowhere to go. But Leyna kept a steady pace, marching forward without ever looking back.

The tunnel led them into a circular room with a round platform filling its center. Countless candles were burning on its edges and a large symbol of Oblivion was carved in its middle. Before it lay something reminiscent of a small furnace dominated by a ghastly-looking carved skull. A box of seemingly Dwemer origins was attached to its front. Yrith stifled a gasp when she felt a sudden wave arise in her, like the high tide washing over the reefs. She stared at the image before her, closing her eyes and reaching out to the platform. She was welcomed by a force so strong it made her stagger.

“Yrith?”

“This place is brimming with ancient magic,” she said quietly. “Where are we?”

Leyna looked around curiously. There was no mold in this chamber, no ice and no cold. “This must be the fabled Atronach Forge. I heard it lets you summon just about anything that can be found within the boundaries of Mundus if you use the right ingredients. Though its true purpose is probably long forgotten.”

“I had no idea,” Yrith uttered as she knelt down, touching the dwemer box. Contrary to what she had expected, it was cold on touch, almost freezing her fingers in place. She wondered if Singird knew of this place. It can summon just about anything from all over Mundus… so what about souls of the deceased?

She made a mental note to look for Atronach Forge in the library. Perhaps there was something that Singird could have missed.

“Let’s go,” she motioned to Leyna. “There’s no time to lose.”

Leyna nodded and the two of them followed the tunnel further. Coldness wrapped about them once more. Yrith pulled her cloak closer, stooping down every now and then to avoid the sharp icicles hanging from the ceiling. They were led into a series of tunnels with walls of pure ice. Yrith felt the cold bite into her flesh and freeze her very bones. She heard her own teeth chatter, and judging by the echo next to her, Leyna was not any better.

The tunnel, at times so narrow the two of them had to proceed one by one, suddenly forked into two passages. Yrith frowned.

“Let’s just go this way,” Leyna waved to the left, rushing in, no doubt to chase away the cold. Yrith put a hand on her forearm and shook her head.

“No. We can’t take any more guesses. Maybe we’re following the wrong way from the beginning.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

Many times over, Singird had reminded Yrith not to reveal too much of her power to anyone. Given that nearly the entire collegium knew of it, Yrith saw no point in it, but she respected his wish nonetheless. Now, for the first time, she was about to break her word.

“I will lead,” she said, spreading her magic far and wide, touching every corner of the Midden. Even the magical touch sent more shivers down her spine. She hovered over the frosty walls, inspected the stones and crevices. There were countless dead ends, pits they could fall into, slippery paths where one could easily break a limb, piles of broken ice that blocked the way… and creatures. Upon the first touch, Yrith yanked her magic away, paralyzed by the sole nature of the beings she found. She had felt this before, in her dreams. Always for a split moment before the soul tore from its vessel and found its way to Aetherius. Death. But these were different. Tainted, bound to Nirn by twisted magic. She pulled away entirely, covering her mouth as she felt her insides turn and tumble.

“But how will you… Yrith? Are you all right? Did anything happen?” For an Altmer, Leyna managed to produce an unexpectedly caring expression. Yrith nodded, taking deep breaths to steady her heart.

“Just fine. But there are… undead.” The word felt strange on her tongue. As a child, she had believed the undead to be a fairy tale to scare little children like her. She had considered the term funny, unreal. Now she had felt the whole weight of a soul unable to transcend to the outer spheres and it made her feel sick.

“Undead…? How do you know?”

“I saw them… felt them… with my magic.”

“I thought you’d changed when you returned to the classes, but this…” Leyna’s gaze turned to the icy floor, mind caught in some inner struggle. A moment passed before she turned back to Yrith with a soft sigh. “I have never heard of such a spell. But I believe you. Does it make you feel unwell?”

“A little. Anyway… I think we can avoid the undead. Unless they hear us… the passageway we should take passes it by a distance. But there are other… things lurking around. Let me see…” Yrith closed her eyes, fully concentrating on her magic and their surroundings. She had never spread it so wide with the intention of feeling every single thing it touched. It was exhausting. She resisted the urge to lean against the wall, too afraid she would freeze into it.

“An ice wraith down in the lower tunnels. That should not be much of a threat… but there is a bridge in the lowest parts with a troll on the other side. We could make a run for it, the exit is not far from there, but it would mean jumping down from the bridge and taking a leap to a ledge that’s quite a distance below. And there would be no way…” Her voice faded at the sudden discovery.

“Yrith?”

It had not occurred to Yrith before to scan the area behind them. Now she wished she had done so before. There was someone trailing them, a living, breathing person. Had a teacher found out about their little trip? Yrith concentrated on them, touched their presence and felt their emotions. Fear, apprehension, an urge to protect. Singird? No. It was…

“What is it?”

She wildly shook her head. “Nothing,” she lied. “Just my imagination. So, the troll should be our only concern.”

She could not bring herself to give Cain away. Leyna would not get another chance like this. And he was here on his own volition. She clenched her fists, praying that things would not go awry. Not one friend to watch out for, but two… she could not bear if something were to happen to them.

“I think the leap down is our best option,” Leyna mused. “How far would it be?”

“About ten feet, but there’s a gap that leads straight to the bottom of the pit. It is risky, especially if we want to be fast.”

“But you are good at conjuration, are you not?”

“What are you implying?”

“That we can keep the troll occupied.”

Yrith shuddered at the prospect of two or more monsters having a battle to death while the two of them were trying to take a leap that could very well end their lives. A part of her wished that Singird would find out, drag her away and lock her in the safety of his room. That someone would make a stop to this foolish plan. But strangely enough, there was another part that found thrill in the current situation. She could be of use… or even more, she could be a hero. She had the means to do so. For the first time in forever, someone relied on her, trusted her with their life. The sudden responsibility, the need to make decisions that would matter, was liberating. She could not believe her own thoughts.

She glanced in her mind behind several corners. Cain was close by. He must have heard them talk about the troll. But he did nothing. She wondered if he was simply going along with their plan. Why he had not tried to stop them. Perhaps he was ready to save the day lest something happen. She frowned. The troll could mean danger to him too.

“Let’s go,” she said through gritted teeth, stepping out with a thin strand of magicka leading her way. Leyna followed her with a nod.

The two of them walked in silence, rubbing their arms every now and then. Yrith could feel a film of frost settling on her lips and nose. A few moments later, she found herself almost unable to talk. She stretched her arms and fingers, refusing to give in to the cold.

Their footsteps were drowned in the crackling of the ice. Yrith cast candlelight as the last ray of light from the vents faded, blocked by the thick mass of frozen water all around them. It had become even harder to breathe. Yrith wondered if jumping down the bridge would not be impossible with so little air in their lungs. As they went on, her concerns grew heavier on her. She wished to stop and relay them to Leyna but found herself unable to do either. Stopping would mean allowing the cold to claim even more of her than it already had. Talking would be wasting the much precious air, and the effort she would have to invest in moving her lips would surely drain her of strength.

She kept moving her arms, clenching and unclenching her fists, refusing adamantly to give in to the whims of Skyrim’s eternal winter. Behind her, Leyna was fighting the same battle, just as unyielding in her struggles.

As they approached the undead parts, Yrith cast a quick spell to muffle their footsteps. They moved slowly, careful to not slip on the ice, although Yrith was now more afraid that a single moment of hesitation would result in them being frozen to the ground. The ice was sticky as resin, working against them on every step they took. Yrith quickly checked if Cain was still following them. He kept a steady pace, easily matching their own. She would have let out a breath of relief had it not been so difficult.

Fortunately, they passed the undead without an incident. Yrith kept looking around, still afraid that there might be something she had overlooked, but the only thing coming to meet them was the ever-present silence. The ice walls were replaced with stone once more, covered in fissures as the winter had taken its toll on it. Yrith stared at the image in apprehension. These tunnels were not safe for passage. Instinctively, she picked up her pace, not willing to risk more than necessary. Leyna followed her without a question. Somewhere in the rear, Cain did the same.

After what felt like several hours of walking, though Yrith was certain it could not have been more than half an hour, they stopped.

“The ice wraith is just a few paces away,” Yrith forced her lips to motion, whispering as quietly as she could. “I think two atronachs should do the trick, so I will send them ahead. Keep your ward at the ready.”

Leyna nodded, stepping back and forth to keep herself warm. Her soft leather boots would not be enough to protect her from the cold.

With a quiet hum of magic, Yrith summoned two blazing creatures and willed them forward. They floated weightlessly through the air, aflame as if the cold of the place did nothing to them. A few moments later, she heard the familiar crackle of the ice wraith’s skeletal body. The creature twirled through the air like a feather carried by the breeze, light and playful to the eye. But Yrith knew from books that ice wraiths were everything but playful. They attacked on sight, mercilessly and with no exceptions. And so did this one.

It plunged forward, biting into the first atronach. The elemental hissed, returning the favor with a ball of fire. The second atronach joined the battle with its own missile. It hit the wall behind the ice wraith and left a circle of moisture on it. The surrounding ice sent a threatening crackle. Yrith clenched her fists, ward spell ready in her hands. They had little chance of escaping if the walls came down upon them, but Yrith would not give up without a fight.

The ice wraith backed away momentarily only to attack again, icy jaws clattering against each other. Yrith saw that its efforts were futile. Back when she had been sent to fetch fish with Cain, she had defeated the wraith with a single atronach. She doubted that any more than two would be necessary. For a split moment, it seemed as if the ice wraith would break through to her and Leyna, both girls instinctively taking a few steps back, but then the atronachs made short work of it. The only thing left was a pile of ice on the ground.

“T-that was… surprisingly easy…” Leyna uttered through the chattering teeth. Yrith nodded. It had been too easy, and she did not like it.

“Let’s keep close to the atronachs for the time being,” she said. “They will keep us warm.”

No ice could quench the fires of Oblivion. The two girls reveled in the sudden feeling of warmth, staying as close to the creatures as their self-preservation allowed them to. Yrith could feel the blood returning to her lips and fingertips, bringing about a sudden rush of pulsing pain. She gritted her teeth, concentrating on the road ahead.

Not too long after, they heard a low growl, far closer than Yrith had anticipated. They froze. There was not much time left until Yrith’s atronachs would return to their home plane. She assessed her options. If the troll was approaching, the only option would be to face it head on. Trolls were territorial creatures and normally did not attack anyone unless that person was too close for their liking. But life in isolation deep under the surface could have a different effect on the poor animal. Perhaps the two of them were a welcome dinner for the starving creature.

She raised her hands to summon new atronachs. But before she could call to her magic, Oblivion broke loose.

The ice shattered and fell in million pieces from the walls as the troll stomped into the tunnel. The two girls screamed in unison. Both atronachs disappeared with a loud crack. They were on their own, trapped in a narrow tunnel with nowhere to escape except the way they came. Yrith grabbed Leyna’s hand and ran. The animal followed. They could hear its breath and the thuds of its paws as it leaped toward them like a giant sabre cat. And they ran.

There came an intersection. Yrith went for one way, Leyna instinctively took the other. They split, Leyna quickly disappearing from Yrith’s sight. Yrith’s mind raced. There was no time to stop, no time to consult or devise a plan. She slowed down only to see the troll approaching her. Its snow-white fur almost glistened in the light of the still present candlelight spell, heaving on its ape-like figure. Three eyes stared at her like large beads of dark hematite, two real and one simple light detector with no ability to discern shapes and colors. Yrith took one terrified step backwards, staring at its huge jaws and cube-like teeth that were meant to crush. She could not bring herself to run anymore. No matter how hard she tried, her feet were glued to the ground in complete paralysis. She stared at those eyes, all the facts she had read about them flashing through her mind despite knowing that now was not the time for lessons on troll physiology.

Or was it?

An idea came upon her. She threw a quick glance at the light spark following her, then at the troll. She smiled, savagely, like an animal, and let the magic flow. An orb of light appeared just before the troll and attached to its front. The creature roared in pain and anger, staggering backwards. Yrith took a breath, her whole body still trembling. She had gained herself time. She needed to run. Find Leyna… they had to reach the surface. She forced her legs to move. Magic… she needed magic. She let it flow, spread… two more flame atronachs appeared before her. It felt like a dream. As though she was only watching while some other person, an entity that had been hidden inside her, did the fighting. She let the atronachs fight and ran. The troll roared and snarled, enraged by the blinding light. Upon the first fireball, it cowered and wailed.

Yrith gritted her teeth. The sound made her mind freeze in terror. She had caused the animal incredible pain. But she could not afford to die here. There was too much for her to do.

She ran as fast as she could, spreading her magic to find the way. Leyna was close by, in a parallel tunnel, but there would be no connecting point until…

Yrith’s heart almost stopped. Leyna was running straight to the dwelling of the undead. Yrith sped up, almost slipping on the ice. She had to think of something before she reached the skeletons. Something, anything… but fear had left her mind entirely blank. Out of despair, she searched, scanned the place over and over with her magic… and then she noticed the troll suddenly moving toward her, leaving the atronachs far behind. She touched its primitive mind and found rage beyond anything she had ever felt. Cold gripped her, an entirely different kind from the one keeping the ice in place. The troll was behind her. Ahead was a group of soulless skeletons. And she was running out of breath, the weak and untrained novice she was. She looked around desperately as if the key to the escape route was to be found nearby. She found nothing. And so she ran. And ran further. When her legs began to betray her, she ran even faster. Closer to the skeletons, closer to the end, but she did something. She would not give up. Not now.

At last, she reached the crossing and took a turn to the left. And she ran again until she almost crashed into something. She screamed and raised both hands, lightning crackling between her fingertips. That something screamed back.

“Leyna!” Yrith panted. Her legs were shaking and giving way under her, holding up by the sheer power of her will.

“Yrith… what… the troll?”

Yrith shook her head. “Still behind me.”

“This way then!” Leyna pulled Yrith by her sleeve, taking the route she had come from. Yrith fought to catch her breath, letting herself be dragged through the long arcade of ice. She stared blankly at the ground, watching as the cobblestones and ice rubble moved underneath them in slow motion. Too late she heard the clatter before them. Leyna came to a sudden halt, gasping as she locked Yrith’s hand in an iron grip. Yrith raised her head.

There were two of them, skeletal figures, jaws frozen for eternity in an eerie smile. One smaller, one taller. Their eyes were shining with otherworldly magic and thin fingers clutched the most primitive weapons Yrith could imagine. A hatchet and a rake. Yrith backed off instinctively. Leyna stood there, frozen like a statue.

“Calm down,” she said and Yrith knew she was talking to herself. “They’re just skeletons. Pitiful, feeble creatures… what do we know about skeletons?”

“F-fire…” Yrith whispered behind her.

“R-right… fire!” A fiery orb flared in the palm of Leyna’s hand. She aimed, fired… and missed. The two figures sidestepped nonetheless. A passage opened before them. A chance.

Yrith took the lead, now being the one dragging Leyna along. There was no time for words, but her friend understood. They ran again. The skeletons darted toward them. Then a roar shook the tunnel. A shower of tiny ice shards sank onto Yrith’s shoulder. Inadvertently, she turned around. The troll, beaten and wretched, its fur coat charred and torn, made its last effort to catch its prey. It fell right into the trap of undeath. The skeletons gave up the chase, turning face to face with their new enemy. Yrith and Leyna shared the same idea. They ran again.

The ice was slippery. Yrith caught herself holding tight onto Leyna who returned the grip with the same vigor. Having support… in spite of the desperate situation, Yrith smiled to herself. She had never felt this before, and it was a good feeling. She felt her strength coming back to her. They would make it out. She was certain of it.

At last, they reached the bridge. The air was warmer here, gusts of wind from the surface flowing here through several vents. The ice floor was covered in a thin layer of snow, with large clawed footprints all over. The troll was somewhere far behind.

“I don’t think we have to…” Leyna started, waving all breathless toward the ledge that spun along the wall on the left.

“… take the leap anymore,” Yrith finished, suddenly laughing. They both did, filling the ancient frosty walls with a sound they had never heard before.

Yrith felt incredible, as though all that had transpired just moments before had been a dream. It felt unreal, an illusion that had passed before her eyes. Her life had been in danger. There had been an enraged troll, a pair of soulless skeletons and a slippery path. Now she felt ready for anything. To go out and explore the world. To face whoever dared threaten her head on. Then all her thoughts dimmed, turning into one memory. Cain. He was still there, in the tunnels, and Yrith had completely forgotten about him.

She searched one more time. It did not take long to find him. He was not far, approaching them from the tunnel where she had fought the troll. She touched him lightly, feeling his thoughts. They were a tangled mess, shaken with fear, more for the lives of his friends, rather than his own. But he was safe and in one piece. The troll was still battling the undead, growing weaker and more hurt by the moment. Yrith let out a sigh of both pain and relief.

“The way out is just around the corner,” she beckoned to Leyna. “Let’s go before something else decides to show us how unwelcome we are here.”

“You’re right. Let’s go.”

Crossing the bridge, they trod through a small maze of winding paths until an icy passageway opened before them, leading to a porch with a view of the Sea of Ghosts. Countless ice floes bobbed lightly on its surface, glinting in the moonlight. Yrith stood there, closing her eyes momentarily to feel the warm breeze on her cheeks. She drew in a breath, absorbing the freshness and the faint smell of salt. They were out. Out of the Midden, out of the College. They had left everything behind. Only Cain was still on their trail.

“Now we need to find my father.” Leyna’s face was dark with worry. “There should be an encampment not far from Saarthal. We just need to make it through the Winterhold pass.”

“That’s still quite a distance from here. We won’t arrive before morning.”

“But we will arrive. I will not disappoint him.” Face filled with determination as someone who has little to lose, she took the first step forward. Treacherous path awaited them, the ice before them descending in cascades to the shore. One wrong step and they could be falling head first onto the ice gravel below. Yrith quickly fumbled through her rucksack, withdrawing two vials. She offered one to Leyna who accepted with a nod of thanks. The potion stung in their throats, burning its way down, but almost immediately, Yrith could feel her exhaustion fade away.

With utmost care, she slid down the first cascade, keeping her whole body close to the ground. Her legs were trembling, now adding to the fears from the Midden. But as she landed smoothly on the second level, she felt her confidence grow, her next steps more daring and secure. She waved to Leyna, smiling in encouragement. Her friend followed, joining her in an elegant leap. One by one, they conquered the tall steps, holding onto each other in moments of necessity. Despite herself, Yrith felt satisfaction when she finally set foot on the solid ground, staring back at the crackling mass of frost.

“I guess that was the worst part,” she half laughed, half sighed.

“So now we go back to Winterhold. I think it would be best to avoid the guards. Especially since they are on the Stormcloak side. I don’t want my father to get any unwanted attention.”

Yrith nodded. “I happen to know a few hidden paths.”

“Lead on then.”

Through the city of Winterhold they went. Yrith relived her memories, the times when she had played alone in the streets, finding secret passages and pretending she was still with her friends back in Daggerfall. Where there were houses, rocks, trees and bushes, there were also secret paths. She never failed to find them, setting out on adventures of her own. Brushes of snowberries and mountain flowers worked in her favor. She loved sheds and barns behind which no one ever looked. Some even stood on poles, providing yet more ways to keep out of others’ sight. To surprise people by leaving one way and returning from the other was a feat she excelled at. She felt the memory warm in her chest, bringing her peace in an uncertain situation.

She led Leyna into the familiar dark corners of the city. Close to the mountains, sheltered by low bushy pines, scattered rocks and piles of firewood, they strode quietly past the humble thatch-roofed abodes, backs bent down like two old ladies far beyond the zenith. At times, they saw a guard from a distance, but their gazes slid over the shady places without so much as stopping to blink.

They moved through the stillness of the night, drawing in the smoke from the chimneys. It carried the taste of homemade stew and the memories of long-lost comfort by the family hearth. And then it was gone as they entered the Winterhold pass, a deep gorge cutting through the mountain ridge that separated the eastern shore from the Winterhold basin.

The pass was shaded, hidden from the moonlight, and entirely silent. The surrounding trees were motionless, branches leaning down limp like withered flowers. Shivers ran down Yrith’s spine as she picked up her pace. Leyna gave her a questioning look.

“Yrith?” she mouthed.

Yrith shook her head. “I… I don’t like it here. Can you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“Exactly… feel what? There is nothing here. No life, not even the wind passes through this place. It gives me the chills.”

It was more than that. Yrith could not find a trace of magic in the pass, the life force of all. The only sources of magic were the two of them and, to Yrith’s relief, Cain, still following them with boundless determination.

“I think that’s just you, still shaken from the Midden,” Leyna said, her elven voice unable to express the comfort Yrith craved. “It will pass when we’re back in the open.”

Yrith sighed, keeping all the words to herself. They spoke no more, eyes fixed on the path ahead. Soon, she kept reminding herself. Soon they would find Leyna’s father and then…

Then what?

Leyna had never mentioned her plan to her. She would have one, right? She, an elf, smart, one of the few children that were born throughout the generations of the Altmer… she surely would have one. Yrith thought of Singird. She had to return to him. By now, he would be searching for her, mad with worry. The sooner she went back, the better. Feeling her stomach knot, she sped up even more, almost feeling Leyna’s silent protests.

The eastern horizon was lit in pale glow when they finally left the pass. A vast land opened before them, with cliffs rising in terraces from the lowlands surrounding the northern coastline. Ruins of ancient structures were scattered here and there, dominated by the golden domes of the dwemer city of Alftand far in the distance. It was a sight to behold, both terrifying and beautiful. This part of Skyrim was almost devoid of life, with barely any trees or bushes to feed the stray animals.

“There,” Leyna pointed to a chasm nestled in the shade of several cliffs, “down in that ravine. That’s where we are going.” The place was shrouded in a thick cloud of white fog. Even from afar, Yrith could sense the magic in it. It made her skin tingle and her hairs stand on end. That was no ordinary magic. She recalled a memory from her days in Daggerfall, a vague feeling she had had when her parents imbued the walls of their house with a layer of protective enchantments. Spellbrewing. The fog had been real once, but it had been altered. She gave Leyna an uncertain look, unable to hide her concern. This was more than a coincidence. She knew she ought not to be here. But she had promised. But then, what if this was all a trap? But Leyna wouldn’t… or would she?

“Let’s go,” Leyna urged, now pulling at Yrith’s sleeve. “We’re so close…”

“Leyna,” Yrith said slowly, refusing to move.

“Yes?”

“What are you going to do once you find your father?”

“Why now, Yrith? We’re almost there…”

“I need to know. For… peace of mind.”

Leyna sighed, eyes roving endlessly here and there. “I will most likely stay with him. He called for me, after all.”

“But you know I will return to the College, right?”

“I… suspected as much. Despite how it treated you, you seem to have a strange affinity to that place. But please… talk to my father before you leave. I think he would be interested in getting to know you.”

“That is a peculiar choice of words,” Yrith muttered under her breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. I guess we should be going.”

They went on. Yrith felt butterflies in her stomach as they neared the ravine. The fog was impenetrable, she could not make out a single shape. She tried to explore the place with her magic, to no avail. Everything was obscured, as if torn away from existence. She wondered if the two of them would even be able to pass through. But to her surprise, as they took the first step toward it, the fog opened before them, creating a path. The tingling was now so strong Yrith felt as though she was to turn inside out. She took a deep breath, glancing over to Leyna, but her friend seemed unaffected.

The view began to clear after a short distance’s walk, first revealing vague silhouettes of wooden structures. Platforms on poles, scaffoldings, bridges and watchtowers, a whole settlement stretching across the small valley. Yrith wondered where all this wood had come from. Then the air cleared entirely, and she saw people. Two men in dark robes with gilded hems, the Thalmor attire. They gazed at the two newcomers, faces dark with suspicion.

“Who dares disturb at such an ungodly hour?” one growled, not trying to hide the animosity in his voice. Leyna stepped closer, back straight and head high. In an instance, the man’s face changed from hostile to surprised, humble politeness lining his features. “Young Lady Leyna… at last. We have been expecting you. But who have you brought with you?”

“This is Yrith Ravencroft… my father should know.”

Yrith’s heart skipped a beat. She turned to Leyna, feeling the time stop and weigh on her. “Your father should know? That’s the first time I hear about this.”

“You’ll see, Yrith… please.”

“That’s…” the two guards exchanged bewildered looks. “Let me get Master Selas. I apologize for keeping you, I won’t be long.”

He disappeared in the labyrinth of structures. The other guard, a man with falcon eyes who did not appear to have seen more than thirty winters, bowed slightly to Leyna. He did not take his eyes off them for a single moment, regarding them with wariness despite the courteous look he wore on the outside.

“Explain yourself, Leyna. Why are we here?”

“Yrith, I know you must be uncertain, and I understand. But my father is a decent man and…”

“Oh I am uncertain. You sure that’s the right word for it?!”

“Yrith…”

“You know…” The guard stared at Yrith, a sign of warning clear in his face. She sighed. “Uncertain… right. I’ve just been lied to by… a friend,” she shook her head, helplessness forcing tears into her eyes. But no… she could not cry. Not now. She had to stay on her guard. She had let herself be deceived, led far from the safety of the College. But if her life was to be threatened, she would not give up without a fight. She clenched her fists, containing the words that strived to surface. She was angry. Angry at Leyna for betraying her trust. Angry at herself for being so utterly foolish. Angry at the whole world for being so unfair. How could she ever face Singird? Would she even get the chance?

From behind the tallest watchtower emerged the guard who had welcomed Leyna, accompanied by another dark-robed man, exceptionally tall even for a high elf. Slim face, beautiful and elegant, spoke of ages’ worth of wisdom. Memories of both pain and joy mirrored in those golden eyes, the same as Leyna’s. As he walked toward them, pace calm and measured, his long silver hair waved around him in gentle swings. Yrith stared at him, calmness spreading through her as she realized she was not afraid of this man. Rather, she felt the need to bow before him as she would before a king.

He stopped a few paces before them, frown deepening in his face as his eyes slid from Leyna to Yrith.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, voice a mere whisper, yet clear in the quiet morning. Leyna raised her head to face him and Yrith noticed a tremble in her knees.

“Father… I brought her. Just like you asked me in your letter.”

Silence. His eyes, hard like two diamonds, sized his daughter up from head to toe. He was assessing, and the more time he took, the more frightened Leyna became. Yrith felt shivers run down her spine, imagining this was common practice in the Travi household.

“There was no such letter,” he breathed at last. Leyna’s eyes reflected sheer dread.

“But…”

He stepped closer to her, putting one hand on her shoulder. “The letter I truly sent you… it must have been swapped. I should not have contacted you. I should not have been greedy… I… I have never expected my own allies to betray me. My closest friends. They made an oath…”

“Father…” Leyna gave a quiet sob, shoulders stooped down in defeat and humility, “I’m… I’m sorry…”

“Raise your head, Leyna. You are a high elf. You have just been deceived. You know what to do.”

“I…”

“I hold no grudge against you. You of all people should know. Now raise your head and wipe those tears away. There is no place for tears in the eyes of a Travi.” Without waiting for her to oblige, he turned to Yrith who tensed, suddenly forgetting to breathe. As he approached her, he gripped her chin, raising her face to look her in the eye.

“Yrith Ravencroft… I would not have expected to see you here. A spitting image of your mother… how beautiful she was.”

Yrith felt blood rush into her cheeks, filling her with a desperate need to step back. But she couldn’t. His sharp eyes pinned her to the ground.

“I am Selas Inarion Travi,” he continued. “Under any other circumstances, I would be thrilled to meet you. But your arrival is untimely, and I fear it brings about dark times.”

Yrith stared at him, words heavy in her throat. “My mother… you… knew her?”

“Aye… sweet Adine. She is one of a kind. Bright, gentle… with the ability to teach an old elf how to love. I never found the chance to tell her how much I appreciate her. Perhaps one day…”

“She’s… dead. Half a year ago she…”

The face of Selas Travi grew even darker than it had been moments before. “That is grave news. Is Damasy as well…?”

Yrith nodded.

“I can’t express…”

“Master.” It was the falcon-eyed guard, eyes on alert. “Pardon the intrusion, but we have another visitor.”

Selas Travi did not even lift his hands to send out his magic. Yrith felt it nonetheless, strong and swift, penetrating every inch of the ravine. As if following some hidden sign, he made his way to a wall hiding the entrance. From beyond it, he pulled out the startled Cain, the look in his eyes so hard it could split a mountain in two.

“Well well, look what the gods have brought upon us. An Aldaryn heretic.”

“I’m not a heretic!” Cain spat as he tried to shake his captor off his collar. “Don’t compare me to… that lot.”

“Truly? Then why are you here?”

“I…”

“Master, shall I put him down?”

“No… he means no harm… for he came to protect. The Ravencroft family has a fascinating ability to teach others to see in color.” He let go, leaving Cain to grumble in defiance. The Dunmer boy glanced at Yrith with a sheepish smile before quickly turning away. “Tilion.”

“Yes, Master?” The first guard stood to attention.

“Prepare a horse for Yrith. The fastest stallion we have.”

“Right away, sir.” The man turned on his heel and was gone in an instant.

“Yrith…” he put both hands on her shoulders, a gesture of trust and protectiveness, but it made Yrith shiver nonetheless, “you must leave immediately. You are not safe here, and nor are we as long as we have you. I may be too late already… but before you leave, tell me. Did your parents ever inform you what their mission was?”

“I…” Had they? She had no recollection of it, save for the bits and pieces she had overheard when they’d had a visitor, and the cipher they had left behind. The cipher. She did not even know what it meant. “I… don’t think so…”

With a sigh, he let his arms sink back to his sides. “I thought as much. The enemy fears you, Yrith. You’re not prepared yet. I can feel your magic swirling inside you, wild and uncontrolled. But when you are, you must find him.”

“But who is this enemy?”

Selas Travi gave a bitter laugh. “That’s the intricate part. We do not know.”

“What? But then… what makes them an enemy?”

“What indeed? The pain that he spreads. The discord he sows. The chaos he creates. It has been like that for millennia. Thousands of years we have spent trying to get on his trail. And he is close. But we know one thing. To defeat him, you need a—”

The sentence was cut from his lips with a swishing sound and a gurgle. Yrith stared in horror as the man who had been talking to her moments before sank to the ground, his chest pierced by three arrows, blue and black feathers adorning them on their ends.

“Father!” Leyna shrieked, and the sound froze the blood in Yrith’s veins. “NO! FATHER!”

“Master!”

“Godsdammit!” Cain cried, grabbing Yrith’s hands as he jumped to her side. “Out! We have to move out! Come on!”

Yrith could not move. She could not breathe. She felt her whole body tremble, knees weak with the sudden dread. She could not even cry. The scene before her eyes was so surreal… this was not happening. It could not be happening. Leyna was kneeling on the ground, mindless of the frost and dirt, turning her father to face her. Her eyes were full of tears, yet still begging, refusing to give up the last speck of hope, no matter how futile it was.

“Yrith…” he rattled, with hardly any sound escaping his lips, “you must find it… his name…”

“Father!” Leyna cried. “Please, no!” At last, Yrith finally sank to her knees beside her.

“Midget, no, come on! We have to leave!”

Cain’s words were like water, flowing, in, then out, washing over her and leaving her cold, but still frozen to the ground. Selas Travi reached out, trembling fingers touching Yrith’s.

“Find the name… lost… in time…” he breathed.

The last spark of life faded from his eyes. He was gone. Yrith felt his magic, the tremendous burden he had carried in his life, leave the vessel that had been its refuge. Her heart ached. She raised her head, seeking the source of the arrows. There were yells around them, people running and unsheathing their weapons. Magic crackled and sparked in the air. There were more arrows. People were falling and dying. Yrith watched the scene, paralyzed with fear. There was nowhere to run. Cain flinched her to the side as another arrow made its way to where she sat.

“Yrith! Please!”

She looked at him absently as though he was but a ghost.

A cry tore through the air, commanding and fierce. “Stop! Cease the fire! You’ll kill Yrith!”

Yrith turned her gaze after the voice. Someone was running toward her. A sturdy man… her vision was blurred, but she could see the blue he was clad in. She blinked and the image sharpened momentarily. Toddvar… the Stormcloaks were here. She had suddenly found herself in the middle of a battle. Next to her, Leyna was shaking with sobs, wrapping her arms around her father’s body. Cain was tugging at Yrith’s hands, despair in his crimson eyes. The falcon-eyed guard lay nearby, blood soaking the snow underneath him. No… this could not be real.

“Yrith!” Toddvar’s voice bellowed somewhere above her. “What in Oblivion are yeh doin’ here?!”

“I…” she had no words for him. There were none she could offer. The only thing on her mind were the dreadful images passing before her eyes at that very moment.

“Get up! Yeh need to leave now!” She felt herself being pulled on her feet. “C’mon. Get a grip, lass! Yeh need to move! Horse!” he yelled as he turned to his comrades. “Bring me a horse, the first you can find!”

“Yessir!”

“General Toddvar!” Another man approached, breathless, gripping an axe with ornate handle and shining blade. “Imperials! They found us!”

“Oblivion take it! Yrith, move! Stick to yer fellas here and get out, for the love of Talos! Go!” He pushed her toward the entrance, then turned around, drawing his great axe like a wooden stick. The first man in red came on horseback, long sword down to cut anything that stood in his way. Toddvar was faster. He jumped backward as he swung his axe at full length, chopping the body of his opponent seemingly without effort.

Yrith’s senses came back to her, hitting her like lightning. She felt her insides turn at the sight of the falling body and let out a stifled cry. Cain was gripping her arm with both hands, unyielding in his efforts. She glanced at him and understood.

“Leyna!” she shouted, pouncing on her friend. She was holding her father’s head in her lap, heedless of the battle around. “Leyna, we need to…”

“It’s no use, Yrith, she’s…”

“I’m not leaving without her!”

“Dammit, you can both die here in vain, or you can at least save yourself!”

“Then I die!”

Cain staggered back at the power of her voice, staring at her in shock. Two Stormcloak soldiers with spears held high ran past them, shouting and growling like wild animals. “Yrith, please! I beg you!”

“Leyna! Get up!”

“No! Give him back! Give him back!”

The red-collared riders were closing in. Toddvar still fought his battle, taking a wide stance and slaying everything that came in his way and wore red. But there were more. More riders…

“Children!” someone gave a vicious laugh. “The Stormcloaks have children!”

“No! Yrith, run! RUN!”

“Come, little children, the hour is nigh
for demons of night to wander,
come, little children, when sleepless you lie,
watchful of shadows yonder.”

Someone was singing, laughing at the ancient tune sung to children since time immemorial. Yrith felt her blood freeze in her veins. She grabbed Leyna, mindless of her protests, taking the friend with her, away, away from the battle, away from the carnage. Chaos everywhere. The weapons were rattling and clinking. Horses were neighing, the ground was shaking under their hooves. Cain was holding tight onto Yrith’s wrist. She held onto Leyna’s, dragging the staggering girl one step after another, with strength she didn’t know she had. A battling pair before them, they took a turn to the left. A falling horse with arrows in its neck, another turn. Duck before the volley of arrows coming their way. Cain with his quick instincts pulled her to the ground. The way out was close. So close…

“Come, little children…” the voice was dark, full of malice and twisted lust. A rider stood before them, his face a wicked sneer. An arrow flew past, he dodged it with a quick yank of his head. Cain pulled Yrith back. He was too late.

The man laughed as he plunged the handle of his spear into Yrith’s chest. She staggered and fell on her back, unable to even cry with pain. Her vision blurred, the sounds turned into a cacophony of rattling and stomping, sharp and deafening. Someone was shouting beside her. It hurt. Everything hurt. She felt another blow, this time in her stomach. She could not breathe. There was blood on her tongue and on her lips, she felt it come down in streaks over her cheeks and drip into her hair. She stood no chance. She could not raise her hands to cast a single spell. Her fingers felt numb and broken under the weight of her body.

Singird… if she could see him once more. Tell him how sorry she was…

A strong hand wrapped around her waist and hauled her away, then up, swinging her mercilessly over something warm. In one last attempt, she tried to tame her senses to obedience. Then she felt a blow in her head and the world drowned in darkness.

Notes:

This chapter was unbelievably difficult to write. Good 30, or maybe 40 hours went into it. I’m starting to think I really am a masochist… oof! If you have any feedback to give, I’d be more than happy to hear from you. Always!

Mirwen

Chapter 17: Under Illusion

Chapter Text

“Caw, caw,” the crow cried. Then, with one mighty flap of its wings, it pushed off the ledge and flew off into the night.

Singird watched it with aching heart. He had searched everywhere. Her room was empty, albeit visited recently, judging by the considerable lack of dust on the desk. The roof welcomed him in all its stillness that he usually preferred. Now it only brought despair. The Hall of the Elements was ablaze with magical experiments of the advanced class students, yet none of them had seen her that day. The Arcanaeum was as lively as it could get before the exams. All her classmates had gathered there in preparation for them. All but Cain Aldaryn and Leyna Travi.

He threw a fist at his wall, hissing in pain as it landed on the hard, coarse stone. She had disappeared before. She loved to pull pranks and enjoyed her freedom, even if it made him worry. He was angry each time, but she had always returned. Not last night. He felt deep down that something was amiss. That she was in trouble. He had to find her.

A knock came down on the door, thunderous in the stifling silence. Singird turned to it, pondering for a moment before answering.

“Come in,” he said. His own voice was betraying him. He did not want to talk to anyone, yet at the same time, he felt the insuppressible urge to shout at people and ask questions that no one was able to answer.

Drevis Neloren entered the room, and his serene face stirred anger within Singird.

“Word has it that you have been looking for me,” the Dunmer stated matter-of-factly, picking up the moon-shaped paperweight on the table without invitation. He studied it, sliding a finger over its surface. Singird clenched his fists.

“Why did you not wait?” he half whispered, half snapped. “Why did you have to let her out of your sight?”

Master Neloren tossed the paperweight into his other hand, watching in apparent amusement as Singird’s eyes narrowed. “Dear Master Larkwing, what do you think would happen if I hadn’t?”

“That,” Singird hissed, snatching the Dunmer’s self-declared toy from his hands, “is not the answer to my question.”

The amusement faded from the face of Drevis Neloren. With a sigh, he looked Singird in the eye. “Because your question is irrelevant. One important factor, Master Larkwing. She left of her own volition. With your precision-loving nature, I am quite sure you’ve scoured this place inch by inch. So tell me, have you found any signs that would indicate she was dragged away or engaged in a fight?”

“No, but…”

“Then accept this. If she had not left now, she would leave later. Now I believe there’s something else you should be doing instead of brooding over what’s done. And since I am in a generous mood, then I would like to invite you to a little outing to the Midden and beyond. Faralda has already received permission from Mirabelle and is awaiting us downstairs.”

“The Midden?”

Master Neloren let out another sigh, putting a hand on Singird’s shoulder. “Say, Master Larkwing. Do you know what kind of illusion is the most dangerous?”

Singird knit his brows in exasperation. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you?”

“Even if I knew, now’s not the time…”

“The most dangerous of illusions is the one you make yourself believe in. She left through the Midden. The main gate’s seal is untouched.”

Singird closed his eyes, letting the wave of despair take over him before it would flow away, leaving behind bitter resignation. He knew. He had known all along that she had taken this path, but Drevis Neloren spoke the truth. Singird was too afraid to concede it. So many dangers lurked in those tunnels. Dangers he had only heard of.

“Midden… She could have…”

“She’s alive,” Master Neloren said and there was not the slightest trace of doubt in his voice. “If she wasn’t, we would have noticed, I assure you.”

Believing in Drevis Neloren was all Singird could do. He gave a slow nod before quickly fumbling through all of his chests and closets to find clothing warm enough to protect him from the cold of the icy tunnels. The Midden. He had never visited the place but heard legends about it, one more terrifying than the other. Now it was time to find out if they were true.


The Midden was cold and quiet. The ice crackled in an eerie symphony whose echo was drowned in the heavy air, deafening and making the blood freeze in their veins. She had been here. Faint, but still visible, Singird could trace the footprints in the thin layer of frost covering the floor. Master Neloren and Faralda exchanged silent nods, the latter letting an orb of magic envelop her fingers.

“At least we know they were here. Keep your wards and spells at the ready. Just in case.”

They followed the path. The footprints faded as the ice receded, melted by the warmth of the Atronach Forge, but they quickly found the trail again. It led them deeper and deeper to the tunnels, to a humble pile that was sure to be the remains of an ice wraith. Singird let out a quiet sigh. An ice wraith would not pose a challenge to Yrith, that she had already proven a long time ago.

Not too long after came a crossing where the trail multiplied and became knotty chaos. The three of them stopped, all frowning at the disturbing image before them.

“That was a frost troll,” Drevis Neloren stated what Singird had been afraid to say aloud. “By the looks of it, they first went into that tunnel and then got chased back.”

“What about those melted parts?” Faralda pointed to a line of ice that had seemingly melted and frozen back to form a river with smooth, solid surface. It zigzagged through the passageway, interrupting the footprints.

“Flame atronach,” Singird said. “Two of them, actually. Miss Ravencroft made use of her expertise.” He did not know whether to be relieved that she had fought back or concerned that it would not be enough. Bending down, he studied the tracks, constantly shifting his weight from one foot to another to protect himself from the cold. The footprints were everywhere, running in two different directions.

“Now what?”

Master Neloren shrugged. “These passages ultimately lead to the same point. It does not matter, let’s just pick one path and decide what to do at the next crossing.” Singird and Faralda nodded their assent.

The crossroad the passage had led them to revealed a similar bundle of footprints as the one before. Singird could easily guess that this was where the fight had broken out. But over the huge troll traces led three pairs of human and mer footprints. They had left victorious. Singird allowed himself a soft smile.

Not far from there, beyond a bridge and a few turns, was the end of the tunnels. It became more difficult to follow the trail throughout the cascades of ice that followed. Eventually, the road they entered wound up to Winterhold. Pushing his way through the incessant bushes, crouching under overhanging rocks and tucking himself into the small spaces between huts and sheds, Singird had to commend Yrith’s resourcefulness. She knew every secret path there was to know, every corner that would hide her from unsuspecting eyes. He felt like the child he had never been, reveling in mischief and more so in getting away with it. His parents had been good to him, but too unforgiving to ever tolerate the smallest hint of disobedience. He caught himself contemplating on how much comfort this life of freedom would give him even now when he was grown and could not crawl up to his father’s lap.

Soon, the three of them left Winterhold behind, entering the pass beyond. The trail was still clear, leading straight through it. They would soon be facing the northern coast with its jagged isles of rocks and scattered ruins. Singird knit his brows, thinking of the bandits and draugr that liked to take refuge in their shelter. But his worries were soon replaced by a feeling far more dreadful. As soon as the rocks on their sides receded, a view of a battlefield opened before them. Scattered all over lay corpses, a few of them in dark robes with golden hems, but mostly warriors in blue or red. Their bodies were twisted in unnatural positions, opened, some still gripping their weapons and painted shields depicting the Stormcloak bear or the Imperial dragon. The snow was red with blood and the air, despite the cold, heavy with the stench of death. Singird paled, forgetting his breath.

“Gods no,” he whispered, suddenly picking up his pace. If she was not dead, he would kill her himself just so she would never run away again. She had to be alive. She just had to. He would not forgive her if she had perished. But there was no sign of an explosion. Did that mean she had exhausted her magic? No… that would not have been so easy. And she surely had not died. She couldn’t have…

“Wait!” Drevis Neloren darted toward him, barely able to keep up with the angry, shaken Nord. “Singird Larkwing, stop right there! Do you realize the situation?”

“What situation?!” Singird snarled, not bothering to turn or change his pace. The Dunmer hurried to grab his arm.

“This is a battlefield, dammit! You don’t know who might still be lurking around. You’re going to…”

Singird yanked his arm out of his grip.

“I don’t. And I don’t care. If she is here, I will find her. I will find her!”

“Her, is it? Not them. Her. You humans. You get blinded by the so-called love, obsessed with the one you so ardently look up to. Halt, Singird Larkwing. Don’t let your life go to waste.”

Singird turned around, feeling the wave of anger surge within him, brimming over the edges of his sea of patience. He clutched the Dunmer’s shoulders, eyes ablaze with fury. “You’re right,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “This is a battlefield. It is a place where people die. She is somewhere in its midst, maybe in pain, maybe long dead. But you… you let her go and you still don’t realize what it means. You would never understand.”

“Truly? Am I the one who doesn’t understand? Or do you simply…”

He trailed off as Faralda landed a hand on his shoulder. “Let him go, Master Neloren,” she breathed. Her amber eyes were devoid of their usual fire, her face wrinkled and suddenly so old.

“But…”

She shook her head. “Let him go.”

“Fine. Go throw away your life. It’s none of my business anyway.”

“Over those hundreds of years, you realize how powerless you are. There is nothing you can do. Mer, men, beastfolk, all the living things… they will pass whether you want it or not. And you either follow them, or you are alone.”

Singird let his hands sink from Master Neloren’s shoulders. He remembered Faralda’s words well. But he could not stop. Not now. She understood. After all, she cared for her as much as he did.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning back toward the battlefield. His chest felt tight and torn at the same time. He needed to hurry.

Down the slope gently descending from the mountains lay a ravine, hidden from the sight of passersby. As Singird proceeded toward it, the snow looked more and more like a sea of blood and dirt. He covered his nose and searched, his stomach knotting with every carcass his gaze slid over. They were all grown men, young or just in the age to have families to provide for. People who could have nurtured the land and made it bloom. There were no children among them. And Singird was more and more torn between hope and despair. He wanted to run, run wherever his feet would take him, but he needed to look. He had to find her.

The stench grew stronger in the chasm. Wooden structures, watchtowers and palisades had been torn down and set on fire, their remains still smoldering and filling the air with dark smoke that stung his eyes. In the distance, he could distinguish several silhouettes of people, standing at the end of the trail of bodies. There were more dark-robed elves here. Singird had no doubt that this had been the hideout of Selas Travi. But still, there were no signs of Yrith. Not even her friends.

He wished he could spread his magic as she did, examine the people ahead without fear of being stabbed the moment he approached them. But he only had his own limited pool of magic at his disposal. Cautiously, he looked around, hands raised to summon an atronach to his aid, but then he heard voices coming from the dark haze before him. One voice he recognized, the rough baritone of his favorite Stormcloak general. He sighed in relief but summoned a storm atronach nonetheless. After a quick contemplation, he added a dremora and equipped himself with an ethereal sword that he held all too timidly for his own liking.

He had received a semblance of military training from Jarl Siddgeir’s housecarl. Helvard was a hard, uncompromising man with bitter disposition and Singird did not think back on the days in his company with pleasure. Still, it had made him stronger, more resilient against people who wished to hurt him.

Clutching the ghostly weapon, he stepped forward. “Toddvar!” he called, still cautious to not step too close to possible peril.

The giant man stepped out of the smokescreen, his great axe slung over his shoulder. He was followed by two other men, clad in the Stormcloak blue, faces of all three darkened with grief. This time, Toddvar did not welcome Singird with his usual mirth.

“Singird,” he said quietly, sizing his friend up. “I know why yeh’re here.”

Singird shuddered at the tone of his voice. It brought nothing but despair. Momentarily he thought of smothering his next words in Toddvar’s throat before he could speak them. He was afraid to hear them. But he had to know.

“What happened? Is… are they…?”

“Yrith and her two friends have been dragged away by the damned Imperials. I dread what might befall them. Singe, I couldn’t help. I swear I tried, but they were everywhere, and I had to fight! I have no idea what they might do to them, but it… it might be worse than death.”

Singird let out a breath he did not know he’d been holding. So she was alive… but he could not know for how long.

“Why?” he asked, his voice struggling between hope and fear. “Why would the Imperials take them?”

“For fun, I s’ppose. This is war, Singird. It draws the worst out of people.”

Singird clenched his fists, letting the magical sword disappear. The thought of some filthy warrior smelling of sweat booze, laying his hands on Yrith, made him feel nauseous. He chased the thought away by sheer willpower. No, it would be too much of a coincidence if she had been simply dragged away for the amusement of some romance-deprived private. There had to be more to it.

“Selas Travi,” he said, straining his mind to concentrate on all he knew and not fall into the state of utter misery. “Do you know who he is?”

Toddvar’s eyes narrowed. The Nord warrior hesitated before answering, watching Singird with unsettling suspicion. “I might.”

“Where is he?”

“Why do yeh ask for the Thalmor scum?”

Singird paused, pondering his next words. “And as much as his fate does not concern me, I’m afraid Miss Ravencroft followed his daughter here to look for him.”

With a sigh, Toddvar placed a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, Singird. Yeh’re stepping on thin ice here. Yeh’ll find ‘im here among the corpses, but I’m only telling yeh ‘cause yeh’re a friend. The rest is classified information and I can’t oblige. Yeh must understand.”

Singird gave Toddvar a hard look. “There are lives of our students on the line, Toddvar. Please, I need to know everything there is to know.”

“I feel yeh, but…” Toddvar’s gaze suddenly turned somewhere beyond Singird, his eyes narrowing with displeasure. “Are those your fellas from the College?”

Singird glanced over his shoulder to see Faralda and Drevis Neloren approach. They were cautious, treading lightly with hands up and crackling with magic.

“Colleagues, to be precise,” the Dunmer corrected, dropping a curtsy that would freeze a person from the inside. “I am Drevis Neloren of Blacklight, the Illusion master, and by my side is Lady Faralda of Cloudrest, the esteemed Destruction master and foster mother to Miss Yrith Ravencroft, one of our missing students. And you would be the fabled General Toddvar of the Stormcloaks, I presume. Enchanted to meet you, although the circumstances are rather somber.” Faralda joined the curtsy with her own, slightly less deep than the tradition dictated. Singird had a sudden urge to disappear, feeling Toddvar’s gaze bore into him in both question and ire.

There was momentary silence. The air felt heavy, and when Toddvar spoke, his voice was low and reserved. “Pleased to make yer acquaintance,” he uttered with no sincerity. “Heard rumors of Yrith’s new… elven family but didn’t have time to introduce m’self properly. But, as yeh can see, the situation’s rather dire and I’ll have to postpone our chat.”

“Of course, we understand,” Master Neloren nodded, “and that’s why we only have a few questions. If my ears served me well, you said that our students were dragged away by the Imperials?”

Toddvar opened his mouth to snap, but then he closed it again as his eyes dimmed, the flare of is anger fading into nothingness. His companions scrabbled for their weapons, but he raised a hand to stop them. “Indeed,” he said quietly. “They were.”

Singird suppressed a stare in Master Neloren’s way. Casting illusions on the Stormcloak general could cost him his life, even if his only allegiance was to the College, but Singird could not bring himself to stop him. If it was to find Yrith, he was willing to take desperate measures. In his mind, he laughed at himself. A few months before, he would have thought such situation ridiculous.

“And they came here to see Selas Travi.”

“Maybe. I couldn’t get a glimpse of that, but we found ‘em in his company when he was killed.”

Master Neloren’s eyes became brimstone, softly glowing in red as his magic grew stronger. “And who killed him?”

At that, Toddvar let out a sudden laugh. “My men, of course. We ain’t letting the Thalmor filth roam our lands freely.”

“But you knew it would be Selas Travi that you would find here.”

“I did. My men didn’t. We don’t share these things with foot soldiers.”

The Dunmer’s eyes narrowed, assessing, weighing. Then he gave a slow nod. “Very well. May we see his corpse?”

There was a pause. For a moment, Singird thought that Toddvar would break free of the spell, but then he shrugged, giving a strange, dreamy smile that sent shivers down his spine. “He’s right there, by that fence. The first black cloak yeh stumble upon. After all, I only need his head.”

Master Neloren could not hide his twitching mouth as he bowed again, joining his hands in a feigned sign of gratitude. “We are in your debt.”

“Of course.”

The three of them excused themselves, following the path of Toddvar’s finger. Singird tried his best to avoid the suspicious looks from his comrades, wondering if Master Neloren had enchanted them too. The dark elf said nothing as he bent down to the corpse of a once unusually tall Altmer man. The trail of blood and grime, distinct in the surrounding snow, suggested that it had been dragged here. He had been pierced by several arrows, their shanks now broken and twisted in the wounds.

“He died a mercifully quick death,” Faralda remarked as she inspected the body.

“He sure did.” Master Neloren’s face darkened as he proceeded with his examination, touching the man lightly with his magic.

Singird studied the dead man’s face, still twisted in the final moment of his agony. It was almost pleading, making him wonder what his last words could have been. It was not a face of a murderer. Up to this moment, Singird had been convinced that the runaway Thalmor wanted to hurt Yrith. But looking at that face, contemplating the sudden twist of fate, he wasn’t so certain anymore. He wished he could have spoken to the man. But he was too late.

His musings were interrupted by the words of Drevis Neloren. “Let’s go.”

Singird stared at him in question and so did Faralda, but the Dunmer did not elaborate. The three of them left in silence, following his resolute lead. Singird nodded to Toddvar on the way, but the Stormcloak general was too busy with ordering a small group of men that had gathered around him to clear the place. Soon, they had left him far behind. Only when they reached the end of the Winterhold pass did Drevis Neloren turn back to them, features lined with concern.

“We are getting into some serious trouble here. A Thalmor refugee getting in the midst of political entanglements is nothing out of the ordinary. But when he gets killed by three arrows and still, I cannot trace a bit of his magic on his corpse, that’s when it starts to scare me.”

Faralda raised a brow. “What are you trying to imply?”

“It is very convenient to have someone like Selas Travi succumb to a salve of arrows in a battle and then take out all his soul power. You achieve three things. One,” he bent down a finger, “you will go unnoticed. Two,” another finger down, “you will get power. And three,” a third finger joined them, “you erase all traces. A shattered soul cannot speak. It will reveal nothing.”

“Shattered soul? Please, tell me you are not serious.”

“Our enemy seems to be in the habit of doing just that,” Singird said with a sigh.

“Our enemy… I can’t say I like the sound of that word. So we don’t know anything at all?”

Drevis Neloren began walking again, staring up at the cloudy sky in thought. “We have learned a few things,” he said. “Fortunately for us, that person takes risks that can easily turn against them. The question is, can we be quick enough to stop them before they actually achieve anything? But anyway,” he ran a hand through his hair, “I digress. We know this person is the same as the one behind the murders we are getting accused of. They are beyond skilled in illusion. They can take away one’s magic entirely and likely command similar magic as Miss Ravencroft. They are politically engaged and related to the case of Selas Travi. And, strange as it sounds, they likely have spies among the Stormcloaks. I don’t believe those arrows landed by coincidence.”

“One of those men we met?”

“I doubt it, they hardly had any usable magic in them. Although using a magicless person for one’s twisted purposes could be a good camouflage. Still,” he gave a cheerless laugh, “I must commend Ulfric for his choice of generals. That man’s will is strong as iron and unyielding like the Red Mountain. Magic or not, he posed a challenge.”

“But you made him tell us the truth, didn’t you?” The tone of Singird’s voice was alien even to himself. Calm, almost appreciative. He was not angry at Master Neloren’s audacity to bewitch his friend, a Stormcloak leader. He did not even feel reproachful. Instead, he felt gratitude for extorting the so-called classified information. Despite himself, he felt a semblance of smile spread across his face. Faralda gave him a questioning look.

“That he did,” Master Neloren nodded.

They fell into silence, listening to their footsteps. They passed the first Winterhold houses, gesturing a greeting to Haran, the barmaid, as she swept the fresh snow from the stairs to the Frozen Hearth. Here was where it had all begun. Where he had started to doubt Yrith’s incompetence that she had so adamantly feigned until the moment he almost broke her. She had shown him her tears then, perhaps first in those six months since the death of the Ravencrofts. Perhaps that was the first time when he had wished to enfold her in his arms. He had not known then that this desire would turn into yearning so insatiable it would wipe his mind clear of all thoughts. And now it ached, tightening around his chest and making it painful to breathe.

He clenched his fists as they entered the Winterhold bridge. The strait was quiet, the horkers sleeping in repose on the shore in a tangle of flippers and tusks. If Singird didn’t know better, he would not have believed there was a war raging outside of this peaceful land.

As Faralda raised her Sign of Accord, the magic of the seal guarding the entrance to the College glowed in bright amber light, same as her eyes. “I will talk to Mirabelle. We should call a meeting and send out a party,” she said as she stepped into the courtyard.

“A party? It they were taken away by the Imperials, then no party can save them.”

Singird raised his hand to silence them both. “No. I think it’s time for Master Gestor to return to his rightful position.”

“Singird? What could you possibly achieve alone?”

Master Neloren shook his head. “And here I thought we’ve had enough of madness for one day. I truly want to believe in your power, Master Larkwing, but facing off an entire Imperial unit, maybe a whole army? Even if you sneak into their camp in the middle of the night...”

“No. By now, they could have taken them to any camp in Skyrim. I think I will go pay a visit to General Tullius in Solitude.”

The eyes widening in disbelief and gaping mouths of his elven companions brought a smile to Singird’s lips. Perhaps the elves were not so oblivious after all.

Waving them goodbye, he headed to the room of Phinis Gestor. The path ahead was long, and time was of the essence. He knocked on the door, expecting to see another illusionary hearth.

Chapter 18: Death's Trail

Chapter Text

Pain was what woke her. Yrith did not know how long she had been unconscious. She did not know where she was. She did not even know whether she was alive. The only thing she knew at the moment was the pain and the incessant throbbing in her head. The ground was cold and hard under her, coarse on the bare skin of her arms and legs. She took a breath and it stabbed her chest. The pain was too real, she had to be alive. She had felt it before. Only now it was hers, and it filled her with fear greater than any she had ever felt before.

Digging her fingers into the soil, she inhaled again. It was all she could do. She was too weak to lift herself, too weak to even fully open her eyes, and so she only breathed, drawing in her surroundings. They hit her nostrils and filled her with images. The heavy taste of sweat and metal she remembered from her days in Daggerfall when she sneaked into the smithy on the western side of the city. Horses and hay, grasses carried by air that was far warmer than the Winterhold breeze. Ale and smoke from the fires, and smells far less pleasant. It was all unknown and threatening. Where was she?

With the next breath, the first sounds reached her ears and made the throbbing in her head even more painful. She let out a soft hiss, trying to force her hands to work, to at least turn and see more than just a piece of dry earth. They refused to oblige. She tried to move a foot, but something cold and heavy was wrapped around it, keeping it in place.

“I think the Breton’s wakin’ up,” someone said. The voice hurt, obscured by its own sharpness. It was unpleasant, hoarse, yet high-pitched and screechy. Yrith groaned quietly, realizing how parched her lips and throat were. How long had she not drunk or eaten? She had no strength to stay awake, yet she was too exhausted to fall back to sleep. There was nothing she could do, and that helplessness terrified her more than the broken state of her body.

“You think?” another voice said, deep and rough. There was a slapping sound. “You really shouldn’t do that, you might hurt yourself. She was almost dead when they brought her, but sure, she’s wakin’ up! Sheogorath’s balls.”

“Well, but she got that magic, y’know…”

Magic… yes, Yrith had magic. She needed to use it. To free herself. To heal her body. She closed her eyes, concentrating, searching for the power of her soul. It was swirling, like a caged animal assaulting its bars, fighting for a chance to rip its captor apart. But the cage was unyielding, and the beast was too weak and hurt to break it. With all the willpower she could muster, Yrith moved her fingers. The magic sprung from her chest, spread across her body, shot through her arms…

“Trollheaded fool. Like she could… blast!”

There was a loud crack. Out of the corner of her eye, Yrith could see the sparks enveloping her wrists, sending thousands of white-hot needles through her skin and filling her with yet more pain. This time, she cried out aloud, unable to contain the primitive sound. The magic was sealed within her, blocked by some sort of barrier in her wrists and ankles. She tried once more, and the pain paralyzed her. She sent her magic out to explore, but it would not pass through. She could not use it to feel or see anymore, it would stay and weigh on her body and soul. The fear within her grew and made her tremble. She took a breath, but it would not bring her the relief she craved.

“I told you, didn’t I? That magic… Erinor said she’d heal quicklier thanks to it.”

“More quickly, you moron. Well, well.” There were footsteps, slow and heavy, causing a small earthquake inside Yrith with each stomp. She gritted her teeth, trying to shut the pain out, but it was rooted deep inside. As the man approached, he bent to her, his knees cracking and sending yet another wave of painful sound her way.

“Oy. Give that to me,” she heard him say, his voice slightly muffled. He must have been facing the other man.

“What? You can’t be serious…”

“I said give it to me.”

“But Erinor said we’re not supposed to kill her…”

“I know what Erinor said, now give it to me and stop staring at me like a squeezed slaughterfish.”

Yrith heard quiet rustling, leather on leather, then a thud. There was a grunt as the man near her picked up something heavy. And then she felt something jab into her and her vision blurred and blackened. The man lifted her with a haft of a large axe, mercilessly turning her over. She slid off the handle and screamed with pain, digging her nails into the dirt underneath her. The thing holding her foot gave a clanking sound. Chain. The man laughed, the sound vicious and full of scorn.

“Well well, the princess has awoken. Oh, but is she crying? Look at the poor thing, Ary. What shall we do about it?”

Through her tears, she was staring at a red canvas ceiling. The area around her was confined by the same red walls, drowning everything inside in red tint. She could spot a pole holding the whole structure together. So she was in a tent.

“Hmm,” the first man with the screechy voice hummed as he drew closer, sliding a finger over Yrith’s face. She looked at him, trembling in fear, but still wishing to look in the face of her enemy. He would have been handsome if it had not been for the unkempt mop of umber hair, the overgrown beard and a scar that stretched over his tanned cheek and down his neck, gaping like twisted jaws of a sabre cat. He would have been attractive it if had not been for the grin he wore as he looked at her, eyes hungry and glinting with malice. Yrith wanted to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. She lay on the ground, helpless as he held her chin, forcing her to face him. “What a pretty face. Ah, but so sad. I think she could use some quality time, eh?”

The other man, still out of Yrith’s sight, prodded her again with the haft, skillfully picking the sorest spot in her side. She moaned, tears rolling down her face and falling in the dirt.

“Give it a break, Ary. This one would not last a moment of your antics. Besides…”

“Besides,” a third voice joined them, this one so cold Yrith felt as though she was being buried in the Midden’s ice, “I believe you have been given instruction.”

“Master Erinor…”

“Arius and Silvio. You Colovians know no restraint. Do I smell booze on you again?”

“I didn’t…”

“Silence.”

“Yes, sir.”

The screechy man pulled away and vanished from Yrith’s sight. The haft left her skin as the man known as Silvio dropped the axe to the ground. There was wild and hasty shuffling followed by a curse as someone tripped. Steel boots stomped on the ground. But the newcomer was quiet and collected, and by both his step and his voice, Yrith assumed he was an elf, likely an Altmer. He was entirely different from Lady Faralda, Leyna or Selas Travi. His step was firm but unrushed. Unlike the two men, he smelled clean, but not like Singird. His was the rich scent of redwort baths and jazbay grapes, underlined by the heavy fragrance of ermine fur. Yrith knew before she could see his face what kind of eyes would stare down upon her. She wanted to turn away, but at the same time, she could not. She stared back as he appeared, his features twisted in a cold sneer. She imagined this man walking away from a battlefield with blood dripping from his blade, graceful and basking in his own victory. Yet still, he would not truly smile, for losing had never been a possibility. She shuddered when she saw those eyes. Beautiful almond-shaped and deadly dark.

“You consider this pretty? I suppose simple minds enjoy simple things.” He sat down beside her comfortably, enjoying the view of the helpless girl before him. “Ah, the fabled Yrith Ravencroft. You awoke even sooner than I expected. I hope you are pleased with our hospitality.”

Yrith stared at him in shock. This man knew her, just like Selas Travi had. He called her fabled. And he mocked her for her pitiful state. The hopelessness she had felt just moments before vanished, replaced with sudden anger. Anger at Leyna for lying to her. Anger at herself for getting lured out and betraying Singird’s trust. Anger at this man for the vicious sneer in his face.

“Who are you?!” she hissed, her voice a hoarse whisper that hurt her parched throat.

“Ah, that you would like to know, wouldn’t you? But even if you did, what good would it be to you?”

“Why have you taken me here?”

“Your questions, dear Yrith, bear no importance. But I can promise you,” he closed the distance between them, face inches from hers so she could smell the sweet, heavy perfume on him, “you will be relieved soon.”

Cold gripped her and her stomach knotted. She felt sick and paralyzed, and everything was surreal. This could not be happening to her. How had she managed to get herself captured, with her body broken and her magic blocked? She could not feel anything. She did not know where her friends were. She was at the mercy of a crazed elf who seemed to revel in the dominance he had over her. Everything was red. She must have been in an Imperial tent, but who was he?

She took a breath and gathered her magic again, sending it forward in a rush. But it would not break through. It stopped at her wrists, sending yet again a painful spark that scorched her skin. She cried out, eyes filling with tears once more. The man’s face widened in a cruel grin.

“Very convenient,” he said as he lifted her hand, twisting it and flooding her body with more pain. Yrith could spot a thin silvery bracelet on her wrist, almost invisible but glowing in pale blue. It crackled lightly, reacting to every strand of magic that touched it. “Unfortunately, your magic will not help you. Nothing will help you, Yrith Ravencroft.” He let the hand fall on the ground. More pain. His face blurred and darkened before Yrith’s eyes. She let the tears flow, wishing for all this to end.

“Make sure she does not try any tricks. She will stay where she is, untouched, until the clash. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Master Erinor,” the two Imperials said in unison. There was more shuffling and clanking of buckles. Yrith assumed they were bowing. Then Silvio, the dark-voiced man, spoke, tone full of cautious respect.

“What about the other two?”

“Ah, these?” Yrith heard those slow, poised steps, then a moment of silence. “Let’s see…”

A thud and a cry that froze the blood in Yrith’s veins.

“Such refined features, eyes of pure gold and white-gold hair like the finest silk, even in these conditions… a result of careful cultivation throughout generations. Unfortunately, the dynasty is going to perish with this one. Selas Travi is dead. She is useless.”

“You…” Leyna snarled. Yrith shuddered. Never before had she felt so much hatred in her voice, so much anger and hurt. It made her ache inside. She knew her pain. Leyna had just witnessed her own father die. A man she had loved and respected so much. “You’ll pay for this. I may die here, but you will pay! You will die a heretic’s death and never see Aetherius. I swear it on my father’s honor!”

“Ah, it barks… but bite it cannot. Save your breath, traitor’s child. You are in no position to make such promises.”

“My father was no traitor!”

“Certainly not to you, was he? Now what do we have here?”

“You…” One more thud. Leyna stammered and shrieked, and so did the freshly woken Cain. Yrith clenched her fists, unable to stop the tears from falling. This was all her fault. Her foolishness had led them all here, and now Cain was paying for it.

“Damn it… it hurts… dammit!”

“Oh, it does, doesn’t it?” Erinor drawled, the words sounding strangely sweet on his tongue. Yrith heard a hiss.

“Who in Oblivion… dammit… Yrith! You s’wit! What have you done to her?!”

“Ah, and this would be young Aldaryn. Also useless. A banished fourth son with no future. His family would think we’re doing them a service by killing him… wouldn’t they, young Cain?”

“Y-you…”

“Are we to get rid of these two, Master Erinor?” The high-pitched voice of Arius was slick with twisted pleasure.

“Stop…” Yrith whispered through the sobs, “please. D-do… do whatever you want with me… just… leave them alone… let them go…”

“No!” Cain cried. “Yrith, you can’t…” he suddenly fell silent. Yrith felt another wave of cold take over. Her throat felt so tight she could not catch her breath. Why? Why did it have to be this way? By now, Singird must be going mad with worry. More than ever she wanted to feel his embrace. Perhaps she never would.

“Ah, so she is pleading. Silvio?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Hold young Yrith up for me. So that she has a clear view of her… friends.”

The man with the deep, rough voice slid his hands under Yrith and lifted her mercilessly. She did not cry out this time, gritting her teeth, fighting a battle with herself. How could she give these men the pleasure? They reveled in seeing pain. She had to be strong. Even if she was to die, she had to be strong till the last moment.

Erinor came back into her sight, standing between her trembling friends with that sneer of his. Cain and Leyna were each chained to a different pole, each wearing the same two pairs of glowing bracelets as she did. They were half lying half sitting, filthy and ragged, but unhurt. A sigh of relief escaped her lips, gaining her a painful nudge from Silvio. She took a breath, stifling the moan.

Cain was glaring at his captor, cuffed hands clenched into fists, knuckles turning white under his ebony skin. Leyna’s eyes were pinned to the ground, but when Yrith set her gaze upon her, she raised them to meet her. Yrith shuddered. The look Leyna gave her was not painful. It was not pleading or broken. It was full of hatred. Countless icy needles pierced her whole person. What had she done to be loathed so?

Next to Leyna, Erinor slowly unsheathed his dagger in a single practiced movement. Yrith’s eyes widened in fear.

“Well then,” the elven man said, placing the blade on Leyna’s cheek. She froze, forgetting her breath. Then she closed her eyes, two solitary tears sliding down over her face. Yrith’s vision blurred again. Fear paralyzed her and made her lose breath. What was she supposed to do now? Would she be forced to watch Leyna die in front of her? She wanted to cry and beg, but she couldn’t. It would change nothing. It would only serve for this man’s vile entertainment.

He changed his grip, sliding the dagger lightly over Leyna’s skin. A thin red line appeared.

“Well?” she hissed. “What are you waiting for?!”

“That you would like, wouldn’t you?” Erinor said, his voice the sweetest whisper. He pulled away and twirled the dagger in his fingers. It sailed to Cain’s neck. Yrith’s insides turned in her. Her eyes burned. There were no more tears she could shed. Her strength left her entirely. She hung limply in the hands of her keeper, wishing the end would come soon. If she could just be the first to go…

But then, Cain would have to watch her part. The loyal Cain who had only sought to protect her. The Cain who had stood by her side, expecting nothing in return.

She forced herself to raise her head again, eyes hard as the finest steel whose color they bore. And as they landed on Cain’s face, the Dunmer’s lips quirked in a sudden smile. He looked up at Erinor, defiance in his eyes contrasting the state of his body.

“Thank you muchly,” he snorted, “for making me feel right at home.”

“Silence.” The dagger left his neck, replaced by a flash of magic that made Cain cough and gasp for air. “Just in case you get any strange ideas, little Yrith… remember that there are things far worse than death that could befall your… friends.”

“You… coward,” Yrith hissed through gritted teeth, not believing her own words. “Too afraid to face me. Too scared to…”

The dagger shot out in two swift movements, leaving a perfect cross over Leyna’s cheek. The elven girl screamed, curling up as much as her chains allowed. Yrith froze in horror.

“That was one. Anything else you would like to tell me, little hatchling?”

She shook her head obediently, feeling her will break under the weight of his look.

“Ah, so you can listen when you want to. Release her, Silvio. The two of you will not touch the young Ravencroft in my absence.”

Yrith felt the hands that had held her retreat, letting her fall in the dirt.

“And the other two?”

“You are allowed to… discipline our guest lest she try something unseemly. Try not to overdo it. We do not want any casualties.”

“No casualties… right,” Arius guffawed. “S’pose that’s good enough.”

Erinor gave a nonchalant shrug as he looked at Yrith once more, cold smile still playing on his lips. “One more thing. Do not feed our guest. At all.”

“But master… you told us to keep her alive…”

“Oh I will keep her alive. Just… barely.” With that, he walked out, his richly woven robe flapping about him. As the last inch of his soft leather boots disappeared behind the red canvas, Yrith fought to suppress the acute burning in her eyes.


She did not know how much time had passed since she had fainted. She felt even weaker than before, and her restrained magic had a suffocating effect. She felt as though she was shrinking, more and more with every passing moment, until she would explode. But she had no strength to command her magic anymore, not even to send it against the bracelets on her wrists. She faintly noticed someone coming to her side and imbuing her with a tiny droplet of their own magic, sending it trickling down her stomach and through her body. So that was her food now. She did not even try to open her eyes. She did not care anymore. She would wait till the bitter end.

Voices reached her through the barrier of her pain. She knew them and they were not friendly. One screechy, one deep and hoarse. They hurt. She tried to deflect them, but they kept coming, drowning her head in painful tremor.

“I gotta tell you, Erinor’s a fool if he thinks Toddvar will back away cuz of her.” That was the screechy man. Arius, that was his name. She tried to slide her hands to her temples, ease herself of some of that ache. They would not move. Her body had never felt so heavy before.

“You better hope he doesn’t hear you,” Silvio’s hoarse voice joined. “Anyway, he said something about breaking his morale, didn’t he? Hah, morale! Some people are so simple.”

“That’s just plain st…”

“Shhhh! You’re really asking for trouble saying things like that!”

“Well, but have you seen General Toddvar? That General Toddvar? He’s like a mountain, and when he goes to battle, that axe never misses. And I mean never. He never falters, never backs away and those people that follow him… they’re like crazed. I’d say it’ll take more than a death of one girl to break the guy.”

“Hey…” Silvio’s voice dropped into a whisper, barely audible to anyone outside, but roaring like a thunder to Yrith. “Truth be told, I agree. I don’t think the elf is half as smart as he thinks he is, and Toddvar is like a damned Dwemer centurion. But it’s not like keeping the girl will kill us, right? I mean… she doesn’t even eat.”

“Right… but he could at least let us have some fun with her.”

“Well, you can have fun with the elf.”

“Bah! I’d rather die than touch that thing with my bare hands!”

Silvio let out a yapping laugh. “Well, apparently this little thing has some scary wild magic that’s going to eat us alive if we dig into it.”

“Oooooh, look at my hair standing!”

The two of them laughed at that, buckles on their armors clanking as they shook. Yrith fought not to moan, not to express the pain every outburst of theirs brought her. The poor joke lasted for a while of their entertainment before it finally became quiet. She took a careful breath, absorbing the moment of tranquility. Perhaps she could fall asleep again. Forget this all was happening and keep in the dark forever. But…

A sudden thought woke her to full attention. Those men spoke of Toddvar, but he could not have been the real reason she was kept here. For that, Erinor had been too smitten with her. He had kept repeating her name too often for her liking, savoring her pain, enjoying every moment that he could look at her tormented face. He had spoken of her magic and bound her with bracelets strong enough to suppress her power. But if what Master Neloren and Selas Travi had told her was true…

“The enemy fears you, Yrith. You’re not prepared yet. I can feel your magic swirling inside you, wild and uncontrolled. But when you are, you must find him.”

Was Erinor that enemy? No… they were cautious and evasive. Subtle. But this man loved to flaunt. He was nothing but a tool, she was certain of it. A powerless little pawn that strived for recognition. If she had met her enemy, she wouldn’t have known, or she’d have long perished. But she was still here, waiting…

Suddenly, she found the thought ridiculous. She was the daughter of Damasy and Adine Ravencroft who had trusted her in their mission. She had surpassed her classmates and gained the respect of the Collegium. And she had left Singird alone…

She could not die here. She could not just wait until death came to claim her. Something was about to happen, but perhaps that could also be her chance. And in the end, she was not so powerless. For some reason, Erinor had not deprived her of her magic. He had only blocked it, with a few simple circlets that, ultimately, were still made of magicka. Perhaps it worked like a door that could only be opened from the outside, while on the inside, it only had a doorknob. But then, some thieves could open such a door in a snap. She would only have to become one that can get through a magical bracelet.

Slowly, quietly, she drew in a breath. She felt so weak… but she was still alive. People were waiting for her, depending on her.

She opened an eye and saw two pairs of steel shoes. She would be constantly watched, and any sign of movement could put Cain and Leyna in danger. Suppressing a sigh, she closed her eyes again, pondering her options. As long as she would play nearly dead, they would be safe. A sneak thief works in silence, with absolute precision, touching, trying with care, until the lock gives an almost inaudible click. A sneak thief is resourceful and finds ways and means others would never think of.

Inwardly, she smiled to herself. If Erinor could feed her his magic, then so could she.


The night was dark and moonless. Not many could boast about having visited the Midden and making it out alive. Singird had done so twice in one day. Only three people knew that he had left. Faralda, Drevis Neloren and Phinis Gestor, the three whom he had chosen to trust. Of course it would not take more than two days for the rest of the College to notice, but by that time, he would be long gone. He had only packed little to sustain him, relying on whatever his journey would serve him. The College barely had enough to get by as it was.

As he descended the cascades of ice, the sea welcomed him with soft splashes. The night was so serene as he roamed through it, picking the exact same route as previously, following Yrith’s and his own footsteps. There was not a single snowflake falling down from the skies, and the wind was just enough to lightly swing the twigs of the scarce Winterhold trees.

Keeping to the shadows, he approached the city and watched a group of guards walking cautiously toward him. They held their torches high, backs pressed together as if in defense formation. Rumor of the battle just around the corner must have reached them. Singird suppressed a bitter laugh. He could not imagine anyone trying to invade this dreary place.

Casting a quick invisibility spell, he crouched behind the trunk of likely the oldest tree in the city, hidden from the light of the guards’ torches. He let them pass, holding his breath.

“… and apparently the Imperials got hold of some secret weapon against our General Toddvar,” one of them whispered as he scanned the shadows inches from Singird.

“Hah, right, they’re bluffing. Secret weapon, but everyone knows about it.”

“That’s what I told them…”

The voices faded away as the guards went to examine some remote corners of the city. Singird slipped past the tree and through the bushes, following the path to the Winterhold pass. He kept to the shadows, maintaining a pace not too slow and not too quick. Winterhold had no stables and hiring a horse to gain a lead was out of the question. Perhaps in Dawnstar fortune would smile on him and he would find a reliable steed, but that was at least two days away.

He sighed… two days during which anything could happen. Two days when Yrith would be held captive, likely hurt and poorly treated. And that was only the beginning. What kind of face would she be wearing when he finally found her? If he could make it in time to find her alive…

Clenching his fists, he picked up his pace, eyes turned to the horizon. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the gold-hued mountains, was the great city of Solitude, and inside it was the man who could make a stop to this.

Singird halted as he approached the battlefield, scanning the land before him. There were two paths that would let him avoid it. The southern route led through a mountainous region, past the freshly excavated Saarthal and round the ancient Dwemer city of Alftand that was known to teem with bandits on the surface and the Falmer in its depths. He had no wish to fight either. The northern path followed the shoreline, keeping within the firing range of several Nordic tombs where the undead liked to dwell. Not a pleasant prospect either, but at least he would be facing his own ancestors with no qualms about sending them back to their slumber. With a sigh, he stepped to the north.

The road was quiet, leading him down the shore and along the coast. The Sea of Ghosts was dark and murky, and occasionally he heard the grumble of horkers. Sabrecats enjoyed roving around the shore in search of prey, hunting for fish that strayed too far from the safety of their depths. Singird’s hand groped about his chest until it found a moon-shaped Dwemer amulet, a memento that had been passed from father to son in the Larkwing family, ordinarily disguised as a plain paperweight. It had saved his life more than once and he counted on it to do it again.

When the sunrise drew near, he decided to camp in an alcove formed by a great rock several hundred paces away from the sea. It would provide enough of a shelter for a short rest, even though he could imagine a cleaner and softer place to lay his weary body. He spread out his bedroll, too thin for his liking, and buried himself inside, chewing on his last supply of dried fruits.

The morning was grey and quiet, but more than an hour passed before his eyelids finally sank to relieve him of his exhaustion. Still, images of the war and Yrith, laying down hurt with her silver eyes full of tears, haunted him even in his sleep. As wind carried the splashes from the sea afar, he dreamt of squelching blood. When the first seagull’s cry tore through the air, he heard cries of agony. Then magic crackled and threatened to swallow everything alive, drown him in blinding light…

His eyes cracked open at once. The moon amulet was glowing bright turquoise and magic was indeed crackling in the air, deflected by the faint barrier held up around him. It dispersed with the last bolt of lightning that would have struck him down had he not jumped out at once. In a single swift movement, he shook off his bedroll and called forth two atronachs, one a mass of stones and lightning, the other a graceful flaring creature. They both fired at once, one missing and the other crashing into a bright shield of translucent magicka.

Singird skipped and jumped, dodging one missile after another. The road along the coast was blocked, lit by fire and lightning. Behind him was a solid rock. The only remaining option was to his right, along the mountain of stone and ice. It would almost certainly be a trap. He still tried.

He ran and ran again, hands flashing with magic as he cast spell after spell. Ironflesh, a ward, another atronach as the fire creature fell in a blast of fire, a lightning strike to hit an enemy and replenish his magicka, a banishing spell to send a freshly conjured enemy atronach back to Oblivion…

He counted at least five people assaulting him. He would not stand a chance. And so he ran, cursing his luck as he thought of the humble supplies he had left in his resting place. He would never see them again. Now it was just him and his pocket, luckily filled with enough coin to get him by once he arrived in Dawnstar.

He slid past a rock to vanish from his pursuers’ sight, ready to disappear entirely, but the invisibility spell faded from his hand as soon as another opponent emerged before him, a triumphant smirk defining her face.

“You have nowhere to go, little mage. Give it up!” she laughed as she raised her hand. Singird roared just to give himself courage, cloaking himself in fire as he summoned a blade and a ward, charging right at the woman. Her eyes widened in surprise. She could only let out a few weak shots before he reached her. The fight was short. She carried no weapon on her person and only relied on her spells. He could sense panic from her, panic that had been born from her own haughtiness. He gave a primitive, beastlike smile as he plunged his ghostly sword in her chest and sent her gurgling to the ground. He did not bother pulling it out and ran on. That was little mage for her.

Up, up the hill, up the steep slope that fought against him. Another rock stood in his way. He sent a quick ice storm blast for distraction, slipping behind the would-be obstacle. Muffle, then invisibility, and he was lost to their eyes entirely. Holding his breath, he hurried up, reaching a plateau with a beacon and a modest cabin attached to it from the side. There were two open sheds, each holding a pile of hay. Singird forced himself to stop and think. If he was pursuing someone, the first place to look would be inside the buildings or in the hay. He frowned and restored the spells on him, squeezing himself into the gap between the two sheds. He was just in time to see the enemies appear in his sight. The leading man, a Breton with eyes hungry like wolf’s and muscles hard and lined like thick ropes wound tight around his limbs, kicked the nearest chunk of snow.

“Damned son a crippled clannfear,” he hissed.

“Shall we split then?” a Dunmer woman next to him proposed in a smooth voice, nodding to the two paths spanning from the beacon. One led south into the mountains. The other circled the beacon and continued down, back to the shore. Singird felt a slight tug of satisfaction, seeing that the woman, along with a man that was, judging from the same mop of wavy chestnut hair and the same slightly crooked stance, likely her brother, bore countless minuscule wounds from the ice storm.

“No, he may be a Nord, but he’s a mage above all and spent most of his life buried in texts. He has no stamina to run that far in one go. He is hiding here somewhere. Tanris, you will follow me inside. You three will search every corner of this place. Don’t forget who your enemy is. He may be very crafty, don’t let your guard down for a moment.”

The five of them exchanged nods before the leader disappeared in the depths of the beacon in the company of the Dunmer woman. The rest began to search. Singird tensed as two of them advanced to his hideout, but just as he expected, each took one pile of hay, ignoring the seemingly empty gap where he stood. He stifled a sigh of relief. This would be a good moment to make himself scarce before the spells on him would wear out.

Protected by the muffle spell, he sneaked out in absolute silence, making his way straight between the two people who were far too preoccupied with their own search to notice the slightly quivering air at the place where he walked. Slowly he backed away, making his way to the slope while constantly watching his surroundings. Just a few more steps and he would be safe.

“Over here!” someone cried. It was the third one, standing just a few paces away from him. A moment later, Singird jumped aside to dodge a firebolt. Lucky these scoundrels were foolish enough to talk before they fired, he thought to himself sardonically as he deflected the next missile with another ward. The invisibility spell flicked away immediately. Singird noticed snow on his sleeves, likely fallen from the cliff under which he had been standing. So that was what had given him away.

He darted out again, dodging, summoning creatures to his aid, deflecting. So many shots missed him by inches, making him panic and search frantically for an escape route. The only possible way was the slope down, but the descent itself was dangerously steep, not to mention the potential avalanche that could come down from the cliff. If he could somehow switch places…

He smiled to himself. Of course he could switch places with them. Why had he not thought about this before?

Skipping around to avoid the incessant shots and hide behind his atronachs, he scanned the cliff and did a quick math. A step to the left, then down, then two left, one right to avoid a missile, two left… the closest man suddenly ceased his fire. Singird gave a beastlike grin. He was running out of magicka. One last step…

And he had them exactly where he wanted them. He raised both hands, summoning the biggest fire blast he could produce. It shot up, to the south-west. The two men in the rear began laughing.

“Where are you aiming, Master Conjurer? Sending the gods’ wrath upon us?”

“Exactly,” Singird mouthed as he fired another ball of fire. The cliff shook, the snow began melting. Now all three of his opponents looked up, turning away from Singird, and he could only imagine the dread in their eyes. They bolted out at once, but too late. Third shot sent the ice and snow down, burying them deep inside. Singird could hear their cries until they were stifled, perhaps for good.

He did not waste any time. Turning away, he muffled his step to prevent leaving footprints and slid down the slope as fast as he could. Dawnstar was still almost a day away, a day he would have to spend with no food and no way to take a rest.

When he finally reached a hollow he considered safe enough to make a stop, with enough routes for potential escape, he leaned to a tree and let out a long, exhausted breath.

“So this is what it has come to,” he said to himself as he slid down along the trunk to squat. The blood of four people was on his hands for just the first day of his journey. In his mind he was trying to convince himself that he had only acted in his defense, but the weight was still tremendous to bear. It was different from the responsibility he had felt when his parents had passed. These people had died before his very eyes, by his own doing. He raised his hands and stared into their palms. He had never imagined how deadly they could become. And Yrith… how terrible must she have felt when she found her parents’ corpses just moments after her own atronach had entered their home? He had never known. Not even now he could imagine her pain. He only wished to lock her in his arms again, to never let go.

He forced himself to get up. She was waiting, and there were still people after him. Perhaps they would think twice now that their group of six was reduced to two. Or perhaps there would be more coming. He frowned as he realized that meeting them was no coincidence. They were not after his belongings, nor were they random marauders trying to get rid of an unwelcome guest. Those people knew exactly who he was, even where he was headed. They were all mages. They had called him Master Conjurer, and they had followed him obstinately even after the death of one of their own. Someone was trying to stop him from proceeding. But how could they have known? Was the trust he put in his three fellow teachers misplaced?

He left the hollow with dark thoughts. As he ascended the slope ahead, a new view opened before him, a massive stone tower dominating a run-down fortress. That was the Nightcaller Temple, former home to the priests of Vaermina, the Mistress of Nightmares. Singird would have to circle it, not wishing for a night full of dreadful dreams. It loomed over the vast land beyond it, watched the city of Dawnstar below with its docks and the sea that stretched to the north. Far away in the distance were the Mortal swamps, and through the mist that hung over them showed the city of Solitude with its great bridge carrying the mighty Blue Palace. It was still many days away, for the swamps could not be crossed easily, but the sight made Singird feel just a tad lighter. Carefully picking his path, he stepped forward, eyes fixed on the murky horizon.


It was almost midnight when Singird finally arrived in Dawnstar. The rest of his journey had been surprisingly uneventful, but he welcomed the change with open arms. Weary from his battle, traveling and hunger, he aimed straight for the inn. The innkeeper kept giving him strange looks filled with curiosity, but Singird was too tired to engage in a conversation. He fell asleep before he could finish his meal.

Voices woke him the next morning, sending a painfully loud echo through the main hall and to all the rooms.

“And I’m telling you to get your lousy arse up! We’re leaving now!”

“Ah, c’mon, capt’n! Just one more…”

“Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of booze for you up in Solitude. Now move those lazy bones!”

“Up in the Winkin’ Skeever, eh. D’you even know what they serve there? Ain’t nothing but the Black-Briar swill! I ain’t drinkin’ that!”

“Yeah, we ain’t drinkin’ that!”

“Very well. Then I’ll cut your pay in tenth and maybe then you won’t be drinking at all. The shipment will arrive before sundown or you’ll be the ones paying the fine. Your choice.”

Singird jumped on his feet at once, cleaning himself with a quick spell. It was not perfect, and his braid must have been tangled by now, but there was not time to lose. He smoothed down his robes as he left the room, scanning it over his shoulder for anything he might have forgotten. But he had not brought anything with him save for the cloak that hung over his hand and the sack of coins buried deep in the folds of his robe.

The rather small space within the main hall was filled with sturdy sailors, muscles on one arm twice the width of Singird’s thigh. Almost every one of them held a tankard, ale dripping over their unkept beards. The smell of the place hit Singird’s nostrils with the power of the dragon breath. Sweat mixed with spirits and whatever the men had been eating, with a hint of dirt and soot. Singird suppressed the need to cover his mouth and made his way directly to the man standing on top of one of the tables, shouting at the lot with unmatched vigor.

“Get up, vermin! Move it!”

“Fine, whatever!” Grumpy murmurs hummed through the crowd as the people started rising, some more agile, others staggering and grabbing the shoulders of their equally sluggish comrades. Coins clanked on the counter as a ginger-haired innkeeper scooped them into a pouch.

Singird elbowed his way through the mass of stinking people, avoiding as much contact as possible. The captain, a mountain of muscle and tendons coated in bronze skin and hair dark and ruffled like freshly plowed soil, shouted for a good moment before most of his men crawled out of the inn, into the grey of the morning. At last, he jumped down from the table and dropped a curtsy to the innkeeper.

“Later, Thoring. Take care of your girl!”

“You take care of your boys,” the innkeeper laughed.

“Hah! Those lads would survive the end of the world!”

“But we all did, remember?”

“More than once, dear Thoring. I ought to take the Dragonborn for a drink sometime. See ya!”

The captain turned to the door.

“Wait!” Singird hurried to his side. “You’re the captain, correct?”

“What do you want, boy? You don’t look like someone interested in our dealings.”

Singird swallowed his pride at the unseemly address. “I heard you’re headed to Solitude?”

“Yes, we are, and no, we are no messenger service nor public transport. So whatever you want, take it somewhere else.”

“I respect that,” Singird said with a bow, “but any other way would take days. I will pay you handsomely if you take me aboard. And I am…” he cleared his throat, “quite effective when it comes to cleaning.” Offering himself in place of a cleaning lady. Singird could not believe his own words.

“Quite effective when it comes to cleaning,” the captain repeated. Then he roared with laughter. “Can you hear it, Thoring?” He sized Singird up, dark bushy brows furrowing in distaste. “Fancy yourself a mage, eh? Up from the damned Winterhold, perhaps? We don’t take your kind. Get lost.”

“How much is it to change your mind?” Singird pressed on, stepping in the captain’s way. He felt pathetic, staring at the pile of muscle before him. At least he matched him in height.

“Well, maybe you should use your cleaning talents for getting rid of that dirt in your ears, lad. I said no.”

“Wait a minute,” the innkeeper suddenly cut in as he hurried past the counter and to Singird. He grabbed his shoulders and stared into his eyes, face suddenly brightening with realization. “I thought I’d seen you somewhere, but I guess that was not you. You’re old Larkwing’s boy, aren’t you?” Singird froze, hoping this would mean a friendly encounter. Now it was too late to back away.

“Larkwing?” the captain raised his brows. “Ranmar Larkwing?”

“That was my father,” Singird nodded, scanning both men with suspicious eye. They were no mages. They had trouble recognizing him. And he would be long dead if someone here had wished so. He forced himself to breathe steadily. Surely there was nothing to fear.

“Well then,” the captain shook his head, fire in his eyes fading in painful memory, “I suppose that changes a lot. I owe you an apology. Your father was a good man. Better than most.”

“You knew him?”

“Not too well myself, but he was one of the few not to treat us like filth when we delivered the Imperial cargo. My men loved him. But ever since he passed away, things have been turning for the worse. And the men are tired with the war going on. Your parents… they were protectors. Everywhere they went, people had respect for them. Bandits ceased their ravages, Stormcloaks and Imperials alike stopped their assaults. They kept the units in shape. Your father was an uncompromising man. He would make sure that anyone he deemed unreliable or incompetent was immediately expelled. People feared him, but the worthy looked up to him. And his men… they never mistreated a single soul.”

“I… didn’t know my father was a commander.”

“Oh, he wasn’t. Not officially, at least. But the generals listened to him. Even Legate Rikke held him in high regard. But why are we still standing here? Let’s get a move on, the crew is waiting.”

“Wait,” the innkeeper said. “Young Singird.”

“Yes?”

“You seem doubtful of your father. But believe me, that man had nothing but love for you. He spoke of you highly. Said you have the power to see the truth, even if it was buried ten feet under the ground. Take these words with you. They will show you the way in troubled times.”

Singird clenched his fists. How many times had he woken up in the middle of the night, reliving the moment he had bowed to the Jarl of Faklreath? How many times had the memory of the messenger announcing their death come to haunt him?

“Then I failed him,” he said bitterly as he turned away. He walked out of the inn without another word, followed by the captain.

“You really are his son, aren’t you?” the captain laughed. “He was just as hard on himself. Hard on everyone, that’s for sure, but himself he could drain entirely.”

The road led them past a line of thatch-roofed abodes, not unlike those in Winterhold, but there was much more life in Dawnstar. From afar, Singird could hear laughter and the constant pounding of a smith’s hammer. Children were running around playing tag. An elderly woman was offering the passersby alchemical remedies.

“Care for a drop of fearless elixir?” she said to the passing Singird, gifting him with a warm smile. He shook his head.

“Say… did my father ever complain about joining the Legion?”

“Complain? Dear lad, if I said he complained it would be like calling a giant a goblin. He was furious!” The captain threw up his arms, not minding the alarmed people in their way. A small girl slipped behind her mother, peeking at them in suspicion. Amidst the sea of grey and brown tunics, Singird in his gold-lined robe and a captain dressed all in red were certain to attract attention. “He talked about home a lot. And about ‘stuff waiting to be done’. That this whole war is pointless. He even tried to prevent several battles. I guess you never heard.”

They descended to the lowest circle. Several men were waving at them from a large white ship with red flags carrying the Imperial dragon insignia. The others were preparing the sails, making a quick work of the ropes and hooks that held them.

“I have not.”

“’There’s something rotten in the Empire,’ he kept saying. Not once did he believe that the Legion stood for reason, but so did he doubt the Stormcloaks. It is like a plague that keeps spreading, and in the end, whoever wins will gain nothing in the face of our greatest threat.”

“And by greatest threat he meant…”

“He never said. Always sounded so mysterious, but we all assumed he was referring to the Thalmor.”

“I wonder if he did,” Singird muttered, stepping on the plank connecting the ship to the pier on which they were standing. It was wet and slippery, and he was glad he was not carrying anything, struggling to maintain his balance. The sailors up on the deck encouraged him with cheerful laughs, helping themselves to whatever liquor they could find aboard.

“What did you just say?” the captain shouted over the voices, taking firm, practiced steps on the plank.

“Nothing,” Singird shook his head. “Could I perhaps get a drink as well? I’ll pay…”

“Absolutely not!” Then the captain stopped and turned around. “Unless you accept an invitation to our humble feast.”

Singird gave him a smile. “It would be my honor.”


It had taken him several hours to get used to the constant bouncing on the ship. When he had to step on the ground that suddenly did not seem quite as solid as it usually did, Singird could not even enjoy the view of the grand bridge formed naturally by a single piece of rock. Up there, a few hundred feet above their heads, stood the proud city of Solitude in all its glory. The snow had receded to a sudden outburst of greenery and the sea glittered with the setting sun. Incessant gongs and bells resounded through the vast docks, sailors shouting over each other in between the cries of the seagulls. Never before had Singird visited the capital of Skyrim, and now he was regretting he would not get to spend more time here, to visit the Temple of the Divines and taste the famous Firebrand Wine.

“So this is where we part, young Singird. It has been an honor. Try not to be too hard on yourself. For your own sake.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Captain Winterbreath.” Singird bowed and pressed a few coins in the man’s hand.

“Ah, you never learn, do you? That part of you that doesn’t want to owe people… you won’t get far with it. And you know that Winterbreath is not my name, right?”

“It goes well with Captain,” Singird shrugged.

“I’ll have to have a good talk with those lads of mine, teaching our guests strange things. You take care now.” The captain gave Singird one last pat on the shoulder before he excused himself. Singird watched him disappear in his cabin before he made for the city.

It was long dark when he finally reached the main gate. The guards flashed him looks full of suspicion, hands caressing the hilts of their blades. “Only burglars and vampires lurk around after dark. So which are you?”

“A late traveler,” Singird said truthfully. “I arrived in the docks at sunset.”

“A brave soul, traveling in these times. Or a foolish one. You may pass, but remember that no crime will be tolerated within the walls of this city.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Singird nodded. The gate opened before him, presenting a view of the main street. To his left, an ornate sign featuring a skeever with its tail wrapped around a plate informed him that the building before him was The Winking Skeever, the local inn. To his right was raised a platform with an execution block. As far as Singird knew, the last time this place had been used had been almost two years ago, during the execution of Roggvir who had opened the gate to Ulfric Stormcloak and thus sent the High King Torygg to his death. This incident was what had set Skyrim in such chaos. He averted his eyes with a sigh, making his way to the inn.

The Winking Skeever was lively with sailors, soldiers, merchants, and also beggars who did not hesitate to stretch out their hands in a pleading gesture whenever someone took out their coin pouch to pay. Rarely they managed to capture the attention of the more prosperous folk who mostly treated them with cold looks and sometimes even kicks in their rears. The people of Solitude were much more colorful than those in Winterhold and Dawnstar. Dames dressed in velvet gowns and sirs in tunics bearing rich embroideries, gold and rubies adorning their necks and hands, hair up in complex tangles of braids held together by gleaming tiaras, all holding goblets with wine that was five classes above anything Singird had ever savored. That was Solitude. Amidst them stood a female bard dressed far too scarcely for Singird’s taste, fingers dancing over the lute she held as she sang the Song of the Dragonborn. A good many people joined the singing, dancing wildly to the rather calm tune.

After a good while of simple observation, Singird made his way to the counter.

“Welcome to the Winking Skeever, young man!” beamed the bartender, a middle-aged Colovian who seemed to be in a mood just as jolly as all his guests. “What can I do you for?”

“I’d like a room for the night, a bath and a dinner.”

The man tilted his head to his side, giving a look of feigned sympathy. “Well, too bad, my friend, but we’re out of rooms.”

Singird let out a sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to find another place to stay then. Maybe I can get the local stables some extra business.”

“Haha, I was joking, don’t be such a grump! Second floor, first on the left. The bath will be ready in half an hour. That would be twenty septims, please. Thirty if you want to include a massage. Lysia over there is serving tonight.” The man winked at him, nodding to a delicate ginger girl with a wide smile and large round eyes whose bright green gown was even more revealing than the bard’s. Singird fought not to roll his eyes.

“Thank you for the offer, but I will have to pass tonight.” He dropped a small stack of coins on the counter. The man took out a key and spun it on his finger before handing it over to Singird.

“As you wish.”


That night, Singird had not slept a wink. The inn was rowdy and he was haunted by thoughts of his parents, his father whose trust he had betrayed, mingling with fear for Yrith. He had a vision of her lying in a dark place, trembling in the cold, skin dark with stains of blood beneath her torn robe. A thud came down and she screamed, calling his name. Singird sat up, catching his breath. Drowsily, he stumbled out of his room, to the landing providing view of the lower floors. Spilled liquor, one man cracking his fists, another lying face to a pillar. A circle of people around them, waiting for what was to come. Singird rubbed his head.

Locking his door, he threw a blanket over the whole of his person, pressing it to his ears. But the thuds continued, bringing images he was too afraid to look at, but even more afraid to chase away. Exhausted, he left his bed before sunrise for a sip of fresh air.

The city was quiet, with only the guards in red roaming the streets to maintain order. He wandered from one tall building to another, absorbing the quiet while admiring their sturdy stone walls, roofs that had been designed for the moss that now covered them and ancient gables tastefully divided in two by ornate wooden beams. In the distance, he could see the Blue Palace, its lustrous azure domes contrasting the greyness of the morning sky.

He passed the morning in silent meditation, waiting for the streets to slowly fill. He watched as merchants carried their goods to the market, filling it with various scents of fruits, pastries and meats, leathers and linens, even soil and seedlings. He did not need to find his way to the Imperial headquarters as he saw several men in red uniforms, the Imperial dragon embroidered on their chests, march up the steep path zigzagging to the top of a terrace. Casually as he could, he followed them through a massive stone archway to a vast plaza enclosed with walls and buildings from every side. The men dispersed to their positions, relieving others after their night shift.

Just to his left loomed a small fortress dominated by a round tower with its tip pointing to the skies. That was Castle Dour, currently home to the Skyrim’s branch of the Imperial Legion. Singird’s eyes found its door under the crimson Imperial banner. Two guards were standing at its sides, hands over their chest in a would-be threatening posture. Singird assessed his options. The city was peaceful. The morning welcomed it with its usual murmurs and people running back and forth, minding their own business. There were no signs of war, no signs of anything bothersome. And the guards looked bored.

He sighed as he slowly approached them, betting in his mind against the odds of having his pride shattered by the two men seeking purpose in guarding a door that likely went untouched for days. He opened his mouth to address them, but before he could utter a word, the guard on the left let out a snort, gazing somewhere past Singird.

“Tirrus, weren’t you supposed to have a night shift?”

Singird glanced over his shoulder to see two other uniformed men, panting as they ran to where he stood. One of them carried a helmet under his arm, long dark wavy hair heavy with sweat. As he came to a halt a few steps from Singird, he wiped his brow clean, taking a few breaths to calm his heaving chest. The second guard followed him, not bothering to take down his own helmet.

“I was,” the dark-haired man uttered with a shaky nod, “but I have news for General Tullius.”

“You know the General doesn’t wish to be…”

“Oh, he’ll wish to see this,” the man waved his hand. He glanced back to the archway as if expecting someone to chase after him. “There’s been… an attack on one of our supply ships. They took down the whole crew. Not a single man left alive, security included. The docks are upside down.”

The two guards by the door suddenly snapped to attention. “Divines preserve us. Which ship was it?”

“The Wintebreath. Didn’t know the Stormcloaks used mages to do their dirty work.” He spat on the ground in a gesture of distaste.

Singird felt all color leave his face. The Winterbreath… and a magical killer. This was his doing. Not only had he killed people on his way to Solitude, now people were dying for just talking to him. Whoever was after him, they were desperate to find him. Desperate enough to involve the Legion. Or perhaps this served in their favor. Perhaps this was their power play, a game to show him how far they could go. And if this was related to Yrith…

He clenched his fists, forcing his knees to stand firm. He could not let the moment pass. Not now.

He took a breath.

“Please,” he said, painfully aware of how unnaturally raspy his voice sounded, “take me with you to General Tullius. I know of this incident. I was on that ship last night.”

All four guards raised their brows, suggesting silently to take the joke elsewhere. Singird fought not to look away. This would be a long day.

Chapter 19: Seed of Hate

Chapter Text

“Indeed, and I was bedding Jarl Elisif last night. So please, give regards to my wife for me.”

Singird stared at the gatekeeper before him. Droopy eyes watched him from under the Imperial helmet, contemptuous smirk playing on his lips. Boredom was written all over his face as he leaned lazily to the wall behind him. The recent news did not seem to tear him out of his state of lethargy. Singird sighed. Of course it would not be that easy, even if consequences played in his favor. But he was not just any local jester to be driven off that easily.

“I have things to share with the General.”

“Well, whaddya know,” the other guard snorted, picking his nose as if it was a part of the local bon ton. “Another youngling craving attention.”

Patience, Singird told himself as he forced his eyes to stay on the guards, suppressing a twitch in his mouth at the sight. They are enjoying the distraction. “Please, at least hear me out.”

“Sure, what is it? Have you lost your mommy?”

“I can…”

“Stop. All of you.” Everyone turned to the man previously addressed as Tirrus as he raised his hand. The guards snapped to attention instinctively. Singird knew instantly that this man held a higher position within the Legion. He carried himself with pride and authority, like a lion watching his coalition. “If this young man claims to know something about the Winterbreath incident, we have to give him a hearing. The situation is dire. We lost at least two dozen of men. I will go speak to the General. You, sir, please be so kind as to wait here. I will get back to you shortly.”

Singird felt a wave of gratitude toward the man. He hinted a curtsy, watching him vanish in the depths of the castle. The three remaining guards exchanged sour looks, muttering something under their breaths. Singird felt hot in the cheeks just by hearing the words they spouted. He turned away, scanning the perimeter.

There was nothing to truly admire about Castle Dour. The sturdy stone walls had been built with protection in mind, lacking in beauty and color. The central plaza held no trees or plants, no doubt to eliminate the possibility of fire spreading from the fire ring in its middle. Training dummies were lined along the wall opposite to the main castle entrance, their skin of linen torn, revealing tufts of hay. The area around them swarmed with trainees assaulting them as if they were facing their mortal enemies, the only source of entertainment for the local guards. One swing of the sword after another, day by day, they would stand here, watching the same play and wondering when the war would come to them. Singird scowled to himself. He did not envy these men. But neither did he wish to be the harbinger of death just for the sake of distraction, as he now was.

“Come with me, sir. The General will see you now.”

Singird turned back to see Tirrus’s head pop out of the door. The gatekeepers watched him intently, and he could almost taste their jealousy as he followed his guide inside. Cold gripped him as the entered the main corridor, dark, the only light coming in through the doors of the adjacent rooms. It led them to a room with a long table in its middle, covered almost entirely by a map. Tiny flags were jabbed into it at different places, some red and some blue. Over the map stood a man in red-gold armor, propped against the table on his steel-hard muscular arms. When Tirrus and Singird entered the room, he raised his head. Hazel eyes watched Singird from a scarred face, hard as iron and rough as the Skyrim winter. They slowly slid from his boots to his silver robe, freezing momentarily at the moon-shaped amulet around his neck. Then they found Singird’s eyes, focusing on them keenly. Singird fought not to avert his gaze.

“I have brought him, General. This is…”

“Larkwing,” the General breathed before Singird could utter a word, standing to full height. “The junior. I should have known.”

Tirrus stared at Singird, taking a step back as though he was expecting Singird to bite him. “He is?”

“The pleasure is mine, General,” Singird said, bowing to show proper etiquette. Tullius gave a mirthless smile. Shadows danced on his face in the light of a candle, making his scars seem like gaping jaws. Singird had the feeling that if he tried punching that face, his fist would break into a thousand shards. Never in his life had he felt so small.

“Well well. You look like your father, you act your father… and I reckon you even have the same bloody sense of honor.”

“Like every Nord out there, sir.”

“Indeed.” Tullius circled the table. Singird could notice a slight, almost imperceptible limp in his step, likely remnants of an old injury. The man stopped inches from him, studying him closely. He smelled of steel and fire, of the war that he waged. Singird stood with his feet frozen to the ground, too afraid to step back. “I did not like that man. Of all people, he was the one to always remind me of my limits.”

The words were spoken with strange affection, ice-cold on the surface, yet with a hint of warmth on the inside. Singird would have liked to know more, to spend the whole day listening to stories about the parents of whom he did not know nearly enough. But he had a purpose, and this was a test of his own will.

“I am not my father, General,” he said quietly. “And I come with news. And… a plea.”

“If it is the same thing your late father asked for, then the answer is still no. Tirrus.”

“Yes, sir?” The man straightened at the sound of his voice.

“We are leaving for the ship.”

Singird stared at him in unconcealed astonishment. Was this a test? Or was he being rejected before he could even state his purpose?

“General…”

“You don’t mind waiting for me here while I look into this… predicament, do you, young Larkwing?”

General Tullius did not even wait for a word from Singird. He limped into the corridor, waving at Tirrus to follow him. The latter gave Singird a quick bow before excusing himself. Singird heard a low chatter until the door shut behind them with a loud thud. For a while, he kept staring in their direction, waiting for the General to change his mind. But only silence followed, interrupted by nothing but the quiet crackling of the candles raised in the chandeliers around the room. Singird sighed.

Following the General’s footsteps, he made for the door. As he reached for the handle, a guard appeared from one of the neighboring rooms, lowering his head in respect.

“Sir,” he said, hiding his intent behind a mask of sheer politeness, “if you would not mind waiting for the General within the castle. He would see you upon his return.”

So he was being tested. And closely watched by someone who was no mere guard, judging by his choice of words. Very well. Why not play into the General’s hand when it was convenient?

He gave a nod. “I was, in fact, looking for you,” he said with an enigmatic smile. “Or, any person of interest. Could I ask for a cup of tea?”

“Certainly. I will have it brought to you right away. The reception room is to the right of the antechamber at the end of this corridor. Make yourself at home.”

“Thank you. I intend to do that.” It was exactly what Singird did not intend to do.


The tea did not make Singird happy. It was bitter and muddy, not unlike the one served by Phinis Gestor. Singird wondered if it had been made so to make him feel discomfort, or just because tea preparation did not fall into the scope of a soldier’s training. He waited in silence, looking out of the window as the sun rose higher to the azure skies. Time passed and somewhere out there, Yrith was waiting for him. He moved in his chair, hands clenching into fists in his lap, then loosening, then clenching again. The General had his priorities, he was aware. But it did not make him feel better. He could hear the voice in his head far too well in the silence, prodding, whispering, showing images he did not wish to see. He could not turn away from that face that cried tears of blood. It was carved into his mind, haunting him ever since he had seen the battlefield. What if he would not make it? What if he only found her corpse? Would he ever be able to forgive himself?

He felt his chest tighten. His hand rose to support it when he heard footsteps, soon followed by the General’s face in the doorway.

“I am honored to see our guest stay,” he said, but there was not a hint of respect in his voice. A woman followed him into the room, a sturdy warrior like none Singird had ever seen. She was not muscular or big in size, she was simply so hard on the look he immediately wished he would never have to fight her. Her eyes and the straight, firm posture with which she carried her heavy scaled armor spoke of great strength. Her hands were big and ready to grab the sword she was carrying at her side. Her copper hair flew freely about her head, but Singird could guess by its thinness how much of her life it had spent confined under a helmet. Tullius moved aside to make passage for her.

“This is Legate Rikke,” he said as he gestured toward her. “She was a good friend to your father. Today, she will be keeping us company.”

The Legate nodded, elegant in her step despite her armor. When she spoke, her voice was razor-sharp and hard like a diamond.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Larkwing. General Tullius says you come with news on The Winterbreath.”

Singird rose to meet her eyes. She spoke straight to the point, true to her warrior nature. Yet she was the only one here to call him a Master. He took a moment to size her up, but she remained the solid rock she was.

“I do,” he said cautiously.

“Then let us hear it.” Tullius nestled himself comfortably in one of the chairs. “The ship was plundered of all cargo. We lost more than just men.” He motioned to Legate Rikke to join him by the table, but she only shook her head, leaning her back against the wall, watchful like an eagle.

Singird frowned. Surely whoever attacked that ship had not come there for cargo. The General watched him intently, examining every muscle in Singird’s face. Singird stared back.

“But I suppose whoever did it, they wouldn’t have massacred the whole crew had they only come for the cargo, would they?” He sank to his chair, eyes still locked in the battle of wills with the General. Tullius let out a snort.

“That is what you ought to tell us. Tirrus said you claim to have been on that ship last night. What were you doing on a supply ship anyway?”

The voice of General Tullius was not kind. Despite the allegiance of Singird’s parents, he did not express the least bit of trust. In his mind, Singird went over every strategy he could use against him. Convincing him to save Yrith might not be as simple as he had thought. He looked into those hazel eyes, trying to read them, but they were dark as the deepest well, concealing every thought, every motive. The General put his hands behind his head, a gesture that clearly showed who was home here. Singird took a sip from his cup to gain himself time to think, suppressing a scowl at its muddy flavor.

“I needed quick transport to Solitude. I sought to avoid the swamps of Morthal and the Captain was willing to give me a lift. But I was followed. On the way to Dawnstar, I fought five mages, three of which I managed to take down.” Singird fell silent. It still sounded ridiculous. He, killing people. He did not feel guilt. But the burden of murder weighed on him nonetheless.

“Three out of five? All alone?”

“Not exactly. A cliff was involved. And likely Lady Luck as well.”

“He even fights like his father,” Legate Rikke remarked with a hint of smile on her lips. Just for a moment, the mask of stone melted into affection before her face hardened once more.

“That he does,” Tullius supposed, his voice quiet and thoughtful. “But that brings me to the question of his purpose. Your dealings are of no concern to me, Sir Larkwing, but if The Winterbreath’s crew was annihilated by the same person who follows you, then you have quite a powerful enemy. An enemy who is not afraid of wiping out an entire ship of Imperial cargo. This unsettles me.”

“And rightly so. I come to plead for the lives of three children the College of Winterhold has lost in the recent battle near Saarthal. Word has it that your men took them away.”

Tullius and Rikke exchanged silent looks. For just a split moment, Singird could swear he saw a shadow of worry in both of their faces, along with something else he could not name, but it passed as soon as it came. Tullius leaned over the table, lacing the fingers of both his hands together. He rested his chin on them, his gaze sharp and piercing. The test was over. Now it was an interrogation. Despite himself, Singird felt sweat surface on his forehead.

“Truly,” the General uttered quietly. “And just why would they do such a thing?”

The air felt heavy in Singird’s lungs, and the midday sun burned his skin through the window. How much could he reveal? Could he be sure that his words would not send Yrith straight to Oblivion? But even if he lied here, his deceit would be exposed eventually. How much did he know already? He would have at least known what had transpired in that battle, would he not?

“Perhaps,” he said, “because one of those children is the daughter of Selas Travi. But Selas Travi died in that battle. Unless there is some additional value to his daughter, I cannot assume their motives.”

The lull was longer this time, and now Singird was certain he saw surprise in the face of Legate Rikke. General Tullius sat still as a statue, but there was a glint of inner struggle in his eyes. Singird smiled to himself. At least there was something the elves had taught him. Humans could never surpass them in terms of hiding their emotions.

“His daughter, huh. How did they even happen to be there?”

“It seems Leyna Travi left the College in search of her father and took the other two along.”

Tullius gave a slow nod. “Say, Sir Larkwing. Your institution, the College of Winterhold… if memory serves me right, it has no political ties, correct?”

“Correct.”

The General fell back into his seat, but his raptor gaze did not change. “Let me just briefly sum up your situation. Some two years ago, the first magical murder occurred. It led to a chain of murders across all of Skyrim, all done by magic, all in the same manner. The jarls who, until then, supported this institution of knowledge greatly, ceased their donations and left it in a desperate situation. From there, the only option would be to ensure a stable income. And who else could provide that but the nobility? But the nobility, Sir Larkwing, is always partial and always has a motive. Even when it comes to sending their children to a gods’ forsaken school. Now, wouldn’t it be very convenient if some of them were kidnapped by the Imperial army? Here’s a target to point your finger at. Handy that. Just like a series of mysterious murders that were so clearly done by magic that even the most uneducated peasant would notice. One would say that a true mage would want to hide the method, would they not?”

“What are you implying, sir?”

“Now if I were to be like the rest of the local folk, I would accuse you of killing off an entire ship crew and raising a false charge against the Legion. Someone out there would benefit from this for sure. But that someone is a threat to the Legion as well. I will help you find your students, Sir Larkwing, but I need to hear everything. Including that tiny little bit that you keep avoiding at all costs.”

“You mean to tell me that it was not your men who took them?”

Tullius gave him a look that would freeze a fire atronach. “That is irrelevant.” To his side, Legate Rikke shifted her weight.

“General…”

“No, Rikke. I know what you want to say, and the answer is no.”

“But General, he deserves to know the truth.”

Singird raised his head to meet Rikke’s gaze. She could not hide the gentleness that crept into her hard face. What was this truth she was speaking about?

“Rikke, from now on you are only here for recording. You will not interfere with the discussion.”

“Duly noted, sir, but this could actually serve to our advantage.” The Legate stood proud, not afraid to look the General straight in the eye from the height of her head. He scrutinized her from below, leaning into the backrest of his chair and letting out something between a sigh and a snort.

“No, it will not. It is your bloody Nord honor speaking from you, Legate. I ask you to get rid of it.”

“But Ranmar Larkwing…”

“Not another word, Legate.”

Singird followed the line between the two of them with his eyes, sensing but a tiny spark of conflict. There was trust between them, warm like the sunlight caressing the cold drops of morning dew. He was more than certain that General Tullius had a good reason for taking the Legate with him. Perhaps there was no conflict whatsoever. Perhaps he was still being tested after all. But he could not pass on this chance.

“Might I inquire what it is that I should know?” he said, his voice brimming with invitation. Tullius rubbed his chin, taking his time to reply.

“You may, and I will not answer. Not before you put in your share.”

“By which you mean…?”

Tullius let out a weary breath. “This discussion doesn’t lead anywhere. I can sense that you don’t trust me, Sir Larkwing. But you will have to if you plan to rely on my aid. There is more about this whole incident. Something that you are not telling me. Where were we? Yes, the students. So one of them is the daughter of Selas Travi. But as you said, Selas Travi is dead and that renders her useless. It would be more than simple to kill three children in a battle. But they were taken away instead. Alive, I presume. So… who are the other two?”

Over the course of the conversation, the General’s face had barely changed. Singird now understood how he had claimed his position. He was perceptive, shrewd, merciless. The perfect combination that would get him anywhere he wanted. And he knew exactly what sort of tone to adopt when he spoke to a Larkwing. Singird felt cornered. Surely he could trust the General. So why was it suddenly so immensely difficult to give Yrith away?

“A Dunmer boy from Morrowind named Cain Aldaryn and a girl from Winterhold who is not of noble birth.”

“Aldaryn. I’ve heard that name before.”

“The Aldaryns had a say in the Elder Council before it was compromised at the beginning of the fourth era,” Legate Rikke said. She smiled lightly at Tullius’s knit brows, challenging him with her disobedience. “But I only know that from the chronicles. There are no records of their current activities. At least not in our archive.”

“I see. Then it does not help much. I am afraid, Sir Larkwing, that the information you have provided is not sufficient.”

“How is it not sufficient?” Singird asked quietly, fighting the urge to clench his fists. “I have told you what I know. If you can’t save our students, then tell me so and I shall leave.”

“I may have a way, and true, what you say may just be enough to send out scouts and find your lost students. However, think of this as a bargain. This costs me resources that I am not willing to sacrifice unless the Legion gains from it. Do not let your father’s heritage appease you, Sir Larkwing. I hold his memory in high regard, but in this world, we all need to tread our own path. You stand before me as yourself, not as your father. I owe you nothing. So either we find common ground, or we each go our way. The choice is yours.”

Singird stood up, lowering his head but refraining from bowing entirely. Who was this man to talk to him like that? How could he ever rely on him? How could he let Yrith rely on him? Would he not lift a finger for anyone if it was not in the favor of the Legion?

“And here I thought the Legion served the people of the Empire,” he said, venom dripping from his voice.

Tullius sighed and opened his mouth to speak. But before he could utter a word, a knock came on the door, and all three, the General, the Legate, and the Master, turned their gazes after the sound.

“Come in,” Tullius said.

The door revealed a helmetless freckled man, Nord by the looks of it. He entered the room and bowed to the General, oblivious to Singird and Rikke. “Falk Firebeard wants to see you, sir.”

“Tell him I’ll be right there.” Tullius rose to his feet, turning to Singird. “My time is scarce, Sir Larkwing. Come see me again tomorrow morning. Think upon my words. I believe there are things we have yet to discuss. Legate, please see young Sir Larkwing to the door.”

With that, the General took off, leaving the two of them to their thoughts. Rikke watched his shadow disappear in the antechamber, struggle painting wrinkles on her face.

“Do not think badly of General Tullius,” she said. “He stands before a difficult choice, and these times do not permit to trust easily.”

“Then he should have said so.”

Rikke chuckled quietly. “But he did, did he not? You are fortunate, Master Larkwing. Most don’t get to hear what the General really thinks.” She trod to the antechamber, motioning for Singird to follow. “In fact, most don’t get to talk to him at all.”

They left the room. Singird did not regret not finishing his tea. He had left it there as a sign of his host’s inhospitality. Legate Rikke led him straight to the entrance, bowing slightly as she placed her hand on the door handle.

“I suppose we will see each other again. Now to go record everything as it must be.” She sighed, glancing over her shoulder. Then her voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper. “I am not good with papers like your father was. The archive is such a dreary place. The whole third floor is. I think the soldiers hate it too. No wonder the night shifts ditch it for a drink in the Skeever. All except Tirrus, but he’s been busy in the docks lately.” She gave a cryptic smile, opening the door for him. “Good day, Master Larkwing.”

And she was gone.

Singird gazed into the dark of the corridor as the door shut behind her, mindless of the two guards that stared at him from his sides, not bothering to contain their yawns and snorts. He had never imagined Rikke being that garrulous. Perhaps it was her affection to Singird’s parents. Or perhaps, Singird thought as he walked away, it was something entirely different.

He stopped a few paces from the archway connecting the plaza with the main street, turning back to the castle. His eyes slid over its sturdy walls, up to the third level of windows. To his delight, the fortification wall reached straight up to it. Even from here he could spot several stairways leading up there. He smiled inwardly. He would make sure to thank the Legate properly when he had the chance.


The Winking Skeever was surprisingly quiet during the day. Singird used the chance to make up for lost sleep from the night that had kept him awake. As he lay in his rented bed, smelling of furs and feathers, the whispers from downstairs made his eyes heavy like a quiet lullaby. The breeze sang gently through the open window, shrouding him in darkness. For a moment, there was absolute silence. Then, he emerged from it, his soul ripped off from his chest. The wind carried him through the clouds, far above, until it ceased to blow. Singird was falling, down into the depths, cold air freezing his soul, until he was caught again, rising and sinking with every flap of the giant wings.

His carrier was a giant gold eagle, gliding on the currents of the wind with absolute ease. It carried him far across the mountain ridges, presenting to him the vast land of snow and tundra grasses. But far in the distance, dark plumes were rising to the skies. Singird heard cries, both brave and terrified, and as they approached, men fell under him like a house of cards, staining the land in red. Heavy stench scorched his nostrils, and the air grew dark. Further along, a city fell to dust under the blazing flames of Oblivion. Men and women and children, all cried, all wept for their lost hope.

Singird was dropped to walk on his own, to feel the fire burn his cheeks. The world was crumbling around him, but still, people rose and fought, only to fall again, lost in an endless circle of despair. Their wounds contorted and decayed, but even then, they would not find their peace, as though an invisible force lifted them on their feet, freeing them of their sanity. He trod slowly through the dying land, finding a solitary mound. A statue had been raised there, its head laying in its feet. And just before it knelt a woman, deep in prayer.

There was laughter, first quiet, then it gained on strength. A demon emerged from the flames, and as Singird looked at him, he froze in horror. The demon had no face. Only darkness gaped at him, deep and empty. The beast loomed above the woman, crooked talons rising to sink into her. She turned a desperate gaze to Singird and he felt his heart stop. Silver eyes stared at him, pleading, glistening with silent tears.

He ran to her, breathless, mindless of the heat and the gusts of wind that whipped his arms and singed his face. As the demon plunged itself into attack, he pushed her away, taking her place. The woman cried, reaching out her hands. Singird gasped as the claws tore his soul apart, bit by bit, and the blue of his magic mingled with the red of his blood. Pain, pain was everywhere. He could not cry out, his breath had been stolen. Everything blurred and faded. Everything but her cries. Then he looked above at the beast that was leaning over him, tasting his flesh, and the sight made him forget the pain. The demon wore his own face.


Singird sat up with a gasp, eyes snapping open at once. Breathing heavily, he took a while to just sit there, let the tension flow away on the rays of moonlight passing through the open window. Thuds and cries carried from the outer corridors of the inn, speaking of guests in high spirits, perhaps the liquid ones too. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, exhaustion weighing on him almost as much as before he had laid himself to sleep. Gathering all his willpower, he forced himself on his feet, draping a woolen cloak over his shoulders.

Tossing a few coins to the bartender for his second night, he passed through the inn as casually as he could, entering the cold night. Two drunk soldiers almost collided with him, voices rising in a very off-key version of The Age of Aggression which would surely make any bard from the local college pale with distaste. Singird picked up his pace, not eager to listen to whatever they yelled after him. As he neared the archway to the training grounds, he scanned his surroundings. Not a soul around, or so it seemed. He confirmed with a few inconspicuous detection spells before making himself properly muffled and invisible. In the pale light of the moons, he was nearly undetectable without magic.

On his way up to the fortification wall, he avoided a guard, lazily waving a torch to pretend caution. There was another one just before the entrance to the third floor, but fortunately, he was pacing back and forth over the wall, eyes fixed mostly on the possible entrances. Naturally, no one expected an invisible intruder. Singird pressed himself to the door and waited, following the guard’s trail with his eyes until he was far enough to not hear the door open. And just when the guard gazed down into the distance, he slipped quietly inside the castle, finding himself in an unlit corridor. He cursed under his breath. Night eye was a spell he had never mastered.

He checked with detect life again to find the closest person a floor lower. Legate Rikke was right. The guards truly did not enjoy staying here. As his frame materialized out of the thin air, he pulled his moon-shaped necklace from under his robes, watching its typical turquoise glow. It helped little with the surrounding darkness, but at least Singird now knew where he was placing his steps. He checked one room after another, treading lightly on the planked floor, confirming from time to time that he had no company. On his way, he discovered a deserted dormitory, a dining room, a small armory and something he would call an indoor garden with various plants and fungi lining the walls if his eyes did not deceive him. At last, at the very end of the corridor, he finally opened a vast room that welcomed him with the heavy scent of dust and paper. After one last check, he dared light it with magic, staring at lines of shelves, bookcases, and a few desks at the center of the room, all buried under piles of books, scrolls, and various documents. Everything was covered in dust, from the floor and lacquered red wood to the last inch of paper.

Singird knit his brows. What blasphemy to treat books this way.

Containing the urge to sweep the dust away, he followed the only pair of footprints in it to a remote half-empty shelf filled with various volumes tied in a very disorderly manner. Singird frowned at the pages, creased and overlapping at their ends, before he took one that stuck out from the line.

Markarth Incident Report, the title said, scribbled likely in haste. The document summarized Ulfric Stormcloak’s raid on Markarth, how he had overthrown the rule of the Reachmen and killed every single of their supporters. Singird held a hand to his mouth as his eyes scanned over the list of atrocities that had taken place there, the torment of women and children alike. It had been proven that at least half of those rumors and testimonies were false, but that did not justify the other half. Ulfric was certainly not the people’s jarl. He was ruthless and stopped at nothing to have his own way.

With a sigh, he put the report away. This would not help him.

He took another volume. East Empire Company: Clearance, 4E 203 Sun’s Dawn. Of course the East Empire Company prospered the further the war dragged on, even if they tried to claim otherwise. The Legion needed supplies and there were always citizens to extort from. He returned the book to its place with a snort, not bothering to open it.

One after one he went through the volumes and scrolls, finding various reports from battles, secret or not so secret letters, dossiers, lists, memoirs, and some old battle plans and strategies. But there was no mention of any battle near Winterhold, nor could he find a file on Selas Travi. After a while of fruitless searching, Singird shifted his weight nervously, taking a glance at the door. Quietly as he could, he cast a detection spell, but he was still the only person on the entire floor. He took a breath and returned to the texts, invisibility spell at the ready lest someone try to enter the room.

He frowned. The reports he was now browsing were more than a year old. He had doubts he would find anything useful there, but he refused to give up. There had to be a reason why Legate Rikke had pointed him here. Unless she wanted to drive him into a corner. He shook his head, refusing to consider it an option. His hand fumbled almost automatically for the next book. Opening it, he stared at the title, expecting another accounting book or some ancient battle report. But as his eyes found the name under it, he froze.

Case F Suspects
Reporter: Ranmar Larkwing
4E 202, 16th Second Seed

The document contained a list of names and a letter. As Singird opened it, he recognized his father’s thin neatly aligned script, not unlike his own.

Dear General,

Upon the request of Legate Rikke, I am sending you the list of the Case F suspects. These names have been gathered after a thorough investigation. The list is likely incomplete but even I am not foolish enough to accuse people based on groundless assumptions. You can find my notes on each of them at the end of this document with references to the recent events. I have placed citations from several reports in the text. All of them can be found in section F in the old archive.

Despite all this, I ask that you treat these people fairly. They have been deceived and completely unaware of their own circumstances. On my next visit to Solitude, I would like to schedule a meeting with you regarding the source of this deceit. I dare not speak of this openly as the knowledge could fall into the wrong hands. I strongly advise you to consider the suggestion I gave you on our last meeting. Please, do not overlook this matter. I believe we share the same interest.

Yours,
R. Larkwing

Singird stared at the document, unmoving, lost in thought. So his father had found something. If the feeling that his death was no coincidence had been a mere hunch before, now he was certain. His father had made a discovery for which he had been willing to break his neutrality. Just what could it have been?

He sifted through the attached reports on various people, most describing their actions and strategies in battles and political dealings. At the bottom of the very last one, he could see a scribbled note. Castle Dour: Section F, Intelligence Division, Part III.

He looked over the room, eyes sliding over the old, dusty furniture. In the other half of the room, several bookcases were marked by letters and numbers engraved in silver plates attached to them here and there. At least something in this place had the proper order. Section F was uncomfortably low, and he had to squat down to reach it. It took him several blind picks before he found the first document of the Intelligence Division, Part III. It was a thick dossier titled The False Imperial Army. He opened it at the first page.

4E 202, 30th Sun’s Dawn: Reports from our scouts and generals repeatedly mention smaller battles and skirmishes that take place in various parts of Tamriel. Lately, there have been many occurrences of these in the province of Skyrim and its borderlands. Specifically in Skyrim, the clashes seem to involve the Stormcloaks and the Imperial Legion, rarely any other party. However, the Generals unanimously deny that they or any of their men have ever taken part in the battles. Many of them seem orchestrated to put the Legion in a bad light and stir hatred within the locals whose families, crops and cattle get decimated.

The term False Imperial Army has become very popular amongst the legionnaires for those who fight falsely in the name of the Legion. However, as these people wear genuine Imperial armor, walk under the Imperial Dragon standard and even know some of the Legion’s strategies, it is strongly believed that they are in fact part of the Legion, traitors who act in favor of the Stormcloaks. The Legion also suspects that they may be a part of a cult as many of them walk into battle knowing that they are not going to return.

These units must be suppressed. They pose a threat to the Imperial campaign and support distrust amongst the people of Skyrim. The White-Gold Tower has sent the Legion to end the terror that has been started by Ulfric Stormcloak. Any obstacle to that must be eliminated at once.

The following pages contain a list of the documented incidents, their reporters and known names of their victims. Any future records will be added to the collection upon their delivery.

Singird felt his hands tremble as he stared at the text before him. Fake battles? False army? Whoever was behind this must have had some unbelievable resources at their disposal. Not to mention their authority. But if that was the case, then who could have taken Yrith? Did General Tullius have any chance of finding her at all? Perhaps the General had not known about the battle or Selas Travi before Singird’s arrival. That would explain the surprise in the face of Legate Rikke. Singird commended the two of them inwardly for the excellent act.

He suppressed the need to sink down on the closest chair and bury his head in his hands. He had to search on, find anything that would lead him to her. What had the captain of The Winterbreath said about his father? That he had stopped some battles from happening?

I strongly advise you to consider the suggestion I gave you on our last meeting…

That was what he had written in his letter. Now he could see the meaning behind the words of General Tullius.

“If it is the same thing your late father asked for, then the answer is still no.”

Of course. The only logical suggestion in this situation would be for the Legion to officially withdraw from the war. And naturally, General Tullius would not have a word of it. The false army was harming the Legion while a withdrawal would mean clearing the entire field. Who would gain from it? The Stormcloaks? But they hardly had the resources to lead their own campaign, much less form an entire new army, even if from the ranks of the Legion itself. It would require months, or even years of planning, absolute precision and the undying trust of many a Legionnaire. Ulfric could hardly afford it. Unless...

Singird frowned. Unless he had an ally that would grant him the power to do so. What a powerful ally it must have been. And Singird could only think of one that fit into the picture.

But then Toddvar must have known. If the False Imperial Army had anything to do with the Stormcloaks, then why would he allow them to abduct Yrith? Good old Toddvar, a friend of his for years, friend to his parents and friend to…

Singird froze, hands still clutching the book. The light of his magic died out, leaving him in darkness disrupted only by the faint moonlight coming into the archive through the draped window. “Damn it,” he breathed to himself, for once not bothered by his choice of words. “The ignorant fool I have been!”

He recalled Yrith’s words from the morning after the avalanche.

“Even I can recognize the sound of a walking mountain clad in steel when I hear its footsteps.”

But Toddvar? He was not a mage. Or was he? But then how could Drevis Neloren had controlled his mind so easily? Unless he only thought he did, which would be entirely possible for someone who had managed to set Yrith’s atronach against her parents.

Singird thrust the book frantically back to its place on the shelf, lighting another spark to help him find his way to the section on the Stormcloaks. One after another he picked up lists of names, searching until he found him.

Toddvar Ansgarsson. Father: unknown. Mother: unknown. Allegiance: The Stormcloak Rebellion, rank: General. Former allegiance: The Royal Imperial Army, Cyrodiil’s Fourth Infantry Regiment, rank: Captain.

Below was a rather superficial biography along with a list of tactics and weapons Toddvar liked to use. Singird scanned the text, searching for more. Attitude, diplomatic skills, no, no, that was not what he was looking for. How could he even have made it to the Legion, not to mention the Stormcloaks, when his origin was unknown? If there was just one hint, one single clue that would point him in the right direction…

The door slammed open. Singird winced, frozen as he stood face to face with an armored man gripping a torch. The man gave him a triumphant smirk, spending a moment to size Singird up before he entered and sidestepped to make way for the person behind him. Face lit with the flickering flame of a candle he was holding, General Tullius stepped inside. He gave Singird a long, pensive look, finally letting out a sigh.

“So the guards were right. We really had a visitor. To welcome the same guest twice already, to what do we owe the honor?”

His voice was smooth and calm, as though he was only engaging in a weather talk. Singird lay down the book he had been holding, raising his hands in a gesture of resignation. “I missed the place,” he said just for the effect.

“I am pleased our castle brings you such comfort,” Tullius replied in the same manner of affectedness. Then he turned to the man at his side. “Is Rikke here yet?”

“She should be here any moment, General, sir.”

Just as the man finished his sentence, footsteps from the outside announced the arrival of the said Legate. She walked into the room with her head down, eyes devoid of any question or sign of resistance. She stopped just before the General, her voice quiet as she spoke.

“You wanted to see me, General.”

“That I did. Gallin, leave us alone.”

“Sir.” The man bowed and backed away from the room almost reverently, shutting the door behind himself. Tullius waited before the sound of his footsteps faded away in the distance. His eyes found Legate Rikke and his face was one of a father scolding his favorite child after a great disappointment.

“What is the meaning of this, Rikke?”

The Legate raised her head to look him in the eye. Her reply was low and even, the kind that spoke of clear conscience and just intentions. “General… he has the right to know. His parents…”

“For the hundredth time, Rikke, he is not his parents. Obviously, they were decent enough to not even talk to their own son about the Legion matters. And now you’re breaking their pact of loyalty! This could be classified as treason. And you know the price for it.”

The Legate’s look hardened as she straightened to full height. She was smaller than Tullius, staring up at him with glistening eyes, face steel-hard with determination. For a moment, she did not say anything. The two of them stood there, looking at each other, and Singird could only guess their clashing thoughts. Then she spoke in the same unyielding tone as before.

“If I never took any risks, General, I would not be standing here before you. I did what I think is right. I am more than prepared to bear with the consequences. After all, we are in a war. I have been killing my own people for several years now, just to do the right thing.”

“Rikke, you…” the General rubbed his temples, clearly at a loss for words. “Why are you doing this to me? After all this time…”

“We are still serving the people, General,” she added softly.

Singird looked at Rikke with more than appreciation. As she stood there, firm in her conviction, strong, yet delicate and true to herself, he saw a different face. Before him stood Yrith, with her silver eyes gazing up at the General, unyielding even if it took all of her courage. The Yrith who would always fight for the right thing at the risk of losing everything. The Yrith who more than once had chosen the way of her heart before reason, standing strong, yet so vulnerable. A beautiful person with a beautiful heart. He felt his chest tighten. She was waiting for him somewhere out there. She would endure, fight till the very end, never give up no matter how much it hurt. But unlike Rikke, she was fragile… and she could not kill to survive.

In his head, Singird went over the last day, replaying every bit of conversation, every thought he had, rereading the lines that had turned his whole world upside down. Things that had been unclear, things that had confused him or even irked him, they now made perfect sense to him. He stepped forward, clearing his throat to gain the attention of the General and the Legate.

“General Tullius… please, hear me out.”

Tullius sighed, running a hand through his thinned grey hair. “I am listening, but know I am doing you a great favor.”

“And I am grateful.” Singird bowed slightly. “I was reluctant when I first saw you. Just like you, I was not sure where to put my trust. But Legate Rikke helped me understand. Reading some of the local records, I know now where my father stood. And I know where I will stand. I think we could help each other. I will tell you everything I know.”

For just a brief moment, Singird could swear he saw a smile flash over the General’s lips.

“Then let us hear it.”


The tea was warm, a gentle plume of steam rising from it. Singird could notice an apparent increase in quality. This was a Tamriel classic, mountain flowers with dragon’s tongue, and its typical lightly sweet taste sent warmth into his whole body. He sat across General Tullius and Legate Rikke in a small circular room with windows from all sides. The view of the whole Solitude with its elegant spires and timbered gables was breathtaking even in the pale moonlight. Singird could imagine himself spending long hours just gazing into the distance, past the great buildings, to the glistening sea.

But now his attention was on General Tullius who shifted in his seat, resting his chin on his laced fingers.

“Ravencroft,” he mused. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“You have?”

“Not too long ago, actually. A Redguard boy came to visit us about two weeks ago. And he…”

“Redguard? Was his name Qassir Tahlrah by any chance?” Singird felt his hands clench in his lap. The memory of his last encounter with the audacious boy was still vivid in his memory. He burned with rage just remembering that smooth, confident voice.

“Why yes, it was indeed. So you are acquainted?”

“I am.” He could not stop the sting of ice from creeping into his voice. It seemed to amuse Legate Rikke who chuckled softly as she bent down to fiddle with something down by her feet. Both Singird and General Tullius regarded her with raised brows. When she finally emerged from under the table, she was holding a small scroll, extending her hand to pass it to Singird.

“Then I think you should take this.”

The hand of General Tullius shot up to stop her. “What is this and why do I have no knowledge of it?”

“The boy gave this to me before his departure,” she gave a light shrug. “He told me to give it to the right person. ‘You will know when they appear,’ he said. Now I believe he meant Master Larkwing here. As for what it is… I have no idea. I tried to break the seal,” she gave an apologetic smile, “but no matter what I did, it would not open. Not even the paper would tear apart. Maybe it can only be opened with magic.”

“You people and your magic,” Tullius shook his head. “Very well. Go ahead, Sir Larkwing.”

Singird’s mouth twitched. “You only said that so you could have a peek.”

“Am I that readable?”

“Quite so.”

“You’re the same damn bastard as Ranmar Larkwing was. Go on and open that thing.”

“I hope you did not pull it out of your boot, Legate,” Singird said as he reached for the scroll.

Rikke gave a nonchalant shrug. “I stored it in my dagger scabbard. But if I knew I would be handing it to a Larkwing, I would surely have hidden it close to my sweaty feet.”

Singird took the scroll with a wry smile, inspecting the seal as he let the flickering candlelight fall on it. It looked like a simple wax seal, easy to break, but then Singird noticed its details and froze. The image on it depicted a flask standing on a maple leaf, bearing three letters. AWA.

“What a coincidence,” he muttered to himself sardonically, ignoring the curious looks of his hosts. Just to make sure, he pressed a finger on the seal. Not even the smallest crack appeared on it. He sighed, assaulting it with a thread of magicka. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a thin line of text appeared on the outer side of the paper, and Singird recognized the lavish handwriting of his Redguard student.

I reveal myself when the light of the moon that walks the righteous path touches me.

He frowned. “What kind of riddle is this?”

“What have you found?”

He handed the scroll back to the Legate. She looked at it with knit brows, stroking her chin deep in thought. “I guess it wouldn’t help to try opening it by the window,” she mused. Tullius leaned to her to glance over her shoulder, letting out a snort.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Doubtful, Singird took the scroll to the window and let the moonlight fall upon the seal just to appease them. Again, he tried to break it with both his fingers and magic, but to no avail. It stayed hard as stone, ridiculing him in the way of its creator. He let out a breath, imagining the face of Qassir Tahlrah. What method would the Redguard use to hide what was only meant for a certain person?

“He told me to give it to the right person.”

And if the person was him…

He gave a smile. The answer was surprisingly easy. The AWA surely must have tracked the location of all sorts of magical artifacts. And one of them happened to be his family heirloom.

He took his moon-shaped amulet, sliding a tip of it over the seal as though he wanted to cut it. The fake wax sizzled and dispersed into fine dust, sinking down onto Singird’s robe in a gentle shower. He frowned, almost certain that the Redguard had done this on purpose. As he unrolled the scroll, his eyes found an eagle with wings raised high to the skies, the symbol of the Aldmeri Dominion, the one that adorned every gilded helmet of the elven craftsmanship. The paper creased under the clutch of his hands as he scanned it.

Thalmor Dossier: Toddvar Ansgarsson
Status: Asset, Active, Acting upon the Appointment of the Great Regent
Description: Supreme Commander of the Thalmor Forces, General of the Stormcloak Rebellion, Imperial Legion veteran

Toddvar made the first contact with the Aldmeri Dominion ten years prior to the First War against the Empire, in 4E 161. Ever since then, he has been a valuable asset in planting the seed of distrust amongst the non-elven races of Tamriel. Despite him being a Nord, he showed unprecedented devotion to the elven deities and authorities and exceptional skill in the arcane arts, but also surprisingly vast knowledge of our own tradition. His continuous reports play a major part in developing our strategies. One of his most commemorated feats was bringing Ulfric Stormcloak to us and establishing a long-lasting connection to the Stormcloak Rebellion of Skyrim. Atop of that, he remains influential among the Imperial ranks, granting us nigh absolute control over the Tamrielic lands.

Operational Notes: Direct contact should be avoided, if possible, to ensure the confidentiality of his actions. Toddvar is to maintain balance between the forces of Tamriel at all costs. To all those standing outside, he is an enemy of the Dominion and should be treated as such as long as his influence and our dominance is not harmed. However, as his true motive remains to be unknown, should he display any sign of disloyalty, he is to be disposed of with immediate effect.

Singird felt the time stop as his eyes reached the end of the document. Every expression he had ever seen on Toddvar’s face, every joke that came out of his mouth, perhaps even his partiality for mead, all of them were a lie, a guise to deceive the eyes of everyone around him. But why would he do it? Why would he target his parents and the Ravencrofts?

If he contacted the Dominion in year 161, then he had been serving them for over forty winters. Singird stared at the paper, rereading the text over and over again in disbelief. Even if he looked like a seasoned warrior, there was no way he was that old. Who was he? Who in Oblivion was he?

He felt rage rising in him, filling him with hatred that he had never felt before. He had trusted him. Yrith had trusted him. How many times must she have turned to him with a smile on her lips, unaware of all the atrocities he had done? He wanted more than to just save her. He wanted justice. He wanted to kill. To rip his soul apart like Toddvar himself had done so many times before, so that he would never rise again.

“Sir Larkwing?”

He raised his head to look at the questioning face of General Tullius. Legate Rikke held a hand over his shoulder, likely after a long while of demanding attention from Singird.

“General,” Singird said, trying to suppress the rasp in his voice, “I think you should see this.”

Chapter 20: Dragon’s Call

Notes:

I am freely interchanging the words “cohort” and “battalion” in this chapter. I have no idea what terminology should be used in Skyrim, so I picked whatever seemed convenient. The sizes of these two units are pretty much the same anyway – around 500 men. I also use the term century – information about the number of soldiers in a century differs depending on the source, so in my interpretation, let’s stick to 100 men per century.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

How in Oblivion had it come to this?

Yrith looked around the ravine, above the heads of the thousands of people present. The rock walls enclosed the area, cutting off most escape routes mercilessly, and where there were no rocks, there was a raging river. The sky was dark, massive cumuli rolling in a gathering storm. The ancient crooked pines loomed above like vultures watching out for prey. There was nowhere to run.

And above all, the tenebrous blade stung on her neck, sending a trickle of blood down to her chest. Just how many times in her life had she been this close to death? But there was no escape this time. No Cain to pull her out of the snow, no Qassir to brew her an antidote, no Singird to stand up for her.

How in Oblivion had it come to this?

Ah, yes. She knew. She recalled every single moment of the journey.

A dragon cried above their heads. It sounded so close…

She closed her eyes. If she was to die, she would at least die with a good memory on her mind.


The thought of death had been ever present. It resounded in the dragon roars that every now and then tore through the air. The winds whispered of it as they assaulted the canvas walls of the tent. And it was in the footsteps everywhere around.

They were everywhere. From quiet shuffling to violent thrumming, their sounds mingling together to create a twisted symphony of painful noises. They pierced and pressed from all sides, and she had no power to stop them. She felt the tremble that was not there. Her body did not have the strength to tremble anymore. She could only lie and listen, and hurt with every sound and every shake of the ground.

Yrith had tried everything. They had been on the move, never staying anywhere for more than one night. She had not been fed, nor had anyone given her a semblance of cloth to warm herself. The pain of hunger had kept her awake until it faded into uncomforting emptiness, replaced by the sensation of burning and freezing. When her captors gripped her every morning and slung her mercilessly over the back of a horse, she could not even cry with the agony the impact had brought upon her broken body. Her magic was spent on healing what was left to heal and easing the pain when it came. She had none to spare. Her body was weak. She knew she would not be able to stand, even if by some miracle she managed to rid herself of the glowing barrier and send her magic outside. Erinor had stayed true to his word. He had only left the thinnest strand of life in her, just barely enough for her not to pass on to the other side.

Was this the end?

How many times had she asked this question already? And yet, it never came true. He had always let her rest, gain a feeling of momentary safety. Then, she would hear his elegant gait approach the tent. Every time, his quiet step drowned the stomping of the soldiers, as if trying to unsettle her on purpose. Every time, she could feel her body tense and her breath get stuck in her throat. Every time, she pretended to be sound asleep. It never worked.

The canvas tent door flipped open. A gust of cold tundra air bringing it the smell of upcoming winter, straw, roast and soldiers’ sweat came in and stung on her skin. Yrith had always thought that once her life was in danger, once she would feel a hunger so great her stomach would feel as if stretched over a jagged rock and thirst that would burn her throat with a million of white-hot blades, her other aches would retreat to nothingness. But the cold was still shaking her person, and she could still feel her broken ribs with every breath. There was not a part of her body she could safely focus on. In her mind, she let out a sardonic snort. Erinor must have been very satisfied with his work.

She despised him. She despised him with all she had.

The footsteps approached.


The smell of Erinor’s wine was different from the usual ale and mead carrying from the soldiers’ encampment. The fine fragrance carried to Yrith’s nostrils and filled her with disgust. It was the third night. Third night he was so very comfortable, sitting with his face to her, observing the whole tent from his makeshift seat of logs and linens. At times, a single drop of wine fell on Yrith’s lips with the softest of splashes, as if he was simply careless and laid back. But he wasn’t. Erinor had perfect control over the goblet he was holding. To torment her with the liquid she could not have, burning her chapped skin with booze instead of soothing it with life-giving water, was his daily pleasure.

She suppressed a cry. She did not want Cain to pay the price again.

The wicked elf let out a relaxed sigh. Yrith closed her eyes, trying to drown in the darkness that spread around her, enter a world where he could not touch her. It embraced her sweetly, inviting. She was so tired.

A red bead dripped onto her lips. The illusion shattered. Reality paralyzed her once more.

She opened her eyes again. His face was just above hers, staring down at her in feigned sympathy. She fought not to glare.

“Soon, little Yrith,” he spoke, quiet voice still razor sharp in her ears. “Justice will be done.”

On the other side of the tent, Cain let out a snort. Yrith froze inside. He still fought. While Leyna did her best to stay silent and invisible, Cain would use every opportunity to show their captor what he thought of him. Every opportunity to get himself beaten and hurt all over. He coped with the pain in silence, an occasional heave the only thing to barely satisfy the elf. With guilt stabbing her chest, Yrith wondered how many bones in his body had been broken beyond repair. But Erinor was careful not to kill. He always would, until Yrith’s time came.

He rose and crossed the tent. Yrith’s hands weakly clenched into fists, body tense with anticipation. The elf laughed.

“You are so naïve in your affection, young Aldaryn. If only you knew.”

“Knew what?” Cain spat. “That you’re a pitiful creature that has never been cared for?”

“And what about you? Are you being cared for?” Erinor’s voice was almost compassionate. Silk sliding over a body and leaving it exposed. A flower petal falling on the cold ground. And under it was a blade, cutting a clear line in them.

“Whatever. You don’t even know the meaning of your own question. Heartless bastard.”

The elf let out a cold chuckle.

“The Ravencrofts do not care for anyone. They never have… and they never will. You are deluded. Little Yrith… this… abomination. She has no feelings. Not for you. Not for anyone else.”

Abomination… again.

“But she is different and you know it. Let us handle her.”

The chains chattered. Cain huffed and snarled, like a wild wolf kept in a cage.

“Take it back, you s’wit! Take it back!”

“Take what back? That she does not care? Did that hurt your feelings?”

Yrith gritted her teeth, stopping the words from leaving her mouth. She wanted to shout at the man. To tell him to torment her alone, in some remote cave where no one will hear. But she knew he was waiting for just that. For any impulse to break another bone of Cain’s and make her feel guilty for it. She stayed quiet, invisible, listening to another chuckle of his. She hated the sound of his voice.

“I wonder if you’ve heard of the institution for which her parents worked.”

There was a quiet harrumph.

“The Association of Wizards and Alchemists… such an innocent name, is it not?” Erinor circled the tent, his pace relaxed and carefree. For a slight moment, he stopped by Yrith. She tensed, but he only returned to Cain’s side, kicking some dirt into her face on his way, pretending to have tripped. “And with a noble cause too. To keep the world safe from harm. But like so many others, they realized there is only one way to do that.”

He sipped from his goblet and let the question linger. Cain was not saying anything anymore. Yrith wished she could see his face. But she was too weak, and even if she had not been, the punishment for moving her body would be severe.

“Power… what a great thing to have, isn’t it? Even your family recognizes that, young Aldaryn. Only you are so clueless. Yet, the AWA would give anything for power. And the Ravencrofts were such fine representatives. They had plenty of it. Enough to engage in the AWA’s not so secret mission.

“Tell me, young Aldaryn… do you know where her power comes from?”

Yrith felt herself pale. She wished to disappear. To shut this man down, make the world explode, anything that would stop him from speaking. Cain did not answer. Erinor laughed.

“Of course you don’t. They don’t exactly shout it into the open air. Ah, the sacred, immaculate AWA. Obviously, the only right image of the world is theirs. They think themselves gods… your parents never told you what spellbrewing was, did they?”

Silence. Heavy, suffocating.

“Changing things from within. Altering their essence. What a beautiful craft. You could turn a rock into a soft pillow, you could make gold out of water. An arrow aiming for your heart would dissolve into thin air and your skin would become rock solid so that nothing could even scratch it. You could build a house anew from its own ashes. Tempting, isn’t it? Life would be so much easier with spellbrewing. If so, then why is it not taught at the academies of the arcane arts?”

Erinor paced around the tent in his leisurely tempo, like a wolf casually observing his territory. He stopped inches from Yrith’s head, letting out a mannered sigh.

“Everything comes at a price. For spellbrewing, the formula was simple. Great spells demand great amounts of energy. A volcano, thunderstorms… and when there were none around, perhaps a life or two would suffice.”

Yrith felt her heart stop. No… her parents had not been murderers. They had been wonderful people, full of love…

“But you do not want to depend on the external sources when casting magic, do you? The AWA wanted people with real power. Prodigies… the elite. And if they could change the essence of things, perhaps the same could be done to people.”

Yrith looked up at Erinor, but her vision blurred and went black. It was not true. It could not be true. They could never…

“That gang is still paying good coin to keep you going… she will never be accepted. She will wish she was born to Oblivion instead.”

It was not true! It could not be. She put a shaking hand over her chest, trying to suppress the stabbing pain. The cold air stung in her tightened throat. Erinor’s voice hurt in her ears. Why did it have to be so? Why did she have to be different? Why couldn’t this end already?

“You lie,” Cain growled, voice hoarse and trembling. “If you think anyone is going to believe this…”

Yrith had thought her tears to have dried up a long time ago. Perhaps it was the magic in her causing them to reappear. The very thing that made her an abomination. She felt them meander over her face, drip down along her ears. Inadvertently, she let out a sob.

“Yrith…” Cain’s voice was so distant, fuzzy. “You can’t believe him! He’s lying to you! He’s lying!”

“But you do not believe in your own words, young Aldaryn,” Erinor said in that sweet voice of his. “Her tears only confirm that I am right, and you know it. Think on it. Think on it well.”

There was quiet. The outside world had plunged into darkness as the night claimed it. The distant crackling of bonfires was drowned in Yrith’s quiet sobs.


Footsteps. Loud and thunderous, stomping the soaked ground, resounding amidst the falling rain. The tent roof did not entirely protect them from the water. It was everywhere, smelling fresh with new grass, and rotten with life dying in the dirt. It pricked with every raindrop and splashed with every footstep. The sound was everywhere, soothing, drowning the world in a softly humming haze. Taking away the agony brought upon by Yrith’s own thoughts.

Somewhere in the middle of the stomps, there was the sound of soft gait. Not Erinor’s elegant step, but a sneaky one, cautious and measured. It went around in wide circles, just like Nirn circling the Sun, slowly, patiently coming closer and closer. Something soft followed them, brushing the grass where it grew. A tail, perhaps?

A sound that brought comfort. Yrith closed her eyes. There was no voice spouting lies to upset her and no wine dripping on her face. Only the steps and splashes. She let them fill her head and chase away her turbid thoughts.


“Wake up,” a voice said. The rain obscured its sound, already quiet and indistinct. She had not heard it before, but it was no doubt a Khajiit voice. She heard the typical cat-folk smile from it. She smelled spices and perfumes from the far south, just like back in Daggerfall. From the distance, she recognized the smell of sweat and ale. Only then she realized she heard snoring from where her two guards, Arius and Silvio, were seated. “Wake up, little cub.”

A hand slid over her face, soft, covered in fur. Gentle. Almost caring. She allowed herself to open her eyes.

In the fading, red-tinted light, she could see a cat. Eyes of light blue and green stared at her, one amid the field of dark silver, the other marked by a white spot spanning from the same white muzzle. He seemed smiling, just like all his kinsmen, but his eyes did not. His furry hand brushed over her forehead.

She opened her mouth to ask a question, but the sound got stuck in her throat. She had been deceived before. What guarantee did she have that he was not someone sent here by Erinor to raise her hopes, only to shatter them again? She let out a sigh, closing both her mouth and her eyes. The Khajiit stroked her hair.

“S’kharr has seen many broken people, but this one has hope yet. The sands will become warmer. Rise, little one.”

Yrith could feel his hands slide under her. She held her breath, preparing for pain, but only that of her body warning her of changing her position came. He raised the upper part of her body, slowly, methodically, until she was sitting with her back against his chest. She felt heavy and more exhausted than ever, only wishing to fall to sleep. He held her firmly, keeping her from sliding back to the ground.

Down by his waist, buckles rang, and leather brushed over leather. Yrith had no idea how he had managed to unfasten the waterskin he held up and even uncork it. But he had, and now he was holding it to her lips. She frowned, unwilling to just accept the strange gift, but he did not give her a choice. Warm liquid made its way to her throat. It stung on her parched tongue, forcing her to cough. He waited. Silently, patiently, until she caught her breath at last. Then he raised the waterskin again.

It was a soup of sorts. Yrith could taste a mixture of root vegetables and meat, softly blended together in a slightly creamy liquid. Food, after what seemed like eternity. She did not care if it was poisoned or rancid. She gulped too fast and too much, coughing, spitting a great deal of the liquid all over and about. She felt full all too soon, regretting she could not take in more. The effort made her immensely tired, head slumping against the Khajiit’s leather armor. He took the waterskin away, wiping her with tufts of hay from the ground for lack of other means.

“Heal,” he said as he laid her down gently. His eyes smiled as he draped something over her, something she could not see. For a moment, she spotted a strange quiver in the air. She had seen it before, in the room of Drevis Neloren. Chameleon spell. The Khajiit had managed to carry with him an invisible blanket. “The Moons are watching. The dragons will greet the new day.”

Yrith felt the air around her body warm. It almost hurt, burning, sending a tremble through her flesh. She pulled the invisible blanket as close to her skin as her shaky hands allowed her to. Just for a while… just for a little while, she would allow herself to rest. She could hear the Khajiit make his way across the tent, to Cain and Leyna, before her mind wandered off to the dark. The last thing filling her ears was a dragon’s cry in the distance.


“They’re closing in on us. What do we do, Master Erinor?”

“Ignore them and proceed with the plan. Ready my horse.”

“But Master…”

“A dragon or two against an entire unit? Don’t make me laugh. Now get out there and make yourself useful.”

“Yes, Master.”

The voices were sharp and close. Yrith was warm, so warm. Almost too warm. She curled up on the ground, refusing to give up the tiniest bit of that warmth. The canvas door flapped open and a new supply of cold air wrapped around her. She shivered, keeping her eyes closed.

“Get out.” There was no compromise in Erinor’s voice. Yrith held her breath. Arius and Silvio, keeping the night watch, rose, muttering unintelligible sounds under their breaths. Erinor let out a quiet hiss.

“Anything you’d like to share with me?”

“No, sir.” Their voices were trembled. One of them tripped and quickly gathered himself. Yrith could almost smell their fear as they backed out of the tent. It mirrored hers.

Erinor was angry. Yrith could feel it in his voice, in the way he stormed the tent, contrary to his usual composed elegance. Something had happened and she, or Cain and Leyna, were going to pay for it. She heard him rush toward her, kicking the wet soil from the ground. A lump landed on her face and she unwittingly puckered her forehead. He snorted as he sank down to her side.

“You better open your eyes before I do something that not even death will be able to wipe from your memory,” he said quietly.

Yrith opened her eyes instantly. He stared at her, face pale in his conjured magelight, with the usual smirk on his lips, but his eyes were cold like an icy abyss. Yrith’s stomach knotted, and before she knew it, she was backing away, the cuffs around her limbs ringing heavily. For the first time, his smile disappeared.

“What is this?” he whispered as he grabbed the collar of Yrith’s ragged tunic. “You still have the strength to crawl? And this?” he pulled on something invisible that made the air around his hand quiver. “We have gotten ourselves a friend, haven’t we, little Yrith?”

Yrith had almost forgotten. She looked up at her captor, feeling the color retreat from her face. From the outside, a dragon cried into the incessant stomps, shouts and thuds of the whole camp quickly packing their things. The magelight faded. She could only see his silhouette against the red canvas, lit by the fires from the outside. He loomed above her for a moment that lasted for eternity. She closed her eyes, expecting to hear Cain’s or Leyna’s cry any moment. Instead, she was hurled to the ground with force that made her lose her breath. Yrith cried out in shock, fingers burying themselves into the dirt below. She felt his grip on her ankles. The world began to move. She shrieked again.

“Yrith!” She could barely hear Cain over her own voice. “What are you doing, you bastard?! Let her go! Let her go! I’m the one you want to…”

His voice faded away. They left the tent behind. She was being dragged over the ground. The soothing, wet dirt was soon replaced by spiky grasses and then by gravel. Yrith tried not to cry. To no avail.

Were it any other time, Yrith would give anything for the chance to look around. Now she was keeping her eyes tightly shut, her body screaming in waves of agony. The strength she had gained from the Khajiit’s soup had been exhausted. She could not grit her teeth or clench her fists, and even her voice betrayed her, cries turning into soundless rasp. The rocks underneath her felt like white-hot knives, sinking deep into her flesh and spreading fire. The pain was too great. She was going to die…

No, a voice from deep within her whispered. Not now.

She needed to survive. She could not let him have his way. Never, she would not give him the pleasure. She concentrated, mind retreating from this madness, from the pain, from everything physical. She let darkness engulf her mind, withdrawing from every feeling, keeping her whole consciousness contained in a small casket somewhere deep inside. Even her magic seemed to recede… until she felt something fall into place, a soft click just beyond her reach. Then, her mind exploded.

Images, feelings, colors, sensations, hundreds and hundreds of them everywhere. Even with her eyes closed, she could now see the horses, the men, the grasses covering the surrounding flatlands. She could feel the heart of her captor, beating like a war drum foreshadowing pain and torment. She gasped and opened her eyes. The glowing rings around her wrists and ankles were gone. She did not know whether to laugh or cry. This was not the time. It was not supposed to happen. But she finally understood the mechanism. Of course they would not let her magic through when she pressed on them. It was so simple. How could Erinor have kept the barriers up without feeding them with magicka? He had her do it for him. It had been Yrith’s own magic, feeding them, preventing her from seeing, taking the energy from her own soul and leaving her weakened. But now… he himself helped her unlock it.

She did not waste a single moment. A thin layer of magicka to protect her weeping back was the simplest of tricks. But to survive, she would need more. The moment Erinor would turn to her, he would notice the barriers were missing. Even if she could fight him with her magic, it would not be enough to ward off his entire army. She needed to replace the bracelets. An illusion, a simple image. Something to deceive him…

The tunic she wore was now entirely torn on its lower side, leaving her back bare. Her skin was on fire, begging to be healed. She wanted to scream, to just forget everything… but this was her chance. Perhaps the only one she would get. She fought to concentrate, call for her magic as inconspicuously as she could, recalling her lessons with Master Neloren. A mirage, the simplest of illusions she could produce. It would have no other effect than to fool one’s eyes. For a moment, her magical shield receded. A twig buried its tip in her skin. She stifled a moan, struggling not to shake. She forced herself to breathe, feel the power flow inside her. The magic gathered at her fingertips, enveloping them in its glow. No, she must not let it show, she could not be exposed… Something big and hard hit her spine. She cried out, using the sudden rush of energy to send her magic along her body, silent, invisible. A fresh supply of tears welled in her eyes and dripped in streaks along her temples. She closed them, forcing an image in front of them. Circles, silvery bracelets glowing in pale blue. She took a deep breath as another wave of pain threatened to paralyze her. No! She was so close. She would not let it slip now. She clenched her fists, forcing the images to materialize. That’s it, just one final touch to set them in place…

She let out a breath as the circlets settled around her limbs once more, almost letting her head sink down and take a blow. She avoided it in the last moment, gritting her teeth to make the pain bearable. The time until Erinor finally stopped, dropping her at the feet of a horse, felt like eternity. She fell into the tufts of colorful grasses, exhausted, shaking, avoiding his gaze. He gripped her chin and turned her to face him.

“No one defies me, little Yrith. You will remember that when your soul shatters to pieces.”

Yrith felt her stomach knot. The memory of her falling to the Spirit Blight was still vivid in her mind, reminding her of the nothingness that had filled her, the feeling of imminence and darkness that had try to swallow her whole. She did not want to return there, to forget who she was, leave those she cared for behind. She would cling to her life with all she had. Even pain was better than having her soul ripped apart. Everything was better than that.

She stared at her captor with her eyes fully open, feeling her own rage. No, she would not give him that pleasure. In her mind, she thanked him silently for reminding her how dear her life was to her. She would embrace all the pain and make it her own. It meant nothing compared to the dread of nonexistence.

He gave her a wicked smile. “Hate me,” he whispered. “Wish for my death. It will be my pleasure to break that will of yours.”

Lifting her by her waist as though she weighed nothing at all, he tossed her over the horse like he had done so many times before. Yrith gasped, feeling her stomach tumble and empty itself. Pain and shock paralyzed her, taking away her breath. She could not hold up. She did not have the strength. Her eyes closed by themselves. She let her limbs slump down, succumbing to the darkness. It held her like a dear child, taking the pain away.


Where were Cain and Leyna? Yrith did not know. They were not kept with her anymore. She caught herself crying in secret, wishing for just a glimpse, just to confirm that they were alive. Erinor did not speak of them. Back then, Yrith had always thought that hearing their voices full of pain and despair was the worst thing that could happen to her. She had been wrong.

She shifted on the ground. Erinor was sleeping, or meditating, or whatever he liked to do when he was not toying with her. She could not see him from where she was, and perhaps she did not even wish to. She could only see the darkness cast by the canvas of his tent. Somewhere above its roof were the stars, the two moons and the dragons whose cries continuously echoed through the valleys.

Cautiously, Yrith let her magicka stream from her fingers, slowly enough for it to not glow noticeably. And out, out of the tent she sent it, spreading it all around, searching. She closed her eyes, feeling the minds of the people outside. A part of her stayed with Erinor, touching him, but not diving in too deep out of fear of discovering things she would rather not know. She already knew too much. And she refused to believe it.

All over she sensed fear. Fear of war, of the soldiers’ wives being dragged away and put through things she was too scared to imagine. Fear of dragons. And of something she could not place. Something imminent. Curiosity gnawed at her, telling her it had to do with her. But she gritted her teeth, continuing her search. Thoughts and feelings mingled in a colorful kaleidoscope of emotions. Tent after tent, bonfire after bonfire, she searched and examined. There were so many people, but none of them her friends. Or perhaps she had missed them in the crowd. Perhaps she had skipped them as she lost track. They were out of her reach.

She sighed, ready to retreat, when a soft voice called her. Startled, she looked around, but there was no one but Erinor in the tent. The voice had been in her head. She followed it in her thoughts and tried calling back. There was no response but a faint feeling of regret. Regret… strange as it sounded to herself, the feeling was familiar on touch.

With her eyes closed, she embraced it, trying to visualize its owner. She had only practiced this once, that time Singird had scolded her for cheating her alteration practice, and that was with people and things she knew. They had been so close to her. Now, she was far, and the outside world was full of secrets she had yet to uncover. She concentrated. Her magic touched the grass and found a tuft of dragon’s tongue. There were scarce globs of melting snow in the area, a rising gravel slope and two pine trees watching the land like a pair of lovers frozen in eternal embrace. The person sitting on a large crooked root under the pine branches was a Khajiit with eyes of blue and green, silver fur like a sea of dark under Yrith’s spell. Yet again, he was gripping a waterskin, playing with its cork.

Yrith could only guess he had been searching for her. She tried calling to him again, this time using his name. S’kharr…

He did not hear her. He was tired, unfocused. Nevertheless, he rose again, ready to continue his search. Yrith shouted at him in her mind. With his tail slumped, brushing the snow and grasses and dirt, he walked away.

Yrith concentrated on the tree above him. Forcing her magicka out of its lazy pace, she tugged at a branch. It bent by a mere inch, sending down a soft shower of snow. Enough for the Khajiit to look up, only to see the veiled stars shining through the pines. He frowned and wondered. And walked away.

Yrith was exhausted. Sleep was calling to her, and she felt deep in her bones that she had grown out of practice of using magicka. Or even moving her fingers. But she had to try again. Gritting her teeth, she sent the magic out once more, taking deep, silent breaths to help her concentrate. A tiny rock on the ground was her next target. She lifted it with sheer willpower, firing it at the Khajiit. It fell down on his armored paw, but it was enough for him to notice. He looked around, only to find a still land. Yrith lifted one more rock, and this time, he caught a glimpse of it immediately. His eyes followed its trail to a tent of rowdy soldiers singing an off-key Age of Aggression. Closer to Yrith.

As she took another breath, she lifted a small chunk of dirt and fired it at a pole nearby. And the Khajiit walked on, toward Erinor’s tent. Each of his steps brought a small speck of hope to Yrith. Perhaps there was a way yet.

It took a while of meandering around the tents and bonfires, always taking two steps forward and one step back to hide from prying eyes, before the Khajiit finally found himself just a few feet from Yrith. Cautiously, she raised a corner of the canvas door, waving at him before she finally let go. He was here. And she was so tired.

He circled the tent. Once, twice, three times. Then, he halted with a more than conspicuous grunt.

“Ah,” he muttered, seemingly to himself, “S’kharr forgot to bring the mead to the Captain… he will be back in the morning.”

And he was gone. Yrith could only assume the message was meant for her.


The impact tore the tent down. Right from a quiet dream, Yrith woke up into chaos, suffocating as the red canvas buried her deep underneath. She groaned, trying to push the heavy fabric aside, but her strength was not enough to move an inch. Somewhere around her, hundreds of armored boots stomped the earth.

Another blast shook the ground. Several feet from Yrith, Erinor growled like a rabid dog. She could hear him shake the canvas down and kick the pole that had almost struck him.

“Enough!” he bellowed over the mass of people. The footsteps ceased in an instance. “What madness is this? Who did this?”

There was silence. Yrith could hear several people shift their weight.

“You. Speak.”

“W-we don’t know, Master Erinor… I h-haven’t seen anyone. I thought… I thought it was the Stormcloaks…”

“Not even the Stormcloaks are foolish enough to set out on a suicide mission that would achieve nothing. You. Go get Captain Bolund. You. Gather the first and second century right here. You. Tell the third century to start searching for the culprit. Take some scribes with you. Everything will be reported. Every snatched loaf of bread, every sock you find in the soldiers’ belongings that exceeds the list of allowed possessions. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir!”

“Good. Now…”

Yrith could not hear the orders that came after that. The canvas shuffled. A bubble of air formed around her, and she drew in a deep breath. Next to her, a Khajiit emerged from among the folds of the tent. She watched him with surprise in her eyes.

S’kharr did not waste any time. In absolute silence, he lifted her and pressed his waterskin to her lips. Pungent liquid bit on her tongue and her throat. She fought not to cough, eyes tearing and face dyed in red. She recognized the taste of a healing potion, not sweet like the snowberry-flavored one from Master Marence’s dispensary, but the one she had been used to from her parents. Heavy and strong, making her dizzy as she felt her body being mended, sewn back together, giving her back the long-lost strength. The small piece of the world around suddenly gained on sharpness.

“Listen, child of man,” the Khajiit spoke with urgency. “Listen to the dragon cries. Help will come when the time is right.”

“Who are you?” Yrith rasped, sliding a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her own voice. “What’s going to happen? Where are my friends?”

“Later, human cub. S’kharr needs to go now.”

No sooner than the Khajiit turned his back on her did Yrith spot the black marks on the palms of his hands. Burn marks. As he left the small, confined space, she sank back to the ground under the brunt of the tent canvas.


A circle of soldiers surrounded them. Nobody spoke. They were waiting for orders, unmoving like perfectly carved statues, all standing to attention. Erinor paced around them, but his eyes did not leave Yrith for a single moment.

“Captain,” he said as he stopped by a soldier in an overly gilded armor. The man stuck out his chin even more than it had been.

“Y-yes!”

“You and your century will keep searching. You will keep reporting to me. Nothing will disturb the exchange. Because if something does, there may be… consequences. And you do not want to know what they are, do you?”

A dragon cry tore through the grey skies as if adding weight to Erinor’s words.

“N-no, sir.”

“Then get to work.”

The man bowed as he backed away. After a few steps, he bowed again as if to make sure Erinor noticed the gesture. The elf had long been gone from his spot.

“Bring me my horse and ready the battalion. We will be moving out.”

“Master Erinor.” A soldier was gripping his studded shield as if his life depended on it, but as Erinor approached him, he bravely lifted his head.

“What is it?”

“Do we make the shackle formation again?”

Erinor regaled the poor man with a scorching look. “If you need to ask this sort of question, then you better not ask at all. Tindil.”

“Sir!”

“As of today, you are replacing Captain Horgnir. Private Horgnir, you are dismissed.”

The former captain stared at Erinor with growing defiance in his eyes. From afar, Yrith could hear the knuckles on his fingers crack. “But Legate Silion…”

“As far as I know,” Erinor purred sweetly, “Legate Silion currently answers to me. You are dismissed. Depending on your actions in the upcoming exchange, I may or may not decide to overlook this matter.”

“Of course, Master Erinor.” The name was spat. Yrith was quite certain that the matter in question would not be overlooked.

At last, the elf turned to her. She stared up at him, blood freezing in her as their eyes met. He approached her unhurriedly, as he always did, face bright with a smile full of unspoken promise. He stopped inches from her, not bothering to lower himself to her level. And before she could react, his hands flashed with magic thrown at her with ruthless force.

Pure energy shot through her, burning like a thousand white-hot blades. Yrith cried out, trying to catch her breath. The world turned the darkest black, then grey, then it slowly gained color again. It was over before she could even panic. Her skin itched everywhere, but she was alive and, strangely enough, stronger.

“There is your strength,” he hissed. “Surprised? Hopeful? Grateful, even? You should be. Stand up, beast.”

She could not tell if he was joking. His smile was cruel, full of poorly concealed anticipation. Something was waiting for her. Should she obey?

She looked around. The circle of soldiers was watching, like a flock of vultures waiting for their prey to succumb. Fidgeting fingers and stiff faces gave away their fear. Yrith did not understand. Who was Erinor to have the main say in an Imperial cohort? He was not respected, she could tell with one glance. He was only feared.

She stared at him for a moment too long. His face twisted into a vicious glare. A snap of his fingers caused the soldiers to break the circle and create a passage. Through it came two others, each dragging a person. Yrith’s eyes widened. Cain and Leyna we tossed on the ground before her, both with faces covered in blood and bruises. But both breathing and in one piece. She let out an exhausted breath.

“I said stand up.”

Yrith’s limbs hurt. She was stiff, her body refused to listen. She forced it up it with sheer willpower. And fell back on the ground. A hard rock took her breath away.

“One last chance, little Yrith,” Erinor whispered.

Yrith gritted her teeth, fingers digging into the ground. The bastard was enjoying the show. He would pay. She would make him pay.

She could feel an overgrown nail crack, but she could care less. Her eyes found his, letting him know exactly what she thought of him. She took a breath and made the magic inside her flow. He could not know that there was plenty of strength left in her yet. And what she could not force with her body, she would make up for with her magic. He wanted to torment her friends? Break her will? He could try.

Her magic coursed through her body like a never-ending river, helping her find balance as she rose. She was trembling and staggering, but she stood. Her eyes drifted to her friends instantly, but she only caught a glimpse before Erinor turned her around.

She froze. One move from him and she could be dead. She would not find the time to react. But that would be too simple. And he could have killed her so many times before.

Yrith forced herself to breathe. From behind, Erinor’s hands cuffed her neck. He pulled at the chain out of caprice. She clenched her fists.

“Let us go,” Erinor ordered. “Onward, to justice.”

The battalion moved at once. Her friends were gathered and thrown over horses. Yrith winced inadvertently upon hearing their grunts. Erinor shoved her forward, leading her step with an iron grip on her upper arm. She followed his lead, calling in thoughts to the mysterious Khajiit. Would he make it in time?

“Listen to the dragon cries,” he had said. She listened. Their voices echoed high above the valley before them, bouncing from one mountain peak to another. Soon, the cohort would enter the mountains’ shade and get in the firing distance. But they marched on, those at the front paving the path through the brushwood and tall grasses, rousing the birds and rodents from their nests. Yrith walked in silence, fighting her exhaustion as she let her magic do all the work.

From ahead, she could hear the deep, humming sound of wild waters. She struggled not to fall as they descended a slope opening into a vast canyon, a cobbled road spanning along it. Erinor led her to the left, down the river stream. Were it not for her fear and weariness, she would have enjoyed the freshness of the place. She watched with sadness as the soldiers before her stomped over the clumps of mountain flowers, leaving them shattered in the dirt. As she made to step over the flower petals, the men halted. Erinor tugged at the chain and pulled Yrith back. Her hand shot up instinctively, but she did not dare to cough. Everyone stilled, save for a single man coming from the front.

“We are here, Master Erinor,” he said quietly. “What are your orders?”

“What of the Stormcloaks?” The elf put his hands on Yrith’s shoulders, digging his long nails into her flesh. She flinched with pain.

“They are at a standstill, just past that rock.”

“Good. Bolund and Tindil will accompany me.”

“Master… shouldn’t we at least send a herald before…”

“No. And do you know why?”

“N-no, Master.”

Erinor leaned to the soldier, forcing him to take a shaky step backwards. Yrith’s face twisted as the chain pulled on her neck. The man averted his gaze.

“Because we want to be careless,” Erinor whispered in his ear. “Now scram.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

The man scurried away as if running from an open fire, soon replaced by two gilded-armored captains. They stayed a step behind Erinor, each taking one side. The elf let out a short, dark laugh.

“Look ahead, little Yrith,” he said. “Look at the path before you. Look into the eyes of your patron. It will be a sight to remember.”

He pushed her from behind as the soldiers before them created a passage. It led them to a turn, past a smooth rock with a white cap. A sprinkling of snow landed on their heads as a passing dragon blew it away. Another roar echoed through the ravine. Yrith suppressed the urge to look up.

As a new view opened before them, she could see the frontline of an army in blue, men and women gripping their weapons, shields at the ready to defend and close potential gaps. Before them stood Toddvar with two men at his sides, facing his enemy with pride in his eyes. His face was hard and cold, one that Yrith had only seen once. His eyes were fixed on Erinor, hands wielding the shaft of the axe that was jabbed into the ground. Yrith stared at him, praying silently for a sign. Was he the help the Khajiit had been talking about? He had to be.

“You have some gall invading the Stormcloak territory,” the General growled. His two companions nodded in silence.

“Do I?” Yrith could hear the smile in Erinor’s voice. “Is this how you thank me for bringing your dear friend here?”

Toddvar let out a bitter laugh. “Playin’ games, that’s what you pointy ears are real good at, ain’t you? Now what’s the real deal? I bet my axe that the good ole Erinor did not come to watch me tear up at the happy encounter.”

“Perhaps he has come to do just that. Bolund, if you will.”

The man at Erinor’s right straightened his back as he stepped forward. Yrith could see an almost unnoticeable tremble in his gait. He stopped before Toddvar, bowing has he handed him a sealed scroll. For the first time, the Stormcloak general took his eyes off Erinor. With a slight tug of hope, Yrith followed his gaze, but did not spare her a single look. He broke the seal without a word, frown deepening the wrinkles on his face as he read.

“How very trusting of you,” Erinor commented with unconcealed amusement. Toddvar responded with a snort, not bothering to look at his counterpart until he finished reading. Then he raised his head, face stiff with a twisted smile.

“A good deal is a good deal… of course I accept.” There was a momentary silence before his face twisted into a glare. “After you rot in a sinkhole, you miserable wretch!”

With one swift move, Toddvar gripped his axe and sent the man before him to the ground. His head rolled off into the dirt before he could even scream. Yrith gasped. The next moment, she was pulled back, feeling something cold and thin touch her neck. She froze. Her view blackened momentarily, only to return strangely distorted. She sent a pleading look to Toddvar. Perhaps he did not even see her.

“Right on,” Erinor whispered, voice trembling with queer excitement. “If you want her to die. I am giving you one last chance, General Toddvar. If you think you have the advantage, perhaps you should look more closely.”

Thousands of heads emerged all around. Far up on the mountains, on the other side of the river, behind the trees, rocks and bushes, so many faces looked upon the General. Thousands of bows were drawn, thousands of arrows nocked and ready to fire. Yrith could not see them with her eyes. But she felt them. She felt the thrill in the air. And the elf’s blade on her neck, buzzing with strange, dark energy. He was prepared for his moment of triumph. He had left nothing to chance. Perhaps if she was quick enough, she could at least kill him to give the world justice before she would die herself. And perhaps it would all be in vain.

Something stopped her. A speck of hope. He would not lie to her. S’kharr would not help her for nothing… or would he?

“Yes,” Toddvar said quietly, yet his voice drowned even the thrumming river on their side. “She will die. Because at times, a sacrifice is necessary… for the greater good.”

Their eyes met for the first time. Yrith stared at that face, realization dawning upon her with the strength of an avalanche. Not a hint of remorse showed in his eyes, no pain, no affection. His smile mirrored the thrill in Erinor’s voice. He could have saved her that time in Winterhold. He had all the power to do so. He had not. Toddvar… this could not be true.

How in Oblivion had it come to this?

She let the tears flow. There was nothing left for her. No one would come. No salvation was waiting for her. She was despised, and for that, she had been abandoned. Now there was only death.

She closed her eyes. If she were to die, she would at least die with a good memory on her mind.

A dragon cried above their heads. It sounded so close…

“Listen to the dragon cries.”

A speck of hope in a sea of despair. Perhaps there was one last thing to do. She took a breath.

Her hands flared with magic. Then, the world turned into chaos.

A sudden gust of wind almost swept her away. The sound of river faded in the swooshing of the wings above. She heard a gasp from behind. All over, yells tore through the air. Now! a voice cried inside her. Do it now!

“Y-you…” Erinor’s voice sounded distant, weak.

She had no time. The blade would cut through her any moment. Maybe she was already dead. The dragon roared just above her head, much too close to be real. And in the uproar, she clearly heard three words.

“ZUN HAAL VIIK!”

Yrith opened her eyes to see Erinor fall to the ground, trying to regain his dark blade. Everywhere around, people were screaming, searching for their lost weapons. A dragon with scales of blood swooped down from the skies, breathing fire and tearing up everything and everyone that came in its path. As the creature lunged at a group of soldiers in its way, a figure slid down from its back, a man with reptilian face and bright eyes of green and gold which she knew. They were the same as those of the Arch-Mage. The Dragonborn had come.

He turned to her, drawing a thin, curved sword in a graceful motion. “Come,” he said.

“No!” Erinor yelled, gathering himself from the ground. “You will die, little beast. You will die!”

A dragon wing shielded her from a volley of arrows coming her way. From the other side, the Dragonborn’s blade cut through a line of men desperately trying to reach her. Erinor was now the only one separating her from her escape route. With a face twisted in a mad grin, he raised his hand, firing a bolt of lightning. Yrith smiled.

He was slow. Slower than Singird and Master Tolfdir in their practice. Slower than Master Neloren finding gaps in her defense. Slower than Lady Faralda shooting balls of fire. She lifted a shield unlike any she had conjured before. Erinor’s magic bounced off and hit the surprised elf in the chest. He fell to his knees, staring at her as his mouth filled with white foam.

“You…”

“No,” she said as she passed him, shattering the cuff around her neck with her magic. “You will die here… beast.”

She did not watch as his beautiful face hit the dirt and his elegant robes got torn by the rocks and his own blade. She did not watch as Toddvar screamed behind her, calling his men to his side, and as the soldiers finally raised their weapons to face the mighty beast. She let the Dragonborn hurl her up the creature’s monumental body, seizing the dragon’s neck with the last bit of her magic. The Argonian swung himself after her, catching her as she lost her grip.

“Nii los tiid wah bo,” he said to the creature as he patted its metallic scales. The land below shrunk as the dragon soared to the skies, burning and dodging the arrows that came their way. Yrith shuddered with the cold that gripped her entire person. She tried to warm herself with magic, but she was too tired to even cast a spell. She barely managed to catch a glimpse of the battlefield below.

“My friends…” she mumbled weakly.

“Kharjo has them,” came the soothing reply from behind. He held her firmly, providing a sliver of warmth to her numb body.

She took a deep breath to keep herself from passing out. “Khar… jo?”

“The one you know as S’kharr. Sleep, little hatchling. There will be time for a talk later.”

Yrith hugged the huge scale before her, rubbing a cheek against it. She tried to look down, see the ribbons of rivers and the white caps on the mountain ridges, but her vision blurred. Her eyelids felt so heavy. “But I’m… flying on a dragon…”

“That you are.”

There was a gentle pat on her back before the world drowned in darkness.

Notes:

Happy New Year, guys! Sorry it took so long… my work has been keeping me super busy. And this was a hell of a chapter to write. I hope you enjoyed it.
Also, here's to my friend RealityGlitch - may this chapter help her find her lost Muse.

Chapter 21: Crossroads

Notes:

For those who might be wondering – yes, spital is an actual word. :)

Chapter Text

“What have you brought to us, Dovakhiin?”

“She’s wounded and needs help.”

“This is not a spital.”

“It is the only place where she will be safe.”

“Once again, you bring conflict to this sacred place.”

“No, I bring a person in need.”

“A person from the world we renounced.”

“Then you are in conflict yourselves.”


She was tired. So tired…


“Why isn’t she waking up?”

“I don’t know.”

“But… she’s all healed up. She can’t be dying, can she?”

“Sometimes, all it takes is a broken spirit.”


Shush the voices, so that she could keep sleeping forever. So that the pain would go away, and the burning would fade in the eternal cold and darkness. But they kept coming back, unrelenting, piercing. Why would they not leave her alone?


“Can’t you do something?”

“No.”

“Please…”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re a good healer.”

“I can’t heal a person who doesn’t want to be healed.”

“You don’t care, do you?”

“Perhaps I don’t.”


Fingers laced into hers. They were cold. So cold… like the cursed blade that had been touching her neck. She still felt it on her skin. A whisper in the wind called her name and disturbed her slumber. Away, away with it. But it would not leave.


“You say you hate her, and still, you keep coming here.”

“Perhaps I’m just waiting for her to die.”

“Regret is not a good thing to part on.”


The last touch of breath on her face faded into the void. It had become quiet at last. And yet, she could not find her peace. She could still hear the voices from within. Echoes, reverberating with every passing moment. They would never cease.


“Why?”

The voice was cold and bitter. It stabbed and burned. There was a world in it. And still, it was so empty.

“Why, when things get just within reach, do they dissolve into bare memories? You… you are not fair. You take everything away. Our past seems so distant. Those moments we ran outside and dared defy the Collegium. The only time in my life that I tasted freedom. But you took it all away. Just as you gave it.”

The words cut deep. Too deep to listen on. And yet, she could not let them pass.

“Curse you. Curse you to Oblivion.”

A single drop of water splashed on the floor, leaving a faint echo. The sound mingled with a hazy memory. Dark red liquid searing her chapped lips. It was so far behind. She could rest now. She could forget. But the voice would not let her. The voice wanted her to live. It assaulted her senses. It could not be chased away, piercing her burning flesh, chafing her parched throat. She was so thirsty…


Yrith opened her eyes, squinting into the moonlit darkness. She felt her every breath, as if she was ill with rattles. It scraped her lungs and hurt on her dry tongue. Water… she needed water.

She tried to raise herself on her elbows, but her arms gave way under her. Her head was spinning, even when she lay prone on a bed.

Bed… there was a real bed under her. Something she had not known for ages. Or had everything been just a dream? Leyna’s father, raging battle, a children’s song and a blast to the chest? Dripping wine, sweet minty smell, elegant gait, the voice that knew to stab with every word, dragons and their reptilian rider… reality mingled with illusions. She could not tell what part of her life was a dream and what was not. Was she alive?

But she was breathing, and it hurt. She must be. Where was she? Where was everyone?

Inch by inch, her fingers explored the proximity of her body. Furs and linens underneath. A warm quilted duvet on top. A richly stuffed pillow supporting her head. The bed smelled of hay and goose and reminded her of home. Or what used to be her home back in Daggerfall. The smell made her feel safe and serene.

She turned her head, exploring the place. The room she was in was not a true room, but rather the dead end of a corridor. The structure was tall and the stone that formed it coarse. Above her arched a massive vault, slanting toward a humble dormer embedded between two pilasters from which the moonlight poured inside. To her left, more light came into the corridor through a line of alcoves, falling on rugs before each of them. To her right stood a table carrying a flaking clay jug and a goblet of the same quality. She stared at them yearningly. Surely there must be some water inside.

She scrabbled for the goblet, but it was impossible to grab in her position. Inhaling deeply, she gritted her teeth and slung herself up with all her might. The goblet was empty. She gripped the jug with both hands, trying to persuade her mind to forget the strain and aching in her muscles. It almost worked. Almost. All too soon, the jug became too heavy and she felt too tired, dropping it back on the table. Water spilled everywhere. She sank back to the bed, exhausted, shaking. A tremble flashed through her body as the jug hit the floor and shattered. A loud echo resonated through the corridor. She let out a stifled cry.

Chest heaving with exhaustion, she reached for her magic. But when her palms glowed in the familiar pale blue, she heard footsteps in the distance, followed by two voices.

“Please, tell me she’s all right.” Yrith let the magic fade, relief making her body feel warm and heavy. Cain. He was alive.

“She’s all right,” another voice muttered with an apparent undertone of amusement. This one she only remembered vaguely. She had heard it firm and hard, back on the battlefield. A crisp, throaty voice that commanded respect.

“I’d like to share your humor.”

“Never too late to start.”

She saw them coming side by side, the reptilian figure of the Dragonborn with a torch in one hand and a new jug in another, and a slight one next to him, limping on his right leg. A feeling of guilt settled in her. All those times that she could not contain herself were now engraved in Cain’s body. She gripped the rim of her duvet, pulling it closer. It had not been a dream after all.

The light of the torch fell on her face and she squinted. Cain’s eyes widened that instant. He picked up his pace, ignoring his condition, turning the fall as he tripped over the last rug into a smooth landing by her side.

“Yrith,” he breathed. She tried to hint a smile, aware of how long it had been since she had last worn one. He gripped her hand, touching it with his forehead. “You’re awake… by the gods, you’re awake.”

She tried to affirm, but the sound she produced was like a saw on a dry log.

“Well well,” the Dragonborn said as he passed them, lighting a patulous candelabrum in the corner. He put the torch in a holder next to it, taking the goblet from the puddle of water it stood in. “I thought I heard something break. Seems my instinct is as infallible as ever. Would you help our guest of honor, ashling?”

Cain scowled at the name, but rose to help Yrith nonetheless. Sliding his hands under her with utmost care, he lifted her into the sitting position.

“You’ve lost so much weight,” he uttered with a frown. She looked at him with apology. The Dragonborn flashed him a meaningful look as he filled the goblet with water.

“Then perhaps we could work on that, hmm? There’s soup in the kitchen. Would you be so kind as to bring it? Oh, and while you’re at it… a towel would also come in handy.” Playful sparks flickered in his eyes, making his reptile face seem almost gentle. Cain rose with a mixture of unspoken protest and eagerness, leaving with a single nod. The Dragonborn took a seat by Yrith’s side, holding the goblet to her mouth.

She drank, coughing as the soothing coldness spread inside her. She downed it with her breath held. Then another, and again. The Dragonborn opened his jaws, a sign which Yrith assumed to mean a smile.

“You never know how much you’d miss it, until you do, hmm?”

His voice was so calm, as if he was having a conversation over a cup of tea instead of helping an impaired victim he had recently rescued from the clutches of death. Perhaps he was used to this, after all that time serving as the world’s most lauded hero.

“Thank you,” she whispered when she released the goblet at last. Her own voice sounded odd to her, like the hum of the sea in the low tide. The Dragonborn nodded solemnly.

“Usually, I get paid for my services,” he said. He laid down the cup with a soft splash of the spilled water, tilting his head to the side. Yrith stared at him, opening her mouth but closing it again for lack of words. She tried to guess his thoughts, but his green-gold eyes were unreadable for her. He waited for a heartbeat. Then he laughed, patting her shoulder. “But I suppose I’ll let it slide this time.”

She let out a breath and contained the urge to purse her lips.

“Worried?” he asked amusedly. “It’s not like I’m in the habit of saving random strangers for the sake of extorting the riches they don’t have from them. If anything, I may extort it from their families later.”

Yrith knit her brows. He responded with a smile.

“Don’t worry. For you and your friends, I was paid in advance. And quite handsomely too.”

She sized him up, unsure what to make of his answer. Someone had paid for their rescue? Who? Lady Faralda who barely had enough to provide for her? Urag who invested all his resources into his beloved Arcanaeum? Singird? She wondered how well off Singird could be. But surely he would not have enough to pay for the services of the Dragonborn himself. And handsomely at that.

“But who…”

“You have friends in high places and you don’t know?”

She shook her head.

“Well then,” he said, crossing his legs and leaning over comfortably, “I received a letter from General Tullius. You must be quite some prize. It was dated 8th Hearthfire and arrived on the 10th. The courier must have changed horses at least six times to reach me this fast, and to find me is usually no small feat.”

Yrith’s eyes widened. The Imperial General himself? What use could he possibly have for her? What in Oblivion had she gotten herself into? Was she that important? Or was it a gesture that had nothing to do with her? Perhaps it was… Toddvar was a Stormcloak general, after all. She shuddered as possible scenarios of her future life flashed before her eyes. None seemed too appealing to hope for.

“General Tullius? But why?”

“Why indeed?” The Dragonborn’s face grew softer, almost compassionate. “War is painful, regardless of where you stand. In the end, it doesn’t matter if you are a king or a slave. War is still war, and it touches us all. The only thing we can do is to keep walking, whatever path may lie ahead.”

A shadow crossed his face. His eyes grew distant, and Yrith wondered if it was her whom he was speaking to. But then, the moment had passed as if it had never happened.

“But for now,” he added, lightness returning to his voice, “you may rest. You are in the safest place on Nirn, after all.”

Yrith studied the place closer in the light of the candles. The walls were sturdy, made of granite. The room, or, rather, the platform that simulated it was scarcely decorated with flowers, but other than those and the candelabrum in the corner, it gave off an image of sober plainness. The rugs before the alcoves in the corridor were old and worn, each bearing two circles of thinned fabric in the middle. Yrith knew this sight from the old temples of Daggerfall. It was a place of prayer.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“High Hrothgar. The monastery of the Greybeards. The threshold to the Throat of the World. You name it.” He spoke with a hint of pride in his voice. Yrith could not blame him.

The fabled High Hrothgar. She had never hoped to see the place. It stood atop the Seven Thousand Steps, alone and detached from the world, and even those who made it to the monastery were never let inside. Just how high were they? Likely if she walked outside, she could see all of Skyrim at the palm of her hand. A dragon had carried her to the tallest mountain on Nirn. The thought made her head spin.

“My friends… were they also carried here on the back of a dragon?”

“Enjoyed the sight, did you? Even though you saw way too little of it.” He chuckled. “Yes, they were. Kharjo saw to it, to a great displeasure of my dovah fahdonne.”

“What is…” the question died on Yrith’s lips. To her surprise, she understood the words. The meaning formed in her mind, as if it had always been there, in deep slumber and now awakened by the sound of the Dragonborn’s voice. She stared at him, half startled, half curious. He gave a low chuckle.

“Pardon my passion,” he said. “It means…”

“… dragon friends,” Yrith finished for him, gaining herself an astonished look.

“You understand the Dragon Language?”

“I…” Yrith hesitated. Did she? No. Upon closing her eyes, she could not recall a single word she would know. What had happened just now? “It was like… magic. As if the meaning of those words just hung in the air, waiting for me to seize it.” She shook her head. Her own reasoning sounded ridiculous to her. The Dragonborn’s fin-like ears twitched.

“You’re a strange one. It seems my sister is not intrigued by you for nothing after all.”

“The Arch-Mage is?”

“Perhaps it is time I pass the hero mantle on to someone else, isn’t it?” His green-gold eyes glimmered with mirth.

Yrith knit her brows. Hero mantle. In her thoughts, that would be a form covered in blood and grime, and that was not an enticing prospect at all.

“What does it mean to be a hero?” she whispered thoughtfully. He laughed, launching himself onto his feet.

“Aren’t you a bit young to be asking these questions?” he returned with a good-natured smirk. She flushed and looked away, but felt warmth spread through her nonetheless. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps echoed through the corridor, carrying with them the smell of fresh vegetable soup. “It seems your friend has returned. Time for me to go then. Try not to overdo it, please. Heroes need their rest too. And the ashling would be sad to see you fall back into that slumber, after those ten days he spent holding your hand.”

He gave her a wink as he passed her, landing a pat on her shoulder. Yrith gaped at him. Ten days?


Lilac hue flooded the room as the dawn gave birth to a new morning. The ground shook with a low grumble. Startled, Yrith raised her head, searching for the source as the sound slowly subsided. Cain put the steaming bowl down on the freshly wiped table, seemingly unbothered. Yrith looked up at him in question.

“What was that?”

He flinched, as though her words brought him back from the dreamworld. “What? Oh, you mean the Shouts?”

“Shouts?”

“The Greybeards,” he said with a nod. “This is how they meditate. They don’t talk at all, but when they do, it is always with these Words of Power. The Dragon Language. They can move with the wind, throw you off the cliff with just the Shout alone, or tear your soul apart. Supposedly.”

“With just words?”

“There’s some ancient magic involved. I don’t understand it.” He shrugged, scooping the soup and offering her a spoonful. She gave him a withering look, averting her gaze as her cheeks flushed crimson.

“I can do that myself,” she uttered quietly, extending her hand.

“I’m sure you can,” he nodded, “but there’s no need to strain yourself. Here.”

Yrith sighed, looking at the spoon he was holding to her mouth so eagerly. Amidst the flickering shadows in his ebony face, she traced a scar lining his jaw, a remnant of Erinor’s torment. He had suffered his own share, yet all he could care for was her. Despite her weakness, she was not feeling up to playing a helpless child. She could take care of herself too. Lifting her hand, she sent her magic to wrap around the spoon, taking the soup from it and delivering it to her mouth. The sweetness of boiled carrot and celery filled her with warmth. Cain shook his head.

“I can never beat your magic, can I?” He dropped the spoon back in the bowl with resignation, seating himself at her side. “It is always there, protecting you… as if you were a part of it, instead of its master. Even these ten days…” he paused to take a breath and remove a stray lock of hair from his face. It was not formed into spikes anymore, and Yrith could hardly deny that it made him look rather handsome. He let his head sink, wearily rubbing his temples. “I’m just glad you’re all right. At times you were burning so hot I thought the fever was going to kill you. You stopped sweating, you hardly breathed… but every time I thought this was the end, you… glowed. Your magic refused to let you go.”

He fell silent, his breath one with the quiet hum of the candles. Yrith helped herself to another spoonful, retreating to a wordless contemplation. Her magic. The magic that she constantly relied on. Perhaps without it, she would have been long dead. Or perhaps she would have been an entirely different person. She felt as though her magic defined her. As if there was no more to her than that power that dwelled deep inside, waiting to manifest itself. She gazed at her glowing hand, pulling the strand of magicka back in.

“Do you…” she whispered, words feeling heavy on her tongue. He raised his head, tilting it to the side in question. He would care, would he not? Even if there was no magic… he would care. “Do you think I’m an abomination?”

Cain’s face twisted in rage and anguish. He straightened his back, taking the hand that had glowed just moments before in his and pressing it to his cheek.

“No. No, you are not, and you have never been. That man was lying to you, Yrith. Hurting you was his only goal. People like him…” he clutched her hand and she suppressed a hiss of pain, “they are scum. They will say anything as long as it serves them. Don’t listen, Yrith… you deserve better.”

She stared at his trembling frame. He was panting, as though he had run across the entirety of Winterhold. She closed her fingers around his.

“But… suppose he was speaking the truth…”

“Yrith!”                                                                        

“Hypothetically.” She felt her own chest heave. Why was she even saying this? It hurt. An iron hand clasped her chest. “If my parents really… altered me. Would you still think of me as your friend?”

He pierced her with a look so hard it made her freeze inside. She averted her eyes, seeking a way out as if a tunnel were to open for her. He pulled her to his chest, arms wrapping around her, holding her tight to prevent her from falling back.

“You fool of a midget,” he breathed. “You damn fool. Why are you doing this to yourself?” He pulled back, forcing her to look into his face. “Of course you are my friend. I don’t bloody care what happened in your past. To me, you will never be an abomination. An abomination would never have stood up for me against the whole class. And it would never try to…” He froze, shaking his head as he gently propped her back against the bed headboard. She stared at him, waiting for him to continue, but no words followed.

“Never try to do what?” she asked quietly. He let out a weary sigh.

“Never try to save Leyna in the middle of a raging battle,” he growled through gritted teeth.

Yrith watched the unreadable mixture of feelings in his face, trying to make sense of them. It wasn’t just the red of his eyes that set it ablaze. The cold spite in his look made her shudder.

“Cain… what happened? Do you… hate me for it?” Perhaps he did. After all, had it not been for her, they wouldn’t have had to face Erinor. They could have escaped.

His hands clenched into fists, crumpling the fabric of her duvet. “No… not you. I would never hate you.”

He looked so far. Sitting so close, on the same bed, just by her side, yet his eyes were so distant. She raised her hand to touch him, but let it sink again.

“I’m sorry, Cain,” she whispered. “Sorry you had to…”

“Why are you sorry?” he spat. Yrith winced, blinking at him in surprised. “Why are you sorry?! You… you would really forgive her anything, wouldn’t you? As long as it is you who suffers and no one else… you would just forgive.”

Yrith felt her back press against the wood behind her. There was nowhere to back away from his anger. “I don’t understand…”

“Of course you don’t. You let yourself be dragged away into the night. You risk your life for the one who does this to you. You let that s’wit,” his voice dropped to a low tone that sent shivers down her spine, “torture you just so she would not have to suffer. And despite all that… where is she now? Does she spare a single moment of her time? Does she care?”

Yrith stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Leyna?”

“Who else?”

“C-Cain… did… did something happen?”

He let out a breath, burying a hand in his hair. “A lot of things happened, Yrith. She is no friend of yours.”

Yrith closed her eyes, recalling all those moments in Leyna’s company. Her smiles and her tears, the words of plea. Were all of them lies? She could not believe so. No, the smile on her friend’s face upon leaving the house of her parents had not been fake, and neither were the tears she had so desperately tried to hide. But then, all of them paled in comparison with the rancor that had filled her eyes in the Imperial camp. How had it come to this?

“What was it like when your mother smiled at you?”

The words from her memory rang in her ears. The stabbing pain in her chest was so familiar. She put both hands over it, taking a breath.

“Perhaps,” she told him softly, “she simply does not know how to care.”

Cain let out a snort. “Does it make a difference?”

Yrith let the question linger. Weariness weighed heavy upon her. She had been awake for too long. The thought of Leyna hurt. The thought of all that she had left behind hurt. She wished to fall back to sleep and retreat back to her dreams.

It does, she thought in silence. A world of difference. But she kept the words to herself.

“Say, Cain… does Leyna know I’m awake?”

“I didn’t tell her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She gave a slow nod. “Then, do you think you could keep it a secret?”

He frowned in apparent disapproval. There was a lull. He stared thoughtfully into the empty space before him. And then his gaze met hers. “What are you planning?”

“I wonder,” she said with a guilty smile.

He shook his head and sighed in resignation. “Fine. But know that I don’t want to see you hurt yourself again.”

“I know,” she uttered quietly, sinking back to the lying position. Cain adjusted the pillow under her, sliding it carefully under her head. “Thank you, Cain. Thank you… for everything.”


Light padding of leather boots woke her. It was a female gait, refined and prudent, barely leaving any echo. At times, it was drowned in the howling of the wind carrying through the fissures in the thick stone walls. The visitor was in no hurry to reach Yrith’s little corner. Yrith could see from the low of her bed that she stopped now and then, glancing over her shoulder, then picking up her pace again. Always where the alcoves were, Yrith realized. She let her eyes open ajar, enough to see but not be noticed, and waited. Her guest arrived with a soft sigh of relief, scanning the room. As she crossed it, she changed the flowers in the vases, providing them with a humble supply of water from her own magic pool. Then, she took a seat by Yrith’s side, carefully sliding up her duvet without touching her body. The winter’s song was the only sound filling the air. For a while, the two of them were still. Until Leyna’s sigh broke the silence.

“I thought you many things,” she said, more to herself than the girl she thought unconscious, “but never a coward. How unfair can you get?”

Yrith’s breath died in her throat. There was so much more in Leyna’s words than her friend had voiced. Bitter longing for things she could not reach. Hope that had been shattered forever. A wish that she kept just to remind her to look ahead.

Yrith had spent hours planning their encounter. She had prepared so many words. So many answers to so many questions and accusations. And yet, none came to her mind now. She could not pretend. That was… unfair.

She opened her eyes in full. “L-Leyna…” Even the name sounded ridiculous on her tongue. Her mind was blank. She would rather be back in the College surrounded by a circle of people laughing at her. Facing all those sneers suddenly felt easier than facing her own friend. Heat filled her cheeks.

It took Leyna just a few heartbeats to realize the voice was real. She turned to Yrith abruptly, masking her face with a glare.

“Y-you…” she hissed, fingers clenching into fists to prevent herself from pointing. “So all this time… all this time you were playing games with me? Enjoying my talks to myself?”

“No…” Yrith shook her head, sliding the pillow under it. “This is the first time. I… I knew you would come eventually.” Her hand shot to her mouth. Too late.

“And Cain and the divine Dragonborn know, I presume?”

“Leyna…”

“So I’ve been left out, it seems.”

“No…”

“Why?” Leyna spat, raising her finger in a silencing gesture. Her golden mane fluttered around her as she shook her head. “Why is it always you who gets what she wants?!”

Yrith stared at her, at a loss for words. Her clouded mind offered none. Whatever she would say would wash over Leyna like the blizzard outside over the monastery towers. “Do I… get what I want?” she managed weakly.

Leyna let out a snort that spoke of white-hot daggers and bloodstained gallows. “Don’t you? Cain and Qassir both lying at your feet? Teachers giving you special lessons? Don’t look at me like that, I am no fool to not notice. And your… incredible magic that is not even your own? Why is it always you?”

“But I… I never asked for…”

She let out a scoff that cut like a blade. “You know… I only wished for one thing. Only one… in my entire accursed life. Can you imagine? All that you had… it was fine. There was just one thing… something… someone I thought that no one would ever take from me. But now, he’s gone. He’s gone because of you! Because you were there! And his last words to me? ‘There is no place for tears in the eyes of a Travi.’ He did not even look at me when he was lying there in the dirt! All he saw was you! It was always you!”

Yrith stared at her friend, unable to utter a word. She knew the pain in her eyes. She knew it all too well. It had haunted her for so long, and despite that, there was no solace she could offer. She had no strength to stand up, but tried nevertheless, failing and falling back to the soft of her furs and linens. Windy with unfulfilled effort, Yrith could feel the hot streaks trickle down her cheeks. Leyna glared at her with utter distaste.

“Yes… cry. Cry yourself to death if you will. I’ve said what I wanted…” Her own eyes glistened with tears, obscuring the gold with moonlight’s pale blue. “I guess I can go rot away in peace now.”

She gave Yrith one last look of bitter hate before making for the corridor. Yrith raised her hand helplessly, numb fingers reaching out for her silhouette. She cried her name, but her strangled voice faded on her lips. She buried her face in the pillow, wrapping her arms around it like a loved animal. Too much time passed before sleep finally came to claim her.


“Here.”

Yrith stared into the bowl Cain was handing out to her. It was oatmeal porridge. Yrith hated porridge.

She accepted it without a word, taking a sliver of it with the tip of the spoon. Luckily, it had no taste. Nothing had taste these days, as if the food wanted to answer to the greyness around. She ate slowly, cloaking her face with indifference. After all, there was no hurry. There was nothing waiting for her. Nothing but an army of people eager to kill her and break all those that she cared for. Nothing but emptiness and more people giving their life for her. Or resenting her.

Still, she would have preferred the meal to disappear faster. Eating had become a chore. Living had become a chore.

“Do you not like it?” Cain inquired, eyes full of eagerness Yrith could not place.

“It’s fine,” she mumbled. He stooped his head.

“Sorry if it’s bad… the Dragonborn has been teaching me to cook. I’d never cooked something before… aside from the salmon we made before you…” He trailed off, burying his head in his hands. “Sorry… sorry, Yrith.”

The salmon. The Spirit Blight. It had been so long. Yrith had almost forgotten about it, even if the history was repeating itself. The fear was the same. The helplessness also. She was tied to her bed, unable to even visit a privy on her own. Only back then, she had ended up in Singird’s room. Now she missed his firm voice, and the slender, mildly tanned arms that would lock her in a tight embrace whenever she was lonely or in pain, and his dark eyes, full of silent reproach every time she had done something dangerous and soothing warmth whenever she doubted herself. Cain was gentle and caring, and the Dragonborn was always there to humor her, but the empty space inside her remained, craving to be filled.

Despite herself, she gave a soft smile. “Thank you, Cain.”

He raised his gaze to her. “You always say this. But there is nothing to thank me for.”

She shook her head. “Thank you for always being here. Don’t apologize. You are doing so much for me.”

Even under his ebony skin, she could feel the heat rushing into his cheeks. He returned her smile with a hint of sadness mingling with his flush. “What are you thinking of?”

The question took her by surprise. She stared at him, trying to take her mind away from Singird. “Winterhold,” she said, choosing the first thing to come to her mind.

He gave a slight nod. “Do you miss it?”

She took a while to assess his question. He waited patiently, watching her chew on the tasteless porridge. At last, she put it away, feeling much too full to take in more.

“Back then,” she mused, tilting her head back to have a view of the dormer, “I thought the whole world was against me. Like a little child…” She gave a sad smile. Images kept coming to her. Images of her parents scolding her for stealing A Man of Two Faces for the umpteenth time. Images of her classmates flocking around her and laughing. Of Singird when she first met him, irked at her for flapping her arms instead of showing him proper magic. And Cain, jeering at her with a frostbite spell in his hand. She snorted at her own sentiment. “Now I know there are but a few people against me. Maybe no more than one… and for some reason, it feels so much worse.”

“Yrith…”

“And I am only midget for you when you scold me,” she laughed cheerlessly. “Things really have changed, haven’t they?”

“I-I… do you… like it? When I call you midget?”

Yrith turned back to him. He was not looking at her. His eyes pierced the floor, his arms fallen in his lap.

“I…” She remembered the face of that Dunmer who had turned up his nose at the prospect of seeing her change her garments. And the one making a sour face at Qassir for stealing his Destruction partner. “I like it when it is you…” she whispered at last. He froze, turning to her with a timid question in his eyes.

“What… do you mean?”

“I mean… the Cain who is so sure of himself. The Cain who goes and does as he pleases, not looking at what the others think.”

There was a moment of silence before Cain’s head sank into his hands. He rubbed his forehead against his palms, as if trying to rid it of dirt.

“Dammit…” he spoke softly. “Dammit, Yrith…”

“I’m sorry…” Yrith said, raising her hands. “I’m sorry if I said something wrong.”

“No… you didn’t.” He only gave her a quick glance, as if afraid to show his face. “I’m happy… you have no idea. It’s just… I can’t fulfill that wish. Back then, I was… indifferent. I can’t do that anymore. This is the first time in my life that I have something to lose. And I almost lost it just half a moon ago.”

He met her gaze, sending a wave of heat in her cheeks. She could not look away. Instead, she traced the scar on his jaw, sliding a finger along it.

“But you were hurt too,” she breathed.

“Hurt?” he let out a bitter laugh. “No. You were the one getting hurt. I’ve… lived through worse. Pain is like the cold. You get used to it the longer you face it. Then it only becomes an inconvenience that bites into your skin.”

Yrith stared at him. His voice trailed off, eyes distant as if he was looking at a memory long forgotten, drifting off to a place where she could not reach him. Contrary to his words, the wistful tone of his voice made her heart ache. Real pain was never just a slash inflicted on one’s body. It was fear and loneliness. It was disappointment, regret. Was she allowed to ask? Or would the question open old wounds?

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

He quirked up his brows. “For what?”

“You… you seem like you still hurt.”

Another of those bitter laughs. He stood up, turning his back on her. Inhaling deeply, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up in one swift movement. The view that he offered her froze the blood in Yrith’s veins.

“It’s not you who should feel sorry,” he uttered grimly.

Yrith stared at what looked like a rugged landscape with broad mountain ridges and sharp bands of rivers. There was not an inch of smooth skin on Cain’s back, its surface misshaped by infinite slashes and dents. Her breath betrayed her. She did not want to imagine the treatment he had received. How much pain had Cain had to endure before his life in Winterhold? Was it a miracle that he was still alive?

“C-Cain…”

“This is the result of my family’s worship. My mother’s doing.”

“Your mother…” Yrith gaped at him, eyes wide with disbelief, but her hands were clenched tight. All this time he had lived with these scars, inflicted by the very person that should have cherished and nurtured him. Why? She felt a wave of pure hatred surge in her. Why? He deserved better… so much better. So why?

She wanted to jump up and embrace him. To press him close, let him know that he had a place to go.

“I’m sorry…” She tried to suppress the burning in her eyes. “I’m so sorry…”

He was by her side in an instant, wrapping his arms around her, encasing her in the hotness of his body. “No… don’t be.” He buried a hand in her hair, resting his chin on her head. “Don’t cry for me, Yrith. I have learned to live my life without sympathy.”

She raised her hand, touching gently the coarseness of his spine. “But…” she muttered into his chest.

“It is what it is.” He let go, wiping away her tears with his own shirt. “This is the Lone Demon’s creed. Hatred. Strife. Torment. Because ‘only when you have truly suffered can you find true happiness.’ He’s in fact a very nice and thoughtful lad,” Cain snorted sardonically. He sat down at the edge of the bed, putting the shirt back on.

“Strife…” Yrith repeated thoughtfully. A memory surfaced within her. It couldn’t be…

“Hm?”

“Nothing, just…” she paused for a moment, rubbing her thumbs against each other. Would he hate her for the question? Would she hurt him? He was already hurt. But what if she had the chance to stop it all? She drew in a breath. “Could you… tell me about this Lone Demon?”

A shadow crossed Cain’s face. What was it that she suddenly saw in his eyes? Concern? Shame? He looked away, finding interest in one of the crooked table legs.

“Why are you asking about him?”

“Well, because I… I’d like to know more about your past. About what ailed you.” A lie so blatant she felt like sinking into the floor that instant. She hated herself the moment those words left her mouth.

In the split moment that he glanced at her, Yrith felt frozen to her bed. He was not the proud Dunmer she had known before. He sat there with his back bent and shoulders slumped, and the agony in his eyes felt more real than any wound Erinor had inflicted upon her. Even before his reply reached her, she knew she had asked the wrong question.

“No,” he said, trying to hide the quiver in his voice. “I can’t. Not now… maybe later.”

He rose to his feet, but even from the bed where Yrith sat, he seemed so small. So fragile, like a vase that has been cracked and glued back, holding together by sheer willpower.

“Cain, I’m…”

He put a finger on her lips. She could feel him trembling, but he stayed long enough for her words to fade into nothingness. She stared up at him in question.

“Rest, Yrith,” he told her softly. “You still need your rest.”

They spent a while just looking at each other in silence. Cain took a breath, opening his mouth, but he closed it anon. His hand traced her cheekbone. And then, with just a hint of hesitation, he leaned to her, placing a soft kiss on her forehead.

Before she could shake off her surprise and ask a question, he walked away, leaving behind the echo of his footsteps. Yrith stared after him, face flushed with hot, deep red. She put her hands over her cheeks as if trying to chase the heat away. Her breath was stuck somewhere deep in her throat, and her chest aching with stabbing pain. She did not need her magic to deduce. More than ever she wished for a certain dark-haired Nord to sit by her side. She was in trouble. She was in deep, deep trouble. And the empty space inside her grew wider yet.


The mountain shook again, its cry carrying over the land. Very little life remained here at the top of the world where endless blizzards whipped the weathered cliffs. High Hrothgar stood alone amidst layers and layers of snow. Only the mountain summit up the road had a voice of its own. Even when the Greybeards remained quiet, the mountain still spoke. But whatever was up there lay hidden behind a curtain of incessant snowstorm. Yrith was almost certain that magic was involved, as the storm never quietened, unchanging in form or intensity. At night, the voice stayed quiet. During the day, it called to her, shaking the old monastery and sending a soft echo through its walls. She put her hands over her ears, but the sound lingered, pervading her body and mind.

“It speaks to you too,” a voice issued above her. Yrith opened her eyes to the jagged silhouette of the Dragonborn looming above her. She had not heard him coming. Her brows quirked up in question. He smiled as he sat beside her. “The mountain,” he clarified.

She pulled herself into a sitting position and nodded. “What is up there?”

“Does it matter?” he said. From under his shirt, he pulled an amulet in the shape of daedric O. The symbol of Oblivion. He lifted it against the light from the dormer, studying its silhouette as if his visit to Yrith was an excuse to do just that. Yrith could not help but feel irked by his sudden captivation.

“I suppose not,” she muttered. “I was just curious.”

His hand froze in the air and he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Were you really?”

His intent gaze sent shivers down her spine. She looked away. “Is that wrong?”

He gave a low chuckle. “Not at all. I am simply wondering. If you are curious enough to ask, are you also curious enough to go?”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“So you don’t. Then let me ask you something else.” He let the amulet loose and turned to her entirely to gain a good view of her. Yrith shifted uncomfortably. “Why do you cover your ears when the mountain speaks?”

She blinked and her heart sank. Why indeed? Yrith did not know. That voice bothered her, calling to her with unsettling urgency. It bothered her the same way Cain’s constant inquiries about her health did. Why?

“I don’t know,” she shook her head, looking down at the weathered flowery pattern on her duvet. “I don’t know,” she repeated quietly, hoping to give her words the gravity she intended. But they felt so weak on her lips. Unconvincing.

“Ah,” he purred, and the smile returned to his jaws. He reminded Yrith of the Arch-Mage, with her dreamy face, pretending to be wandering in some distant place while she was well aware of what transpired within her reality. “But you are answering the wrong question, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

His smile widened, teeth baring threateningly. “Would you stand up for me?”

She froze. “I’m sorry?”

“Stand up. On your feet.” With a content sigh, he leaned back, making himself comfortable on her bed. She stared at him.

“But I…”

“Can’t you? After six days… sixteen, if I count the previous ten. Are you still so weak you can’t stand up? Should I fly to Whiterun and get you a trained healer?”

She paled, feeling a lump in her throat. “N-no,” she breathed.

“Then will you stand up for me?”

She nodded in silence, sliding her feet onto the cold floor. Looking down made her head spin, but she forced herself up nonetheless, propping her hands against the bed. She could feel her legs tremble, but not enough to seize up under her. Taking a shaky breath, she let go of the bed… and stood. The Dragonborn crossed his legs, triumph coloring his face.

“That wasn’t so hard,” he hummed. “The world looks different from up there, doesn’t it?”

Yrith turned around, gazing at the things she had never noticed. A crack in the floor just under her bed. A vase that had stayed hidden behind a pilaster while she had lain there. Tiny caskets lining the alcoves in the corridor. She let out a breath.

“It does,” she admitted shyly.

He took her pillow, pulling it out of its cover. Standing up, he made his way behind her.

“Hold still,” he told her gently, “and let your magic rest. Trust me.”

With a nervous sigh, she shifted from one leg to another but did has he told her. She closed her eyes as the cloth wrapped around her head, obscuring her view. Her magic swirled instinctively, but she shushed it inside. The Dragonborn tied the makeshift blindfold into a tight knot, carefully pulling out her hair. Darkness engulfed her, real darkness, shapeless and threatening. She felt his grip on her shoulders as he turned her around, once, twice, more and again until she lost count, and in reverse, walking in circles as she pivoted in place. After what felt like a small eternity, he finally halted.

“Now,” he said, “I will step back. I want you to take a step forward.”

She felt his breath recede, and suddenly, she was alone. Uncertainty took over her. What was it that her foot would find? The bed? A wall? A rock over which she could slip?

She took a breath, daring a single step. Her foot landed safe on the empty floor.

“Good,” the Dragonborn’s voice echoed by her side. “Go on. Take another.”

Yrith slid her foot forward, trying the terrain.

“Keep walking,” he encouraged. She did. One step after another. Her foot found the edge of a floor tile, then a fallen leaf. And on she went, step after step…

“Stop.”

She froze.

“Take off the blindfold.”

Untangling the knot, she blinked at the coarse texture before her. She stood inches from the wall. One more step and she would have crashed into it. She turned a questioning look at the Dragonborn. He was sitting on her bed, still smiling, but something had changed. Calmness spread through her and she let out a breath.

“How does it feel,” he whispered, tilting his head to the side, “when you are in the dark? When you don’t know what awaits you just one step ahead?”

“I…” She shook her head, gaze sinking to the floor. Of course that was the answer. How could it not? What other image than pain and death came to her mind when she thought of stepping outside? “I am afraid.”

“That you are,” he nodded. Then he patted the empty space beside him. “Come join me again. We don’t want you catching a chill when you’ve just stood on your feet, do we?”

She pattered back in silence, wrapping herself in the warmth of her duvet. The Dragonborn gave a smile of approval.

“Fear is not wrong,” he said. “You need fear to survive. But let it take over, and it will be your demise.” He moved closer, tapping her hand. “Let me tell you a story. One that I have not shared with anyone before. For you, I will make an exception.”

He paused, taking a sip of the fresh air. Then he took the goblet on her table and offered it to her. It was filled with snowberry juice. She nodded her thanks.

“Have you ever been to Morrowind?”

She shook her head.

“Consider yourself fortunate,” he said, lifting his gaze in recollection of old memories. “It is a harsh place. Much harsher than Skyrim, or Cyrodiil, or High Rock, for that matter. The ash that covers everything and gets in your eyes and mouth, under your clothes, even under your skin if you let it, that is just the tip of the iceberg. The society lives a different life there. The worship is dark, the rules are strict, and for those exacting them, there is no such thing as mercy. At the beginning of the Fourth Era, slavery has been abolished. Officially, at least. But with the Septim dynasty gone and the Empire in pieces, there is hardly anyone who would make sure the order is kept. There has been little change in the Morrowind lifestyle. And the most favorite among the slaves in Morrowind are…”

“The Khajiit and the Argonians,” Yrith concluded slowly, hands rising to her mouth as she realized the meaning of his words.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Meena and I were slaves.”

“Meena?”

“Meena-La, my sister. And your Arch-Mage.” He stared up at the dormer, as if the memories would simply fall from there like the flakes of snow. “The life of a slave does not always have to be bad. Our master was…” he frowned, pausing for a moment. Yrith could spot a slight shiver in his hands, but he quickly chased it away. “He was kind. We had our own beds, a warm place to stay at, we ate regular food and not just rotten leftovers. Of course you had to get used to not having any freedom. The outside world was off limits, and the brand you wore could not be washed away. Only we, the Argonians whose skin tends to heal quite efficiently, had to undergo a painful renewal every now and then.”

Yrith gritted her teeth. She did not want to imagine the pain of white-hot iron, imprinting itself on his skin over and over again. She felt cold taking over her body, but his only response was an absent smile and a shake of his head.

“Still, the branding was just the necessary evil.”

“But… you said your master was kind. Why didn’t he just free you then?”

The Dragonborn gave a mirthless laugh, one that sent shivers down Yrith’s spine. “Free us? One can’t just free slaves in Morrowind on their own accord. There are… politics in play. Mechanics I don’t quite understand myself, but our master did what he could. But then, war came from the outside. Soldiers decimated the land and took all our crops. Our master had connections in the Balmora port and negotiated us a good batch of fish and sea fruits. Little did he know about their true origins. In the toughest of times, he contracted the greenspore.”

Yrith’s fists clenched by themselves. She knew where he was heading. She had read about the greenspore. A malady that would twist its victim’s mind, turning the most generous into lustful monsters and the most gentle into violent beasts.

“You can imagine,” he continued, a distant look in his eyes. “Suddenly, all of us knew pain. He forgot… forgot that D’narr brought flowers to the grave of his father every day, and that Janeera made the best ointment for his weary joints out of sheer affection. He forgot… that we too were people. Slowly but surely. First was his raised voice. A surprise to everyone, but at that time, we thought he’d just had a bad day. And so we worked like before, barely taking notice of those bad days and their rising frequency. Then came the outbursts. We would stock up the ash yams and the trama, pile up his wood and hay, only so that he could come and burn it all down, as if war had not done enough of that already. After that was the shoving, then the cane… a whip, and a scourge with hooks.” His voice faded into a mere whisper. Yrith felt her body tense as he took time to draw a breath.

“When the change is gradual, you don’t even notice it. Only at some point, you suddenly realize that you are… suffering. In pain. Unhappy. And then, there comes the time when you just want everything to stop. You dread every slash of the whip that is waiting for you, you even dread the voice that tells you what a useless creature you are. You dread every morning, and yet, you still wake up, only to relive that nightmare. And you find just what kind of person you are.

“The bravest of us tried to revolt. They fought back. They stood proud when the whip struck them, they looked the master in the eye when he yelled at them. They even smiled when he went on a rampage. And the weaker of us… well, we survived. We cowered under the thongs. We watched as the brave battled. Our eyes got used to the sight of the ground under our feet and blood on our hands. We did nothing.

“I watched my comrades fall. Several died of pain and exhaustion. Some were simply killed. And I bled inside, but still… I did nothing. Meena did what she could with her healing powers. I had no magic in me. I only watched. And then, one day when the master was out, I… I dragged her out. Just like that. We ran, left the place with all those people behind. I never looked back. We did not know anything about the world outside, having been born in slavery. We stumbled through the wilderness, poisoned ourselves with plants we had never seen before, almost starved to death. We still went on, up the ridge of the Velothi Mountains where we learned what cold could do to a person. Especially when all we had was a set of ragged linens. Meena’s magic kept us alive, but just barely. And then, without realizing it, we found ourselves in Cyrodiil. Meena was exhausted… and I could hardly do anything without her. She collapsed one day. And I… I despised myself. I could not help her. And I could not help anyone back on our farm. I felt powerless. At that time, I gave up all hope.”

He closed his eyes and Yrith wondered if the Argonians could shed tears. His voice trembled as he spoke, even if he tried to disguise it as plain hoarseness.

“It is ironic, isn’t it? That when you finally reach freedom, you feel so desperate. I felt more than pain and loss. I did not even try to look for someone to help. At that time, I was so sure no one would even try. And I was wrong.

“I passed out a few hours later, just by her body. When I came to, I was in the house of a local alchemist. He gave us food and a warm bed. He did not ask questions, nor did he tell us to leave. The nights became pleasant and quiet. We were finally allowed to rest. And yet… I was unhappy. And angry, and bitter. The poor man did not deserve the treatment I gave him. Still, he never scolded me. He never had an ill word for me. Peace and remedies, those were his only gifts. Occasionally, he pointed to a flower outside, or to the cloudy halos crowning the mountains in the distance. Or the thick pines on their slopes. He showed me life and beauty. And I did not understand.

“There was much anguish in me, pain from the past, but also something far more overwhelming. Something had ended, a great suffering. Meena and I had healed, or our bodies had at least. But we stood at a crossroad. Now the question was – what next?

“You may think it silly. There was this whole world to explore, so many opportunities we had. The old man gave us books and taught us how to read them. We learned how to do arithmetic. He told us about herbs and various plants, about the world’s history and politics. He spoke about how the Septims had reigned for centuries, how Saint Alessia had lit the Dragonfires and how the Tongues had cast Alduin the World Eater out of their time. I feel like even then, long before the return of the dragons, he knew who I was. Long before I knew it myself. But he was wise enough not to tell. Wise enough to let me wander endlessly, with no aim and no purpose. I hated every moment of that free life. I could not stand the peace, the empty space that had formed inside me. And so, one day, I took Meena and left. Again, I escaped. We sold ourselves as cheap healers on the road, still with no purpose, going from one place to another, never stopping for more than a few nights. But I felt more at ease. Finally, we were at least moving.”

He let out bitter laugh.

“How foolish I was. Even with all that knowledge we had gained, we still knew nothing about the world’s inner machinery. We could not understand that there was war and what it entailed. So one day, we ended up on Skyrim’s border, and before we knew it, we were mistaken for the rebels and captured by the Imperials. The folly of the whole situation. Ulfric hates the beastfolk. He hates everything that does not carry Nordic blood. But that didn’t stop them. We didn’t realize back then that it was about much more than just the rebellion. We did not matter. But our death did. We would die as mere symbols.

“It was a strange experience. One moment, my head lay on the block and the only view I had was that of the bucket’s moldered wood, stained in fresh blood. The smell was repugnant, I thought I would throw up, and I felt the wind in my back when the headsman lifted his axe. It moved so slowly. I thought it was never going to fall. And you know those stories of how you see all of your life laid out in front of you just before you die? Well…”

He chuckled, but the sound made Yrith’s heart freeze. She sat there, motionless. He let the silence linger for a bit longer before speaking again.

“My mind was void. All the thoughts had disappeared, replaced by one that took the entire space. ‘I am going to die now.’ I did not want to accept it. After all those months of wandering with no purpose, I finally realized how dear my life was to me.

“Still, there was nothing I could do. What can you do, surrounded by tens of Imperial archers? Not much, I tell you. One of us tried. He did not make it past the open gate. So I was at least determined to die as painlessly as possible. But the next moment, I was looking into the eyes of a black-winged dragon. The one you know as Alduin. The devourer of worlds.

“How ironic that in the end, the one who saved me later turned out to be my mortal enemy. Everyone’s enemy. The creature I was destined to face and defeat.” He let out a heavy sigh. “What a hero I am. If only they knew. But on that day, I learned an important lesson.”

He fell silent, straightening from his comfortable, yet straining position. Yrith could see in his eyes that he was back in the present, somewhat calmer, relieved even, and smiling lightly at her. He stood up, stretching his limbs with a soft groan of satisfaction. She raised her brows, but he paid them no heed.

“But… what was the lesson?” she voiced her thoughts.

He cracked his knuckles, following with a scratch on his head. At last, he leaned closer to her, letting her feel his breath. “I learned,” he whispered in her ear, “that the story does not end until it is truly over.”

Yrith stared at him, opening her mouth to ask what it meant, but the answer formed in her mind by itself. A burden fell off her shoulders. Light flush warmed her cheeks. She smiled, giving a slight nod. He would not need words to understand.

He replied in kind, regaling her with a pat on the back on his leave.

Chapter 22: The One Who Speaks True

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The mountain roared. The ground shook. She felt the tremble deep in her own flesh. Her knees betrayed her. She knelt, the circle of soldiers around her sneering at her misery. Dark clouds gathered above, as if deciding her fate.

“You will die…”

Silken voice spoke to her, quietly, gently. It quivered with thrill, stifling her breath. She heard the roar again, so distant, but calling to her with urgency. She would extend her hand toward the sound, but it was too heavy to lift. Her whole body had become too heavy. She could only watch as the elf’s figure approached, stretching his arms to touch her. A blade appeared between his fingers, dark, as if it was absorbing all the light around it. It emitted cold, seeping deep under her skin. She wanted to step back, but she felt an invisible wall behind her. She could feel him grab her by the cuff enlacing her neck. It suffocated her. Her breath seized up in her throat. The blade touched her skin… and ripped it.

The mountain roared…


Yrith opened her eyes, her chest heaving as she sat up. The room was light with the ripe morning and speckles of dust flew around like tiny silvery torchbugs. Her fingers traced the line on her neck in the deluge of sweat, sliding slowly from one side to another. There was hardly any scar left. But the terrible sensation, burning and freezing at once, remained. He was dead, she was sure. But the blade still existed, and so did the one who had forged it. A cursed blade, like the fang of a voidspawn demon. The thought alone made her shudder.

She let out a shaky breath, and another, waiting for her heart to steady its beat. Her gaze fell upon a humble pile covering the table beside her. On top of it lay a note written in a strangely jagged script, as if imitating claw marks.

It’s not the latest fashion, but I still hope you’ll find them useful.

K

K? Yrith frowned, wondering whom this initial could belong to. The Dragonborn? Despite her solitude, she felt warmth in her cheeks. She had never asked his name.

She pulled the pile onto her lap, finding a set of weathered, once rather colorful garments, emitting a gentle smell of soapwort. She pulled them on, finding they fit almost perfectly. She would have felt almost fancy, like those flashy performers dancing their way through the streets of Daggerfall and gathering coin the local nobles would throw them from their windows back in the day. If it wasn’t for the threadbare furs around her collar. Those made her feel like a molted starving sabre cat, living truly up to Qassir’s expectations of being an urchin. Tugging at the tips of the remaining hair to plump them up a bit, she rose to finally leave her safe haven.

The corridors of High Hrothgar welcomed her with astounding stillness, only the echo of her footsteps bouncing between the tall unadorned granite walls. The monastery must have been ancient. She stared at the massive stones that formed it, their corners rubbed smooth and rounded by the tooth of time. There was not much to admire except the structure itself, a strange labyrinth of passages reminiscent of a hefty angular arcade. The sound of her footsteps carried far and wide through them, even when she tried her best to conceal it. She frowned, touching the stone as if she expected it to tell her its secret. And here she thought she was rather good at sneaking. Winterhold had never betrayed her like this.

Following one of the many corridors, she reached the end which presented itself as a kitchen of sorts, with no more than a fireplace and a modest set of dishes, mostly hung on a bar attached to the wall next to it. There were no plates or glasses, only bowls and pots made in wood and cast iron.

She made to leave, only to run into another dead end, this time presenting a bedroll and a shelf holding a small stone tablet. She studied the place closely, assuming by the helmet laying at the bedroll’s head that this was the Dragonborn’s bedroom. If she could call it that. Curiously, she reached for the tablet on the shelf and picked it up.

Engraved in it was an inscription written in the same style of jagged script she had seen on the note about her new clothes. Only this time, she could not discern the characters. A map of Skyrim covered the other side, littered by four-pointed stars.

“I keep that to preserve the memory of my battle against Alduin,” a voice issued behind her. She turned abruptly, staring at the rather undisturbed face of the Dragonborn. He was propped against a pillar, as if he had always been there, watching her with the typical mirth in his bead-like eyes. “They fade, you know. The memories of the places and people you left behind. They fade whether you want it or not. And with them goes a part of yourself.”

Yrith nodded. She could hardly recall what life had been like in Daggerfall. Even those days in Winterhold seemed clouded and distant, as if the person who had lived them had not been her.

“Is this the Dragon Language?” she asked, pointing at the inscription on the tablet. The Dragonborn took it from her with a toothy smile.

“‘Here lie our fallen lords, until the power of the Devourer of Worlds awakens them once more,’” he read. “This is a map of the dragons’ burial mounds. Back then, I didn’t understand. I understood nothing of this great plot I’d become part of. I only had this great fear of the unknown. You understand, don’t you?”

Her gaze sank to the floor. “But I am no savior of the world.”

The Dragonborn laughed. “How can you tell at this point?”

“You defeated him. Alduin, the World Eater.” She gained herself another laugh.

“Certainly, if I announced just that to the world, no one would dare question it. But in truth, no, I did not. Not alone, at least. That was my advantage over him. I had friends. Allies. Supporters. Whatever you want to call them. People who had my back before I even knew what was happening.” He placed the tablet back on the shelf, laying it down gently, like a babe in a cradle. “Come,” he beckoned to her, making for the sunlit corridor. Yrith followed him out of the maze of the monastery, into the vast space of the central corridor and through a huge brass gate leading to the courtyard. She squinted in the sudden brightness cast by the surrounding snow. The cold hit her face and crept under her garments. The Dragonborn turned to her, wrapping her in the woolen mantle that had been nonchalantly draped over his shoulder.

“But you…”

He shook his head. “I’m used to this cold. It is like my home. It’s different from Winterhold, isn’t it?” Looking up to the skies, he drew in the frosty air, returning a puff of steam. “They say that if you take the snow from up there,” he gestured to the top of the mountain, covered in a thick veil of mist and clouds, “it will never melt. Even if you bring it to the scorching deserts of Hammerfell.”

Yrith raised her brows. “And is it true?”

“I’ve never tried,” the Dragonborn laughed. “And I doubt any of those who spread the rumor did. To an ordinary mortal, that place is inaccessible.”

“Have you been there?”

He gave her a cryptic smile, waving for her to follow him. They crossed the bit of leveled ground before them, past the road leading to a great cliff and an old, massive watchtower looming over the vastness of Skyrim. The wind grew stronger as they progressed toward a wide stairway before them and then up to a tall stone arch. Beyond it spread a wall of swirling frost, dark and menacing in the shade of the mountain. Yrith shivered at the mere sight.

“Touch it,” the Dragonborn said, stepping aside to clear the way for her. She approached the wall gingerly, raising a hand to it with caution. As the tip of her finger reached it, tiny crystals, invisible to her eyes, pricked the skin on it, littering it with tiny wounds. Yrith pulled back, watching droplets of blood surface on it. She looked at the Dragonborn.

“What is that?”

“The eternal storm protecting the mountain.” He took a step forward, straightening his back and taking a deep breath.

“LOK VAH KOOR!” he shouted. And the mountain shook, sending back a familiar echo.

Yrith flinched, covering her ears instinctively as the words left his mouth. Sky, spring and summer, she could make out their meanings from the magic that radiated from them. Clear the skies, from winter to spring, from spring to summer. The torrent of mist and snow thinned, until it was no more than limpid residue, cold on touch, but breathable. The Dragonborn stepped on the path, making his way just a few feet into the freshly cleared space.

“Magic that can change things from within,” Yrith whispered, remembering the spells her own parents had commanded. The draconic magic must have been similar in nature.

“Not as powerful as the magic of this place,” the Dragonborn said, raising his gaze to the mountain peak above. “If you stand here for too long, the storm will return. Only those who command the Dragon Tongue can set foot on the summit. Or so I used to think. You seem like you could handle yourself out there, though.”

“I could?”

The Dragonborn’s jaw widened in a bestial grin. “Up to you. I believe you too want to reach that place.”

She stared into the cloudy unknown. “What is up there?”

He shrugged. “A friend.” Then he patted her on the shoulder. “Best of luck to you.”

With a wink of one eye, he made for the stairs. Yrith stared at his back, but snapped to attention at the sudden gust of wind in her face.

“Erm… Mister Dragonborn?”

He looked over his shoulder, still smiling.

“Thank you for these.” She slid a hand over her clothes and tugged at the mantle. He nodded.

“You can call me Keneel-La. Or Bends-The-Night, but, for some mysterious reason, people find that name rather hard to use.” The sparks in his eyes danced merrily as he turned to leave, his figure smaller and smaller over the distance. Yrith smiled to herself. The Dragonborn had a name too.


Yrith lifted her hand and felt the thundering cold on its palm. It had been three days, yet she could not take a single step past the point she had reached with the Dragonborn. The storm sang its dark aria, oblivious to her attempts. She let a strand of magic into it, and it was swayed at once, pricked and scattered into invisible shreds. She could not penetrate the storm, nor disperse it. Once back in Winterhold, she had thought herself capable, almost invincible as she had slowly learned to best her teachers. All that confidence was now torn to pieces. There were powers on Nirn which she could not compare to. She could not even turn and run when she had found herself in the middle of a raging battle. And now, she could not set foot on the path sending her a sweet invitation with every roar from above.

Gritting her teeth, she let out a blast of pure energy. The blinding blue beam shattered and faded upon contact. Singird had told her before not to fight her way with force. But this was different from leading a ball through a maze. This maze had no free passages to take.

She sighed, wiping the weariness from her face. The silhouette of High Hrothgar blended with the darkening sky. The sun had kissed the western horizon farewell and vanished beneath it. Another day had passed.

She left the stone arch, recounting in her head everything she had tried. The Dragonborn had made it look so easy. It had taken him thee words to make the storm simply disappear. What should she do? Spellbrew it away? But she had never tried it. She hardly had any idea how it’s done, and, as she had found out after a few brief moments of exploration, the monastery suffered a great shortage of any kind of literature. And so she spent her days out here, trying, exerting her powers. It was better than lying around and doing nothing. It was better than facing Cain and his eyes full of worry.

She passed through the gate, into the wide corridor and the smaller ones beyond. They led her to the council room where dinner would be served. But she froze before entering as Cain’s agitated voice reached her ears.

“And what do you expect of her? To come crying, licking your boots and begging for mercy? Do you find this entertaining?”

Yrith held her breath. They could not be talking about her, could they?

There was a snort which undoubtedly came from Leyna. “You think I am entertained? Oh certainly, I get entertained by the thought of having lost my father!” The last word was followed by a gasp and a thud. Yrith bit through her lip, feeling blood on her tongue. She pressed herself to the door frame, curiosity and apprehension fighting the urge to jump out and stop the quarrel.

“Sure, like you’re the only one who has lost someone. Your sweet father who just happened to know Yrith’s parents, hmm? Do you take me for a complete fool? Why did you bring her there, Leyna?”

“Because he…” the words were muffled by what Yrith assumed to be tears, “because I thought he’d asked me to! You were there, you heard us talking!”

“Yes… I heard you talking.” Cain sighed, his voice suddenly low, broken. “I heard everything. Including the part about the enemy. About the name. The name lost in time,” he fell into whisper. Leyna let out a quiet sob. “Do you realize what burden he put on Yrith’s shoulders? And knowing her, she’ll go search for him. She’ll…” he took a shaky breath, “she’ll seek him. If only for your sake!”

The knuckles on Yrith’s hands turned snow-white as she gripped the frame. Leyna voiced the question that overtook the whole of her mind.

“What… what are you talking about?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Who will she seek?”

“Don’t lie to me!” Yrith’s fingers scraped the lacquered metal. She felt Cain’s rage. His every word stabbed her heart, but she could not find the strength to run to him. His words were a growl and a yell, a threat and a desperate cry in one. “You know very well who I’m talking about!”

There was a threatening growl, a sound Yrith would have never associated with the graceful Leyna.

“Fine! I led your precious Yrith out of Winterhold! I lured her out with a plea, I lied to her about the cause! It is all on me, but I sure as Oblivion don’t know what my father was involved in, and I have no bloody idea what you are saying! Do you really think I would march right into death’s jaws had I known this? No, and trust me,” there was a sudden wave of determination in Leyna’s voice. Even without looking, Yrith could imagine her standing proud, straightening her back as she looked into Cain’s face, “I would not have sent her there either. I may be ignorant, I may be selfish, but I’m not a monster! Day after day, I am asking myself the same questions. Why did this happen? Who is it that killed my father? And… who is it that’s after Yrith? If my father knew her family, then why had I never heard of them before? I thought I was so smart. I thought I knew so much, knowing every name in Winterhold. All of them, except for hers. I thought she wasn’t involved in those political schemes. But she is. More than any of us. What is happening? What in Oblivion is happening to us?! Tell me, Cain. Tell me.”

Quiet, uneven steps echoed through the room, the staggering of a person. “I thought… you really don’t know anything…”

“Nice of you to realize,” Leyna rasped. Yrith almost couldn’t recognize her voice. “But you do. You know who is behind this, don’t you?”

“I have my suspicion.”

“Who?”

There was a moment of crackling-filled silence before Cain gave a low grunt. “The Lone Demon…”

Yrith put a hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp, the other one still clenching. Was he joking? No, he could not be. So why? Why had Cain never told her if he knew? Why would he keep secrets? She felt a flush of searing hot energy take over her. She wanted to pin him to the wall herself, force him to spill it all out. This was her life. Why was she never in control?

She felt herself shake, as if watching her body from the outside. The door frame was a dear friend which she clung to with all her might, stopping herself from stomping into the scene. She concentrated on their voices. On the words they said. On their meaning.

“Your would-be deity?”

“Deity, idol, demon, whatever he… it might be. Do you know his other name?”

Here they stood, talking about Yrith and the murderer in her tracks. The one who had tormented Cain, killed her parents and Leyna’s father. She ought to be invited to the party. And yet…

“I hear he has many.”

“He does. Because no one knows the real one. He is The Nameless God, but it is forbidden for us to use that title.”

“And you are assuming my father sent Yrith after him just because of that?”

Cain let out a long, weary breath. “No. I connected the dots when she started asking about him. She knows something. But I can’t let her do this. Anything but this… anything.”

Was this a justification? Yrith gritted her teeth.

She could not be sure if the sound coming from Leyna’s mouth was a sob or a snort. “She’s not your property. I doubt she would ask for your approval.”

Sure as Oblivion she would not.

“I know, but…”

“This is so ridiculous.” Leyna’s voice sounded tired, but also somewhat lighter. Brighter. “Whenever I think of Yrith, I remember those days in Winterhold when she encouraged me to… just be myself. She showed me freedom. She taught me to stop pretending and walk my own path.”

Cain laughed cheerlessly. “I guess we have something in common.”

“But why? Why do I feel so angry every time I see her face? When I remember how they talked… why couldn’t he look my way? Why does everything always revolve around her? Why do I have to hate myself for just being me?”

“Leyna…”

“He was my father…”

“I doubt it was her choice, Leyna.”

Yes, it had not been her choice. Nothing was ever her choice. Yrith turned away, still holding her breath, tiptoeing along the wall, holding the rage inside. She was angry. Angry at the godsdamned demon for destroying her life. Angry at her parents for not telling her anything. Angry at Cain for the same reason. Angry at Leyna for despising her so. Angry at the whole world for being so infuriatingly unfair. Angry at herself… for being powerless. In the end, she could only be hurt or angry.

She rushed through the halls, the fire within her smothering the cold around. Cain knew. Her footsteps now thundered and carried over the vast space. Cain knew and had not told her anything. She stomped over a rug, crumpling it unwittingly. Light flickered in the corridor ahead. How much did Cain know that he would not reveal, even if she asked?

She finally stopped, panting and staring into a vast entrance hall lit by a blazing brazier just a few paces before her and a myriad of candles casting their glimmer on the small altar on the other side. Two wide belts of stairs led down from where she stood, facing two sets of brass gates around the altar. The floor below was made in the same granite as the walls around it, save for a lone slabbed square in its middle formed by sixteen tiles. Right on the central cross knelt a solitary figure of a man in robes grey as the walls around, face turned to a pillar separating him from the altar. He was still, and for a moment, Yrith wondered if she was not simply looking at a statue. But as far as she knew, statues did not wear garbs.

She hesitated before turning to leave, but a voice from behind stopped her.

“Wise is the one who does not act upon anger, but unwise the one who lets it consume them.”

Slowly, she let her eyes find the figure again. He stood there, tall and proud, and despite his old age, told by the long grey beard and countless wrinkles in his face, his eyes pierced her with a look ever so bright. Yrith felt as though she was the one standing down below while he was eyeing her from the top of the stairs. He stepped toward her, across the room and up the stairs, until he closed the distance between them to an arm’s length. She flinched a little under his heavy look.

“So you are the last guest,” he said, calm and with no grudge for being purposely ignored. “I believe we have not met yet. My name is Arngeir and I speak for the Greybeards. It is quite rare to have visitors in our humble monastery. Pardon our rather seclusive nature.”

Yrith shook her head wildly. “Not at all. My name is Yrith Ravencroft.” Her voice still trembled with poorly concealed rage. She thought of what she could add to give weight to her name, but nothing came to her mind. She let out a silent breath, lips curling in sheepish apology.

“So I’ve heard. The Dragonborn speaks quite highly of you.”

“He exaggerates.”

Arngeir gave a light smile. “That is not for me to say. But I trust his judgement. He too was full of fear and anger when he came here. It must pain him to look into the mirror that you pose for him. And it must also give him hope.”

Yrith stared at him, face freezing in a frown. “What do you even know?”

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Nothing that goes on within these walls escapes my ears. You should not mistake concern that your friends express for malice.” He let out a light sigh. “I was opposed to having you here. We are mere observers and do not accept guests from the outer world of conflict. But I can see now that deep inside, you do not seek conflict. Be true to yourself, child. You are not wrong to doubt, as long as you do not let it cloud your mind. Understanding is the key to clearing your path.”

He patted her, making his leave. Yrith felt burning in her eyes. She was so exhausted. So lost. What should she do? What should she think? She did not know.


The square of tiles in the heart of the entrance hall quaked lightly with every sound produced within the walls of High Hrothgar. Every now and then, it shook with the roar from the mountain summit. Yrith knelt inside, listening to the sounds reminiscent of a quiet symphony. She could not discern them, but she was sure the Greybeards could. No wonder they liked to spend their time here. This structure was made to hold magic. But unlike the College of Winterhold, it had no magic of its own. She slid a hand over one of the tiles, sending tiny streams of magicka into its web-like crevices. It seemed almost as if the tile held a minuscule pipework, spanning into the monastery stone like countless invisible veins.

“Understanding is the key to clearing your path.”

Easy for him to say. How could she understand when no one gave her answers? Cain kept his secrets under lock and key and Leyna would not look her way. Even the damned storm would rage on as it pleased. And the Dragonborn was nowhere to be found, leaving her to figure things out on her own.

She caressed the tile, letting the blue of her magic flicker with a fresh wave of sounds. She found it oddly satisfying.

“Curious little mechanism, isn’t it?”

Her eyes found Arngeir, kneeling next to her. She hinted a wordless smile.

“If you learn to interpret the sounds, you can hear anything that goes on within these walls. Every whisper, a skeever pattering in the kitchen on the other side. It requires some exploration from within and a bit of trial and error. But it helps us connect. Not only to the monastery, but also to the outer world. It is especially attuned to dragon magic. Ever since the dragons returned to Skyrim, this place has never been quiet.”

Yrith watched as the web of magicka crackled under her fingers. “How do you…” she let the words fade, eyes growing wide. Exploration from within?

“Understanding is the key to clearing your path.”

She jumped on her feet, bowing deeply to the kneeling man beside her. “Thank you, Master Arngeir. This is exactly what I needed to hear.”

He nodded sagely as she ran toward the stairs and through the central corridor, soon flinging the gate to the courtyard open. She darted toward the stone arch, leaving behind a trail of churned snow. The sky was dark with heavy clouds promising a blizzard, but she paid it no heed, following the path upward almost instinctively. And then, when she finally reached the wall of frost, she let out a strand of magicka so tiny it would be invisible to a trained mage’s eye, but still enough she could feel it.

“Magic that changes things from within,” she breathed to herself, letting it delve in. She closed her eyes, feeling the storm sway it, furrowing her brows in her struggle to maintain the connection. Singird was wrong. She could use force. As long as that force was not her own. The storm had plenty of its own power, fueling the vortex inside infinitely. In essence, it was no different from magicka transforming into ice and sending it flying from her fingertips. She embraced it, claiming it for her own. She closed her eyes, letting her magic blend in the storm.

She was now part of it, moving with the torrents of the wind and snow, crashing and dissolving, only to take shape again. It was needlework, as if she was undoing stitches and weaving the thread into a different pattern. Particle after particle, strand after strand, she took over, finding their essence, transforming their energy into pure heat. The storm gave a low grumble of protest, but it could not resist. It could only fuel the process. Slowly, methodically, she walked into it, removing it from the path ahead. Her feet moved cautiously forward, searching for solid ground. She could feel her resolve strengthening as she worked her way along the side of the mountain, every step bringing her closer to her destination. Every inch was easier to transform than the previous one. As if the tailor had finally tamed the needle and thread. She let out a laugh, dissolving a cloud before her in a few heartbeats. Understanding truly was the key.

Now that the path was clear, she could take a look at what awaited her. The road followed steeply up along the mountain side, circling its folds and following the cliff edges. There were places where it faded under piles of rubble or blended into the mountain walls. She paled at the sight. Whoever had carved this path into the mountain must have been either mad or suicidal. She could not even imagine walking it. Two tiny flickering dots in the distance revealed the presence of ice wraiths. Was she supposed to fight them in these conditions? The Dragonborn sure put a lot of trust in her.

She tried the ground before her with a foot. It was solid and stable, but the drift of snow atop of it, slippery as its surface had melted and frozen back upon Yrith’s intervention, made for a dangerous adventure. She took a sharp breath, trying to convince herself that the Dragonborn had a reason for sending her here. Conjuring sharp teeth protruding from her boots and fingers to keep her stable, she began walking, always sending her magic ahead to scan the terrain. As the ice wraiths got closer, she summoned a pair of blazing atronachs, keeping them as her shield. She would avoid fighting here herself at all costs.

The wraiths charged forward, as they always did, mindless of any chances they could be defeated. This was their territory and they were bound to protect it. Yrith stepped back, letting the atronachs do their work. The wraiths glided elegantly over the air currents, dodging the bolts of fire from the atronachs’ hands. And just like that, quick and nimble, they bit into their fiery flesh, removing piece by piece until the creatures vanished in a thundering explosion. Yrith gasped and staggered, protecting herself with a ward in the last moment. A heavy pile of snow buried the place where she had stood just moments before. She released a ball of fire, searing one of them and slowing its movement into a shaky flutter. It only gave her a moment to regain her composure.

A quick gesture gave life to two new atronachs. They were stronger than before, but Yrith knew they would not be enough. These wraiths were different from those in Winterhold. Sturdier. Quicker. More ferocious. She felt her heart beat its way out of her chest. What was she supposed to do? She could not run in this terrain. She could not even dodge their attacks. Her gaze sank to the cloudy grey depths below her, but she quickly raised her head, trying to chase the dreadful image away. This would not do. She had to try something different.

She closed her eyes, feeling the atronachs and wraiths before her. In this world of distorted shapes and colors, time slowed to a reasonable level, allowing her to trace their presence better. She could almost touch them and close her magic fingers around them. She grinned as the realization sank in.

She heated her magic, tightening its grasp on them. The wraiths squirmed and hissed, but they could do nothing against the invisible force. She gritted her teeth. They were still living beings. She would make it as quick as possible. She squeezed them in and pressed. Something cracked. Life seeped from the creatures as they fell on the ground and tumbled to her feet. She pulled back, and with her magic, she could feel new force entering her, making her gasp as shapeless memories flooded her mind. A life of freedom, beautiful, welcoming haven of ice, and then… searing pain. She fell to her knees, eyes wide in horror. What had she done?

Her atronachs danced around her, elegant as ever. She paid them no heed, breathing in and out in an uneven tempo. She needed to calm down. What had she done?

It was their very souls she had absorbed. She did not know if there was such a thing as afterlife for ice wraiths and other lesser creatures, but she now knew for certain they felt the same way humans did. And she had crashed those souls, turned them into nothing, lifeless energy that was now part of her. She put a hand over her mouth, suddenly feeling nauseous. She remembered this feeling from the other side. The Spirit Blight. And then the cursed blade on her neck. She had done the exact thing she dreaded.

Her head sank into the palms of her hands. She sat there for a long while, sending her magic out whenever the storm was about to return. It was long after a loud crack announced the departure of her two atronachs when she finally rose to her feet, trembling with unease. If only the Dragonborn knew she had the same kind of power as her enemy. If only he knew what sort of adventure he had sent her on. She looked back, toward the monastery structure which from the place she stood looked like a number of granite cubes organized into neat blocks. But she could not back now. She could not admit defeat. The way was up, not down.

She went on. The slippery snow fought her on every step. At times, she almost fell from the narrow path as it was almost as steep as the mountain wall on her side. Her magic saved her way too many times for her liking when there was nothing to hold onto. She wondered if the Dragonborn commanded Shouts that would aid him against Nirn’s gravity, or if he was simply that skilled a climber. She grew tired with every inch she conquered, wondering how she was going to make it back. But she had to go on. Surely he had not sent her on a death mission.

The mountain shook again. It almost swept her into the abyss below. The roar was closer now, she could feel it in her bones. Left and right, left and right. A foot slid forward, the other one followed. Yrith stopped thinking. There was nothing to think of anyway. Nothing to observe either. As she climbed higher and higher, all life had receded. There was no vegetation here. No moss or lichen covering the rocks, no crooked pines curling their boughs over the road. Only snow and rocks. The cold now battled her magic. This place was old and powerful, letting her know how small she was.

Yrith could not tell if it had been hours or days she had spent climbing when the road before her finally widened. The slope became a gentle hummock. All the clouds were now at her feet, leaving the sky clear and blue. The snow blinded her in the afternoon sun, and she had to keep her eyes narrowed to see. Despite her previous efforts, she felt the exhaustion wash away, replaced by immense curiosity. She was almost there, at the very top of the tallest mountain on Nirn. The air here was so cold it burnt her lungs, but it did not stop the triumphant smile from spreading over her face. Just a few steps round that cliff.

She took a breath. Maybe nothing was waiting for her. Maybe this was just a lesson to show her that the feeling of triumph is not something worth pursuing. Fists clenched in determination, she stepped forward, stopping just at the cliff’s feet. Her eyes widened at the sight.

A hollow spread before her, surrounded by sharp snow-capped rocks from one side and a strange semi-circular wall on the other. The wall was littered with inscriptions, emanating a strange aura, as if it spoke to her. And on top of it sat a dragon bigger and mightier than any she had ever seen. She would have easily mistaken it for a statue, with its torn wings and greyed scales, had it not moved its head toward her, pinning its pearl-like eyes on her person. Losing her breath, she took a step back, feeling the returning blizzard on her spine. She stared at it, assessing her chances. Its giant face alone was bigger than she was. Perhaps now it was time to start running, to finally admit that there was something against which she stood no chance. But a solitary thought stopped her. The Dragonborn must have known. He would have stopped her if she was walking into certain death. He would have…

The dragon slid elegantly from its throne, settling on the snow below. It seemed as if the creature had always belonged here, old as the mountain itself, or perhaps even older. It did not stop looking at her for a single moment, waiting in silence. She had never heard of a dragon that would wait in silence. Dragons were fierce creatures, proud of their power and dominance. But this one was different. There was no rage or hunger in its eyes. It felt like simple curiosity, like a dog cautiously sniffing a person it met for the first time. Yrith dared a step closer. The dragon stayed in its place, still waiting. She wondered if it was amused by her hesitation.

She took a few more steps, feeling the air around her grow yet colder. It quivered unpredictably, distorting her view. She stared into the warped space, watching a myriad of snowflakes lost in an endless slow-motion whirl. Instinctively, she reached out for them with her hand, but pulled away at once as the cold ripped through her protective magic with unexpected force.

“Pruzah sul,” the dragon spoke calmly, its deep, melodic voice reverberating through the hollow. Yrith raised her eyes to it as it approached. She felt her feet freeze to the ground. Whatever its intentions, she was now at its mercy. “You are standing at a time wound, if that is what you are wondering. Drem yol lok, rovaan. I am Paarthurnax, master of the Greybeards. I welcome you.”

Yrith stared at it, him, an imposing person speaking words to her, forgetting her breath. Peace, fire, sky… was that how dragons greeted each other? The words in the Dragon Language mingled with those in the human tongue. Even his name bore meaning. A terrible meaning.

“The Wishful Lord of Tyrants… y-you are the master of the…”

She could swear the dragon smiled at her attempt. He tilted his head to the side and took a single step back as if allowing her some space. Yrith tried to convince herself there was no reason for a dragon to pretend to be nice when all it would take to kill her was a single clasp of his jaws.

“You understand Dovahzul, yet you are not dovakhiin, nor are you one of our kind. You do not command the thu’um, but I feel great power from you. Our grind, encounter, is not a coincidence. You have come with a purpose. Who are you?”

Who was she? What was this civil giant expecting her to say? She was no one. Surely a dragon would not be interested in a simple girl like her. But he had given her his name, even revealed its meaning. She shuddered at the echo in her head, but straightened her back nonetheless. She was not one to fall into debts.

“I am Yrith, The One Who Speaks True.”

The dragon lowered his head in acknowledgement.

“Rarely do I meet any joorre who would share the meaning of their name with me. You are brave and true as your name. So what brings you to Monahven? What brings you to the Tiid-Ahraan, time wound?”

Yrith watched him through the quivering air. “The Dragonborn said I would find a friend here.”

Paarthurnax let out a low growl, perhaps a dragon laugh. “And you have found me. So all you desire is a simple tinvaak with a dragon?”

A flush dyed her cheeks. Here she stood, with a mighty dragon before her offering her a conversation. She could not help but smile at his words. “I, well… it is not what I was expecting.” The flush deepened and the cold air around was not enough to chase away the hotness from her cheeks.

“Ah, I know these words well. Only lost souls wander here, and none expect an old dovah. Tell me, child of the joorre. Have you ever heard my name?”

Yrith shook her head.

“I saw the fear in your eyes when I said it. You are right to fear it. My past is full of dread, and still, the name calls to me. I stay on this mountain to escape the calling, for I am Paarthurnax, brother of Alduin, the Devourer of Worlds.”

Yrith did not avert her eyes. She knew he was telling the truth, but there was no threat in his words. The Dragonborn must have had a reason to send her here. And if both he and Paarthurnax had survived their encounter, wasn’t that proof enough to trust him?

She took a breath. “Does your name mean that much to you?”

He lowered his head in a nod. “Dragons are different from joorre. We were not given our names. We were born with them. They define us. I was meant to wage a war alongside my brother. But something changed when I saw the mortal children perish under my yol su’um, my fire breath. They are the ones who changed me. Their pleading eyes, and the trust that I betrayed. Until the very last moment, they wanted to believe in my mercy. I could not bear my brother’s cruelty. I fled and sought humans to help me overthrow Alduin’s dovahhe. And so I strayed from my destined path.”

Yrith frowned. What a cruel joke. Was a name all a dragon needed to decide his nature? Was it the will of Akatosh to enslave his own children? That could not be it. She refused to believe it. “Did you though?” she whispered.

“Have I not proven it?” The dragon’s eyes narrowed in bitter indignation, but Yrith did not yield. What did the studied Leyna always say? A word’s meaning depends on the interpretation.

“Does your name mean you aspire to be the head tyrant, or does it mean that you want to rule over tyrants to stop their atrocities?”

Paarthurnax froze, head tilted forward as if he was about to lunge at her. Yrith held her breath, standing tall before him. She stared into his pearl eyes, the one vivid part in a sea of chipping greyed scales. He took a moment to examine her.

“I have spent millenia pondering this question,” he said, letting his head sink. “And yet, a joor child provides an answer more soothing than that of the greatest minds this dovah has met. I believe your name also defines you, Zulvahzen, The One Who Speaks True. You have given me a great power by revealing your true name. But I will not use it against you. You come here seeking guidance, and yet you offer one instead. Kogaan.”

“I have given you power? What does that mean?”

“Come.” The dragon turned around, gesturing to her with his tail. He leaped into the air, only to land by the wall lining the far edge of the hollow. Yrith followed his shadow until she stood before the wall, watching its jagged engravings. She could feel heat pouring from them, evoking images of fire in her mind. Fire as life, fire as destruction, fire as one’s driving force, the warmth of the family hearth and the scorching power leaving behind naught but ashes. She stared at the wall and around, wondering why the snow lasted in its proximity.

“You feel it,” Paarthurnax said, “the power of yol. These walls bear our wisdom. Each carries a Word of Power. A piece of our magic, passed amongst us. If we had children, these would be their books. Alas, we do not. They were constructed by people such as yourself, perhaps in hopes of understanding our kind.”

He stepped aside, turning his reptilian face to the sky.

“YOL!” he shouted, and a plume of fire escaped his jaws. Then he looked back at Yrith. “Such is our power. We do not speak like you do. Our words are magic. And so are our names. If you are powerful enough, you can control a dovah with his name.”

“So you can control me with mine?”

“Perhaps. Every creature in Mundus has a true name. Dovahzul derives from the Tongue of the Old, the divine language. It is said the world was created by giving everything a name. Know my name and you can reshape me, or completely erase me from existence.”

“Just like that?”

“Of course you still need the power to do so. The name is a method. It gives you understanding, but not the means.”

Yrith nodded, eyes drifting to the horizon, slowly turning from pale blue to gold and violet. The thought of someone controlling her by just her name made her uneasy. How could the dragons survive for millennia when there were such possibilities? Divines and Tongue of the Old? Maybe she was just dreaming. Maybe none of this was happening and the dragon before her was a construct of her own imagination. Maybe she would soon wake up down in High Hrothgar into a reality where the word god would only have a formal meaning and her biggest worry would be to eat the tasteless porridge that Cain had made for her.

Cain…

“He is The Nameless God, but it is forbidden for us to use that title.”

No…

“Find the name lost in time.”

Yrith felt her heart stop. She looked up, into the eyes of Paarthurnax who kept watching her in silence. She could not tell his expression, but he could certainly tell hers. He tilted his head to the side and slid a claw toward her.

“What is it, Zulvahzen?”

She shuddered at the name. She had truly given him the power to grasp her at his will.

“What does it mean when someone speaks of an enemy and then tells me to find the name lost in time?”

He let out a cloud of steam, making her wonder if that was how dragons sighed. “I think you already know the answer to that question.”

She did. How could she blame Cain for not wanting to tell her? The more she knew, the more scared she was. And yet, something kept her from giving up. She could not just walk away and leave things be. She could hide forever and let things happen. She could change her name, perhaps she could even change the way she looked. Rumors talked about face sculptors that would reshape one’s face with magic. She could leave all this insanity forever. But she would not. She heeded the Dragonborn’s words. She would walk this path and do what Selas Travi had asked of her. She would listen to the message from her parents and become the hero that was in fact just a person refusing to give up. In the end, she was not so different from the dragons. She too desired that power. She too wanted to protect her place.

With resolve in her face, she looked into Paarthurax’s eyes. “How do I find one’s true name?”

“Krosis. I have never spoken the Tongue of the Old. I do not know.” Despite himself, the dragon’s jaws widened. A smile. “But you are strong. You will find it. The name lost in time, you said. Rok sizaan ko tiid. When the Dovakhiin searched for a way to defeat Alduin, he brought a kel. An Elder Scroll. The time wound, this rift in time that you see here, brought him back to witness Alduin’s last moments before he was cast out of time. Perhaps this is what you need. A kel, and a rift that will take you to the place where you will find it.”

“An Elder Scroll?” She stared at him, trying to guess whether this was the draconic sense of humor. “But they say the Elder Scrolls have vanished, if they ever existed at all. Where am I supposed to get one? Where am I supposed to find the right one?”

“The Elder Scrolls exist. Relatively speaking. The Dovakhiin already found one. He will know how to find another.”

Yrith sighed. “I already owe him.”

“He will not refuse an old fahdon.” Friend. Yrith knew the merry glimmer in the dragon’s eyes. It was what the Dragonborn liked to regale her with. She flushed.

“But then I will owe you.”

“Drem. You have done enough for me, Zulvahzen. You have given my name a new meaning. This deed will not be forgotten. You may go and follow your own path. I shall support you.”

Yrith fought sudden tears forcing their way into her eyes. The Dragonborn had promised her a friend. She had found so much more here. A purpose. A road to follow. Instinctively, she extended an arm. The dragon touched it with his muzzle.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“I thank you. Ofan. A gift from me. These wings are old, but they can still carry you down this strummah. My mountain.”

“Y-you would?” Yrith could not suppress the joy in her voice. She barely remembered anything from the day the Dragonborn had saved her from Erinor’s clutches. But the wind in her face, the feeling of absolute freedom as she watched the land pass deep down below, looking like a sea of infinite shapes and colors, she wished to feel them once more.

Paarthurnax rose, his jagged silhouette looming above her. “Do not get used to such favors. I do not give them on a whim.”

She nodded, letting her magic take her to the nape of his neck. It took her a moment to find a protruding scale she could hold onto. Once again, she had to admire the beauty of his mighty form. Even aged as they were, his scales were impressive, some bigger than her face, some smaller than her nails, neatly arranged into lines and curves covering the whole of his spine and sides. His leathery wings were torn at the edges, but not enough to prevent him from flying. She had barely settled down in a stable position when he took off with a powerful kick, carrying her up to have a good view of the spots of land under the tattered clouds. The western horizon was a red-gold line with the sun in its middle, slowly descending beyond it. In its light, she could see it all. Winterhold in the north-east, the northern coastline with scattered Nordic ruins and cities like Dawnstar or Morthal, the Blue Palace dominating the cliff of Solitude. The mountain ridge leading from there to the Dwemer-built city of Markarth. The green forests and glistening lakes of Falkreath where Singird had grown up. The colorful Whiterun tundra guarded by the fortress of the Dragon’s Reach. The proud port of Windhelm and the old volcanic ponds like giant malachite eyes just south of it. The colorful birch woods of Riften just at the foot of the mountain they had just left. She could see the greenlands of Cyrodiil, the Morrowind jungles and the valleys of the Reach leading to High Rock that had once been her home. The world had suddenly turned into a playground. She gripped the scale before her and laughed.

Paarthurnax let out a wordless shout. It spread through the land, echoing from one mountain to another, chasing the birds out of their nests and sweeping the snow from the treetops. He circled the mountain, ascending high above its peak and then swooping down in a rapid leap. Yrith hugged the scale with all her might, holding her breath and sending tendrils of her magic around his body to hold her in place. Before she knew it, they stood in the monastery courtyard, stirring up the snow around. Yrith let out a breath and slid down from his back. The ground swayed under her. She bent over, panting and gripping her knees.

“This is where we part,” Paarthurnax said, lowering his head to Yrith’s level. “It has been a pleasure, Zulvahzen. May the winds take you high and your voice stay strong. Lok thu’um.”

Yrith raised her head, catching her breath. She touched him once more, feeling the coarse skin under her fingers. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Nid. Do come visit again. I will not refuse a chance for a good tinvaak.”

With a swing of his wings that almost sent her to the ground, he lifted off and disappeared in the clouds. Yrith followed his fading shadow, lost in her thoughts. She too would not mind a good tinvaak from time to time.

Smiling, she turned to the monastery. The windows flickered with light from the inside, a warm welcome as if she was returning home. At last. Exhaustion finally claimed her, making her body relive every moment of the passed day. She took a step toward the gate, but her limbs refused to listen. She felt the cold touch of the snow as she fell on her knees.

“Just a bit further,” she told herself, her voice weak and windy. She tried to lift herself up, but her legs would not move. She had no strength left. “Damnation.”

Her vision blurred. She wanted to resist, but an invisible force pulled her down. Deep in her mind, a voice mingled with her own. Dark, familiar voice.

“I will find you.”

Her face hit the ground. She stared at her own hand, fingers moving aimlessly, before everything fell into nothingness.

Notes:

Finally! Sorry for the huge delay, guys. The current situation is not easy to deal with, and this chapter did not make it easy for me. As always, I feel like it’s not the best chapter I could have written, but someone always ends up telling me otherwise so I should probably admit that I’m simply never going to be satisfied right after I finish a chapter. :)) That said, feel free to point out any errors or inconsistencies. I can’t guarantee I’ll fix them right up, but it may help me with my future works.

The flight of Paarthurnax is something I have not planned originally. I am dedicating this part to my dear RealityGlitch who has been a great support to both me and Yrith on this journey. She expressed the wish to let Yrith fly once more so she could enjoy it. And I thought it would not stand in the way of anything so why not. And while we’re at it, why not think big and let Paarthurnax do it.

If you have the time, do leave a word or two in the reviews. I love talking to my readers more than anything!

Anyway, that’s it, guys. See you next time. Hopefully the next chapter will not take me so long (can’t guarantee anything, unfortunately). Stay safe in these troubled times.

Mirwen

P.S. If you struggle with the Dragon Language, there’s a translator at thuum.org. :)

Chapter 23: A Friend You Can Trust

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

She screamed in agony. A face contorted in twisted satisfaction watched her from afar. She could not move, only writhe in the dirt before him, gasping for air. Soil and blood filled her mouth. She had bitten through her tongue and broken her own bones. She, herself, had done this upon his command. He took a piece of her and she cried out with what was left of her voice. It was not her flesh. It was something more, her very soul that he removed ever so slowly, like a gourmet taking the smallest bite to taste a new dish. He would savor her, unhurried, methodical.

You are mine…

The woman rattled as he knelt at her side. In his hand, a dark blade absorbed the surrounding light. He put it lightly on her neck, caressing it like a dear friend. It warped her skin. She felt a sudden urge to lift herself up. Welcome the blade, absorb it, he told her. His voice was alluring, irresistible. You want to end this. You want it to stop.

Mine to kill…

Her tears formed a map of filth on her face, dripping down along her ears, burning, freezing. No one would come to her aid. They lay elsewhere, dead and forgotten. She could not remember their names. He had taken them away. They used to have faces, but he had taken them too. Who was she? Why did she exist?

Come to me. You are only making it worse.

He pulled. A gurgle left her throat, she could not scream anymore. She had forgotten her voice. Nothing beyond pain existed in her world. He pulled again.

I will find you.

The woman’s body yanked in a spasm. Again, and again, it was freezing and red hot. She was losing her mind. He laughed, and the sound tore through her ears like a razor.

Feel her pain. Embrace it. She is not the last.

Words faded from her memory. Good words. Words of comfort. Someone had once said them to her, but he had taken it all away. Straining her mind, she could not recall them. There was nothing left. Nothing to live for.

You can end this…

The voice fell silent, stifled by an invisible force. Another one replaced it, brighter, hopeful.

Banish him.

She tried. She had to get him out. She wanted to survive. To live. But she had to remember the reason. There were people waiting for her. Warmth, and smiling faces. But he would take them away too…

You have the means.

Her magic, yes. She had plenty of it. Somewhere deep inside, flowing along the blood in her veins, forming her entire being. She called to it, but it would not come, scattering into a swirling chaos. The blade. It was so close.

Remember the teachings.

Teachings… what teachings? There was a memory locked in her mind. She had done it before. She would do it again. Block him. Block him!

Gently, Miss Ravencroft. Give him what he wants…

The woman squirmed and ripped her own skin. She felt her torment. She felt the blade. She could not breathe, the air would not come through. No, no!

It starts with an illusion.

Illusion. Create. Copy. She had to do it. She had to hurt for him. She had to make him believe her. Her words and feelings had to be stronger than his. Grasp the magic. Pull. Create. Now.

She felt the tips of her fingers tingling with deep violet energy. They were stiff, defiant. She growled as she forced them to move, sculpting her magicka into a living image. She embraced the pain, and the sensation of her lungs tearing apart. She had to bear the unbearable. Support it, fuel it. More, more magic. More agony. She would fill him to the brim with it. He was hungry. She had to feed.

She cried, eyes burning with the tears of blood. Soon. Soon it would be over. She waited, her cries becoming one with the woman’s. He laughed maniacally, intoxicated by their combined fear. She could feel his thrill and the insatiable desire for more. It was suffocating. She resisted the urge to pull back, forcing herself to look into his faceless gaze through the eyes of the woman. He smiled and turned his hand. The blade slit in.

Yrith screamed. Now was the time, but the blade paralyzed her. An image was all she needed, a barrier of illusion, but her magic crackled and churned, refusing to listen. She needed to make him believe. She needed it to stop. But he was in control now, leaving her gasping for life. Darkness clouded her mind and pierced her head, taking pieces of her away.

“Yrith!”

A voice tore through, striking her with a familiar touch of affection. She had once known it, but he had taken it away. The blade… a thin line on her skin, enough to set her on fire. Memories seeped through the wound. No, she could not give in.

“Yrith!”

The name… it was her name. It had to be. Spoken by someone she wished to remember.

“Yrith!”

That was her… The One Who Speaks True. She still had a name, while he did not. Amidst the shrieks and agony, she could still hear the sound of it. He could not take it away. The blade would not scrape it off.

She cried out, forcing the being inside her out with sheer will. Her torso twisted and arched. Her magic was like an ocean, rising and falling in waves greater than mountains. Her chest heaved with every surge. She would drown them, the woman and him, in his own twisted ecstasy. She would send it all back, the pain, the fear… the blade. It flowed away in the storm that was her magic, leaving her mind crippled and empty. She drew a breath, painful and strained, like gravel on her wounded throat.

“Yrith!”

A hand gripped her, cold against her trembling body. A caring hand. She closed her fingers around it weakly, waiting for her heartbeat to steady itself. A wave billowed inside her.

She opened her eyes, jolting up in a swing and feeling her insides tumble.

“Careful!” someone called, and she felt something hard press against her chest. For a moment, she lost all her senses, lapsed in a ravel of shapeless colors and sounds, assaulted from within. Her stomach emptied, leaving her weak frame to slide back from what turned out to be a studded bucket.

She breathed heavily, drops of sweat making her skin sticky. Her eyelids rose and fell in an uneven tempo, fighting to keep her awake. Fleetingly, she caught a glimpse of three figures leaning over her against the flicker of a candle. Cain. The Dragonborn. Leyna too. For a moment, she expected Master Neloren to materialize by their side, as he had in her dream. But he was not here. Perhaps he had left her a protection of his own. She could not be more grateful.

It was impossible to discern the expressions on the three faces above her, but her mind painted them for her, Cain’s endless worry, the Dragonborn’s care masked with false composure, and Leyna’s tacit uncertainty. She knew who the hand still holding hers belonged to. But soon, there were two others, each belonging to a different person. She let out a muffled moan, too exhausted to reach back to them.

“Is she awake?” someone rasped.

“I think she is,” came a soft reply.

The Dragonborn said nothing. She heard a splash, drops of liquid falling on a surface, and then, ice-cold touch on her forehead, soothing her rattled mind. A part of the weight she had not realized before fell off her shoulders, leaving unexpected lightness. She opened her eyes in full, blinking in the dim light.

She was back in her makeshift bedroom. A lizard hand wiped the sweat from her face with gentle movements. At her side, Leyna let out a sigh and slowly drew her hand away, pretending to look elsewhere. Cain’s grip loosened, letting in the feeling she had lost. Yrith bent her fingers as the tingling spread through them, concealing her discomfort by wrapping them around Cain’s.

“I’m…” she stuttered, her voice but a hoarse whisper, “how did I…”

“We found you in the courtyard,” the Dragonborn said grimly, landing heavily on the edge of Yrith’s bed. “Welcome back. You sure gave us a scare.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. I put you up to this. It is my responsibility.” His gaze fell on Cain and Leyna. “That said, we have things to talk about. Would you excuse us for a moment, elflings?”

“But…”

“She will be fine. She has just bested a demon. I don’t think she has any intention of dying just yet. And if so,” his jaw widened, the green, scaly skin glistening in the dim light as he glanced at Yrith from the corner of his eye, “then I will be here to stop her. Go get some well-deserved rest, you two.”

They nodded in silence, reluctant even to stand. Yrith followed their silhouettes as they shambled away, out to the dark corridor with nothing to light their way. Just before vanishing in the shadows, Leyna turned back, mouthing soundless words to Yrith. But she was gone before Yrith could make out their meaning, leaving behind a faint image. One of a smile that was for no one else but her to see. Yrith let her head sink deeper into the pillow, pulling her duvet closer despite the heat suffusing her body.

“You are fortunate,” the Dragonborn said. He wiped her face once more, ignoring her huffs and wrinkled nose. “Friends like these are hard to come by. Stick close to them. They will be your strength.”

He added her neck before putting the cloth aside, somewhere beneath her bed where it fell with a splash.

“I know,” she muttered into her duvet, Leyna’s image still before her eyes. She had come when Yrith needed her the most. Despite everything. Perhaps one day, the two of them would return to those tranquil moments spent in each other’s company, laughing at the hurdles life threw in their way. Perhaps. But that day was still aeons away.

The Dragonborn took the goblet standing on the table beside them, forcing her to drink. The water inside was so cold it scorched her throat. She took a few sips out of necessity, quickly placing it back.

“Now then,” the Dragonborn said, his words gaining a heavy undertone in the sound of snowflakes tapping on the dormer above, and the wailing wind in the gaps in its frame. She raised her eyes to him, inhaling the smell of hay and goose and burning wax. “I suppose you’re expecting me to ask you how you feel.” He let out a mirthless laugh. “I won’t, because I know. I’ve been there one too many times.”

Yrith felt sudden relief. She had not even realized how much she feared the question. She gave a wordless nod of acknowledgement. The Dragonborn returned it.

“I should have known better. I put you in danger.”

She shook her head. “I knew what was ahead.”

He tilted his head to the side, eyes sliding over her as if assessing her worth. “Did you?” he asked, and his voice stung. “Did you expect this to happen? To sink into this nightmare?”

“N-no, but you couldn’t have…”

“Wrong.” He sighed, patting her lightly on the back of her hand. “You weakened yourself too much. If you want to survive in this world, you need to save your strength. And to broaden it. We will get to that. But for now, I need you to tell me what you dreamt of. I won’t keep you long. I just need to make sure that we are still safe here.”

Yrith felt the blood retreat from her face. The dream that even now felt so distant already. The dream that had almost cost her her life. The dream that had put the skin on her neck on fire. She could still feel the cold touch of the steel on it. She reached for it, fingers sliding along the imperceptible scar. The Dragonborn took her hand in his, moving it away.

“Don’t,” he said. “I know what you’re remembering. The blade is not here. But you are, and you’re alive. Did you dream of it too?”

“I… I’m not sure what I dreamt of.” She closed her eyes, shuddering with the feeling she had tried so hard to shush. “I’ve had nightmares like this before. Only they were… different. Back then, it felt like I was in the minds of many people, living their struggles and torments. And sometimes, there was this voice, speaking to me. But now it felt as if it was controlling the dream. This… this demon. Do you know him? Has Cain spoken to you about him?”

“He did not. Admittedly, I listened in without invitation.” He gave a not so apologetic smile.

“Am I really standing against a god?”

“If he manifests himself here on Nirn, he is no more a god than I am. Although, given that dragons are sometimes perceived as gods, you could technically call me a demigod.” He gave her a wink, the mischievous spark returning to his eyes for the briefest of moments. “So, this demon, or whatever he is. He tried to control you?”

Yrith pressed her knees against her chest, wrapping the duvet close. “Yes.”

“Is he still trying?”

She shook her head. “I broke the connection. Master Neloren from the College taught me how.”

The Dragonborn let out a breath, rubbing his cheekbones pensively. “Then we have Drevis to thank for your life. Keep your guard up. I can’t help you there. I have no magic of my own, at least not like you do. I cannot just Shout whoever invades your mind away. Your magic is powerful, but that makes it a double-edged sword. When you are exhausted, you lose some of the control over it and it leaks. You can’t afford to do that, so don’t drain yourself too much. Keep your shield up at all times.”

“But when I sleep…” She watched him from the warmth of her bed, feeling slumber pressing on her eyelids. Even now she was not certain she could hold the barrier in place. And how was she supposed to not exhaust herself too much when she had to constantly be on her guard?

He ruffled her hair. “It is possible. Especially for you, it’s just a matter of practice. Concentration is not needed once you put up the barrier. However,” he stood up, stretching his arms to chase away the stiffness in his joints, “there’s something you’re lacking, that, for some inexplicable reason, the College always neglects.”

Yrith looked up at him in question, brows fighting her exhaustion. “Which one?” she hummed weakly.

He laughed. “Well well, you don’t put much faith in them, do you?” Then he patted his own arm. “Physical training. You may be the best mage under the sun, but you will never survive in poor physical condition. We will work on that. I can’t protect you at all times, but I can give you the means.”

“Is that also a part of General Tullius’s contract?”

“Shrewd little lass. No, but your safe escort is. This is how I make my job easier.”

“Won’t you run out of business like that?”

“Direnni ancestry speaking from you? I will not. Not everyone is as keen to learn as you are. I can thank you for providing me with a lifetime’s worth of entertainment.” He laughed, but then a shadow crossed his face. “I should let you sleep. I’ll make sure someone keeps watch over you for now.”

Yrith felt a warm flush of gratitude paint her cheeks. Who was he, this person giving her so much for no cost at all? She still felt like the same hopeless child, with only some power she had so many times almost offered for the taking. But he always returned, patient and with unwavering faith in her. The hero of Skyrim. That title failed to do him justice. Spiced with a pinch of grumpiness, he would have reminded her of a certain orc librarian.

She watched him smooth her duvet and refill the goblet. He would protect her, she truly believed it. She would not have to fear the dreams anymore. She would not have to feel people’s torment. She smiled faintly before the image of the cowering woman clouded her sight and realization sank in.

“Sir Dragonborn?”

“Keneel-La, remember?”

“Keneel-La… sir.”

“Yes?”

“That person… demon… whoever is after me. He tortured someone. I… I think there might be others. I think he will continue until he finds me. What if… I don’t want people to die in agony for me.”

He knelt down, turning her head to face him. His teeth-like eyebrows were knit, his eyes glazed with sympathy. “All the more reason for you to keep your guard up. Remember these words, Yrith. Even if he does find you, he will not stop putting people to torture. This is his daily bread. Maintain that shield. Don’t let yourself feel another person ever again. He knows who you are, and he knows your weakness. He knows he can’t harm you himself over long distances. But he also knows that you can harm yourself at any time. He will use any means to achieve just that. Don’t let him.”

“But…”

“Believe in yourself. You are doing what you can. If you ever get a foolish idea like giving yourself up for the sake of others, consult with me first. Promise me that.”

“I… if I could…”

The Dragonborn closed her hand in the warmth of his own. “This is something none of us want to accept. We are not omnipotent, and we can’t shape the world to our bidding. There are people who know no limits and will stop at nothing to achieve their personal goals. They will kill and torture on a whim and they will not think twice about it. You can’t stop them by sacrificing yourself. They will never be satisfied. Whatever happens, they won’t stop being who they are. The only way to stop their atrocities is to stop them for good. You have trouble acknowledging yourself, hatchling. You are powerful and thoughtful, a combination that is hard to come by. You have the means to put an end to this one person. But for that, you need to put yourself first. Nothing will ever get solved by putting yourself to the blade, literally and figuratively. Get plenty of rest and rise to prove him right for fearing you. Because that’s what he does. He doesn’t want to destroy you for satisfaction, that he can do with any person. He fears you may stop him.” He squeezed her hand, exposing his pointy teeth. “And you truly may.”

“Does it mean that I will have to kill him?”

“That I can’t say. But killing in order to survive, and killing to protect, I don’t think there is anything wrong with that.” With that, he rose again, stepping out to leave. “Rest. There is more water in that jug,” he waved his hand to the table. “Someone will be here shortly. Something tells me it will be both of your friends this time.” His grin widened, joined by a would-be inconspicuous wink.

She watched his figure fade in the distance as he left her alone to reason with her own thoughts. She wriggled under her duvet, letting her mind sink in a mixture of images both pleasant and painful. She was so tired, and there was an entire world out there full of fear and hurt. But in spite of all that had happened, she felt sudden comfort. Every conversation, every moment of this life filled her with hope that there was something she could do. That she would not be powerless anymore. That she would stop him, the man who had killed her parents. Everyone trusted her to do that. Even they had.

Find the Mad Sage of Time.

Time, the eternal constant that crossed her every step. Would this Sage her parents had spoken about guide her to the demon’s name? Perhaps the Dragonborn would know. There was so much she still needed to ask.

She closed her eyes, letting the warmth lull her. It felt good to have things to ask.


Yrith ran. The painted stone she carried clutched to her chest weighed her down. She was running out of breath and the mountain before her was steep and unforgiving. Still, less unforgiving than Keneel-La. He never scolded. Never frowned. But the one sentence he gave her at the end of each exercise was etched deeply into her soul.

“You have just died.”

He would wear a smile while uttering these words, give her all his care, a roof to sleep under and a few meals every day to preserve her strength, letting her bathe in her failure on her own. Whatever she did, no matter how much she tried, it was never enough. He would never set any limits, no restrictions except one. Each task was clear. Achieve a single goal. Use any means possible. But never use magic. Figuratively speaking, not even once did she survive the challenge.

She forced her tired legs to speed up. She had lost Cain and Leyna somewhere further behind, but there were more paths leading to the well. They could be ahead, or already there. She had chosen a path with the least snow, a slightly longer one, but with minimum resistance. And yet, the mountain loomed proudly above her, laughing at her efforts. She gritted her teeth, clearing her mind. Thoughts distracted her. Squirrels in the treetops, snow falling from the branches, clouds, taking shapes she knew or revealing views of the Jerall mountains and the Riften birch woods, they all served to weaken her resolve. Everything was her enemy now. She cast all the images away. There was only one thing that existed in her world now, and that was the way up.

She gasped as she suddenly saw the ground approaching, cushioning her fall with her hands. The impact deprived them of all feeling, sending a wild tremble deep into her flesh. She looked back to find the source. Her foot lay across a slithering tangle of pine roots. She cussed aloud.

Chasing the kaleidoscope of distorted shapes and colors out of her eyes, she stood again. She could not tell if it was the ground or her legs that shook under her. The wind whipping her sweaty skin battled the heat of her body. She put her hands on her knees, compelling them to move. Just a little further.

Behind a palisade of young pine trees and past a monumental wall bending into a cliff above her head spread a vast terrace surrounded by rugged rocks. At its far end stood an ancient well, carved into the land in time memorial. The tiles of its roof lay scattered around in pieces, their once red color now faded into nebulous shades of black and green. Yrith’s heart skipped a beat. She darted toward the structure, holding out her stone in triumph. And at the same time, a figure bolted out from the other side of the cliff, a fluttering mane waving behind like a frayed standard. Yrith urged her legs to pick up their pace.

“No, you won’t!” she yelled, exerting all her strength in that final push. Leyna followed suit, twisting her face in a concentrated grin.

“Oh I will!”

They ran side by side, neither falling behind, neither faster than the other. Leyna’s white-gold mixed with Yrith’s raven, their hair tangled, almost as if they belonged to one person. Their movements were on par, matching each other with perfect precision. Yrith’s left was Leyna’s left. Leyna’s right was Yrith’s right. Their breaths sang the same song. And then, in a single instant, their hands touched the crumbling wall of the well, dropping the stones down at once. They jammed in the middle of their fall, screeching the fount’s sides before stopping for good. The two of them slid into the snow, panting, mindless of the tile remnants stabbing their bottoms. Yrith let her head slump backwards and touch the well.

“Did we get it this time?” she mouthed, her voice barely audible over her own reckless heartbeat.

“Looks like it,” Leyna huffed, her own chest rising and falling in the same tempo. “You took my triumph.”

Yrith laughed. “You took mine!”

Leyna let out a snort. Before she could utter a word, a clap came from above. The two of them turned to see the Dragonborn jump from a ledge, sneakily hidden between two protruding rocks. He stood before them, back straight, with a light smile on his bestial face. He raised his own stone nestled securely in his hand as if it weighed nothing at all, all its coloring smudged under the layer of dark green liquid. Yrith’s smile froze on her lips.

“Your advantage was a shorter route. Mine was the knowledge of the terrain. Nevertheless, the path you took should have led you straight. It was more than twice as short and did not pose any troublesome obstacles.” He twirled the stone in the hand, letting it stain his skin. “I still arrived way before you, enough to douse the stone, settle over there,” he pointed to the ledge, “and even take a while to enjoy this wonderful sight.” His teeth almost shone, reflecting the surrounding snow. Yrith knew that face well. “You have just died.”

She sighed, giving a slow nod. In the end, she was still as powerless as ever. She wondered if the legs of the Dragonborn hurt as much as hers. If he had also arrived with his chest tight, gasping for air as he dropped his stone into the well just to feel that weight lift off. His stance was so firm, not like hers which was shaking with exhaustion. How much had he trained to become like this?

“Shall we do it again?” she peeped.

“No.” It was always no. He never allowed her to practice more than scheduled. “We shall rest. Return to the monastery. I will wait for the ashling.”

He gave them a light pat on their shoulders, directing her and Leyna up. They followed the steep road round the mountain, an uneven stairway leading them toward High Hrothgar. This was the upper part of the famous Seven Thousand Steps, a pilgrim path that every true Nord ought to walk at least once in their life. Yrith gave a dry laugh. Every true Nord would likely consider it a blasphemy to be delivered to this place as she had been. She looked up, to the cloud-veiled horizon. Luckily, she was not a Nord.

“Will we ever best him?”

She turned after the sound of Leyna’s voice. The elf spoke without emotion, pensively, as if she refused to believe in their defeat.

“Who knows,” Yrith said. “He is a few years ahead of us.”

“What’s the point of this anyway? Suddenly tossing away our magic to exchange it for brute force.”

Yrith stared at her in surprise. “Did the Dragonborn not tell you?”

Leyna laughed, shaking her head. “No, he didn’t. But as you can see, barely anyone ever tells me anything.”

“Oh. Like that time you talked with Cain about the Lone Demon and I wasn’t invited?”

Leyna froze, eyes wide. “What did you just say?”

“I was there that night, listening. I didn’t mean to,” Yrith waved her hands in defense, “but I happened to be there. I heard the whole discussion.”

She had never seen Leyna’s face so red. Until now. A mixture of anger, bewilderment, and perhaps even regret shaped her features as she pinned her golden eyes to the ground.

“So you know,” she whispered. “You know everything. You must be mad at me. And Cain. But he at least wanted to protect you. Do you know? He would give his life for you. More than that, if it was in his power. There’s probably nothing but you in his head.”

“I know. Unlike you, I know.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That there are many people who care about you too, Leyna. And maybe your father did too, and that was the exact reason why he told you nothing. Have you ever thought about that?”

“You…!” Leyna turned around abruptly, facing the rock on the other side. Yrith could have sworn she saw tears glistening in her eyes. She raised her hand to comfort her but put it down again. Her help was not wanted. Leyna always preferred solitude to brood over her troubles. Alone, with no one at her side. Yrith felt a sting in her chest.

“Leyna…”

“Don’t. Stop. I don’t need your pity.”

“Then what do you need?”

“I…”

They froze at once. The mountain shook at its roots, thundering echo bouncing from one rock wall to another, brushing the snow from the treetops. A flock of crows rose to the skies in a dark cloud, tearing through the heavy mist. A nearby squirrel vanished underneath the roots of an old, bent pine. Leyna looked up, to the mountain peak.

“That wasn’t…”

Yrith shook her head. “No, it wasn’t from above. It was down there,” she pointed a shaky finger to the path they had been walking. “That was Keneel-La. Cain… something must have happened!”

She broke into a run, skipping over the steps and rocks in her way. The wind was against her, but she braved it without a second thought. Her legs ached, but she paid them no heed.

“Y-Yrith!” Leyna’s voice came from the distance, quickly fading in the rush.

Yrith clenched her fists. No more, she could not stand it. If something was happening to Cain, she would not leave him alone. She felt weak, underprepared, hopeless, but she could not imagine a time she would feel ready for an open battle. Still, he needed her. Things were serious enough for the Dragonborn to have to use his Thu’um. She was no pious worshipper, but now she prayed for Cain’s safety. Air seized up in her throat. He could not die there. Not another person. Not again.

She heard a huff behind her. Leyna caught up to her, leveling her pace with Yrith’s. She stayed quiet, tears still drying on her face, but her eyes full of fire. Something Yrith had not seen there in a long time.

They rushed through a hollow, between the pines and around the wall leading to the well. There was no one to be found in its vicinity. With little hesitation, Yrith spread her magic, searching for life. She felt it quiver with her own fear, uncertain. Where were they? Not on the ledge, not the way she had come. So Leyna’s path, to the left of the cliff from where she stood. She took a step toward it, into the shadow of the rocks and trees, still searching, reaching further with every heartbeat. She found them on a mound past a huge round boulder, the Dragonborn, Cain and three others whose life was slowly ebbing away.

She sped up, letting the branches whip her face on the way. Twice she nearly tripped over a rock or a root, but she always transformed the fall into a long jump, turning all setbacks to merit. But it was not enough. Why were her feet so heavy? Why did she take so long? Why was the wind blowing against her?

Behind her, Leyna kept in tow, never more than a few steps behind. She almost crashed into Yrith when the latter finally stopped, holding her breath at the sight of Cain resting his head on a moss-covered stump, his tunic dyed crimson on the side. Over him leaned Keneel-La, drowning the boy in his own shadow as he inspected his wounds. Three bodies lay around them, deformed and all clad in the red Imperial uniform. Yrith felt her stomach knot but swallowed deeply to stifle the feeling as she approached the two people still alive. The Argonian raised his head, eyes flaring with dark, cold fire.

“What are you doing here?”

Yrith froze. Who was this deadly, austere man staring at her like a stranger at a beast? This man would tear her apart, split the skulls of his enemies in two without a moment’s hesitation. This man had seen the fires of Oblivion and walked amongst the corpses of his own beloved. Cold washed over her like a desert downpour. She pressed her clenched fists on her thighs.

“Cain… is he…”

“I told you to go to the monastery.” There was no warmth in the sentence. Not even reproach. She could not trace any feeling at all beside the sheer will to survive.

“I know, but… I heard you Shouting and…”

“Leave immediately.” Not a request. An order, not permitting any objections. Yrith gritted her teeth.

“I can’t just let my friends die!”

“He will not die, it is you they’re after. And I can’t protect all of you at once. So go. Now, Zulvahzen!”

The sound of her draconic name thundered through the air with deafening force. Yrith staggered, eyes wide with fear. The name gripped her, clasping around her mind. Tears burst out of her eyes against her will, his voice paralyzing her. She gasped, trying with all her might to regain control. A hand grabbed her, pulling her back. She turned to face Leyna whose face was a stone mask of determination.

“What are you…”

“Returning the favor,” she hissed, dragging her away with unexpected strength. Yrith stumbled after her, eyes roving between her and the lying Cain.

“We can’t leave him there!”

“And what will you do if there are more? Sacrifice yourself for him? That would be just like you, wouldn’t it?”

“I…”

“Let’s leave it to the Dragonborn. He’ll bring him back. He will… bring him back.”

Leyna’s lip trembled, the last words barely discernible. Her clutch on Yrith’s hand tightened to a nearly unbearable level. Yrith could only see a small part of her face, but it was telling as a human’s, sculpted by fear and panic.

“Leyna…”

“Hold your tongue. I don’t want to hear it.”

They ran. Their speed was uneven, their steps landing heavy. Yrith felt as though an invisible hand held her chest, preventing her from advancing, and the only force keeping her in motion was Leyna herself. Every now and then, their feet sank deep into a snow drift, nearly sending them to the ground. Yrith found herself siding with the obstacles in their way, wishing there was an invisible wall that would stop them from their ascent completely. Something that would give her no choice but to turn back and face whoever came for her. Powerless, that was what she was. Vulnerable, always dependent on those stronger than her. Giving way to her sobs, she let the tears flow. They would soon turn into strands of frost crisscrossing her face. Why was Leyna so tenacious? Where did she suddenly gain the strength to climb so fast while dragging her along? The image of Leyna’s boots before her was obscured by one of Cain, lying on the ground in pain. This was her fault. It was all her fault.

She didn’t know how much time had passed when they finally stepped on the wide staircase to High Hrothgar forked around the monastery’s front watchtower. The light of the day was quickly giving way to the night, making the stairs a blurred bumpy slide on sight. Yrith chose her path by memory, not looking at anything. Leyna still held her tight, pulling her up relentlessly. Yrith followed without thinking, forcing her weighty legs to lift. When they finally crossed the monastery threshold, she could not even appreciate the warmth. She felt cold, and no fire could melt the ice within. She let herself fall to her knees.

A sound of footsteps drew near and she felt a coarse, wrinkled hand grab her by the chin. She raised her head to see Arngeir, his cowl fallen to his shoulders.

“You are here,” he said. “What happened?”

What happened? What in Oblivion had happened? She stared at his face, unable to make sense of it. As if he was a mere ghost she could look through, she found herself at a loss for words.

“C-Cain…” she managed. By her side, Leyna squeezed her shoulder.

“Our friend was hurt,” she whispered. Even if the tears in her eyes had dried away, Yrith could still hear them in her voice.

“And the Dragonborn?” Arngeir’s tone was even, emotionless, as though he cared little for people and more for facts. Yrith found herself irritated by its coldness.

“He is alive,” Leyna continued, taking a breath to chase away the tremble. “He was tending to Cain when we left.”

“So there was a battle.”

The dead. Dead again, Yrith remembered. With bodies mutilated into strange shapes, empty eyes and…

She pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head. Arngeir let out a sigh.

“The world never changes,” he growled as he stood. The altar candles sketched deep quivering lines on his face. “Conflict is all it knows, and people will never be satisfied until there’s no one to tell the tale anymore. Even he…”

The words were like cold water on a flame, a slap in Yrith’s face. The haze was gone in an instant. She saw his features clearly, his eyes of the same color as his hair and beard, and the wrinkles around them, and suddenly, he did not look half as wise to her as when she had first met him. She glared at him, slowly rising to meet his gaze

“Do you have nothing else to say?”

“Yrith…” The clutch on her shoulder stiffened.

The monk turned to her, taking a moment for a careful scrutiny. “I beg your pardon?”

“People are dying out there and this is all you have to say?” She seethed as her nails buried into the skin of her palms. “You have the power to stop them. You have the wisdom to teach them! And you sit here, feeding on whatever the pilgrims living in that world,” her hand shot up, pointing to the gates, “bring you! Doing nothing at all! Scorning…” she fought the tears falling into her mouth and muffling her voice, “scorning the one person who does the job right!”

Leyna pulled on her arm with so much strength Yrith jolted in pain. “Yrith!”

Arngeir glared back. “Foolish child. What do you understand?”

Yrith snorted. “True, there’s so much I don’t understand. Like, for example, why you sit on all that power and…”

“Yrith!” Ruthlessly, Leyna dragged her up the stairs. Yrith grunted, attempting to yank the arm out of her grip, but the slight elf would not even flinch. Her eyes were focused on Arngeir. He stood there in silence, staring back, unyielding. There was no trace of doubt in his face, no hint he would even consider Yrith’s words. She felt her teeth grate in her mouth as the light of the altar and the brazier illuminating the entrance hall faded past the turn they took. She tugged against Leyna, to no avail.

“What are you doing?!” she hissed.

Leyna did not respond. She marched onward, one corridor after another, past the gates to the courtyard and the humbly decorated alcoves. No sooner did she let go than they’d stopped in Yrith’s makeshift bedroom. Only then she stepped back, standing tall as Yrith glared at her.

“Why did you drag me away?” she pressed, hot in her cheeks. Her fingers twitched in the urge to pin the damn Altmer to the wall.

“Why, why… damnation, Yrith, you don’t argue with a Greybeard on his home ground.”

“Well, think again, I just did.”

“So you did. And what good will it do you?”

“What good will it do you to silence me?”

Leyna sighed, raising her hand to rub her temple. Her face was dark with the coming night, but her eyes shone ghostly blue in the light of Secunda. And yet, her tone was warm when she spoke. “You are not fair. I have so many words on my tongue, but I cannot tell you anything. To speak this freely is a privilege reserved for those who were not born to aristocracy.” She sank to the floor, with her spine to the bed and head slumped back, buried in the duvet. “I envy you. I always have.”

Yrith took a seat by her side. “What are you talking about? What privilege?”

Leyna smiled, suddenly reaching out to touch Yrith’s shoulder. “The privilege of not imagining the worst possible thing that could happen. Like the Greybeards getting back at the Dragonborn for what you just said, for instance.”

“I…” Yrith hugged her knees, cheeks burning red hot. Was that what would happen? Would her words become the legendary last straw? Surely the Greybeards’ bond with the Dragonborn must have been stronger than that? She lay her forehead on top of her knees, staring into the shadow of her own lap. “What do I do?” she whispered. “I hate this, Leyna. I can’t help. I can’t fight. I can’t even speak. What is it that I can do?”

Slender hand pulled her in, and she suddenly found herself in Leyna’s embrace. She stared at her friend, confused, unsure what to say. Her face was so close she could barely distinguish the shape.

“Leyna…?”

“I’ve felt the same for all my life,” she uttered quietly. “Helpless, always afraid of things that have not even happened yet.”

She fell quiet, taking one too many deep breaths. Yrith waited, too scared to ask what it was she wanted to say out of the fear she might not voice it in the end. Leyna’s hair tickled her nose, but she resisted the urge to draw back. The night grew darker as they sat there. Gingerly, Yrith gave Leyna a light pat of support. As the moons outside wrapped themselves in a mantle of clouds, obscuring the last discernible bits of material world, Leyna’s breath finally steadied.

“I know you must hate me for all I said and did. I hate myself too.” She let out a snort. “But if I promise to have your back,” she said as she looked into Yrith’s eyes, “will you stay who you are for me?”

Yrith felt her jaw drop. “I… what?”

“I am not so brave. I can’t be as honest, and in the end, I’m the same kind of scheming person as my father.” She smiled in apology. “But I am well-read and a decent healer. You asked me what you can do, and I can’t give you an answer. But you have changed me. You’ve changed Cain and half of the College. You have the Dragonborn’s support. All that just for being yourself. If anyone can make a difference, it would be you.”

Yrith gave a laugh, pulling back at last. She stood up, watching Leyna’s blurry huddled figure from above. Was that it? She could not be brave and honest while Yrith could? Had she changed while Yrith was not allowed? “Look at you, being honest right now. That is a very strange request, and I’m not sure I can fulfill it.”

“What do you mean?” She could only guess Leyna’s long face by the tone of her voice.

Yrith shrugged, knowing Leyna would not see the gesture in the dark. “I am changing as we speak. And,” she paused to give her words weight, “as much as I want to, I do not trust you. That you will have to work for, Leyna. I could care less about the things you’ve said to me here. At least those were honest words. But you were right. You are a schemer, and in the end, you contradict yourself. You say you are not as brave, but you still decided to meet your father. You say you fear the consequences, but you did not even stop to consider them. Do you know what is worse than a mortal enemy?”

There was a rustle and a hint of movement. Leyna shaking her head.

“A friend you can’t trust.”

Yrith threw herself on the bed, hugging the pillow. She could not believe her own words. But they were true, she realized, and as she had spoken them, she felt a weight fall off her shoulders. She inhaled the now homely smell of hay and goose, pulling the duvet over her still dressed body. They spoke no more. Now she could only wait for the one friend she could trust to come back. Alive.

Notes:

This chapter was originally supposed to be longer, but I split it, deciding the last part would be better off as a standalone chapter. So, the next chapter might be pretty short.
Hoping you guys are surviving the crisis.

Mirwen

Chapter 24: Abecean Steamed Dates

Notes:

Yeah, this was supposed to be a short chapter, really. You have to believe me!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The fallen leaves and pine needles crunched underneath Singird’s feet. The air smelled of fresh pine sap and moist earth. Raindrops from the passed deluge glittered on the branches in the midday sun. The brook on his right gurgled fiercely, flooded with water from the surrounding scarps. Up in the treetops, a pair of sparrows played a game of tag. The Falkreath hold, Singird’s home, seemed peaceful enough if one could disregard the dark plume rising from amidst the woods ahead. Singird could not disregard it. He was afraid to pick up his pace, but even more afraid to stop. He felt the familiar buzzing in his ears, a sound that had last dulled his senses upon hearing of the death of his parents. That, and the sensation of floating on the water that would not support him had his body decided to buckle. A fire in the middle of the flood season could only mean one thing.

Instinctively, he summoned a storm atronach and a dremora to fend off any potential assault from a spriggan. If the woods were burning, these usually shy creatures would charge at the softest crackle of a fallen twig.

There were no sudden surprises waiting for him on the road. The song of the thrushes and tapping of woodpeckers faded slowly as he walked further. Even the rustle of the leaves seemed to recede, giving way to strange, heavy quiet. The air ahead was hot and dry, the smell of pine and fresh soil replaced by one of burning and carcass. Singird slowed, treading cautiously over each rock or depression. He held his hands up, turning branch after branch to create passage. His own breath formed a lump in his throat and eyes fixed on the last couple of trees in his way. He hesitated. The fumes were now turning the scenery around him into a colorless haze. If only this could be just a dream. But the smell in his nostrils and the burning in his eyes felt too real for that. Singird forced his legs to step forward. The trees opened before him to reveal a view of what once had been his family farm. Despite all his expectations, his eyes widened at the sight.

Amidst the ravaged fields, grey with ashes and deprived of all harvest, smoldering cinders and debris lay littered around a crumbling structure of scorched timberwork. An occasional beam stood tall as a silent witness to the atrocities that must have taken place here. The cattle, or what was left of it, lay around, felled, some slit, some charred. The air above it all still quivered in the heat, making the whole image seem like a ghastly mirage. Singird felt his legs turn into stone. The buzzing in his head became one with the crackling of the embers. He prodded his feet to move, hand pressed to his face to keep the stench away. Avoiding the falling pieces of the structures, he crawled through the ruins.

It was nearly impossible to recognize the buildings’ plans and distinguish where one room ended and another began. By sheer instinct, he found the pile that might have once been one of the walls of his father’s study. The entrance was blocked by a scorched bookcase door wedged between the remnants of the masonry. Singird kicked it out of his way with little resistance. Ashes from what he assumed to have been books fought their way into his boots. He gave up all attempts to beat the ash off his robes, proceeding past the fallen rest of the bookcase. The image that appeared before him made him turn away in an instant.

He gasped. The stench had become unbearable, finding its way through his fingers, but that was the least of Singird’s worries. He let the hand slide down, gripping the edge of the bookcase for support. He had to turn back. This was the reason he had decided to take a detour. The reason he had hidden in the hollows to let the Forsworn pass him before he would continue his journey, and why a thunderstorm had almost taken his life. He had not expected to end in the clutches of the Deadlands. But here he was. He had to turn back.

He did.

He stared into the disfigured faces of his housemaid and groom whose bodies lay over a turned desk. Their clothes were nowhere to be seen. It was clear to Singird’s eyes that they had still been alive long after all else had fallen. Alive and made to watch. Alive and made to suffer, both on the surface and within. The maid’s stiff legs were covered in dried blood. Singird’s hand sank, leaving him to inhale the burn and decay. He took a step back and fell to his knees, feeling the cold tickle of tears on his face.

“Damn it,” he breathed, his voice raspy and alien to him as though he had not used it in days. “Gods damn it…”

He would cry out, but all strength had left him. He let his head sink into the palms of his hands, smudging the grime over his face. Suddenly, life did not seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. He let the feelings flow.

He did not know how much time had passed when he finally stood. His conjured guardians had long returned to their home plane. His knees were numb and wobbly, his mind covered in crimson daze. The sky was barely visible through the smoke screen still hovering over the farm. Only the distorted shapes around told him that the sun was descending to the western horizon. Wearily, he summoned his magic, steering both bodies away from the blazing carnage, into the quiet of the surrounding woods.

A great aspen tree stood where he stopped, its golden boughs plunging the area in their shade. He lay the deceased on the carpet of grass, sending his magic deep under the roots. The soil rose and poured onto a pile at the side of the newly dug hole. Gently, he sent the bodies down. He finished his work with his hands, aware that he needed to preserve whatever bit of magic was left in him. It was long past midnight when he managed to find a stone fit for a grave and light enough to carry. Still, it took him all his power to deliver it.

Sweat dripped from his face when stood again, scanning the perimeter. Moving his legs by force of habit, he stumbled around in search of a flint. But the more he looked, the less he saw, and the darkness of the night only laughed in his face. He gritted his teeth.

“To Oblivion with magic,” he hissed quietly to himself. “To Oblivion with everything.”

His fingers crackled with magicka as he sent it into the stone, engraving an inscription.

Here lie Gred and Inga of Falkreath whose hearts were true and dumplings the sweetest. May their death remind us of dark times and help us cherish the good ones.

Crudely, he jabbed the stone in the ground, helping himself with his feet. It had been long since he had to use brute force. He was out of practice, huffing when he finished. With the last bit of strength, he plucked a single deathbell flower and lay it on the mound. Then he slid down by the tree, letting tears mix with the sweat and trickle down to his chin. It had also been long since he had last truly cried. But there was no one to watch. No one to ridicule him for his display of weakness.

He was so tired. People died because of him. Manors were burnt, animals killed, trees taken down. Just what in Oblivion had his parents discovered? What in Oblivion had their grandfather known? It was no use going back to the study now. Whatever had been there had either been burnt or stolen. Someone had known this would be the first place Singird would visit. The two dead people on the desk were a message for him. A cruel warning to not go any further. He wondered how many other residents had perished. How many escaped. And how many of them had assisted in the bloodshed.

The ground was cold and rough under him. He buried his hands in the soil, grabbing a handful and kneading it between his fingers. He was a mess. Filthy, reeking of sweat and soot, with his boots stained beyond repair and robes torn on their rims. He could clean himself with magic. If only he had the strength. He closed his eyes. The forest smelled so fresh here, away from the burning estate. A few years before, it would have made him feel safe. Now, he only wondered how long the quiet would last.

He drew in the air with a long sip. He could not die here. There was too much to do. A dear person waiting for him, perhaps tormented herself. In every spare moment, her face filled the space before him. The rock-solid resolve with which she faced every challenge. The smile that would shine through her tears. Even now, she was his strength.

A sigh escaped his lips. He missed her. He truly did.


Singird did not remember Falkreath to be so dreary. The sun reflected in the receding flood blinded him. The city had always been quiet, but now, not even the usual handful of people walked the streets. A pair of Imperial soldiers standing by the gate stole sidelong glances of him as he passed them. He could have sworn he saw them exchange silent signs. Almost as if he had been expected.

He was sure the guard flexing his muscles before the Jarl’s longhouse recognized him. But the man kept his thoughts to himself, as well as any signs of a greeting. Not once did his eyes meet Singird’s. Not once did he utter a word. Singird was almost afraid to breathe. The Jarl must have known about the arson. He must have seen the smoke, and the riders that had surely passed the city on their way. His men must have known too. And yet, no patrol had been dispatched. No soldiers to make order. No inquisitor to investigate. No healer to help.

He treaded lightly over the cobbled road, hands clenching unwittingly in the depths of his robes. He almost felt envious of the guards carrying a sword. Now would be the time for a loving squeeze of its hilt, just to give him a semblance of security.

The inn, his destination, was closed. He sighed. No guests graced this land with a visit in these times, apparently. He would have to wait till late afternoon when the locals decided to strengthen their spirits with a tankard or two. Chances that he would find a courier slimmed. But still, he would wait, gazing at the inn’s sign as he sat on the wooden steps before the entrance.

Dead Man’s Drink, the sign said. Strange how quickly perception changed. Never before had the name unsettled him. Now, it had gained a new meaning.

He turned away, fixing his eyes on a large snail lazily crossing the street. His chin fell to his knees. He waited.


A single look at the approaching men told him he was not welcome. The inn was still closed. It would be for a couple more hours, but he would not be allowed to enter. The men grinned, but their eyes did not smile. Singird knew that look well. These two were either bought or afraid. He could not choose which was worse. He rose in absolute silence, walking away as if he had been merely taking a rest. They followed. He walked on, his pace calm, unchanging. Past the first corner, he made a quick gesture and disappeared. He could almost hear their breaths when he broke into a run, swiping the path behind with magic to cover his tracks.


At last, he had lost them. It had taken him a day. He felt hunger and thirst like never before, kneeling at the first spring as soon as he crossed the border of the Whiterun hold to ease the heartburn. He sat there for what felt like hours, pouring more and more ice-cold water onto his face, slurping and drenching his robes. As the sun rose to light the new day, his own mind sank into darkness.


The road was peaceful and quiet. Hares hopped merrily through the grasses, nibbling on twigs and leaves on their way. Larks and swallows gathered in the skies, watching over the still land. There was no threat nearby. No missiles in the air, no predators on the hunt. And yet, Singird had no faith. He forced his tired legs to press on. Every step hurt, making the blisters on his feet burst. These boots had never been made for rough terrain. None of his footwear ever was. None of his garbs either. What a fool he had been to care more for appearances than practicality. Now he knew. Now that his skin was scraped, his muscles sore and his body shivered with hot and cold, he knew.

His step was unsteady, but he walked on. He forced himself to look at the path ahead.

As the road took a sharp turn toward a slope descending along the cascading White River, a gate emerged before him. Two men in yellow stood guard by its side, their shields adorned with the Whiterun horse. They were caught in a quiet debate but raised their heads as soon as Singird appeared in their sight. He did not miss the silent looks they exchanged or the change in their posture as he approached. But when he passed with his eyes looking elsewhere, they did not move or utter a word. He felt no hostility from them, only the much expected wariness.

His eyes rested on the sign hanging on a pole a few buildings away. The Sleeping Giant. Perhaps he could at least afford himself some breadcrumbs before the last of his coin went to the courier. Pushing his weariness away, he made for the entrance.

The inn was rather placid, with only a handful of locals gathered around one table, listening to the gentle tones of a bard’s lute. When Singird made his way to the counter, the innkeeper raised his head to meet the guest. He froze as his eyes fell on Singird, pointing a finger at him.

“Well, by the Nine above. No. Don’t say anything. Follow me.”

Singird blinked, hurrying along as the man scurried out, around the building and to the backyard. There, he suddenly stopped, pointing to the ground.

“Stand there.”

Despite himself, Singird did as he asked, too tired to protest.

Pulling up the sleeves of his stained shirt, the man grabbed the tub standing on a wide bench by his side. The liquid inside splashed as he lifted it. Singird raised his brows. The tub must have been at least half of this man’s weight, yet he held it like feather-filled cushion. Exposing his dazzlingly white smile, he poured all of its contents onto Singird, making him nearly crash into the ground.

“What in Oblivion…!”

Sputtering, he gathered himself, shivering with cold. The scent of soap and herbs filled his nostrils. He fought not to gasp or cough, closing his eyes despite the urge to stare at the man. In one swing of his hand, his magic blew the moisture away, leaving him ridiculously unkempt. Then, he pointed a shaky finger at the man.

“Is this how you treat all your guests?”

“There, that’s more like it. Feeling any better?” the man hinted a grin. “Never expected a Larkwing to show up again on my doorstep. And what’s more, he’s filthy and cussing. Next will be a lovable troll maiden asking for my hand. It is I who should be asking what in Oblivion is happening here.”

Singird knit his brows. From people in his own hometown treating him like a stranger to strangers treating him like an old friend. Perhaps he had entered some strange dimension where things ceased to make sense. “Sir, have we met?”

“Hah, at least the insufferable formality is still there,” the man beamed. “You may call me Orgnar and no, we haven’t met. But I know a Larkwing when I see one. Singird, is it? Heard about you from your old man when he came for a visit. Military uniform and all, but a mage in his heart with no love for war. You are his spitting image. Except for the filth and…” he gestured to Singird’s torn robes, “this. You, my boy, you look terrible. What, for the love of Talos, has the road served you, pray tell?”

Singird averted his eyes, pinning them into the nearest thicket. “A lot,” he muttered. The man waited, but no words were said to sate his curiosity. He sighed.

“All right. Not my place to pry, I know. Your story is your own. Do make yourself comfortable. We have a whole boar for dinner, courtesy of our very own Faendal, and the beer is fine and cold. I don’t like seeing my guests languish.”

Singird shook his head. “I don’t have coin. I need a courier. Do you have one?”

He felt the man’s eyes bore into him. Orgnar threw the tub aside, putting both of his soaked hands on Singird’s freshly dried shoulders. Singird did not even have the strength to glare.

“Things have really gone that bad, eh? Then be my guest tonight, and leech off any friend you meet until your life is all set. Hard times, these are. Come, I’ll see what we can do about that courier.”

He walked away, waving for Singird to follow. His back was bent and his gait heavy, a feature Singird had not noticed before over the haze of his own misery. This man had known hardship. Singird could feel Orgnar’s distaste for war, much like his own. He too must have lost someone. He too must have felt this pain. But if this was what made him a friend, then fate had a very cruel way of binding people together.


The sun was long past its peak when the proud roofs of Whiterun finally appeared in Singird’s sight. Their yellowish tiles turned a crimson tint in the light of the coming dusk, making it seem as if the whole city was on fire. Strange. Everything seemed to remind him of fire lately, and in it, he always saw the same two faces. Until all turned to ashes.

He stared absentmindedly at the surrounding farms. The serene sight of the locals tending to their cattle and fields felt so surreal. There was war raging in Skyrim. Battles took place and houses burned. But the Whiterun hold lived its own life, as though the struggles of the outer world could not touch it. The wind caressed the golden crops and steered the flocks of birds on their journey to the south, carrying the scent of the coming winter. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, save for the unusual number of guards marching about. But under surface, things were slowly changing.

The swinging sign of the local meadery wailed a quiet welcome. Its Honningbrew beehive had been replaced recently by the Black-Briar wild rose, causing the proud mead-loving Nords to suddenly leave their tankards half full. The Black-Briar swill reeked of Riften and its filthy thief-filled burrows. Wartime was an era of swindlers and brigands. If Jarl Balgruuf did not allow the Imperial and Stormcloak troops into his hold, thieves took it from within. The careless days of his childhood that he had spent in this land seemed like a fading memory of a past dream. Now, not only had he lost his home. He was losing his homeland, all thanks to a single person who found it amusing to trifle with the political and military forces of all Tamriel.

He felt his fists clench again. Ever since he had left Solitude, there wasn’t a night he would not feel the urge to go and shove a blade through his neck. Where was Yrith now? Could she escape his grasp? There had been no word of her, save for a rumor that Toddvar had clashed with the Imperials halfway from Windhelm to Darkwater Crossing, and that there had been dragons involved. He could only hope that it meant she was safe now. He had dreamt of those silver eyes far too many times to only find her corpse. If he was to find any information on her, the neutral Whiterun would be the place.

The road led him up a gentle slope, around the motte where the city was built. From down here, he could see the small houses scattered outside the crumbling outer fortification. To the left of the now reconstructed gate, a caravan of Khajiit had settled for the night. Sacks and crates with wares lay piled up in stacks, sheltered by makeshift roofs made of leather and wax. His favorite caravan with his favorite tea. He gazed toward it wistfully. Yrith loved the sweet, flowery flavor as much as he did. He could not buy it for her anymore. Nor could he toss a coin to the pauper children in his way, dressed in rags as they ran back and forth in a game of tag, as he always had. They turned their pleading eyes to him for a moment, then set off again when he would not oblige. With a sigh, he pressed on.

The shadows grew long and blurry as he approached the caravan. A cat man sat in front of a tent on a seat of furs, puffing away at his old pipe whose polish had long flaked off. He was ancient, with a coat of greyed fur and eyes like two slits in shape of crescent moons. When Singird neared the camp, he looked up to him, whiskers quivering in a feline grin.

“Singird,” he said with no apparent surprise, as if they had seen each other just the night before. And perhaps for the old Khajiit, it might have truly felt that way. “Ri’saad is happy to see you visit again.”

Singird nodded, forcing his lips to quirk up. “Likewise, my friend. How fares the business in these times?”

“Well for the able, poorly for others.” The smile in those words told Singird exactly on which side Ri’saad stood. “How fares yours? Something tells this one that you have not come for tea today.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Ri’saad can always hear the waifs’ cheers when you drop a coin or two, and your grouching when they take and not give back. But not this time. He can smell change in the air.”

“Your sense of smell is as good as ever,” Singird hinted a bow.

“So what would it be this time? If it is moonsugar you seek, that is all reserved for a special shipment this time.”

Singird frowned. Moonsugar, the legendary narcotic substance from the Tenmar Forest far in the south of Elsweyr. Not only the catfolk found pleasure in its consumption. It was the only thing he did not approve of in Ri’saad’s trade. Likely the one thing that still kept the Khajiit alive in this land. Was it really the fate of all who wanted to survive to resort to acts of crime?

“You know I do not deal in these things,” he muttered.

Ri’saad twitched his ears, letting out a perfect circle of smoke. “These things? You do Ri’saad great injustice. It is good to slow down the effects of potions. It lets you see and forget at once. But the Khajiit seem to be the only ones to appreciate the true qualities of the je’m’ath.” He shrugged, adjusting his pipe. Singird wondered if this was the usual Khajiit excuse. He vaguely remembered J’zargo saying something of the sort back in the College.

“I am no alchemist either. But perhaps if you had some Abecean Steamed Dates, that could sate my desires.” He waited. Ri’saad puffed a milk-white cloudlet into the cold, narrowing his eyes in slow, thoughtful motion until the crescent moons became but thin lines.

“What an unusual request. The Khajiit do not get many of those.” He closed an eye and opened it again. “Ri’saad is afraid his supplier struck a deal with the city traders. Apparently, our methods are too… unsafe.”

Singird’s eyes wandered to the towering yellow roofs. So the Khajiit knew the passphrase. But they also knew someone was listening. He suppressed the urge to scan the surrounding corners. If he would find an informant in the city, that was enough for him. Someone knew of Yrith. Now, it was only a matter of time before Singird would locate them. He nodded his thanks.

“Then I suppose I need to head there.”

The cat man tilted his head. “Ri’saad will send for you if the deal changes.”

“For how much?”

He chuckled, smoke rising from both his pipe and mouth in fluffed-up shreds. “Ri’saad does not rob paupers.”

“That is a quite a bold thing to say,” Singird remarked dryly. Ri’saad rose, the furs covering his body rippling in the wind. He gave Singird a playful look, but beneath it was the depth of bitter understanding.

“Ri’saad knows many things. He has eyes in the sky and ears hidden in the swaying branches of the willows. Times are not kind. But you have shown me kindness before. Ri’saad trades fairly.” He turned away, opening two crates. From them, he withdrew two pouches. A familiar smell reached Singird’s nostrils, of far southern lands with rays of sun shining through the moist, thick greenery of jungles and forests, and blooming flowers weighing on the vines of the bushropes. Ri’saad pressed the sacks in the palm of Singird’s hand. One of them soft, with the dry, rustling leaves of tea, and the other hard, the rock-solid biscuits from Yrith’s homeland.

“For old time’s sake,” he purred. Singird shook his head.

“I cannot…”

“Do take them. They may be the last thing you can savor for a while.”

Singird would have smiled at the recollection of his childhood days, begging the Khajiit for a treat. But what he could forgive a child, he could not condone the grown man that he had become. He stared at the contents of his hand. They had traveled across the whole of Tamriel to reach him at the cost of sweat and blood of many. And now he was given them for free. If he could, he would have embraced the Khajiit right then and there. But pride, both his and his friend’s, did not allow him. He turned his gaze to the ground.

“I could have paid,” he whispered.

“The Khajiit travel many roads and see many liars,” Ri’saad said as he sank back to his furs. “You are by far the worst.”

“And you are by far the worst smuggler of them all.”

“A fair assessment,” he nodded his acknowledgement. Then he looked up to the skies, clear and greyed blue with a tint of red and gold at their western hem. “The night will be cold. You better find some warm fire to stay by.”

“I will do.” Singird pocketed the two pouches at last. “Thank you, Ri’saad. I am in your debt.”

“Ri’saad does not believe in debts.” The Khajiit took a pensive smoke from his pipe. “Word has it that you deal in the College business now. This one will call upon you when the road takes him to the north. Unlike the rest, the Winterhold mages seem to be particularly open to our trade.” Somewhere in the slits of his eyes, a pair of sparks danced in a merry twirl. “May the sands stay warm under your feet.”

“And yours too,” Singird returned.

He watched Ri’saad blow off another circle before walking away. The guard said nothing as he passed through the gate, but his glowering stare spoke clearly of what he thought of the unannounced visitor. He could feel the sentries’ eyes on himself as he walked up to the city entrance, observing him from the archery towers with hands ready on their bows. Not even Whiterun welcomed its guests with open arms, it seemed.


“We sing to our youth, to the days come and gone, for the Age of Obsession is just about done! Heeey!”

The tankards clashed with a metallic clank. Mead and ale spilled into the fire, producing curly ribbons of smoke rising with a feral hiss. The Bannered Mare was packed this time of the day, and surely the local Nord veterans would sing to their youth till early morning when they would fall where they stood and wreathe around the central hearth in jumbled piles. Singird looked at their vigor with amazement. There was something to be promised when a Nord decided to march with the troops. Every young man in Skyrim wanted to become a warrior. Of those who did, few made it to this age. Some of the figures dancing around the fire missed an eye or several fingers. Some of them were marred with scars across half of their face. Some missed a whole arm. And still, no tears were shed.

He smiled. The Age of Obsession. That was a new one.

A ginger woman at her prime stood by the counter, a sharp look in her eyes as a sturdy wheat-haired man with more muscle than tact wooed her with feigned fervor. She pressed a tankard into his hands without a word, sending him in one practiced gesture back to the group of revelers. He reeled away with a powerful belch, earning himself more than a few laughs.

“Ah, that’s a… fine woman,” he beamed, caught in his fall by a pair of hand like two furry shovels. “If only my… Berti was still alive to meet her.”

Singird frowned. There were stories to be told in the taverns if one listened closely. But it was not their stories he wanted to hear. He used the moment to wade silently to the counter. He pressed half of his remaining coins to the burnished wood, avoiding the booze stains that littered it.

“Excuse me…”

“Well yes, excuse you,” the woman bellowed, “if you would kindly not sneak up on people here before someone draws a dagger. And speak to the point sir, this is not the High Council. What would you like? You don’t look the mead type to me, hardly an ale one and definitely not a rum one. So, wine? Or some Cyrodilic brandy?”

And this was the more cultivated of the two taverns in Whiterun’s Plain District. Perhaps he would have preferred the somber quiet of the Drunken Huntsman, but sleeping in that place would make him fear a sudden death from poison sneakily dripped into his own drink. This place, at least, had proper guards, even if they were now tapping their feet to the uneven rhythm of Ragnar the Red, simpering at the wobbly figures of the local drunks. But their hands were steady on the hilts of their weapons and their armor firm enough to protect them from the first blow.

“A room for the night and a bowl of Abecean steamed dates,” he said to the innkeeper. She took a while for a cautions scrutiny, scanning the whole of his person long enough to deprive him of all comfort. He returned her look, resisting the urge to shift his weight. She caught his meaning, he was certain of it. Hulda of Whiterun had a reputation for her ability to catch whatever whispers carried on the wind.

“Abecean steamed dates, eh? Not in our supply, I’m afraid.” She propped her arms against the counter, closing the distance. “But stay for a while. Things can be arranged.” She gave him a mysterious wink.

Singird nodded wordlessly. Ri’saad knew his trade well and so did she. He glanced over his shoulder. He would have never guessed that singing drunks could be a blessing.

“And the room?”

Hulda smiled. A few heads turned their way. Of course, for Nord standards, she was a beauty that would leave men staring at her tracks long after she was gone. A ripe woman with a strong jaw and a spark of grit in her eye. She was also not one to give her smile for free. Singird found himself under more than just a few resentful looks.

“Saadia will show you the way.” Hulda waved toward a slight Redguard maid who promptly jumped to her feet, beckoning for Singird to follow. He bowed his thanks as he left, scrambling through the buoyant tangle of bodies while his petite guide managed to slip through entirely untouched. She led him up the stairs, to a gallery and further into a rather fancy looking room. A roof window offered the view of a great snowy mountain, its summit covered in a halo of clouds. Somewhere up there stood the ancient monastery of High Hrothgar, the pride of all Nords. Singird could not have hoped for a better room.

“The privy is down the stairs and to the right. The bath is closed for the night but there is a well in the courtyard. If you need anything delivered, you need just call.” The maid bowed her head, backing out of the room and closing the door in almost ghostly silence. Singird took a guess about what her life had been like before she’d settled here.

He stared out of the window, lost in thought. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw the mountain shake, almost as if it had spoken. He could hear words, and in them, Yrith’s name. Was he delirious? Had solitude deprived him of the last bits of his sanity?

He rubbed his temples. It may have as well been the case. He laughed at his own folly, thinking about the amounts of books and diagrams he had read and understood. But the world did not work in numbers. It worked in feelings. It littered him with wounds, the biggest of them being his own affection. He looked up again. Now, more than ever, he felt truly alone.

“Waiting for that mountain to shed its snow, Master Larkwing?”

He turned around abruptly. There in his room, sprawling comfortably over Singird’s bed, with a smile playing on his lips, sat Qassir Tahlrah. Tiny flames danced in his sapphire eyes, reflections of the candle before him. He held his chin clipped between his fingers, like a king watching his servant with a critical eye. Singird fought hard not to gasp and not to extend his fists to wipe that grin away.

“You better have a very good explanation of why I am seeing you in my room, unexpected, unnoticed and uninvited,” he growled quietly.

The Redguard let out a groan of satisfaction, leaning back and cushioning his head with his arms. “Angry at me already? For all the hard work I did for you, you sure do not waste any time.”

“Perhaps. I will decide whether you did something for me when I hear your reasons.”

“Ah, so I am not clear of suspicion just yet.” He scratched his chin, a mere gesture with no meaning to stall for time. Singird did not know whether to be relieved or worried that his least favorite student was as irritable as ever. “Let’s see. Any resemblance to an actual act of good will is purely coincidental. But it just so happens that you and I share the same objective. Perhaps it is even a reason for me to give you my respect.”

Singird snorted. “That makes me all the more worried.”

Qassir pulled a long face in feigned sadness. “You hurt my feelings, Master Larkwing.”

“My pleasure.” Singird made sure to pour all his feelings toward the Redguard into that one sentence. “So? Why are you here?”

“Just observing the situation.” The boy wriggled on the bed, creasing the blankets underneath. Rage stirred within Singird, more so for the sole fact that his unwelcome guest seemed to enjoy watching him struggle to keep his face straight. He let out a long-held breath.

“Very well. If you have nothing to tell me, then I suggest you be on your way. I am tired and not in the mood for conversation.”

The boy’s smile widened. “If you must know, had I wanted to kill you, I could have done so already while you were so unsuspectingly watching that pile of rocks over there. I did not. Now with just a little less hostility, perhaps we could ruminate on the taste of the Abecean steamed dates. You have quite the strange desires, Master Larkwing.”

“Just how long have you been following me?”

Qassir shrugged. “Long enough to know you don’t carry the same scent anymore.”

Singird shuddered. Whatever that meant in the speech of a Redguard, the thought that came to his mind was far from comfortable. “And just how do you expect me to show less hostility when all you do is speaking in riddles? I want a solid proof. A proof I can trust you for all that secrecy and sneaking around. I am warning you, Mister Tahlrah. You have given me enough reason for doubt. My patience is not endless and now is not a good time to try it.”

The boy raised his hands, palms in as mages often do to show they mean no harm. His face grew darker, gaining a shade Singird had never seen there before, and all his mirth wilted like the autumn leaves. “I have no proof,” he said, his voice nearly drowned by the cheers from the outside. “But let’s put it like this. There is a burden on my shoulders. To rid myself of it, nothing would have been easier than to kill Yrith Ravencroft. That too I could have done many times before, but I didn’t.”

Singird pierced him with a look. “Except her magic residue would have torn you to pieces.”

“Not when she was poisoned with the Spirit Blight. It would have been enough to simply let her die. None of you knew how to brew the antidote.”

“None of us knew how to spellbrew it, you mean.”

Qassir let out a heavy sigh. “So the little urchin knew.”

“She knows more than you could ever fathom. At least thanks to her, I am not completely in the dark. You could help shed some more light, though.”

The boy’s eyes drifted to the door, then to the window. Then he returned to Singird. “Sit down, Master Larkwing.”

Singird let out a laugh of disbelief. “My student is ordering me around?”

“You hardly see me as your student. And no, I am not ordering around.” For a split moment, the smile returned to the Redguard’s lips. “But I will take a while.”

“I’ll sit when I want to,” Singird hissed through gritted teeth. He felt his whole body ache with the distance he had walked that day, but pride still won over his weariness.

“Very well.” Qassir waggled on his bed, adjusting his legs and sighing with comfort. Singird put his hands behind his back, covering the fists that clenched and loosened with every passing moment.

There was a momentary lull. The people from the outside now sang three different songs together, making their little performance literally painful to listen to. And then, their voices died with Qassir’s magic, cast almost nonchalantly from the warmth of his seat. Singird could only recognize a few spells, the standard detection ones and a few barriers. When those were done, the air sizzled with unfamiliar forces and Singird felt an acrid gust of wind bite into his skin. For a while, it looked as if the Redguard boy was reforming the air into something more tangible, a matter that would reveal secrets which would have stayed hidden forever under normal circumstances. The darkness turned into liquid light, glistening before it dispersed into a myriad of dust particles and faded away once more. All the while, the boy’s face remained a stiff mask of feigned indifference. He was not doing it to swagger. Qassir Tahlrah meant business. And sure enough, the sudden silence felt heavy on Singird.

“So,” Qassir said, still sending out strands of magicka to examine his work, “my reason, you say. Let me start with the urchin and her parents. By now, you must have heard of the AWA.”

Singird gave a short nod.

“They are…” the boy gave a long glance to the timbered ceiling, his eyes suddenly full of unforeseen pain, “more than just an institution. I am not officially a part of the AWA. I’ve learned to use their seal and I spent days listening to my parents’ conversations just to grasp the basics of spellbrewing. And their politics.” He snorted. “I don’t think the AWA knows up to this day. If they had an idea, we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“So you are an impostor.”

Qassir laughed. “That sounds magnificent. I like it. Impostor? Hardly. Just one of the many children of the AWA. The trouble with the AWA is that once you are involved, your whole family is involved. They are put on record and never let go. If your parents are in the AWA, then you will be a member too, want it or not. For this reason, the families often arrange marriages for their children to make sure the magic, as well as the knowledge, stays where it should. We are the nobles of the arcane, so to speak. You are betrothed as soon as you are born into this world, and the institution decides what path your life is going to take.”

Singird paled. “And Yrith is…”

“… betrothed to me.”

The Redguard was right. Singird should have sat down, only so he could jump up at this very moment. There was nowhere to jump. He took a breath, bolting forward only to stop himself after the first step. He could not even see Qassir’s face over his own frantic thoughts. No, she couldn’t be… he would not give her up. Not for a reason like this.

“She never told me…” The rasp of his voice sounded pathetic to him.

“I doubt she knows. Her parents were opposed to it. In the end, they did it to protect her, or so I’ve heard. Yrith Ravencroft is a special case. Her magic is one of a kind, even within the AWA circles. All the families fought over her. The members of the AWA spent centuries experimenting on their own children to create a magical prodigy. Altering their bodies to hold more magic, only to see them…” the boy shivered visibly, “decompose shortly after. But Yrith is genuine. The Ravencrofts were among those who strongly opposed the movement. Everyone knew they would never experiment with their own child. And so, she was desired. She… still is desired.

“Usually, a child’s magical talents are directly inherited from the parents. To have Yrith’s blood in the family would mean becoming indispensable. It would give you a secure place in the AWA, no one would dare oppose you then.” Qassir gave a bitter smile, shaking his head. “The AWA told her parents they would take her away if she wasn’t betrothed. So they did. They chose the least influential family of them all, a son of two Redguard scholars with close to no magical talent at all, in hopes she would be able to unbind that relationship one day.”

“So you came to Winterhold to take her away?”

There was something bestial in the Redguard’s eyes. It was more than rage that shaped that handsome face into a dark, twisted glare. Even through his own fear and anger, Singird could notice the boy’s clenched fists and the sudden stiffness taking over his body.

“Take her away?” he laughed and there was not a hint of joy in the sound. “I could, couldn’t I? Having spent every day of my life casting spell after spell, with my fingers bleeding of magical overcharge, just so I could appease the parents that had never been meant to become wizards. Just so I could eschew the assassins that came ever so often to revoke the contract. Ever thought I was talented? Wrong… Redguards don’t have magic in them. We are no elves, nor Bretons with elven blood in their veins.” He raised his head, pinning a sharp look at Singird. “In a way, I was relieved to see her struggling when I first saw her. I expected a prodigy who would use magic to even breathe. I was ready to despise her, the person who had made my life a nightmare. But I couldn’t. In the end, she was the only one in Winterhold I couldn’t truly hate.”

Singird paced from one wall to another and back. He took three breaths before he found the courage to voice the question that scorched him from within. Qassir watched him out of the corner of his eye, his eyes clouded with his own worries.

“Do you love her then?”

The boy snorted. “Love her? I don’t know what that word means.”

Singird frowned. “I don’t think this is a good time for your jests.”

“I don’t hate her.” Qassir’s gaze fixed somewhere past Singird’s back, on the now dark, starry sky. His face was distant, as if all he wished for was to hide it somewhere deep in the shadows where he could take off the mask that had grown to be a part of him. He let out a breath, and to Singird’s surprise, his next words were shaky, uncertain. “Have you ever felt elated at the sight of someone struggling, defying all that has been imposed on them, antagonizing everyone in their way? This is what I feel when I see her. I want her to keep on fighting. Forever. I want her,” his voice turned into a dark growl, “to destroy the one who has turned her life into misery. I want him to suffer for all that he has done. I want him to squirm, and I want her to walk free. Do you understand, Master Larkwing?” He rose, teeth gritted in a savage sneer. “We are no one’s puppets, she and I. We shall not be controlled.”

Singird would have taken a step back if there was anywhere to back away to. The wall was coarse behind his back and the chipped splinters chafed his worn-out robes with a sound that made his hairs stand. So did the boy’s words.

“Say, Mister Tahlrah. Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you are who she chose.”

Singird took good notice that the word trust had not been used. These were not words of a young lad who had barely crawled out of his nest. He had seen things. Too many, too much. They stood on the same side, he and the boy. Singird understood his wrath. And yet, it frightened him. This was not who he wished to become. It was not who he wished for Yrith to become. But for these children to bear the curse of their families, he too wished for someone to pay.

“How old are you?”

Qassir’s eyes pinned into Singird. “That is a very personal question. What would you gain if I answered it?”

Singird gave a bitter laugh. “You do not speak like the boy I see before my eyes. Yet, you are still my student, want it or not. How old are you?”

“Patronizing me?” The Redguard let out a snort. “Old enough to take care of myself according to the Redguard tradition. Likely not old enough for a Nord. It does not matter. I did not come to gain your sympathy.”

“Then why did you come?”

He turned away, pivoting in place. There was a lull before he finally spoke in a strangled voice. “Because we share the same goal.”

Singird gave a slow nod, but his eyes remained cold and doubtful. “Tell me. What are you going to do once this is all over?”

The boy shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”

“And by the time it is seen, it may already be too late.”

“What if I tell you to mind your own business?”

A smile spread over Singird’s face, now genuine and bright in the night. “Then I will reply that now you certainly remind me of Miss Ravencroft back when we met.”

“So she is Miss Ravencroft to you yet? Not Yrith?”

“I stand corrected. You are still way more impudent than her.”

Qassir laughed. “That is reassuring. You are also still the same man of principle as back then.”

“Reassuring indeed,” Singird seconded. There was truth in those words. Perhaps it did not matter that the world was changing. There was something to hold onto in himself. Even this boy knew it. Had he now become dependent on the encouragement of his own students? Despite the irony, he felt sudden lightness. “I owe you my thanks.”

“Oh?” The boy raised his brows, face forming into a triumphant smirk. “So you’ve finally realized?”

Singird fought not to knit his brows. Just why did this person always have to spoil every moment of peace? “I take it back,” he muttered.

“I see. And here I thought you’d appreciate that I have coin to offer. And that I may happen to be acquainted to certain silver-furred Khajiit who knows where to find some Abecean steamed dates.”

Singird’s lips pressed into a thin line in a desperate attempt to contain a curse. Sure as Oblivion, when it came to making fools out of people, there was no person on Nirn who could compare to Qassir Tahlrah. He straightened his back, pinning his eyes into the boy’s angelic face. This night would be long.

Notes:

This chapter was not really planned. I did plan these events, but they were supposed to be told later in the story in retrospect. But I realized it would be a lot to squeeze into a few dialogues, so I made it a new chapter. Originally, I planned to have 35 chapters. As some of the things in this story shift and change places, I will not change this number yet, but it may happen that the story will be a chapter or two longer than planned originally. So don’t stone me, please. :)

Mirwen

Chapter 25: Winter’s Warmth

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The morning was grey. As grey as ever, with cold permeating her body despite the many layers she wore under the duvet. Yrith opened an eye, staring at the uniform stone floor. It was so quiet. She looked up, expecting a curtain and Singird’s face peeking through it, but this was no Winterhold and there were no curtains. No windows with crows on their sill either. There was only a dormer above her head, smeared by the melted snow. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, trying to remember why her mind felt so hazy. If she’d had any dreams, she had forgotten them. She was still in High Hrothgar… and there was the last night. Cain facing a group of deadly Imperials. The Dragonborn running to his rescue and telling Yrith off. Leyna… the friend she could not trust.

Yrith clasped her head, curling into a ball of muddled feelings. Her chest was so tight. She was afraid to stand and look at the world around. What had she done? What had she said? Everything felt so wrong. Everyone was so ready to put their faith in her. Risk their lives for her. What could she offer in return? Just why in Oblivion had she refused Leyna when she had finally won her affection? Was it truly distrust, or something else?

She kicked the duvet away, inviting the cold to take her. Her knees bent purely by the power of her will. Her body ached and trembled as she forced it to rise. Uncertainty had taken more from her than days and days of shaping her muscles to the Dragonborn’s liking. She moved quickly as her limbs allowed, refusing to think any further, burying deep the part of her mind that yearned for that sliver of warmth her bed offered. Draining the jug on the table of its last drop of water, she rushed away, stumbling over the prayer rugs.

She had never been in the parts where Cain spent his nights, but there could only be so many corners she had not seen yet. The alcoves and occasional flowers on the walls went by unnoticed, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. Corridor after corridor, she crossed them without as much as glancing to her sides. A Greybeard whose name she did not know, one of those silent monks who never spared a word to their guests, passed her, stopping with mute curiosity, but she pressed on. Warmth was coming from around the corner. That, and a faint scent of incense amidst a palette of heavy odors, mostly of various animals and herbs. Yrith could discern goat and goose, troll fat, but also dragon’s tongue, juniper and jazbay. She picked up her pace, but a voice made her stop dead in her tracks.

“Please… give me more…”

Yrith felt herself pale. The voice was hoarse, unnaturally high and tremulous, and yet, it still had to belong to Cain. She took a tentative step forward, breath seizing up in her throat.

“Pain… will relieve me… I pray… upon my Master… I pray… upon his affliction… I pray… so that he endows me with his gift…”

Instinctively, Yrith’s hand raised to her lips to suppress the surging feeling from her stomach. Half rushing, half staggering, she tumbled inside. A view of a vast nook opened before her, with a hearth in its far corner, the path leading to it cushioned by innumerous rags and pelts. Cain lay with his back against a draped wall on Yrith’s right, quivering, his limbs twisted in what must have been spasm. Next to him, collapsed among a number of flasks and twigs trussed in thin bundles, was Leyna. Yrith could sense traces of magic on her hands. Healing magic.

Her chest so tight it hurt, she dropped to her knees, seizing Cain’s hands. They were stiff, as if he was clutching an invisible target, entwined with veins forming a meandering texture on his skin.

“Cain,” she whispered pleadingly.

“I am grateful… for the wounds he inflicts upon this mortal shell…”

“Cain!” Gently as she could, Yrith shook him, imploring his eyes to open in silence. They remained tightly shut, but she could see something glisten in their corners, until two solitary tears rolled down his temples, leaving behind trails of moisture. “Cain!” Yrith cried.

“… for the Master is wise to know…”

“Cain! Wake up!”

“… that only when one suffers can he know true bliss…”

“Cain, please!” She wrapped her arms around him, feeling the immense heat of his body. His back was stiff like his hands, arched deeply inside. She did not want to imagine his pain as her own frame trembled along him. “I am here… you are safe… wake up!”

“Pain will lead us… from misery…”

Feeling her own tears fall into his now lank and matted hair, Yrith strengthened her grip. Only the tips of her fingers were not touching him, instead glowing with magic. She let it fill him, concentrating with all her power on the feeling of ease and comfort. Let it pass, she thought desperately, calling to him. Let the pain go. You are free now.

Cain’s words suffocated on their way, becoming a strained rasp. He moaned, the tremor in his body more violent with every moment. Yrith did not let go. Numbness spread through her arms and legs, hazy mist filling her head, but she refused to loosen her grip. You are safe. Magic poured through her and into Cain like glowing, warm water of life.

“Wake up,” she whispered, still pressed to him. His voice had faded. She could hear his heartbeat slow from chaotic drumming to a gentle pulse. As his breath steadied, his back sank back into the cushioned layer underneath, his extremities falling limply to his side. The weight of his body dragged Yrith down. She let go, creating distance to take a look.

He still quivered. Heat emanated from him in waves. But his eyes opened ever so slightly, peering at her through the clumps of his glued eyelashes. He lay motionless, his look bleary, as though he did not know where he was. And perhaps he didn’t. Yrith drew back, her gaze not leaving him for a moment.

“Cain,” she breathed, pulling close some of the pelts to cover him up. She wanted to say she was happy to see him safe, but she could not be sure if that was true. She wanted to give him a smile, but she was too scared and tired. A burning feeling stung her eyes. Her tears dropped softly onto the pelts.

“Yrith…” His voice was a mere rustle. “I… what…”

“Thank gods.” She buried her face in the pelt covering his chest, embracing him once more. “Thank gods you’re alive and…”

He gave a weak laugh. “That should be my line. There were… Imperials. After you. I tried to stop them… I think I owe my life to the Dragonborn…”

“And Leyna, probably,” Yrith muttered, rising to look at the girl sprawled beside Cain. Bending over, she shoved away flask after flask, bundle after bundle, until the space around her was clear, then took another pile of cloth and pelts and spread them over her, carefully moving Leyna’s arms and legs to align with her torso. Leyna’s chest heaved, she appeared to be sleeping soundly. Yrith closed her eyes, running a finger along the back of Leyna’s hand. She should have been there. She shouldn’t have fallen asleep and let Leyna almost surrender her life force to Cain. Just how close had she been to death? Was it Yrith’s words that had inspired her to overexert herself so?

She shuddered, turning her gaze back to Cain.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I… don’t know,” he said quietly. With strain, he turned to her fully, his ebony skin shimmering gold in the light of the hearth fire. A fresh gaping wound stretched over his cheek, too close to his eye for Yrith’s liking. “Happy that you’re safe, and…” He shook his head. Yrith adjusted the pelts underneath it.

“Are you in pain?”

Cain closed his eyes, leaning back, his elbows unable to support him. “Not anymore.”

Cold washed over Yrith as she recalled the words that had come out of his mouth. “You had nightmares. You talked… about pain.”

He froze momentarily, then gave a slow, weary nod. “I… lost control.”

“Lost control?”

“It’s…” Struggle reflected in his eyes as they met hers. Yrith had never seen him so lost. So helpless. Her hand closed around the cloth she was holding. “It’s nothing.”

She bowed her head, letting the silence linger. His breath was heavy, audible even over the crackling of the fire, but steady, as if counting moment after moment, a clock of its own. Yrith did not know how long they spent just gazing at each other, neither wishing to be the one to look away. She grew thirsty, but still, she did not move. And then, he closed his eyes again.

“Yrith,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Can you… can you sit closer?”

She raised her brows, not expecting the question. Without a word, she moved toward him, leaning against the draped wall. He gave a faint smile. Mustering what seemed to be all his strength, he raised himself enough to put his head in her lap. Her heart skipped a beat and she felt her whole body catch on fire.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, reaching for her hand. “But I’d do it again.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Put my life on the line for you.” His smile widened slightly. “For moments like this… I’d do it again.”

“Cain…” Yrith’s mind was blank. Her lips moved soundlessly, but there was no need for words. Cain’s head felt heavy on her thighs, his breathing now coming with ease. His slumber was peaceful, and she knew that no cries of pain would follow. Despite herself, she smiled, letting her hand run through his grimy hair.


The wind whipped her face, but the skies were clear like a placid sea of periwinkle blue. Yrith could see all Skyrim from up here, as if she was atop of a flying dragon once more. Snowy mountain caps gaped at her like overgrown gnomes, circled by shadowy valleys and white-gold ribbons of water. The sight calmed her almost like the books that were in such a short supply in High Hrothgar. She did not mind the cold watchtower platform underneath her, having had her share of cold window sills to sit on in Winterhold. She swayed her legs as she sat on the edge. If she fell into the abyss below, there would be no retrieving her. But sitting here, with the world literally at her feet, felt strangely liberating. She leaned against a massive pillar, one of the four that formed the corners of the platform and supported the tower’s roof, letting the sunlight caress her face.

“Here you are,” a voice issued behind her. She followed it unwillingly, staring into the Dragonborn’s face.

“You found me,” she said, struggling to not let the accusation surface.

He looked her over, tilting his head to the side. “I’ve been worried.”

“I wouldn’t run.” She turned back to the glorious sight, studying the pines in the vales and the caravan striding along the road from Falkreath to Riverwood like a group of ants carrying home a thick spruce needle.

“No, you would not. But you look troubled. I’ve seen little of you the past few days. Mind if I join you?”

She shook her head out of sheer politeness. He sank beside her, following her example with his legs over the edge.

“I once lost a boot here. Taught me to never wear heavy armor up here. It was a foolish thing to do anyway, but I had quarreled with Arngeir and refused to go past him to change into something more reasonable.”

“You quarreled with the Greybeards?”

“Surprised?” There was the smile in his voice, the one he always had, as if nothing had happened. As if Cain had not been hurt and he had not Shouted Yrith away from the carnage. Yrith found the comfort it brought almost annoying. “Yes. I’d called them senile old codgers who sit in their warm little cavern and spout wisdoms instead of going out and doing something meaningful.”

She looked at him with her eyes wide. “You… did?”

He laughed, his hand shooting up to pat her, but as he glanced toward her dangling feet, he stopped it in midair, inches from her back. “I told you the two of us are too much alike. Oh well. Arngeir was laughing when he told me of your little performance. ‘Where have I heard this before?’ and ‘Maybe I truly ought to get serious before one of you beats me to it.’ Those were his words.”

Despite herself, Yrith smiled, feeling a heavy weight leave her shoulders. “I thought you’d be angry,” she muttered. “That maybe the Greybeards would tell you to take us away for good.”

“No, I would not. In essence, you were right, and Arngeir knows it too. But be careful with your words. He may seem strong and unassailable, but deep inside, he wishes to be as free as we are. He, just as the others, had chosen this path, knowing that he would spend the rest of his life locked away in solitude, waiting on an uncertain hope to perhaps train a Dragonborn one day. The Greybeards can’t just leave High Hrothgar and join our struggles. They have to carry on the dying tradition. They have to persevere, so that the Dragonborn don’t lose their way. So that they can bring hope to the world that has too little of it on its own. Especially now that the Septims are gone.”

Yrith stared into her lap. She had never known. She had spoken out of turn, as she had done so many times before, and perhaps hurt someone who was so much more than she would ever be. Her eyes wandered to the monastery, as if expecting a wrinkled face to be glaring at her out of it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“There is no need,” he told her kindly. “But he will be happy if you speak to him before we leave.”

“So we will be leaving,” she said with no question to follow. She had expected as much. The Demon had found her. She could not trouble the Greybeards any longer.

“Yes, it had come to it, it seems. Yrith,” he turned her to face him, “I must ask you to stop blaming yourself and trying to carry this burden alone. I am in this willingly. I had the chance to refuse the task and I didn’t. Both of your friends, I believe, chose to march into this danger themselves, and both of them wish to protect you with their life. By refusing them, and by throwing yourself into peril when it makes little sense, you reject them. And me. Do you really want to do that?”

“I… I just wanted to help…”

He sighed, ruffling her hair. “I know. But it was reckless, and it put you in more danger. And your friends too.”

“I’m…”

“Don’t be sorry,” he shook his head, pulling himself up and offering her a hand. She took it reluctantly, feeling his muscular arm lift her with ease. He spoke softly, making her feel worse than if he was shouting. “Be brave enough to retreat when needed. You will have enough chance to prove yourself. Come. There is training to be done.” He led the way to the entrance and toward the dark stairway back to the courtyard. Yrith hesitated.

A chance to prove herself… perhaps. Reckless she had been, perhaps now was the time to take matters in her own hands. How many more chances would she get with the Dragonborn before they parted? Before it was too late?

“Keneel-La?” she tried, her voice but a quivering rasp.

“Yes?”

“Do you know where I can find an Elder Scroll?”

He froze, turning back to her slowly, as though time had nearly stopped for him. Quite positively, the Dragonborn was taken aback by the sudden question. “An Elder Scroll?” he repeated curiously.

Without daring a word, Yrith gave a nod.

He took a moment to size her up, eyes sliding slowly over her determined face, her stuck out chest and her clenched fists. He gave a smile that was neither warm nor cold, his eyes distant as she had never seen them before, surely gazing at an entirely different scene. She waited, listening to her heartbeat. Behind her, the descending sun burned the nape of her neck.

“Did Paarthurnax tell you to find one?” he asked pensively.

Again, she nodded.

“Why?”

“To… find a name.”

“The name lost in time? That thing the ashling mentioned when he expressed his concern for you?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t know who the name truly belongs to?”

She shook her head.

He sighed. “That may be a problem.”

She gazed at his scales, glistening in the sun, her heart sinking. “So we have no lead at all?”

“Oh we have a lead,” he said quietly. “I just hoped I would not have to use it.”

“Where do I need to go?”

He wagged his finger at her in a dismissive gesture. “The correct question is, where do we need to go? I will not let you go alone. Not to that place.”

“That place?”

Gently, he put his hands on her shoulders, bending over to look into her eyes. His face was troubled, and Yrith shifted her weight instinctively. “I can take you to the one who showed me the way last time. But he is not among the living anymore, and the place where he resides now is not one you’d choose to spend your days. If you thought your journey has been dangerous, then you have seen very little. Certain power-hungry people have tried entering it. Most have lost their minds in the process.”

Yrith shuddered. What place could he be talking about? If the man in question was truly dead, then the place could not be on Nirn. What was it? Sovengarde? How in Oblivion could she possibly get there? Nobody even knew if the place existed.

“Where,” she said in an almost inaudible whisper, “will you be taking me?”

He gave her a heavy, pained look, and she knew he saw things he’d rather have forgotten. She tried to read in his face, but his lizard features were as impenetrable as ever.

“A library,” he breathed, closing his eyes. “The library. The biggest library in Mundus.”

Yrith stared at him, but he said no more. A library did not sound too bad. It would sound thrilling to her, if it wasn’t for the strange reverence in his voice. And if it was a library outside of Nirn, then there sure had to be a twist she did not know of. She opened her mouth to ask, but before she could utter a word, he turned his back on her, taking the stairs.


Silence reigned between Keneel-La and Yrith. She had caught him a few times, deep in thought, pacing through the corridors or gazing far over the mountain tops to the flocks of birds leaving for the southern lands. But every time she would open her mouth to speak, he would pass her with no words to offer, keeping to his own little world and to the cogs turning in his head.

She tried to recall all the libraries she had read or heard about, but all of them were still in Tamriel. Perhaps except the one in Artaeum, whose location shifted ever so often, and no one really knew where it disappeared to. Was there a library in Sovengarde? But Sovengarde was for the fallen Nords, and they did not seem the type to engulf themselves in the literary arts. But then, who did? Her own people? Arkay sure could have a great library, but she would have heard about it. All in all, any deity could own a library, and Aetherius was vast enough to harbor a number of them, all greater than the wholeness of Nirn. If only there were books in High Hrothgar.

She sighed, watching the multi-prism silhouette of the monastery. The day had gotten past way too quickly. There were few signs of the coming winter up here, but it fed on daylight like a vulture on carcass. Still, Yrith would stay long after dark, training her body while Leyna would exert her powers to heal Cain’s scars. Yrith avoided both.

What would Cain say when she told him she was going to chase the Lone Demon? Would he tie her and keep her away from danger? Would he break under the strain?

She could still remember his dream, and the words that had left his mouth when she’d found him.

“I pray upon my Master, upon his affliction, for the Master is wise to know that only when one suffers can he know true bliss.”

Was it the Demon’s curse that haunted Cain even in his slumber? She did not dare ask. The only thing she could do was to march forward, toward her fate, or whatever it was that bound her to him.

She shuddered. Perhaps it was the dark thoughts that made her hairs stand, or perhaps it was the cold of the night. The sun had fallen, but she had not even returned for dinner. It was easier to keep practicing. Her limbs ached of the running and stretching, but she preferred this soreness to the one that would claim her when she stared into his crimson eyes. The moons would long have traversed the sky when she would return, slipping into her hay-filled bed with no word to anyone. The tips of her fingers touched the hardened snow, feeling its burning before it dulled into senseless haze.

“You’ll catch a cold, Yrith.”

She jumped up promptly, pivoting to see the very eyes she did not want to look at.

“Cain!” Her voice too high and tense for her liking. “You’re outside. Are you… are you feeling well?”

He wended his way to her, reaching down to pick up the coat she had left in the snow. His gait was insecure, wobbly, as he approached her and slung the cold thing over her shoulders.

“I have been walking up and down the monastery for the good part of the last few days, to regain my strength. But you were nowhere to be found.” There was no reproach in his voice. She found his eyes again, and they were tired and wistful.

“I was here,” she said, wishing to hide the necessity from her tone. He gave a nod.

“I know. I know you’ve been training.” He scanned her arms and legs, eyes resting on the muscle she had built, slight, but firm. “Just like you were back in Winterhold. You’ve never thought of hiding, have you? Never thought of leaving all this behind.”

She weighed his words, concealing her musings by sliding her hands into her coat as slowly and ineptly as possible. He was patient, waiting, motionless, despite his apparent discomfort. She sighed, finally turning to him fully.

“I’ve thought about it. More times than I can count. But I can’t, Cain. This is about more than just me. I am…” In her search for words, she felt a rush of energy. Clenching her fists, she took to walking, pacing from one side of the small clearing formed in the snow for her training to another. “I am angry. And afraid. Afraid that if I let him go any further, I will be sorry. Sorrier than I already am.”

“You know, don’t you?” he said, the sadness now creeping into his voice.

“Know what?”

“Who he is.”

Yrith halted. This was fine, she told herself. At least, there would be no more pretense.

“I’m sorry, Cain. I know he’s hurt you too.”

He hobbled to her, his face suddenly defiant. “Hurt me? Oh, he’s hurt me, he has. The worst of it all being when I had to see you starve, freezing on the ground gods know where, being fed corrupt magic and made to watch and hear things that would hurt you more than any blade could.”

She returned his look, rising, slight as she was. “Then help me become strong enough to not fall into that pit again.” Her words were braver than she felt, as if some other, unknown part of her spoke them, but she went on, looming from the low of her height. “I won’t run away from some nameless ghost. If he has no guts to even show himself, then he’s as good as gone, isn’t he? Whatever happened in your past,” she was now grabbing his shoulders, barely noting her own movements, her mind filled with the image of his dreaming form, “I will smear it away. I don’t want to dwell in the past anymore. He wants us to be afraid, Cain. He wants us to cower. And I will not give him the pleasure.”

She realized she was panting ever so slightly. Cain stared at her, his eyes wide, their crimson shade emphasized in the light of the deep scarlet Masser traversing the sky in his lazy manner. He was shaking, not for the chill of the night, not for fear or unease. It was something else Yrith saw in his features. Something she had not seen there for a very long time.

“Yrith,” he breathed, shaking his head slowly, “I… oh damn it to Oblivion.” He pressed his temples, then looked up again, a strange glint in his eyes. “Do you remember how you once stood up for me when I was about to become the outcast and you had just gained fame?”

She nodded.

“You just…” he took a step back, inclining his head to take her in with all his senses, “you have not changed at all. And I was a fool to think so. I was a fool to think you so weak, to not remember that you don’t fear losing.” He smiled, and it was a face that made all Yrith’s worries melt away. She had not seen it on him since Winterhold, this relish at the sole fact that they could share a moment together. Without thinking, she mirrored it, imbibing every inch of that smile. He reached for her hand, pulling her close, and she wondered at his sudden strength. “I think it was that moment,” he said, his breath brushing her face, “that made me fall in love with you.”

And he aimed for her lips, touching them lightly with his and capering away before she could recoil. He reminded her of a broken marionette, his legs still weak to support him fully, but he did not seem to mind. His lips still quirked up, making the gash on his cheek look almost handsome, he paused briefly to steal a last glance of her.

“Come back,” he called to her. “Don’t freeze on me now, after all this.”

And he was gone, leaving her frozen and gaping after him.

But Yrith did not want to come back. He had not subdued her fears. He had replaced them with new ones, startlingly more overwhelming than any hired killer sent to end her life. All this time, she had been trying to shove these feelings aside. All this time, those memories had lain locked away in the deepest chasms of her mind, just so they would not distract her. All this time, she had forced herself to resist the longing, just so she could forget the temptation to throw it all away and run back to him. Now, Cain had brought it all back.

She fell to the ground, shielding her face with the palms of her hands. She could not accept Cain’s gift, precious as it was. She could not return the favor and be rightly grateful. She hated herself for it, and for the thought that now drenched her in cold.

If she were to fail, if she were to die by the Demon’s hand, she would never see Singird’s face again, and Cain’s lips would be the last ones to touch hers.


“Well well, so much for all the brave words you gave him.”

A hand landed on her shoulder. She did not raise her head to look at the Dragonborn. Instead, she backed away to throw it off, face throbbing and torn between the desire to shout and hide. He squeezed her, making her stop.

“I know this is hard…”

She glared at him. “You have no idea,” she growled.

“Perhaps I don’t,” he muttered softly, offering her both his hands. She took them gingerly, letting him pull her to her feet. “But let me guess.” He drew distance between them, as though offering her space to run. It unsettled her more than if he had her cornered and struggling. “There is something you want to protect, and for the first time in your life, you are truly afraid of loss. You realize that what he said is not entirely true. Don’t you?”

She tried to suppress the stinging in her eyes and the feeling of weakness in her legs that had little to do with her training. “Do you enjoy spying on people that much?”

He ruffled her hair. “It is a decent pastime. But at least I am honest about it.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “So? Was I right?”

“Maybe.” She looked away, to the blurry shapes in the dark that were rocks and trees and a lone barrow propped against them.

“Hmm. And does it make a difference?”

She kept staring into the murk, but her brows quirked up at his question. He smiled.

“The only thing you need to do now is live by those words you so gracefully delivered to the ashling, wouldn’t you say?”

The ice on the hard, leathery surface of her coat bit into her skin as Yrith rubbed her eyes. She took a breath, but produced no sound. A tacit nod was all she could give in reply.

“Well then.” He paused, looking up at the sky, still with the pensive look he had been wearing these days. When he spoke, his voice was an octave deeper and a fair bit quieter. “I think you’re ready. Take a good rest for tomorrow. You will need it.”

He left her there, alone, still trembling and unable to decide what it was that caused it.


“Arngeir would not like what I am about to teach you,” Keneel-La said as he led the three of them along the wall. The day was bright again, yet colder than those before, and even Yrith, used to the harsh winters and wrapped in her fur-padded coat, shivered. The sun was low and blinding, and the shadows long and menacing. She only hoped, despite her aching limbs, that they would move around enough to warm themselves.

“So what is it that you’re about to teach us?” Cain asked, and there was an air of interest about him. He was smiling, unconcerned with his limp. When he looked her way, Yrith quickly averted her eyes, retreating behind Leyna. She heard him chuckle, and her heart sank. The deluge of thoughts that overcame her whenever their eyes met clouded all reason. She would not be able to avoid him for long. But what words would she give him when he finally pressed her?

Next to her, Leyna raised her brows, eyes flitting between the two of them.

“Not you, ashling, but the two ladies by your side. I doubt you need to be taught that, given where you came from.” The lizard’s step was light, but Yrith could notice the imperceptible quiver in his voice. Cain’s smile froze on his lips, his marred face a poorly drawn caricature.

“What are you teaching them?”

The Dragonborn came to a halt, and so did the rest. Yrith nearly walked into Leyna, barely keeping her balance. He turned to them, his hand reaching for a handle in the wall that she had not noticed there before.

“Nothing spectacular,” he said as he pulled it. A door of the same texture and color as the monastery’s granite walls creaked and opened to reveal absolute darkness. “Wait for me, will you?” he added as he entered.

They fell silent. Yrith dared a look at Cain. His carelessness was gone. He was not looking at her, but at the entrance to the unknown place Keneel-La had disappeared to. She could see the thoughts behind his eyes, memories he feared to face. He moved a few steps toward her as if to shield her, still watching the doorway. They heard rustling from the inside, and then, dull, muffled clanking. Yrith paled. She knew that sound. She had almost forgotten it, that ominous ringing, resounding in her ears as she had lain starving on the ground, cuffed in the crimson gaol that was the Imperial tent. Leyna tensed by her side, and so, if nigh imperceptibly, did Cain.

The three of them watched as the Dragonborn emerged, holding an oblong bundle wrapped in tattered, colorless twill, his whole body covered in dust. Yrith stared at the heap in his arms, half frozen to the ground, half wishing to vanish on the spot. She did not want him to uncover it. But she knew he would a heartbeat before he let the cloth slide away. He was holding three daggers tucked in chipping leather-bound scabbards. Cain’s brows knit even tighter at the sight.

“What are you teaching them?” he repeated. Leyna put a trembling hand on his, but he shook her away.

Keneel-La smiled.

“What is your guess?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”

The Dragonborn’s smile grew wider. He lifted a dagger, offering it to Cain. “Will you face me?”

Yrith stared at him, incredulous, then shifted her gaze to the unsteady figure of Cain. It was she who now stood between them, spreading her arms to protect her friend, even if her own voice failed her, even if the ground felt uneven, even if her stomach churned. Not again, she would not allow it. “Cain’s still recovering!”

She could feel the Dunmer’s hand touch hers gently.

“It’s fine, Yrith. I can manage.”

“But you’re barely standing! Surely you can’t…”

“Yrith.” Keneel-La stepped closer, still smiling. She looked back at him, unable to recoil before his hand. His pat felt mocking, and she felt herself shrink against her will. “Do express some faith. What I am going to show you will not hurt the ashling. Quite the contrary. I want to you to see what a wounded person can do. May I?”

Cain did not wait for her answer. He circled her, taking the dagger from the Dragonborn’s hand, but his face remained taut. Still, for a split moment, he managed a soft smile, an attempt to soothe Yrith. She forced herself to look into his eyes.

“I won’t get hurt. Promise.”

He walked to an empty area between two rusty, frost-covered poles with bars that might have once been used for stretching ropes to hang washed clothes. The Dragonborn followed, gripping a dagger and casting the other one aside. There was silence. Yrith could feel Leyna’s held breath beside her, her golden eyes fixed firmly on the lizard. Yrith’s followed Cain, resting on his once wobbly legs, but they no longer shook. She had never seen him so tall, his face so determined. His hold on the dagger was all but steady, his feet spread slightly to provide balance, one tip an inch or two before the other. He waited, it seemed, for the Dragonborn to take action. Yrith’s nails dug into the palms of her hands.

She turned to the lizard to see him mirroring Cain’s stance, his fingers almost relaxed around the hilt of his dagger. Then he moved a single step to his right.

Cain did the same.

The Dragonborn smiled, moving again. And again, Cain followed. They were looking into each other’s eyes, unflinching, not sparing a glance to the daggers, and the surrounding world did not exist to them. And then, the Dragonborn moved, becoming a mere blur before Yrith’s eyes. Her mouth opened in a silent gasp.

The Dragonborn bolted toward Cain. Somewhere along the way, the dagger was drawn, its sheath hurled away. The blade, spectacularly burnished, gleamed in the sunlight. On the other side, Cain had drawn his own dagger, but his movements were slow, measured. Yrith did not know whether to feel frightened at his lack of speed, or relieved at his composure. The blade sang in the air, and she pressed both of her hands to her chest. She wanted to close her eyes and cover her ears. To forget that image. But she kept her eyes open against their will, glaring with what must have looked like madman’s face. Cain danced on the spot like a lady spurning a suitor.

A step to the side to dodge an assault, one backward to avoid another. The third, aiming for his shoulder, was too fast to sidestep. Yrith watched frozen to the ground, holding her own hand to prevent herself from sending magic to shield Cain. He merely turned in his waist to make the tiniest of movements, raising his dagger to parry. The steel rang, the sound of it echoing across the mountains.

Cain flicked his hand down, sending the menacing blade away from his body. He used the momentum to retreat again, making it plain that the speed in his legs could not match his opponent’s. Keneel-La followed, plunging himself forward, his dagger meeting Cain’s at his hip. Cain used the Dragonborn’s own strength to push himself backward, now managing a few steps before Keneel-La gained on him again. Panting, Cain swung himself back before the next attack, latching onto the rusty pillar and spinning around it like a yarn. He fended off another attack, his hand now trembling visibly. Yrith gasped as the Dragonborn’s blade flew at his face, but it stopped before making contact, frozen dead in the air. Cain’s face glistened with sweat, his chest heaving. He held tight to the pole, the hand with the dagger sinking to his side. Keneel-La nodded, withdrawing his blade.

“Impressive,” he said, falling back to retrieve his scabbard. “They have trained you well.”

“My brothers outstrip me,” Cain uttered quietly, his brows knit again.

“And do they truly outstrip you, or is it just your inability to use their own, rather questionable tactics?”

There was no reply to the Dragonborn’s question. Cain followed him silently, collecting his own scabbard and sheathing his dagger. His face was dark, solemn, as he offered the blade back to its owner. The Dragonborn took it, turning back to Yrith and Leyna.

“I take it you’re wondering why I challenged the ashling so,” he spoke, his smile still in place. “As I said, I wanted to show what a wounded person is capable of. I should also mention that I hardly went easy on him. Those few moments when he simply dodged and parried, those can be the time that separates you from a friend who will save your life. I can hardly expect you to leave this place fully trained. It takes years to master your own weapon, it takes tens of them to master your enemies. But I can teach you to stall and preserve yourselves.”

“Defense?” Cain wondered, his features noticeably calmer than moments before. “Is that all?”

Keneel-La put a hand on his shoulder, his jaws widening. “You need to have a little faith too, ashling,” he said kindly. “Yes, defense. Just what on Nirn did you expect me to teach them?”

Cain turned away abruptly. Yrith could swear she saw a tint of scarlet under the ebony of his skin.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

“If you say so. Yrith, would you please take this?”

Yrith flinched, not ready to be called. Her eyes fell on the blade, now safely tucked in its sheath. She looked up at him, then to the dagger again, as if expecting someone to tell her that this was a bad joke. She with a weapon? Even the sight of it disturbed her. The sound of its clanking even more so. She did not want to take it. But the Dragonborn waited, leaving all the words and action up to her until the silence became unbearable and the stares of Cain and Leyna crushed her from both sides. She took an uncertain step, letting the brunt of the blade sink into the palms of her hands. It was heavy. Much heavier than she had anticipated. And cold to the touch. While the Dragonborn could easily grip it by the scabbard, her hands seemed much too small for the hilt alone. She stared at him, frozen, still hearing the hoarse, drunk laughter from the Imperial camp, the rattling of whetstones, the brushing of steel boots against grass and their squelching in the mud, and the soft, measured gait that brought the smell of mint and flower bath…

What was wrong with her? It was just one dagger, a weapon to defend herself with. It lay in her hands, still, quiet. It would not hurt her. It would not hurt Cain or Leyna. She could control it now. She could decide what it would cut. Or what it wouldn’t.

She took a breath, forcing herself to focus on the lizard face before her. His wide, toothy jaws were moving. He was talking to her.

“… have you lift the dagger when I raise mine, like… are you listening, Yrith?”

She blinked, pushing the intrusive images out of her mind. “What? Oh… yes, lift the dagger?”

“Yes. With both hands. No, keep the scabbard on. Grip it on each side and lift it. See? Now, you have control. Holding it like this is not very convenient for actual fighting, but it can save your hide. This is just for demonstration,” Keneel-La drew his dagger again with a perfectly smooth gesture of his hand, “but when I come at you like this…”

He raised the blade. Its silhouette was sharp and distinct against the sun, dark, as if warping the light around it, ready to devour her soul. She stared at it, her mouth falling open on its own, and her dagger dropped in the snow with a crunchy thud. Her hand touched her neck, feeling where the ghost blade had ripped her skin. It burnt like white-hot iron, it stung like a shard of ice. Cold spread through her, the sun obscured by the image of cloudy skies. A dragon roared above her…

No.

“Yrith…”

Little Yrith…

No. She was in High Hrothgar now. It was safe. She was stronger now, she would hold up.

“Yrith…”

Abomination… you have no feelings… I have come to relieve you.

“Yrith, it’s…”

There are things far worse than death…

“No!” she yelled, panting, hardly noticing she was backing away in a reeling, chaotic motion. The image before her shifted with every heartbeat. The Dragonborn’s face in the sunlit courtyard, then a dark-golden-eyed leer amidst an idle battlefield. “No…”

“Yrith!”

There was movement, then stillness. In a flash of lucidity, she could see Keneel-La’s arm barring Cain’s way.

“Let me…”

“Don’t.”

“But she’s…”

“Give her space, Cain.” That was Leyna speaking now, her voice unnaturally soft, almost meek. “You can’t reach her there. You’ll only chain her.”

Chain her… no… breathe, Yrith, breathe…

She felt her legs stop, trembling, hardly supporting her weight. All that muscle she had built, and still, it could not hold her. It felt as if it was built of fresh snow, crumbling away at the touch of the wind, melting in the sun.

The sun…

She would concentrate on the sun. On its warmth. The light in her face, the tiny sparks in the snow, the icicles hanging from the monastery overhangs glimmering in all the colors of the rainbow as they caught its rays. The sun was her guide. There was no sun there… no warmth… but she could feel it here. In the words of her three companions, so distant, yet close. In their faces.

Her breath was heavy, her chest throbbing. She let her knees buckle under her, sliding to the ground.

“I… I…” She what? What was it she wanted to say? She wanted them to understand. But how? Understand what? Her fear? Weakness? She did not understand them herself. She could not put a name on them. No words came to her aid, no thoughts. She was afraid to speak, and she was afraid not to speak. She wanted them to come and touch her, and she wanted them gone. What should she do? She wrapped her arms around herself, the only solid presence in her vicinity. It was over. He would laugh at her, the Dragonborn would. She was hopeless, incapable, powerless. He had given her enough chances. Now he could see her for what she truly was.

She looked up at his slowly approaching figure. He was not laughing. No one was laughing.

He lowered himself into a squat by her side, searching her face, his eyes benign.

“So you still see it,” he said softly.

“I…” The words floundered before reaching her mouth, dissipating on their way. Her mind was empty, and if someone pointed at the snow and asked for its name, she could not give it. She shook her head helplessly. He put a hand on it, ruffling her hair. There was no dagger in it, or anywhere near him. She felt relief, like a gust of warm, spring breeze taking the chills away.

“These are words I want you to remember,” he continued, his hand sliding to her chin, turning her to face him entirely. “You’re not weak. You never were weak. You’re just hurt by someone who was very skilled at this craft. You can be rightfully mad at me. I’ve made you relive a terrible memory. But you should also keep in mind that you are not alone. And as such, you have the means to overcome this. Look.”

He stood and moved, and Cain and Leyna came into view, both sinking to her level. Yrith was astonished to see glistening lines trickle down Leyna’s slender face. The elf’s eyes roved, finding everything but Yrith, but she knew then this was the closest the two of them had ever been. The Dragonborn spoke true. She was not alone. He had tormented them all equally. The thought made her smile through her ache, and the next breath brought back a sliver of her strength. She nodded, extending her hands to both her friends, and they took them. She had debts to pay, words to speak. She would fall down again, quarrel with Leyna and run away from Cain. But still, they were here. They had always been here.

“I suppose so,” she said, her voice finally finding its way, even if it was bumpy and left her with a rasp. She stood up, gazing at the three daggers lying abandoned in the snow. The line on her neck burned, but she did not look away. Instead, she carved that image into her mind, along with the Dragonborn’s words. The path led forward, not back.

Notes:

Wow… I can’t express how amazing it feels to finally publish a chapter again! Unfortunately, work and covid are merciless. Looking at my other fellow writers, I can see that I am also not alone. So here is wishing you guys are all okay in these hard times. I hope this chapter helps brighten up your day.

Mirwen

Chapter 26: Descent from Home

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The light of the fire flickered upon Arngeir’s kneeling figure. He was still, sitting on his heels in a position Yrith would have assumed painful had she not known the old Greybeard chose it frequently. The man seemed to be deep in meditation, undisturbed by her presence. She made to leave when she heard him call her.

“Something on your mind, Zulvahzen?”

She froze, turning back. “Does everyone around here know me by this name now?” she asked.

He gave a light smile as he stood. “Word travels quickly around here. But you need not worry. It will not leave this mountain unless you will it yourself.”

She nodded, stepping down, onto the familiar map of cracks formed on the floor. She could hear the whispers coming from there, inviting her to extend her magic and listen. She ignored them this time, walking straight to him.

“I wanted to speak to you. I am…”

“Do not say it. I know what the Dragonborn told you. It was unnecessary. I too have had time to think.” He paused, casting a longing glance at the brass gate leading into the great vastness of the outer world. “I am old, and the world surely isn’t what it used to be. Before the Dragonborn, I have trained Ulfric.”

“Ulfric… Ulfric Stormcloak?”

He lowered his head. “That’s what he calls himself now, hmm? A fine young man, and a talented one too. He was all you could wish for an apprentice. Until his lust came. Until… the war came. I used to think that he brought the war here. That he misused the Way of the Voice to bring about death and destruction.”

Yrith closed her eyes. Before her stood Toddvar, Ulfric’s general. Toddvar, the man with a giant axe. Toddvar, the man who had been ready to let her die. Toddvar who had slain hundreds, maybe thousands, in the name of a foolish rebellion. She had never thought of him this way. Until she saw him with a blade on her throat, with his cold, dispassionate eyes, almost waiting for her to fall. He had not feared for her, nor had he tried to comfort her. What was war to this man? What was war to Ulfric, whom he served?

She opened her eyes again, setting them on Arngeir’s parchment-like skin. “Didn’t he?”

“Ulfric did not bring war. It is war that had taken Ulfric. It had taken everything from him, while he was here, studying, meditating, learning of peace. He did not stray from his path. He was torn away from it, blinded. I should have known. I should have set him free. But I tried to chain him, and this is what my efforts made him. A man who wages war with the whole world. A man who wages war with himself.

“Do not follow his example, Zulvahzen. You still have a choice.”

He looked tired, ancient. But the grey eyes in his wrinkled face shone with expectation. Hope, perhaps. Yrith returned his smile.

“I don’t like war. It took too much from me too, but…” she glanced over her shoulder, to where Cain and Leyna were. To where Keneel-La was. Then she thought of Winterhold, and the solitary cat figure bringing her life amidst the despair she had known in the Imperial camp. “I’ve known kindness.”

“Then remember it in the dark times. We will be watching. I wonder…” he trailed off, looking more through her, rather than at her, then shook his head. “I suppose the Dragonborn will be my last.”

Yrith raised a brow. “Hmm?”

“Nothing you should worry your young mind with,” he told her kindly. “Go now. He is waiting.”

Yrith turned to leave, but then she stopped, giving Arngeir one last inquisitive look. “May I just ask one thing?”

“Ask away, child.”

She opened her mouth, hesitant. Perhaps it was too bold of her, but then again, she was Zulvahzen. Arngeir himself had called her so. In the end, unpleasant truths were also truths.

“Why do you never use the Dragonborn’s name?”

He took a moment to consider her question. His eyes were distant, as if there was more than just a few paces of granite tiles separating him from her. When he spoke, his words were soft, a whisper lost in the fire’s crackle. “Names are a powerful tool. I suppose I never thought I had the right.”

There was comfort in his voice. Yrith’s smile widened. She did not need words to make him understand as she walked away.


The monastery seemed small in the distance, veiled by the pervading mist. It was no more than a hundred paces away, but they were filled with a feeling of finality, increasing with every inch of distance they covered.

Yrith turned back to the road ahead, and the two figures walking before her, loaded with heavy luggage on their backs and daggers by their waists, surely just as hard and cold as her own. They walked bent against the wind, cautious on their every step not to sink deep into a drift or slip on an icy surface. Only the Dragonborn at the front, whose rucksack was larger than any of the others, and whose dagger was accompanied by a sword which must have been many times as heavy, seemed to walk with ease, leading them onward in a steady pace.

Every new brush in their way, every new rock or a clump of snow Yrith stepped over made her want to look back. She could not. The large rucksack on her back hindered her sight. She suspected the Dragonborn to have chosen them on purpose. To have made Yrith, Cain and Leyna top them off with vast bedrolls, so that all the glances cast over their shoulders would stop at the rough canvas fabric and the reeled-up furs strapped tightly with thick belts.

Back there, a part of herself remained hanging in the granite corridors, slithering under the prayer rugs and wallowing in the plump duvet smelling of hay and goose. She had not realized when that smell had become the scent of home. Only now she knew that it had, and that she was going to carry a piece of it with herself wherever the road took her. The thought warmed her a little. She looked at the people before her. Perhaps, in spite of leaving, she was still taking her home with her.

They took a turn along a stone tablet engraved with a part of the Greybeards’ history. Soon, the monastery was lost to the sight, becoming no more than a memory. A crooked pine loomed above their heads, as if forming a gateway, a final threshold of High Hrothgar.

The path slithered down, around the mountain side, meandering its way in treacherous curves. Somewhere beneath the layers of snow were the infamous seven thousand steps. Yrith was only vaguely aware of their existence, wondering when they had last felt the touch of feet on their surface. Perhaps when the daedra still walked the surface of Nirn. Perhaps even before their time.

“This brings back memories,” Cain’s voice tore Yrith from her ruminations, making her look ahead. Down the slope, on a patch of levelled ground littered with broken tiles stood the ancient well. Somewhere deep inside, the two stones Leyna and Yrith had dropped on their training must have stayed jammed against its walls, frozen in their fall.

“This is where we raced,” Yrith said. It felt so long ago, as if it had been years since that day. Even Cain’s scars had become thin lines of rippled skin, and his gait had lost the limp it once had.

Next to Yrith, Leyna studied the well, tracing with her eyes the path she had run side by side with Yrith, their steps matching as if they had been made for each other.

“This is where I dragged you off a battle,” she commented quietly.

“And I suppose that a little past that grove, we’ll be the furthest away from High Hrothgar we’ve ever been since we arrived, won’t we?” Cain added.

Before them, Keneel-La turned to peek from behind his rucksack, his eyes wearing their usual merry spark. “Aren’t you three too young to brood in nostalgia? You know what they say. Look forward to the bright future and all.”

They all stared at him in silent assessment, letting the trees pass them. Snow had long covered traces from the battle, washing away the blood and burying the tracks. The bodies of the Imperials had been removed, as if they had never lain there. Yet, Yrith could smell all of it in the air, the echo of the Dragonborn’s Thu’um still ringing in her ears. When she looked at the path they walked, she felt far from prepared. All the training she had received, all the muscle she had built, how much would it serve in the face of an enemy? She did not know.

“It just feels… strange, leaving after all this time,” Cain muttered, mirroring her thoughts.

Leyna looked at him curiously. Her eyes slid over the ground, stopping at the stump where Keneel-La had lain his head. “Does it?” she asked.

“Doesn’t it?” he returned.

Leyna did not reply, turning her eyes to her feet. Yrith wondered what it was that Leyna saw in this place. What images passed before her, that made her so distant from Cain and herself. Perhaps all she could see were empty granite walls and the people that had chased the three of them up this mountain, and all she could feel was the ever-present cold and the wind in her face. But the same could have been said of Winterhold. One day, Yrith would like to see the place Leyna called home.


Yrith’s body was numb after the first night. She would have never guessed how much difference a solid set of walls and a roof could make. The bedroll had felt cold. The wind had seemed to enjoy blowing all sorts of things in her face, be it stray pines, dry leaves from who knows where or sprinklings of ice and snow which bit into her skin like a myriad of tiny white-hot needles. Just how the Dragonborn could take these things with such unwavering poise, she could not understand.

As she walked, trying to level her pace with Leyna before her, she wished for fire. She wished for Singird’s warm tea. She wished for her bed. She had thought herself used to Skyrim’s cold. She had been wrong.

They had been walking for what felt like days, but Yrith knew it had just been a few hours since she had forced her stiff body to bind up her bedroll and don her heavy rucksack. The greyness of the day seemed to wash time away, dissolving it into dull, uneventful passing. She stopped looking at the sky. There was no point in looking down into the ravine on their right either, as everything was drowned deep in the mist. Walking hurt as she fought the gravity of her own body, sinking a little lower with every step she took. She could feel every inch they had conquered the previous day in her legs. She searched the area for something, anything to distract herself, but aside from an occasional stone tablet, she found naught but rock and snow and shrubbery. Somewhere up the slope on her left, a stray animal seemed to shake the snow off a branch. Yrith tried to guess what it was. A squirrel, or a fox, perhaps. It gave her the strange feeling of being watched. There had been quiet for too long. Her mind was already playing tricks on her.

She scanned the perimeter as far as her rucksack allowed her. The wind had ceased for the moment, but the dead grasses around the edge of the grove above moved as if breathed upon. A shadow seemed to flash across the road ahead where it spread into a levelled clearing. Yrith rubbed her eyes, blaming her exhaustion, but at the same moment, Keneel-La spoke, his tone quiet and cautious.

“Ready your magic. We are surrounded.”

Yrith stared at his rucksack-covered back. Her eyes had not been fooling her then.

“Is it the Imperials?” she asked.

“No. Just wolves, a full pack. Keep your pace, we want to seem undisturbed.”

“Will they attack though?” Cain’s hand slid to the hilt of his dagger.

“I’m afraid they will, there’s something off about them. Leave that blade alone. You’ll need fire.”

Yrith raised her hands the same moment Cain and Leyna did. Their fingertips flared with tiny flames, dying their cheeks blood red. She felt the movement around waver for the slightest of moments, before footsteps rustled in the snow and grass all around. She gave an inaudible gasp.

“Keep walking, don’t fret,” Keneel-La said. His voice was soft and calm, his gait steady and fearless. Yrith stopped looking around, keeping her eyes on him. His silhouette, tall and collected, felt like a pillar to lean on. She could only hope she’d react quick enough to protect herself if the wolves decided to attack. They walked on. The moment seemed to stretch into infinity.

The patter around them became faster. Yrith could now hear quick and shallow breathing as a number of beasts circled them. Her eyes wandered up the glade on her right. She spotted one of them, its fur brownish grey, matted and covered in a mixture of snow and grime. It would look magnificent, were it not gaunt with apparent starvation. She stared at it, for a moment feeling almost sorry for its wretched state. A chill ran down her spine. This beast was desperate. It would know no limits, it would forget pain, if only it could get a single bite of whatever flesh there was to glean.

She felt the fire in her hand, the magic coursing through her fingertips. She was too scared to close her eyes and let it soothe her. Sword fights with the Dragonborn had taught her not to sacrifice the power of her sight. Instead, she only spread her magic, touching the beasts. She counted seven… no, eight of them, spread evenly around, close to the road. That meant two for each of them. She almost wished for them to attack. To do something, so that she would not have to wait. They were patient. Slowly but surely, the circle tightened around them.

The Dragonborn stopped at last. The rest of them followed, staring into the yellow eyes of two canines blocking their way. For a moment, everything was still. The breaths of the beasts and people alike, their figures, the wind. Then, Keneel-La drew his sword. The wolves leapt forward.

“Yrith, rear! Leyna right, Cain left!” Keneel-La’s voice carried over the growls and howls, just in time before they struck. They stood with their back to each other. Yrith fired three flaming balls in quick succession, managing a ward before the jaws could reach her. The wolves halted, then backed away, one of them attempting to circle her. It was stopped by Cain’s fire bolt, howling as its fur singed and smoldered. Leyna was holding up a ward of her own, lighting the grasses before her to create a wall of fire.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!” words echoed behind Yrith, followed by a wave of heat. Cries of the wolves mingled with the hum of a firestorm and gasps from Cain and Leyna. Yrith tried to look over her shoulder, but her rucksack obstructed her view and movement. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a wolf charge. She shot another ball of fire. It hit the animal square in the face. It yowled in pain, retreating into a snow drift. And lunged at her again, this time faster, frenzied, deadly. Yrith was too slow to react. Her body broke under the brunt of its weight. She could feel every stone step under the snow, every branch that had ever been buried there. For a while, she saw nothing but a myriad of lights and colors. Something tore the furs on her coat, leaving her cold and vulnerable.

“Yrith!”

Someone in the distance was calling her name. She struggled and wriggled out of reach, only to be buried under a load of flesh and fur. When her sight cleared, the breath of the beast suffocated her. It was close. So close to her throat. Like the dark blade…

The blade.

With all the strength she could muster, Yrith tore her dagger from its sheath, forcing it up. It plunged into the wolf’s belly with a sound freezing the blood in her veins. The fur tore, releasing its contents, filling the air with an acrid smell that made Yrith’s stomach turn. She sent her rucksack rolling away, following suit and leaving a crimson trail in the snow. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Cain firing flames over her body, his face twisted in blind rage.

Two more wolves circled them. Yrith let her magic flow, shooting more fire to scare the beasts, but they simply jumped aside, letting the bolts pass them. Protection… she needed protection. Her hand shook visibly as she buried it into the snow, raising it and hardening it into a barrier. Then, she sent her mind away, knowing she was taking a risk. She called. She prayed. She had to be quick.

The answer came immediately. One, two, three… four creatures heard her call. They rushed to her, across all Oblivion, dashing through Aetherius. The link whirled deep violet, then crackled until blazing figures sprung about her, each bolting in a different direction, taking on a different beast. The wolves cried. Yrith dared a look, watching them scurry with atronachs on their heels, some still burning, some hurt and limping.

A deep trench in the snow told her that one wolf had fallen over the edge of the ravine. Three furry corpses lay scattered across the road, the one Yrith had slain a short distance from her, with the dagger still jabbed in its body. Yrith’s eyes found the pile next to it. The pungent smell flooded her nostrils. She felt something surge inside her. Quickly as she could, she staggered to her feet, trudging to the side to empty herself into a thicket. Heavy feet shuffled behind her. She closed her eyes and waited. Her body shook and retched. She gave it all the time it needed, heedless of the people gathering around her. She was alive. They were alive. It was enough to know.

With her breath strangled and legs trembling, she turned to face the Dragonborn. His brows were knit with worry.

“Are you hurt, hatchling?”

She shook her head, unable to find the right word for an answer. All words seemed to dissipate from her mind. She was all too aware she was covered in grime and goo. All too aware they were staring at her, thinking uncomfortable truths, commenting in their thoughts on the way she had fought, on her display of weakness, and how she had allowed herself to be distracted. She stepped away, sinking into the snow. Keneel-La extended his hand to her.

“Don’t,” he said. “You’ll catch a chill. Come on, up you go, that’s it.”

“I’m… sorry…”

He sighed. “Why are you sorry again? You might have just saved our lives.”

“I thought…”

“Save it. I wouldn’t say that after single-handedly ridding us of four beasts at once, there’s anything to apologize for. Your magic really is something. I’ve never seen anything like that. Tell me, elflings, is summoning four atronachs at once common in your circles?”

Cain shook his head, keeping his eyes on Yrith. His face was unreadable, but he reached for Yrith instinctively, squeezing her forearm. If they had been alone, Yrith was sure he would have pulled her close. “Not to my knowledge,” he muttered.

“Or to mine,” Leyna seconded. She was watching the gutted beast and the icy shell Yrith had formed beside it, as if the sight brought her pleasure. Neither she nor Cain seemed impressed. Yrith found herself wishing for solitude.

She looked up as Keneel-La adjusted her coat, tying the loose threads on its torn edges as tightly as his rough hands allowed. Then, he lifted Yrith’s rucksack to examine it.

“Seems like this didn’t suffer as much damage as you did. You’ll have to endure a bit, I’m afraid. We don’t have any means to clean that off,” he waved to the wolf as he circled Yrith’s ice shield. “But this,” he pulled the dagger out with a squelching sound, making Yrith’s stomach knot again, “might come in handy.”

He wiped the blade in the snow, handing it to Yrith. She frowned at its dulled shine, summoning first fire, then water to clean it to perfection. Singird would have surely praised her for her work. The Dragonborn simply stared with his brows quirked in a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“You told us to keep our blades clean,” she shrugged as she sheathed it. He laughed.

“Points for unwavering focus and the ability to put it to practice. Now,” he turned to scan the scene, “I think we better go. We have left a very clear mark here, and a decent amount of magical residue as well. If someone was ever wondering when we were going to leave High Hrothgar, now they will know. They will also know we are exhausted. The sooner we leave the mountain the better.”

“How much further?” Cain asked, watching the abyss on their side. Yrith had stopped looking that way a long while ago. The infinite depth seemed to only grow darker as they went, offering no solace.

“Let’s see… I think that’s the third emblem down this bend. That means it’ll be dark when we reach Ivarstead if all goes well. If not, then maybe in the morning. From there, we can take multiple ways, so it will get harder to track us down.”

“Not if someone follows us from there,” Leyna muttered.

“True, but I’ve taken that into account.” His eyes glimmered merrily as he waved at them. “Now let’s be on our way.”

They nodded. Yrith bent down to put on her rucksack, finding it twice as heavy as it had used to be. With a grunt, she flung it over her back, nearly losing her balance. She caught Cain’s look and forced a grin on her face.

“Nothing like a real-life training,” she said, feeling the sting of pretense in her own words. Cain held out his hand, opening his mouth to speak, but she passed him, leveling her pace with Leyna. The Dragonborn seemed to move even faster than before, ploughing the way through the drifts with so much force he sent snow sprinkling in every direction. Or maybe it was simply an illusion, a figment of Yrith’s tired mind.


The town of Ivarstead flickered with scarce lights from its windows and torches carried by the guards. As Yrith’s foot left the last step, she turned back, watching the path upward with reverence. This was the highest mountain on Nirn. Now she had seen its top, as well as its foot. She had learned more about life up there, more about herself and her place in the world, than she had ever learned elsewhere. She owed it much.

Bowing her head, she turned back to the settlement ahead. They stepped on a bridge arching its way over a wide river. If there was any sound of life coming from the town, it was muffled by the hum of water rushing down the white-capped rapids until it fell over the edge of a small plateau, into unseen depths. Ivarstead stretched just past the river with a humble number of abodes to form its perimeter. Several houses on the outskirts seemed burnt down or torn apart, at least from what Yrith could tell by their faint silhouettes. The closest one, windowless and with only half its roof, still seemed inhabited by some unfortunate soul.

A guard stood on the other side of the bridge, his stance wide as he spotted the newcomers. Yrith tensed as they approached him, noticing the Imperial red on his uniform, but the man only raised his torch for a quick inspection. When his eyes rested on the Dragonborn, he relaxed, stepping aside to let them pass. As they reached him, he leaned forward, whispering in the lizard’s direction.

“Fellow has been asking for you. Some new commander or whatnot, all high and important, but he doesn’t seem to have made his way up like the rest of us did, and no one knows him ‘round these parts. Gotta be careful, ‘Neel, there’s something fishy going on.”

Keneel-La stopped, lowering his head and pretending to be shaking his rucksack to obedience. “I figured as much. Many thanks, Jorgen. You too. It may get rowdy tonight.”

The man nodded gravely, bowing low. He returned to his original position, gazing at the mountain across the river, but Yrith could notice the occasional glance he cast their way. She would have liked to ask what their little exchange meant, but perhaps the time was not right. By the looks of it, Cain and Leyna assumed the same, eyeing the Dragonborn with curiosity, yet keeping all the questions to themselves.

They proceeded past the deserted sawmill, into the heart of the town. Not a soul walked the streets, save for a handful of guards. Keneel-La led them in a swift pace, up to the largest building of them all. Despite that, Yrith would still call it humble at best. It gave her the impression of a ragged sage amid a crowd of beggars. Tall and old, but still just a plain shack with only its splintered wooden walls and bristled thatch roof for its protection. Before it stood a pole holding a sign as battered as the building itself, carrying marks of numerous repairs. Lit by a misshapen lantern, it swung in the wind ever so slightly, announcing to the visitors that they have just reached the Vilemyr Inn.

A short flight of stairs led to a wooden platform before the inn’s entrance. Keneel-La beckoned for them to follow, opening the door. A gust of warm air smelling of furs and firewood poured out, filling Yrith with a sliver of hope. She hurried up, trailing the Dragonborn inside.

The room they entered would best be described as cozy, and yet, that was not the word Yrith would have used. A fireplace sat in its middle, filling it with warmth that bordered hotness. A handful of tables were scattered at its sides in no orderly fashion, each holding a goat horn with a lit candle. At its far end, between two sets of doors leading elsewhere, stood a counter, strikingly in the middle of nowhere, the space behind it open from both sides. Propped against the counter was a balding man, wiping it with lazy gestures, apparently out of habit. Yrith could spot a thick blanched line where the cloth had repeatedly swept the wood. Aside from this man, only one other person occupied the inn. In the corner across from the counter sat a young wheat-haired bard, an old lute in her lap. She was plucking its strings, producing a series of deep, long-drawn growls which interrupted the otherwise eerie silence. When the door snapped shut behind their group, both the innkeeper and the bard raised their heads, staring at them as though they were a procession of apparitions.

“Well I’ll be damned,” the man said, wiping his forehead with the very cloth he had been using on his counter. “If it isn’t the great Dragonborn. And with company as well.”

Keneel-La dropped a curtsy, elegant despite the giant rucksack on his back and the steel boots on his feet. “Pleasure’s all mine, Wil.” He made to cross the room, and the rest followed.

“And here I thought I wouldn’t see a customer till the end of my days. So what will it be today? Firebrand whisky? Cyrodilic brandy? The finest Black-Briar Reserve, or perhaps a bit of Argonian ale from your homeland?”

The lizard shook his head. “Kind of you to ask, Wil, but we’re not here to indulge. I would ask for a bath and a bite of chow, and we’ll be on our way.”

“Nonsense,” the innkeeper waved his cloth, then stashed it inside the counter as he started coughing. “You look beat. Bad beat, my friend, and the young one here could use a good bit of rest.” His eyes found Yrith, studying every inch of her bloody coat, then landing on her face. If the wind had not whipped her face red already, she would have been flushing furiously, wishing again for a place to hide. She was again too aware of how she smelled and looked, averting her eyes.

“She needs a bath,” Keneel-La repeated, his voice hardening. Burying his hand in a pouch by his waist, he withdrew several coins, depositing them on the counter. “And a meal.” Out of the corner of her eye, Yrith could see the bard coming to attention at the sound of gold against wood, throwing a hungry look at its source.

The man sighed, scooping the coins into his pocket. “Right then. A bath and a meal. Lynly, if you could heat the water.”

The bard tore her eyes from his hand, nodding. “Right away, Wilhelm. Dragonborn, sir.” With a bow, she excused herself, scuttling into one of the doors behind the counter. The innkeeper scampered off to another one, leaving his guests to themselves.

They took a seat by the farthest table. Keneel-La sat with his back to the wall, having all the doors in clear view. Yrith took the closest chair, sinking into it as she tossed her rucksack aside. She could hear Cain asking questions, addressing the Dragonborn’s local nickname, but she could care less. Laying her head on the table, she let the exhaustion take her. How long had it been since they had last taken a break? She did not know. It felt like days instead of hours. Now, her mind was filled with colorless fog, comfortable in its shapeless state. She would not know the difference if Sithis himself had dragged her into the Void that instant.

She did not know how long she had spent just sitting there, mindless of everything around. A pat on her shoulder woke her from her semi-slumber. Vaguely, she could hear Keneel-La’s voice.

“And for some reason, humans and elves find my Saxhleel name too complicated. Curious, I never had a problem with the Khajiit. But at least I am the only Keneel-La around, not like every other Astrid here. Ah, good morning, hatchling.”

Yrith blinked, raising her head. All three of her companions were grinning, looking at the steaming bowls before them. Another one landed before Yrith. Wilhelm the innkeeper hurried off again. A new smell filled Yrith’s nostrils, one that she would at that moment describe as heavenly. Her bowl was filled with bronze-tinted soup, an egg resting in its middle, atop of cut carrots, onions and shreds of meat like a crown jewel. A feast she had not seen in months. Years by her feeling.

“Morning,” she nodded feebly, despite knowing it must have only been minutes since she had fallen into her daze. And then, before anyone responded, she grabbed the spoon laid by the plate, helping herself to the liquid bliss. She slurped, gobbled, devoured, feeling warmth fill her. If she died now, they would lay her to rest with the happiest of smiles she could ever conjure. But the soup poured life into her, restoring her energy like no magic on Nirn could. She closed her eyes, not listening, not wishing to sacrifice any of that feeling. It made her remember Daggerfall and her mother’s cooking. The smell of rosemary in their house. If Adine Ravencroft had still been alive, if Yrith could see her one more time, she would have jumped to embrace her right then and there. But now, she could only embrace her memory.

When Yrith finished her soup, there was not a single drop remaining in her bowl.

A door opened, revealing the bard. She was red in the face, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead.

“Your bath is ready,” she informed them, extending her hand. “This way. But you better hurry before the water gets cold. I can’t keep up the fire, wind is rising out there. It’ll be a cold night.”

Keneel-La put down his spoon, his jaws widening into a smile. “Thank you, Lynly. Ladies first.” He gestured to Yrith and Leyna. They nodded, lifting their rucksacks. Once more, Yrith staggered under the weight, wondering how she could have carried all of it so far. She hurried into the open room, struck by the hotness of the air the moment she crossed the threshold. Behind her, Leyna closed the door.

“Finally a decent temperature,” she commented as she let her rucksack slide off her back. “This reminds me of Alinor. I don’t suppose the water here is like the sea though.” She patted one of the two large wooden tubs filling most of the round room they had found themselves in. But as she made to unwind her shawl, she froze, her eyes turning up.

Yrith smiled. “No, I don’t suppo—”

She was silenced by Leyna’s hand, landing firmly on her mouth. Yrith made to remove it, but caught Leyna’s look. The elf shook her head, placing a finger on her lips. Then, she slowly pointed it up to where she was looking. Yrith followed the direction to find a small window high up on the wall, covered by a gently billowing curtain of colorless linen. And through the small gap between the glass an its frame, voices came in, faint, but still audible.

“… just till the captain arrives. Shouldn’t be long, I reckon.”

“That’s mad business I tell ya. Wilhelm can say all he wants, but the girl survived through Kynesgrove. It’ll take more than that to…”

“Shhh, not so loud! That’s why Wilhelm got them cooped up nice, he has. And…”

Yrith caught herself staring wide-eyed at the window when she felt a tug on her sleeve. Leyna had donned her rucksack again, pointing to the door. Yrith nodded silently, reaching for the handle. In a single breath, they gripped it and turned, nearly tripping on their way out. The sound of their feet echoed through the washroom. Yrith paled.

By his table, Keneel-La jumped up, catching their look. He did not need to ask. He did not need any signs. With a single gesture, he prompted Cain to follow, turning to the bard.

She was already on her feet, the lute she had been tuning just moments before forgotten on the table beside her.

“Brother…” she breathed. Keneel-La shook his head, raising his hand to silence her. Yrith looked from one to the other, trying to make sense of what was happening. The Dragonborn withdrew a purse from his pocket, tossing it over to the bard. She caught it with a more than practiced movement, weighing it in her hand.

“Give my regards to Wilhelm, will you?”

She stared at him for a split moment, then nodded with a grim look in her eyes.

“Eyes open,” she whispered.

“And walk with the shadows,” he finished, swinging his rucksack over his back. Then he turned to leave, beckoning the rest of them outside.

He found the door locked.

Cursing under his breath, he lifted one of his heavy boots, kicking with all his might. The door shook and chipped. A shower of dust landed on the floor.

“Let me,” Cain offered, not waiting for an answer. He fired several bolts of ice at the lock, covering it with a myriad of frosty fractals. The Dragonborn nodded his thanks, smashing it with the hilt of his sword. The mechanism gave way, breaking into three parts, two of which hung loosely by the third. Keneel-La kicked again. The door flew open.

They managed no more than a single step when the innkeeper appeared in their sight, a torch in his hand. His face widened at the sight of them, surprise battling fear.

“‘Neel,” he laughed, a touch of hysteria in his voice. “The bath…”

“Necessity calls,” Keneel-La said matter-of-factly, but his voice harbored an unspoken threat. “Take care, Wil.”

“Y-you… broke my door…”

“Wilhelm.” The Dragonborn’s voice took the innkeeper’s breath away. “You will let us pass.”

“You broke my door!” he yelled. His voice carried through the town and beyond. A flock of birds rose from a nearby tree, disturbed from their sleep.

Keneel-La’s face twisted, bearing nothing of the kindness Yrith knew from him. His eyes flared, his nostrils widened. His teeth shone white in the moonlight. He drew his sword, but did not swing it. Instead, he breathed a single word.

“FUS!”

The word thundered through the dark, its echo bouncing off the mountains like a bat that has lost its mind. The innkeeper flew away until he hit the pole of a fence on the other side of the road with a nasty crack. He cried out, but his voice came out as mere rasp. Before his body could hit the ground, an arrow flew from nowhere, piercing him to the wood. His eyes opened for the last time, bulging in disbelief.

“But I thought…”

The words took his life away. The arrow broke under his weight. He slid down, leaving a dark, glistening trail in its wake. The torch, its flame smothered by the Shout, fell from his hand, rolling away.

“And don’t call me ‘Neel,” the Dragonborn hissed, breaking into a run. On his way, he grabbed Yrith’s hand, gripping it so tight she lost all feeling in it. He pushed her forward, then let go, standing with his back to her. Cain and Leyna followed suit. They surrounded her, acting as her living shield. All around, people approached them, the Imperial dragon glinting on their chests. Weapons glistened in their hands, swords at the front, arrows nocked in bows just behind them.

“No!” Yrith yelled. “NO!”

She wanted out. She wanted to fight. They must have planned this, discussed this when she was not around, a way to protect her with their bodies. She saw both Leyna and Cain raise their wards, deflecting a wave of spells and arrows. A missile ricocheted from Cain’s barrier, landing on one of the roofs. The straw making its covering caught on fire. Somewhere amidst the flood of bodies, a voice rose above all the clamor.

“Don’t kill the girl! We want her alive!”

Yrith could not struggle. She could not distract Cain or Leyna. She could not get in the way of the Dragonborn, clashing blade against blade, stabbing, slicing, parrying. Even if she could, she saw no way through the mass of enemies. The only way would be to give herself away. To save her friends.

They knew. They had always known. She cussed aloud, knowing she was the only one to hear it.

Her hands flared green, then released a flash of light so bright everyone stopped their movements momentarily. The light enveloped her and the three figures around her, soaking into their skin, hardening it into a protective shell. Yrith gritted her teeth. If she could not fight, she would at least return the favor.

“OD AH VIING!” Keneel-La shouted. The men surrounding them backed away instinctively, waiting with their breaths held for whatever was to come. Yrith waited too. Archers froze with their arrows nocked, mages with their hands in the air. A moment of stillness passed.

Nothing happened.

Yrith felt the blood retreat from her face. Had the Dragonborn made a mistake? Had he confused the words? Had the Shout not worked?

The silence was broken by an outburst of clashes and yells. As if someone had set the time back into motion, everything moved again. Spells shot in every direction. Houses burned, their inhabitants making their escape into the woods, leaving their farms and animals behind.

Amidst the cacophony of screams, jangles, twangs and flares, Yrith could hear the thudding of hooves. Riders. Just like back then…

Come, little children…

Yrith tensed, a wave of cold surging in her. She turned it into resolve. No. Not this time. Not anymore.

They moved an inch forward. She could almost feel the Dragonborn’s will to break through. His blade hummed in the air, emitting crimson sparks of magic. He plunged it into the closest man in Imperial red, and the blade fed on his life like a hungry beast. The man screamed, dropping his own weapon and sinking to his knees. Cain still kept up his protection. So did Leyna.

Yrith searched with her mind again. She needed something stronger than a flame atronach. Something to stand up to a rider. Something to withstand a blow in the chest. Something solid.

She made her call. Oblivion answered.

Several figures burst into existence on their sides. They were dark like the Dunmer, with vermillion smeared all over their face, clad in jagged armor that seemed to be made of scorching magma. As they swung their blades, emitting the same fiery glow as the plates on their body, the men around them pulled back, dread reflected in their eyes. But they were not looking at the figures before them. Their eyes were turned upward, to the sky. A shadow seemed to block the stars. Then, an earsplitting roar shook the ground.

“Now!” the Dragonborn called. “FUS RO DAH!”

His breath blew the men before him away, clearing the road. A wooden bridge opened before them. In the rear lines, riders fell off their horses, some falling into the river with a wild splash, some stomped upon by their own steeds.

Keneel-La bolted out, his blade held up and ready to strike. Yrith, Cain and Leyna followed, maintaining their spells, hitting the startled soldiers like a hurricane. They cowered before them, groveling out of their reach or pressing themselves to the edges of the bridge. The four of them rushed through the aisle of bodies, onward, into the dark of the woods. As their feet touched the solid ground, it quaked under them with a resonating thud. The wood of the bridge cracked and gave way as something heavy landed upon it. The trees in their vicinity shed their remaining leaves. Yrith could not turn to look. She could only imagine the huge, winged beast taking their place, answering the Dragonborn’s call. His Shout had not failed after all.

“Keep running!” Keneel-La yelled after them. “Don’t stop now! And cease your spells!”

They ran, finally letting their magic rest. Yrith could hardly see the road before her in the dark of the night, putting full trust in the Dragonborn’s leadership. The canopy of branches above their heads obscured the sky. The wind rustled in the treetops, muffling all other sounds. Only scarcely a dragon roar drowned the wind, a steady reminder of the battle they had left behind.

The snow had given way to dirt and a layer of crunching leaves. At times, Yrith nearly tripped over protruding cobblestones, sparse as if the road under their feet had long been abandoned. Weariness was gaining on her again, making her breath strained and her eyelids heavy. She wondered how long they had been running. The warmth from her meal had long been exhausted. She fixed her eyes upon the silhouette ahead, clearing her mind of all thoughts but one. She had to keep going.


The eastern horizon was accentuated with a frill of red gold when the Dragonborn finally slowed. The world was cast in a greyish haze, revealing a number of shapes. The trees parted before them, revealing a set of structures. Pillars and angular arches were flocked around a massive watchtower crowned by what seemed to be a gilded astrolabe. It watched over the land, its stone slowly chipping away by the tooth of time. They stared at it, all but the Dragonborn awestruck with its imposing beauty. It must have been old as time itself.

“Is that…” Leyna breathed, her eyes wide as she traced the joints in the stone, forming lines so perfect that Singird’s neatly arranged books would pale in comparison.

Cain nodded before she finished the question. “Dwemer architecture,” he said.

“Correct,” the Dragonborn affirmed. “We have finally arrived.”

Yrith looked at him in question, not daring to hope again. Then, instinctively, she glanced back. There was no figure pursuing them. Nothing seemed to disturb the morning. The Dragonborn had slackened into a gentle walking pace, as if the battle they had left behind had never happened. She let out a breath.

“Arrived where?” she asked.

Keneel-La smiled. “You’ll see.”

Notes:

A little late, but Happy New Year!

Well, what a fun chapter to write. It is funny when you have to look up the stone tablets on the way to High Hrothgar, only to discard most of the content that features them anyway, or when you’re trying to calculate how long it will take from High Hrothgar to Ivarstead when you only know that the actual number of steps in the game is a little over 700 instead of the said 7000 and the height is 613 meters above the sea level, but the developers purposely made all the distances in the game many times shorter. :D I did in the end manage to estimate how high above Ivarstead the monastery is, but then I had to take into consideration that the road goes along the contour line and that they were carrying heavy luggage and struggled against the snow drifts. And they got some distractions as well. So I ended up with a little less than two days of traveling from the highest mountain on Nirn to the town at its foot (which is actually still standing on a plateau, so you can imagine that they progressed very slowly). Oh the writing struggles. But I do enjoy these little details.

Skyrim fans! Yes, you’re right, I killed a canon character. The audacity!

And whoever figured that I made Lynly a member of a certain guild, you also guessed right. In the end, given her personal history, I find it a perfect background for her. I do hope you enjoyed the tiny twists I made!

Also, you can guess where the Dragonborn took them, and you can probably argue with me that it makes no sense to go there. Well, it doesn’t, as long as I only stick to what you can find in the game. I didn’t, so there’s going to be a surprise for all of you.

With that, I will excuse myself. I wish everyone all the best in the upcoming year, and may it be better and brighter than the last one. Stay strong!

Mirwen

P.S. Work is rather overwhelming right now, so I’m not sure when the next chapter is going to come out. But you’re probably used to it already. :D

Chapter 27: Darkening Horizon

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The brazier came alight as they touched the solid ground. The lift in the Dwemer tower must have taken them hundreds of feet below. Yrith could hardly see the cavern ceiling, the reflections on it glittering like solitary stars. A sky of its own. A fitting image for a world marked by a tower with a golden astrolabe on its top.

They had spent the previous moments staring and gaping, admiring the craftsmanship of the old Dwemer. Centuries of constant refinement must have gone into those structures, with every detail as elaborate as a living organism. It was not the imposing grandiosity that struck Yrith with its magnificence. It was not the intricate patterns woven into the ancient stone either. It was not the gold springing out in veins through the marble walls and covering the carefully assembled tiles on the domes. None of them could measure up to the way the whole structure worked together. Like a mechanism where every piece had a designated role. Like a forest where every bee meant a healthy flower, where every tree gave shade from the heat and shelter to the birds who, in turn, rid them of pests. That was Bthalft.

The cavern was unlike any she had ever imagined. Light breeze blew through it from the waterfall on the opposite side from where Yrith and the rest of her group stood. Deep below, the lake glinted faintly, sending up a reflection of the scarce lighting. Over it stretched a series of narrow catwalks, arching from junction to junction, at times lit by a pale turquoise lamp, gentle to the eyes. Yrith could not fathom how they could still be working. The stone chipped. The engravings had been smoothed by the tooth of time. The lamps still glowed.

“Just how old is this place?” she breathed, almost afraid to step after the Dragonborn. He walked the nearest bridge, unconcerned, his steel boots barely making a sound.

“Word has it Ysgramor was still a babe when it was built.”

She would have expected his voice to carry through the cave, but it stayed, as if confined to the little space they occupied. If there was a person standing on the next bridge, Yrith doubted they could have heard them.

She counted in her head. Ysgramor. That meant…

“Ten generations then.”

She turned to see Leyna shrugging, seemingly unimpressed by Keneel-La’s words. She was unbuttoning her coat, letting the flood of white-gold hair loose about her. Now that Yrith thought about it, it was becoming warmer as they went, despite the water on all sides. The heat seemed to be coming from the direction toward which they were moving, as well as faint puffs of air being pressed and released again. She could not see that far ahead, but a vast, shapeless silhouette revealed the presence of another great structure.

“Don’t exaggerate,” Cain said. “Fifteen.”

“I’d say fifty,” the Dragonborn chuckled. Yrith caught his look and the merry spark in his eye. She snorted, puckering her lips.

“Speak for yourselves,” she muttered. They laughed.

So this structure had stood in the Merethic Era. It had stood thousands of years before she had been born, and yet for that age, it seemed almost untouched, as if time did not matter to it. Yrith felt small, and the vastness of the cave had nothing to do with it.

It must have taken them half an hour to cross the cave alone. By the time they stepped onto the dirt plaza spreading before them, all of them had unbuttoned their cloaks and removed their gloves. Even Keneel-La let go of his caution, loosening his cloak. Or so it seemed. Yrith wondered if they were safe now, but the lizard refrained from any comments.

Yrith’s fingers smeared the dried blood from her garments. She kept rubbing them against each other, casting wishful glances at the water that was too far to reach. It felt like ages since they had fought the battle with wolves, even if it had been less than a day’s turn. The memory brought back her exhaustion. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Cain and Leyna, trying to guess if their limbs ached as much as hers did, if they too fought for every breath. Secretly, she wished for them to complain. Neither of them did, but she could swear that out of the corner of her eye, she saw a trace of Cain’s old limp in his gait.

As they reached the middle of the plaza, Keneel-La stopped. Yrith raised her eyes from the ground, disturbed from her moment of misery, and, for the umpteenth time that morning, opened her mouth in awe. Before them stood… a wall. Perhaps. Or a line of towers squeezed so close together that they left no space in between. There were five of them, sculpted into the rock behind them, forming a castle of sorts. The two smallest ones on the edges bore domes of gold. The middle one held a two-wing gate made of gilded lattice. But Yrith’s attention was swayed by those on its sides, with niches hollowed out in their faces. Two piston-like mechanisms were embedded in them, each circled by a wheel with blades not unlike watermill paddles. They were still, unmoving, but Yrith doubted they were broken.

“Tonal resonators,” Keneel-La commented, pointing his finger at them. “Neat little things if you know how to work them.”

“And do you?” Leyna asked, not trying to conceal her interest anymore. Yrith was not surprised. They were work of art, even when she barely saw their shape. If she could ever see them up close, they would be a fine thing to study on long winter nights.

“They’re for controlling the gate, aren’t they?” Cain was straining his eyes to pierce the dark. “I saw something similar in one of the old temples in Morrowind.”

Keneel-La nodded. “Correct. If you make both wheels spin in the right direction at the right time, the gate opens. If you stop them, the gate closes. You can always tell when it is open by the sound they produce.”

“So how do you make them move?”

Upon her question, the Dragonborn turned to Yrith, his jaws stretching in a toothy smile. “Well, that’s simple. You shoot at them.”

“Just that?”

“Just that, if you know exactly where you want to hit. And if you can hit, of course. And since I have brought no bow, Cain, Yrith, I will need your assistance.”

“What do we do?”

“Hit the blades. The resonator on the right needs to be hit on its right side, the one on the left on its left, so that the front part of the wheels spins away from the gate. Hit hard, you will not crush them. They need to spin fast.”

Cain and Yrith exchanged a look, then stepped forward, each facing a resonator. Yrith tried to estimate the distance. The resonator was quite far, fading in the murk. But if she stepped closer, she would not have a clear shot of the blades, high as they were. This was not going to be an easy shot. But at least the target was unmoving.

“Ice would be best, wouldn’t it?” Cain said absently, squinting at his own resonator. His hands were already crackling with a spell.

“Ice,” Yrith nodded, following his example.

They took a moment for one final measurement and fired. Two bolts of ice shot from their hands, each aiming for its own resonator. Cain’s hit a split moment sooner than Yrith’s. The resonator began spinning, emitting a faint sound somewhere between a hum and a whistle. It was strangely soothing, the tone rising and falling ever so slightly, like an intense bird song. The other one joined it shortly, its own song joining in a billowing harmony. The sound made Yrith want to close her eyes. She rubbed them fiercely, refusing to let herself fall under the spell.

Light from the back of the niches revealed two lamps bursting into life as the blades rose, spinning so fast they were nearly invisible. The gate at the center of the wall split open with a loud screech. Cain grinned at Yrith. She answered with a feeble smile of her own.

“Good,” the Dragonborn said with appreciation. “Let’s go then.”

They followed him inside, finding themselves in a vast corridor with steeply descending stairs. More turquoise lamps illuminated the way, their light narrowed by thick pillars holding the ceiling. The air was much warmer here, heavy and damp. From below, Yrith could hear pumping, humming and hissing, nearly drowning the sound of their footsteps.

Two mechanisms were hidden just past the first two pillars, reminiscent of small metal models of Nirn and the Sun’s orbit around it. Nirn was pierced by a long axis with spheres on each side, as if there was more to it than a simple indicator of the Sun’s position. As Yrith stepped closer to one of them, she registered soft, almost inaudible ticking. This was not an astrolabe, as she had initially thought.

Yrith’s fingers itched with the desire to touch the construction. Tiny grooves on the Sun’s orbit and Nirn’s axis indicated a metering of sorts. There were more things she could tell from the positions of the Sun and Nirn and what she figured to be small models of Dominion Planets, Julianos and Arkay. Time, date, era. A clock and a calendar in one, and who knew what else. If she transferred the model on paper, it would be like one of the conjuration diagrams Singird had taught her about. One that could show very precisely the time and place she was at or identify another time and place in history or the future.

“Smitten?” Keneel-La commented with a smile. “Many people are. And most of those visiting the Dwemer ruins seem to think that these things actually do something. It seems the dwarves did a good job then.”

He bent down, his hand finding a small lever at the side of the mechanism. He pulled it.

Nothing happened.

“And see,” he walked over to the pillar next to it, toward the side facing the wall, “the real one is here.”

The color of the lever he pulled next matched the surrounding stone perfectly. Yrith wouldn’t have noticed it from where she stood. The bar sank. There was a clank, and the sound of resonators, still coming from the outside, weakened. The gate rang as it came into motion, until it snapped shut. Slowly, the tone from the outside faded, first into a quiver, then away, leaving nothing but the hum and sizzling from below. The Dragonborn clasped his hands.

“Well then,” he said, the flicker in his eyes reflecting the turquoise light around, “I suppose we’ve been on our feet long enough. Let’s go and find a place to rest.”

They all stared at him incredulously, as if the words had been spoken by a ghost, not truly there, untouchable. Cain and Leyna, brave and tireless until that moment, nearly staggered. Yrith could notice wrinkles and shadows on the skin under Leyna’s eyes, usually so fair and smooth. The limp in Cain’s gait was now quite obvious. So they too had stayed quiet. They too had endured. Yrith felt a sudden urge to close them in a tight embrace.

“So where are we going?” she rasped.

Keneel-La waved for them to follow. They did, their pace slackening into a slow, weary drag. As they descended the stairs, they reached a fork. The right way seemed to lead to a dead end, while the left one, flooding them with so much heat Yrith felt like stripping entirely, turned somewhere deep into the bowels of the complex. The Dragonborn stepped out with confidence, taking the right way.

“Here?” Leyna wondered.

He smiled at her. “I don’t much enjoy sleeping with steam pouring over my head, but feel free if you’d like it yourself.”

With a heave, Keneel-La pulled out one part of the gratings covering the pair of massive pipes beyond. It revealed a gap between the wall and the pipes, wide enough for two people walk side by side along them. He gestured for them to crawl in. They did. Yrith could feel moisture on her face, not from the sweat covering it in copious amounts, but water rising in thick clouds from the pipes. Relief washed over her as the Dragonborn put the lattice plate back in its place, motioning them forward.

Somewhere along their way, the pipes entered the wall and the stone gave way to plain dirt. There were no more lamps to light the path. Instead, the walls were littered with faintly glowing mushrooms, reminiscent of jellyfish, embedded in a tangle of roots. The heat had subsided to mild warmth. Yrith could now feel fresh air in her face, coming to them in tiny, nearly imperceptible wisps. She suppressed another urge to close her eyes and indulge in the sensation. They must be reaching their destination. Her feet reminded her that it was about high time.

Her assumption proved correct when the passage opened to a vast space. Keneel-La stopped a few paces from the entrance, spreading its arms.

“Welcome to the Starlight Inn,” he said, his jaws widening.

It was no inn, although Yrith found the name fitting. The place smelled of fresh moss, and muffled gurgling of water came from the distance, replacing the sound of engines and pistons from the Dwemer complex. The air now came in streams through a series of vents slithering their way somewhere up the wall on their right. No light came through them. Instead, the same glowing mushrooms they had met on their way were strewn across the walls, along with veins and chunks of stone glittering in blueish light. The same stone covered the ceiling.

“That’s…”

Yrith found herself gaping at the place, unable to find words to describe it. It was about everything she had wished for. Warm and fresh. Cozy, yet grand. Quiet, welcoming. Safe.

She looked at the Dragonborn, as if asking him if it was real. Sensing the question in her eyes, he gave a nod.

“When you say Bthalft, most people will only imagine old ruins. Few scholars, those who have studied the Dwemer long enough, will talk about the Aetherium Forge. That would be the lava lake we would have reached if we had turned right at the fork. But this complex is much older than the forge itself, and the passages can lead you far to the north if you know the way around. Perhaps in this day, I am the only one alive who knows of this place. Or, I have been, until now.” He smiled. Then, he cast a meaningful look at Yrith’s clothes. “The water makes the place rather livable. The channel over there takes it from the lake and connects to the Treva River. It is good for washing. Not so good for drinking, though. We will have to travel a bit to refill our waterskins. These, however,” he plucked one of the glowing mushrooms out of the wall, leaving a hollow of gently pulsing light, “are fully edible.”

Sinking his teeth into the glowing meat, he took a seat by a solitary rock in the middle of the cave. Yrith eyed the mushroom in his hand suspiciously, deciding against her better judgement that she’d had enough food for the day.

They set up camp, too tired to talk or eat. Yrith had dumped her cloak and all her outer garments to the side of the cave, leaving them fallow while she rinsed her body and dried it with the help of her magic. Everything could wait. The world could end for all she cared. She quickly slipped into her spare clothes, crawling her way in her bedroll. The furs smelled sweet and inviting. Warmth battled the cold in her feet, until it seized her, spreading through her body and pressing her eyes closed. After the endless hours of walking and fighting, of fear and exhaustion, the bedroll felt like a palace bed, the fabric of its canopy made of the night sky. She let it carry her away, mindless of the Dragonborn’s twinkling eyes, following her until she vanished from their sight, to Vaermina’s land.


“Pain… relieve me…”

The words were hushed. They came out as a ragged whisper, carried on the gentle currents of the wind. Yrith must have heard wrong. Surely it could not carry such words. It was warm and cozy here, and the touch of fur on her legs was so soothing. There was no pain. Surely she was just dreaming.

She turned, curling up, embracing the heat of her own body. But the words cut through it like a blade of ice.

“Take me… burn me…”

Why? This was a place of peace. She wanted to sleep. To let the warmth engulf her. To let the quiet gurgling of the water fill her ears. She covered them with her hands. Still, the voice fought its way through.

“To live is to suffer…”

She knew the voice. It had brought comfort to her so many times. It was not meant to be this painful. The cold did not belong there.

“… and suffering bring life…”

She sat up, as if burnt herself. Next to her, she could see the Dragonborn’s figure, bent over another. He touched its cheek, slapping it lightly.

“Wake up, ashling.”

“Cain!” Yrith gasped, struggling with her bedroll to scramble to her feet. After two failed attempts, she simply wriggled out, tripping over a clump of dirt as she hurried to Keneel-La’s side. Cain trembled in his sleep, his mouth moving hastily, muttering a litany of words that made Yrith’s hair stand. She took his hand, closing it in hers. Next to her, Leyna rubbed the sleep from her eyes, searching for the source of the commotion.

Keneel-La put his hands on Cain’s shoulders, giving him a shake. Cain let out a painful moan.

“No,” Yrith whispered frantically, shielding her friend with her body. What was it that she had done the last time?

She closed her eyes, letting her magic course through her fingertips, into his body. She filled him with warmth, with the same comfort he had once given her. With images of ruffled duvets and cozy hearth fires. With the taste of duck soup and eggs. With the smell of hay and goose. There was no place for pain. She gripped him tightly, burying one glowing hand in his fiery hair. She felt his breath, first shallow and quivery, then slowly gaining depth. His fingers moved ever so slightly, as if testing the air. Then, an arm closed around Yrith, returning her embrace. She let out a breath, making to draw distance. But he held her tight.

“Yrith,” he uttered weakly. “What… I…”

“Cain. Thank gods…”

His fingers found her spine, then her shoulder blade, as if trying to trace as many parts of her as they could. She felt so bare, as though there was no tunic between her and him.

“How do you always… what would I do without you?”

Fire burnt in her cheeks. They were watching, the Dragonborn and Leyna. Cain did not seem to care. He kept his arm in place, wrapped around her, pressing her to himself. She could not decide if she was more worried about crushing him or about her squeezed lungs.

“Cain,” she managed, “I can’t… we’re still…”

“Stay… just a moment… please…”

She closed her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder. He was still trembling, remnants of his nightmare still coursing through his body. She let him hold onto her, his fingers dance against her the small of her back. Somewhere from above, she heard voices.

“Leyna? Would you mind helping me with something?”

“Yes?”

“It’s just ‘round the corner, if you’d follow me.”

“Oh, certainly…”

There was quick shuffling, then footsteps. Then quiet, disturbed only by the gurgling of water and Cain’s breath brushing against Yrith’s ear. His hand went up her spine, then to her hair and face, yearning for a confirmation that she was still there. It touched her lips, then lingered, before sinking at last. Yrith moved away enough to gain space to draw breath, rubbing the nape of her neck.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was but a rasp. He lay there, staring at the starry ceiling with doleful eyes, his breath still too quick for Yrith’s liking. She waited for him to continue, but he said nothing, just looking, exhausted by living. She watched him with concern, half of her wishing to embrace him again, the other to create more distance.

“Nothing to be sorry for. I was… worried. Back in High Hrothgar, and now. Is the Demon…”

Cain shook his head. He sat up, shuddering. “He’s not controlling me, no. The thing in me is… much worse. It’s my own demon. Although I can’t deny I owe him for its existence. But the Lone Demon, him at least I could perhaps keep away. This thing, I can’t.”

Cain’s cloak lay just beside him. Yrith reached for it, slinging it around his trembling body. He nodded gratefully, pulling it close.

“I wish I could help,” she said to him quietly.

Cain laughed. The sound sent a chill under Yrith’s skin. “Help? You’re already helping so much. No one has ever been able to shut that voice down. No one but you.” He raised his head, piercing her with his crimson gaze. “You don’t even realize how amazing you are, Yrith.”

She shook her head. “It’s… just my magic…”

“It’s the way you use your magic,” he corrected. “If I had your power, I would create the biggest fireball in history and smear all those who’ve hurt me out of Nirn’s surface. Not you, no.”

“Maybe my life would be easier if I could just smear everything away with a fireball,” Yrith shrugged with a smile. He returned it.

“Maybe. But I’m not sure it would be happier.”

Her smile faded. “I suppose.”

“Say, Yrith.”

“Hmm?”

“Have you ever… felt like you were losing to yourself?”

The look Yrith gave him slowly turned from curious to appalled. Cain’s face was lost in a battle, and for a moment, his eyes seemed to glisten with moisture. Cold gripped her. This was not the face she was used to seeing. She lifted her hand to reach out to him, then pulled back again, lowering her head.

“All the time,” she whispered.

“But did you ever… there is…”

He buried his face in his hands. Slowly, she slid to his side, touching his back gently. He pulled her close, pressing himself against her, squeezing the air out of her. She waited, feeling the hotness of his breath, unsteady, shaking.

“I… I can’t do this, Yrith. Every time I feel pain, this… thing in me awakens. All I know at that moment is… the mantra. Our… my family’s… their cult’s… sacred mantra. It is like I forget that there is anything but pain. When I say I’m grateful for the pain, I… mean it. I mean it, dammit… because it’s the only thing that is real. I… wouldn’t exist without it…”

He shook his head, sprinkling tears over her tunic. Yrith let him in, wrapping her arms about him like the mother he’d never had, burying her hands in his fiery hair. He was so small now. Like that porcelain vase again, not the unyielding pillar she knew him to be. She had to become the pillar now. Her eyes burned, but she forced the tears back, fighting to keep her breath steady. She concealed it by tightening her grip.

“But you’ve made it this far,” she said, “almost entirely on your own. And now you’re not alone anymore.”

“But… that’s because of you.”

“Am I the only thing that makes you forget pain?”

A wave of cold washed over her chest as Cain drew back, letting air between them. His eyes met hers. He looked horrible, more so in the faint light of the cave. The skin around his eyes had turned ashen instead of ebony, the eyes like two wells of blood against the ghostly silver glint of his tears. But still, they had ceased falling. He studied her, as if staring into a whole new world.

“Duck soup obviously does,” he muttered.

Yrith smiled. “Anything else?”

“Twilight horizon, hearth fire’s warmth and the smell of fresh fungus.”

She looked at him in surprise, not expecting him to answer so readily. His eyes had brightened ever so slightly, kindling with a gentle spark. She considered his words in all their peculiarity.

“Fungus?” she asked.

He gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Have you ever been to a Telvanni dwelling?”

Ah, so that was the answer. She shook her head. Books spoke about the great cities of mushroom spires, breathing like one big, living organism, grown and nurtured by the highest members of the Great House Telvanni. She had never even seen a picture, let alone the real thing.

“This place reminds me of them. It feels alive, just like them. Their roots spread so far and deep that no amount of wind could take them down. Beneath the earth, they touch each other, share the soil and moisture, keep each other alive. You can feel their breath when you touch their walls. And their caps are so wide that when you open the door on a rainy day, you don’t ever need to fear water splashing in your face.” He sighed. “My family could never live in them. It is care that keeps those houses alive, and care they give in return.”

There was longing in his voice, in the way he stared into the starry field above them, in his fidgeting fingers. A story he was reliving.

“I believe you could,” Yrith said, finding her words to be as true as the unseen sun in the outer world.

“I wish I can one day. I wish…”

He fell quiet. Yrith waited by his side, watching his nigh invisible shadow as he searched for words. It shrunk as he stopped his shoulders, letting his head rest against his knees.

“My maid was a Telvanni. Apart from you, she was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

His words were not happy ones. They were not bright as they should be. Yrith felt a chill in her limbs. She rubbed her arms, wrapping herself in the furs of her bedroll.

“What happened to her?” she dared quietly.

He trembled slightly, but his voice was firm. “A few days after my initiation, I was whipped unconscious. I failed to memorize the mantra…” He paused, looking away. Then he took a breath, rubbing his temples. “When I came to, she was wiping the blood from my back. I still remember the stinging when her tears fell on my wounds… that was the last I ever saw of her. Was it her care for me that made my mother punish her? Or her reverence for Azura and not the Demon? I don’t know.”

Yrith found her fists clenched so tight it hurt. She found herself gritting her teeth at the thought of Cain’s own mother turning all of his life into an endless nightmare. Surely this was not about Azura. It was not about care. It was deeper, far beyond Yrith’s grasp. And his mother had failed. Cain was here, gentle, caring, warm. Would he be the same had he not met his maid? Or would he have turned into another abomination, one day forcing his own children to learn to seek suffering, whipping them unconscious for failing to do so?

Her stomach was turning. She forced her fingers to unclench, seeking his hand. He looked at her with uncertainty in his eyes.

“Yrith?”

She turned away, unable to give him an answer. He was here now. But his wounds were still open.

She clutched his hand tightly.

“Azura,” she whispered, just to have something to say.

Cain nodded. “The Prince of Twilight.”

Despite his pain, Yrith sensed a hint of warmth in his voice.

“So that’s why you like it.”

He gave a sad smile. “It’s amazing, how people tend to love those things they can never have, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you look at twilight, you can’t tell whether it’s day or night. You can’t tell its color because it’s always changing, and you can’t keep looking because it passes so quickly. You can call it the end, or the beginning, or the middle, and you’ll never be wrong. It is that moment in life when there is just about the right amount of everything. But just when you realize it, the sky grows dark and it is gone.”

Yrith closed her eyes. Eternal dusk. That was something not even her magic could do. But then, it already dwelled in Cain’s heart.

“Then you just have to wait for another one,” she said simply.

He raised his eyes to her, filled with disbelief. Slowly, a soft smile bloomed on his face.

“I guess… there are countless days in one’s life, aren’t there?”

She laughed. “There are. And the cloudy ones pass eventually.”

They fell silent, listening to the gentle gurgling of the water and the sound of pumping coming faintly from the distance. Cain watched her, his head tilted slightly to the side, his fiery hair falling into his face. He still wore his smile, not happy and not sad, simply filled with appreciation. His gaze was fixed on her, too intense, too long. Yrith looked away, knowing what he would say next.

“Your words are so beautiful,” he whispered into the quiet. “You’re beautiful.”

She flushed deep red, hoping for the faint light of the rocks and sponges to conceal it. Her hand drew back instinctively.

“C-Cain…”

Without a warning, he moved toward her. She backed away, scanning every inch of his body. The fingers that supported the brunt of his weight, the knees he was kneeling on, the trunk leaning slightly toward her. Despite that, he stopped a short distance from her, allowing her the space she craved. There was something in his eyes that made Yrith’s chest ache. Bliss with sorrow in equal amounts. A fading sun, a darkening horizon. The twilight.

“You always do this,” he said wistfully.

“This?”

“Draw distance.” He let out a sad laugh. “I suppose you’ve never seen me the same way I see you, have you?”

Yrith rested her head against the palms of her hands. She could not look him in the eye. She could not face his sincerity.

“I’m sorry, Cain…”

He touched her lightly.

“Why? Did you do anything wrong?”

Had she? She wondered what Cain would say if he’d ever learn she loved a teacher. That Singird Larkwing was the reason she could not return his feelings. Would he hate her? Would he hate him?

She sighed, still refusing to look at him.

“I don’t feel sorry for loving you,” he said softly. “I don’t know what goes on in your mind, and I will not force you into something you don’t want. But,” he reached for her, turning her to face him, “know that I’m not planning to give up this feeling just yet.”

He let go, caressing her cheek on his way. She stared at his smiling face, unable to move. Her chest was so tight she could not breathe. She could not name the feeling that overwhelmed her. Or perhaps it was a myriad of feelings, crushing her with their weight. If she could be half as brave in her confrontations, half as firm in her convictions as the man before her, she might perhaps feel like the strongest person on Nirn. And yet there was no pride in his eyes. Only the glint of unwavering affection.

Despite herself, she threw her arms around him. If there was nothing else she could give him, at least she would provide a place to belong.

Voices reached them from the distance. They drew apart.


Yrith woke up into the stone-lit darkness. Save for the humming stream and the beat of the Dwemer structure, the quiet was only broken with Cain and Leyna’s light breathing. Cain was finally sound asleep, after Leyna’s meticulous treatment of his aching limbs and Keneel-La’s equally meticulous scolding. Yrith smiled. The only times when the great Dragonborn became angry were the ones when another’s life was in danger.

Her eyes wandered to the lizard’s figure. He sat afar, his back propped against the wall just below the vent. He seemed to be asleep, but she knew those beady eyes would open at the first hint of movement. She wondered when he slept. He never asked them to keep watch, simply taking on that duty himself. As she stared at him, he opened an eye, looking directly at her.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked quietly. “I wouldn’t want another of you to nearly collapse on me.”

“Cain was hurt,” Yrith argued, gesturing to her very much healthy limbs. He shrugged.

“Exhaustion can be a treacherous mistress. More so than a wound.”

Yrith raised her brows. “What about you?”

“Let’s say I’ve had my share of fights after sleepless nights to know my limits.”

She frowned. Surely his limits could not be boundless, but there was hardly any point in debating with the Dragonborn. She sighed, falling back into the soft furs of her bedroll. The stones flickered above her head in an eternal night.

“I wonder what time it is up there,” she said.

“I’d say a little before noon.”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “How do you know?”

He took a moment, scanning the place, his eyes stopping at the entrance, then the passage along the stream, and finally the vent. He smiled at her mysteriously. “I have my ways.”

She closed her eyes, trying to feel the air. She could still smell the moss in it, along with a faint scent of something else. Up where the vent drew breath, flowers must have surrounded it. Indeed, this smelled like a bright day, too young to be ripe, too old to be morn. But from down here, it was almost impossible to remember the sunlight.

“You mentioned that the tunnels go all the way up north. Are we going to keep down here?”

“Miss the light already? Yes, that is the plan. It is safer. Hopefully, for those hunting us, we have vanished from the surface of Nirn.”

“So they will not find us?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t count on that. But it will take them a while. By that time, you might long be in Winterhold.”

“How far do the tunnels lead anyway?”

“There is no end to your curiosity, is there?” he smiled. Yrith imagined the merry flicker in his eyes, her gaze still on the cavern ceiling. “Far and wide, hatchling. Most people in Skyrim are not aware of the world hidden under their feet.”

“So how did you find it?”

Silence spread through the cave. Yrith waited for an answer, but none came. She turned her head to see the Dragonborn’s silhouette. She could not see well the expression in his face, and even if she could, she doubted she would be able to read it. He sat still, looking away from her, into the remote, mushroom-covered wall. She shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry if I…”

Her voice trailed off as he gave a light snort. “I should have seen the question coming, eh? I would ask too in your place…” He sighed. “The memory is not easy for me. The first time I was sent to Blackreach was when I searched, ironically, for an Elder Scroll. The Elder Scroll. The one that would take me back to the time of The Tongues and let me learn a Shout to take a dragon down from the sky.” He shuddered as he spoke. “The Elder Scrolls… they hold dangerous knowledge.”

“That’s why… you did not want to speak about the library?”

He took a moment. The breaths of Cain and Leyna still surged and faded, like an unseen clock, measuring time in its own subtle way.

“The library… no, that is something different. But equally as frightening…” He paused to draw breath, adjusting the sword, still attached to his hip. “The library is a path to finding the Elder Scroll, but I don’t believe it is kept there. It would be too much for the mind.

“When I say library, I don’t mean rows upon rows of neatly arranged books you can browse to your heart’s content. Imagine instead that the books are transformed into fragments of reality, each of which pushes you in a different direction. That your mind is constantly attacked, that you never know where you step until you do. And at the end of your path waits a giant mirror. It will ask who you are. If you answer wrong, it will swallow you. If you answer right, it will offer a price. If you are willing to pay it, it may or may not point you in the right direction.”

He shook his head. She waited, but he was silent.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“The library is like the dreams your Demon shows you. A reflection of a remote reality. Many realities that your mind has to hold together. But unlike the Demon, the library gives you a choice. You can pick a path to follow. Every choice you make is weighed and assessed. And if your senses cannot hold while you’re inside… I don’t even want to imagine the consequences.”

Yrith frowned. “Does that mean that the place itself… doesn’t exist?”

“Oh it exists. It simply borders our reality.”

“But why? Why would someone want to go to such length?”

Keneel-La gave a mirthless laugh. “Why wouldn’t they? What better way to guard knowledge than to make the minds of those who seek it act against them? You can hardly fight your own thoughts. The wiser you are, the more dangerous that place is for you. Intelligence is punished. Logic is punished. Experience is also punished. That place will attack everything you have taken for granted. And the less intelligent you are, the less danger you are to it. Quite ingenious.”

“Then, is there a way to enter it safely?”

“None. You won’t find any magic portals that will keep your mind safe here on Nirn, or any shortcuts through the place. The only way is for your mind to be hard as steel and for your will to be unwavering.”

“So where is it? How does one enter?”

Yrith felt foolish for asking such a question. Was it even a question of where when it was her mind that had to enter? How would she find her way? Like her mind entered the Deadlands to search for her atronachs, spreading far and wide across Oblivion? That would be…

She gasped. Oblivion. Of course. That was what made the Dragonborn tremble. What else? A great library, laid at the boundary of realities. And not just realities. It lay at the edge of Time itself. How many times had she read about it? Even among scholars, it was a myth. Ordinary people hardly ever learned of its existence. But the Dragonborn had visited it. It had to exist then.

“Apocrypha,” she whispered.

Even from the distance, in the darkness of the cave, it seemed to Yrith she saw the Dragonborn blink and wince. When he spoke, his voice was lower, deeper, hoarser.

“You catch on fast. I should really watch my words before you,” he laughed glumly. “Indeed. The realm of Hermaeus Mora. Perhaps the most ancient part of Oblivion.” He sighed. “Do not think too badly of me for this.”

“But…” The cogs in Yrith’s head seemed to move slowly, as if time had rusted them. Apocrypha, the hidden daedric library. It was different from the Deadlands whose connection with Nirn could still be felt at the places where Oblivion gates had spawned two centuries before. Different from Infernace and Levinace, frequent targets of Nirn’s conjurers. Different from the Quagmire whose master so eagerly invited all the lost dreamers into her home. Apocrypha was a legend. It was meant to be a legend. No one was meant to set foot there. The Dragonborn had. How?

Only if Hermaeus Mora himself had willed it, Yrith answered herself in her thoughts.

She stared at Keneel-La, unsure whether she should be amazed or afraid.

“How… what… what are you?”

“Now, that’s a question I could answer with one word or spend eternity trying to explain,” he smiled. “I suppose you are asking about my affinity to Herma-Mora which, keen as you are, you likely figured. Let me just say this. I am no supporter of the daedra. I just happen to find myself in the wrong place at the wrong time ever so often. The daedra are drawn to power like flies to a piece of dung, so to speak. No matter their motives, they cannot resist it.

“Meridia is kind in her own way, waging an eternal battle against the undead. Azura does not take sides and her reign is just. Sanguine likes a good laugh and a good feast. Boethiah and Mephala both enjoy intrigues and treachery. Nocturnal is fickle, blessing or cursing you on a whim. Mehrunes Dagon and Molag Bal are plain vicious, each taking delight in different kinds of torment. Hermaeus Mora is… simply overwhelming. But no matter their manifestations, they all share the lust for power. They would do anything to obtain it. I have power. It was given to me by the gods, and so the daedra are drawn to me. You also have power. One that is a great mystery as far as I could understand. I can imagine that once Hermaeus Mora learns of your existence, he will be very interested in you. It worries me. He is ruthless. He will appeal to you, but once you are of no use to him, he won’t go far for a kill. And if a daedra decides that you die, you die.”

“But you’re alive.”

He laughed cheerlessly. “My power is unobtainable by the daedra. They can only have it by exacting control over me. It frustrates them, of course, but they can’t learn it, and they can’t get rid of the dragon blood by killing a Dragonborn. Another may be born, to anyone, at any place on Nirn. Controlling me is their only option. Your case may be different.”

“But it’s the only option I have, isn’t it? The only way to find an Elder Scroll?”

“The only one I know of. I knew a scholar who specialized in them. He died by Mora’s hand. He had a… particularly keen sense for detecting them. I do believe he has retained this ability, even in his death.”

“So he… his… spirit is in Apocrypha?”

“I believe so. The daedra keep the ones whose lives they take. It is a good trade for them.”

“Why did Herma-Mora kill him?”

“Why indeed? Perhaps because he was of no use anymore. Perhaps it was a personal whim of Mora’s. Or perhaps because he set his eyes on a different target.” A trace of sadness crept into Keneel-La’s tone. He let out another quiet sigh, his finger tracing his forehead. His steel-clad feet ploughed the dirt. “I think gro-Shub is still secretly blaming me for his death.”

Yrith lifted herself on her elbows, trying to take in all of the Dragonborn’s figure. “Urag is? Did he know that man?”

“Know? Soul mates is the closest word I can think of when I remember them. Urag gro-Shub adored that man’s work, transcribed all of it, guarded it with his life. He made copies of course, but I hear people barely ever touch them. Even before Herma-Mora had tampered with his mind, Septimus Signus was all but insane.”

Yrith’s arms gave way under her. Her face buried into the furs of her bedroll before she raised it again, eyes wide. Had the Arch-Mage, Keneel-La’s sister, known all along where the path would lead Yrith? Had she just played with her that day when she returned the book to her, with the last pages unwritten? With the single line scribbled there instead?

“My master has come for me at last,” she breathed.

“Excuse me?”

“Septimus Signus… I read a book from him. His… his last one, I think. It was unfinished.”

“You did? Did you understand it?”

She stared at him. He did not understand. Of course he didn’t. There was no way he could understand how much that book meant to her. She would meet him. Perhaps she could obtain the last pages after all. Perhaps she could use them. Then she would have her answers. She could change things. The things she could do…

She rolled over to her back, staring at the sky of rocks above, hardly realizing she was grinning. She had to reach that place. Now, her destination was clear.

“I think I did,” she said.

Notes:

So, I have tweaked Bthalft to contain a passage to Blackreach. I always imagined that the Dwemer actually had a great underground city underneath Skyrim, one that would connect all of those ruins, and not just the ones in the north. So there.

I guess my inspiration was the Osaka railway station. For those who have never been there, it is truly like a whole another city under the surface Osaka. If you ever visit Japan, go there. It is quite neat!

Lastly, I would like to dedicate this chapter to Christopher Plummer, the voice of Arngeir (and also the amazing actor of Captain von Trapp from The Sound of Music!), who passed away yesterday. May his soul find peace.

Sky above, voice within.

Chapter 28: The Path of the Blind

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Footsteps echoed in the quiet of the endless passages. Yrith did not know how long they had been walking. She would have never guessed how soon she would lose track of time without seeing the sky. It might have been hours. It might have been days. Her body, slowly gaining on exhaustion, was the only measure she had.

They walked slowly, unhurriedly. The stars of the cave had long flickered away, the only light to guide them being a small glowing stone the Dragonborn had taken from there to carry around. Yrith did not even know how deep they were. The path seemed to rise and fall in waves, occasionally serving them a thick root or large boulder to obstruct their passage. At times, she could swear she heard footsteps other than their own. They were strangely heavy, as if their owners walked blind and dizzy, always treading with the whole of their soles, letting the earth beneath their feet feel all of their weight. Yrith wondered if the darkness had dulled her senses. Perhaps she was hearing things. But one look at Cain and Leyna told her they too were wary, roving with their eyes from one wall of stone and dirt to another. The Dragonborn had told them to stay on their guard. Yrith wondered what lurked in these dark tunnels. He had never elaborated.

She wished to spread her magic, but he had forbidden her from doing so. Magic left traces. If there was a way to throw off any potential pursuers, he would use it. Yrith understood. But she felt bare. Vulnerable. Blind.

They walked on in silence. Yrith would have felt more secure if someone talked. Nobody dared. The Dragonborn led them through tunnel after tunnel, crossing forks and choosing their way seemingly by instinct. She tried to guess which way he would take to occupy her mind, but there were no signs that would tell her the direction. There were no landmarks, nothing that would catch her attention. Only the air changed, sometimes bringing the fresh smell from outside, sometimes weighing on them with a stale stench of mold and dirt. But when Yrith thought her legs would give way under her, the Dragonborn took a sharp turn to the right, into a tunnel that soon opened into a marble corridor with the familiar pumping and hissing coming from the distance.

“Careful now,” Keneel-La’s voice carried through the vast space, thundering after the long period of silence, “so you don’t trigger a trap. See that groove in the middle?” He pointed a finger toward a long furrow splitting the corridor in two narrow parts. “There’s a screw inside. Walk close enough and you’ll be shredded. The Dwemer were obsessed with security, so do be careful. Chances are there are still some mechanisms I haven’t quite discovered. Or understood. Perhaps now would be the time to make an exception and use your magic, Yrith. I take it you can see what lies hidden beneath the surface?”

Yrith gave a slow nod. “I can try,” she said.

She unleashed the power shut deep inside her. It sprang forward, delving deep into the Dwemer structure. Yrith could touch the screw in the ground and the sharp blades attached to it. It led to a mechanism much broader than the corridor they stood in. Broader than anything she could ever imagine.

She could not help but explore further, cog after cog, pipe after pipe, an infinite web of tubes and wires, some parts hot, some ice-cold, crisscrossing a wide area underneath them. Yrith could not reach the end, but after a while, she noticed a rhythm. The whole place pulsed with life, like a heartbeat. Following it, she found a great joint, warm where a giant round stone formed its core. It was plunged deep down into a water canal where it turned, trapped in a wired cage. Cold water poured in, taking heat from the mechanism as it passed on to spread through the plumbing.

“Yrith?”

She raised her head. The Dragonborn watched her with raised brows. He must have called her a few times already, waiting for an answer. She flushed.

“I…”

“Have you found something?”

“I’ve… found the core. It’s like a… giant soul gem. Only it’s…”

“Way more powerful,” the lizard affirmed. “I’d say that’s a sigil stone. Don’t even think of shutting this place down. I’ve no doubt you could with all that power you have, but the Dwemer structures are not designed to last without their source. Do it, and the whole complex might collapse. Let’s simply avoid the traps, shall we?”

Yrith nodded, limiting the reach of her magic to their proximity. Past the groove with a screw, she found several tripwires. She snorted.

“How cheap,” she said, sending a single spark of her magicka to cut the wires. A pair of giant pincers shot from the ceiling in the distance before they retreated back and hid behind the gilded plates covering the ceiling’s surface.

“Cheap, but effective,” Keneel-La shrugged. “Anything else in the way?”

Yrith shook her head. She found a lever to turn off the screw and pulled it. The Dragonborn nodded in appreciation.

“Let’s go then.”

They kept to the sides, avoiding the path of the screw just to be certain. Across the corridor, Cain frowned, shooting a glance at the lizard before him. He spoke quietly, but the walls carried his voice well. Yrith could still hear them clearly.

“Say, Keneel-La.”

“Hmm?”

“You spoke about a sigil stone. Did you mean…”

“The thing that can serve as a link between Nirn and Oblivion? Yes, that’s exactly what I meant. I’m afraid the Dwemer were rather indiscriminate in choosing their technology sources. Anything counts as long as it gives power. Then again, they are not around anymore. I can only assume that one day, this lust for progress simply didn’t end that well for them.”

Cain’s frown deepened as he mouthed something Yrith could not make out. They spoke no more, but the Dunmer’s face remained somber. Yrith could only guess his thoughts.

“He’s not very fond of the Daedra, is he?” Leyna muttered by her side.

Yrith raised her brows. “Who would be?”

“That’s a question, isn’t it?” the elf shrugged, half smiling. “As a Dunmer, I’d expect Cain to be fonder of them than you and the Dragonborn.”

Yrith froze in her tracks, staring into the innocent-looking face of Leyna. “You heard us talking?”

“Anyone could have heard you.”

“But… did Cain…?”

Yrith’s eyes wandered to the Dunmer, now watching his back as he followed the Dragonborn on to the top of the slanting corridor. Neither of them seemed to notice her or Leyna, keeping up their pace.

“No idea. But knowing him, he would have let you know right then and there. Let’s go, shall we?”

Tugging at Yrith’s sleeve, Leyna set to walking again. Yrith kept close, her mind running in wild circles.

“But you won’t tell him, will you?”

Leyna let out a quiet snort. “It’s not my place to interfere. But eventually, you will have to tell him yourself. He would give his life for you, you know. He’ll lose his mind if he ever learns you’ve decided to set off for a daedric realm on your own.”

There was longing in her voice, but also the tiniest sliver of warmth Yrith had never heard there before. She watched Leyna’s rucksack bouncing before her, its movement just as graceful as its owner. Leyna led the way, not looking back, putting one foot before another in an almost scripted movement.

“Leyna, are you…” Yrith hesitated. Before her, Leyna tossed her head an inch.

“Yes?”

“Are you in love with Cain?”

Leyna’s pace slackened for a split moment before she gained on speed again, her drawn breath audible over the constant pumping of the Dwemer mechanisms. It sounded almost as a laugh.

“Where did that come from?” she wondered.

“I was just… it’s nothing…”

“That idea never crossed my mind. Not even when the two of us were pretending to be courting. No, it was always strictly political.”

Yrith frowned. She did not like the sound of the word political. Not when it came to Cain and Leyna.

“But I envy him,” Leyna added in a quiet voice. Yrith stared at her.

“How do you…”

“I envy how sincere his words are when he speaks to you. How he walks forward, never looking back, never feeling sorry for himself. How strong he looks when he acknowledges you. How he was able to turn from that snobbish boy who tried to freeze you with a frostbite spell into your closest friend. I suppose,” she gave a soft laugh, “I considered it a personal achievement to win your partnership that day when he and Qassir Tahlrah fought over you. It may have meant more to me than it should have.”

Yrith snorted. “Was I a prize to be won?”

Leyna turned around, pinning her golden eyes into Yrith’s silver ones. She watched her for a brief moment with her head tilted to the side and smiled.

“You still are,” she said with a light shrug, hurrying to join Cain and Keneel-La waiting for them by the broken tripwire. Yrith opened her mouth to speak, but there was no chance Leyna would hear her words while the others wouldn’t. She closed it again, pondering the difference between a prize and a friend. Was she a prize for Cain too?

She watched the Dunmer as she approached them. He looked back, brows rising slightly with a hint of curiosity. There was no lust in his eyes, no competitiveness. They were ever so gentle. No, he was not like that. He had never won her. It was something else that had brought him close.

“Everything in order?” Keneel-La’s voice cut through her thoughts.

She nodded absently, following Leyna to his side.

“Can you examine the path ahead? There should be a pool a short way from the gallery. The stream that flows into it is clean enough to drink from. I’d say we stay there for a while.”

Yrith nodded again, letting her magic out. Before them was a path blocked by another of the Dwemer gilded lattice gates, but aside from the lock, there seemed to be no obstacles ahead. The corridor opened into a vast octagonal area encircled by a wall with a number of broken stone and metal benches on top. She imagined it might have once been an arena. In each corner of the gallery, there was a ballista, but none held any arrows and the launching mechanisms seemed to be glued with a strange, semi-liquid matter. The same matter covered most of the place, forming a trail that led to the remote corner of the gallery. Before the entrance to the next corridor, Yrith found another tripwire. But this time, it was not made of metal. It was a rope made of thread. Spider thread. Yrith frowned.

“What is it?” the Dragonborn asked, watching her intently.

“There’s…” Yrith trailed off as she examined the place. The trap the rope connected to was made of the same matter as the glue in the ballistae, hardened into a series of claw-like hooks like steel-hard resin. And just past the entrance stood… something. Someone. She could not sense its… her thoughts or feelings. All the creature’s emotions were driven away by caution, its muscles tensed, ready to send her leaping at whoever would dare invade her territory. She was nigh naked, holding what must have been a staff made from the same resin-like substance. There was magic in it, warped, twisted the same as its owner. Yrith paled. It was… an elf. But not at all.

“What is that thing?” she whispered, forgetting the presence of her three companions.

“What did you find?” the Dragonborn insisted.

“A… person… I don’t know… it’s… it’s blind. Senseless…”

The lizard let out a breath, straightening his back, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword.

“That doesn’t bode well. This spot should have been detached from the Falmer territories. But if they found it, we better make our leave before we’re noticed.”

“The Falmer?!”

Both Cain and Leyna were staring at him with their eyes wide, incredulous. Yrith froze. No, she couldn’t be…

She touched the creature again, gently, exploring her mind. There was nothing. No words. No images. No thoughts. Only darkness and fear. It had never known care and affection, it had never tasted a proper meal, never felt warmth. It only knew to survive.

“B-but… they’re… the Snow Elves…”

“Yrith.” The Dragonborn seized her chin, turning her to face him. “Forget your compassion. The Snow Elves are gone. This is what they have become.”

“But…”

“The Dragonborn is right,” Leyna said quietly. Yrith could see a slight shudder in her posture. “The Falmer are beyond saving, the Dwemer drove them to madness. Let’s just…”

“What was that?”

Now, Cain stood on his guard, watching the way they had come. Yrith could hear it too, the thudding of heels and tapping of toes on the stone. The strange, heavy gait they had heard back in the tunnels. Now she knew who it belonged to.

“Too late, it seems,” Keneel-La hissed. “Whatever happens, stay by my side. Don’t get separated, or else we’re never going to find each other. Use your magic or whatever means necessary to fight back. The Falmer are different from the people up on the surface. They don’t think. They don’t fear pain. They won’t show mercy, they won’t hold back. And they will attack in numbers. Go for kills, don’t risk anything.”

Yrith shuddered as she let the magic engulf her hands. No matter what the Dragonborn said, the Falmer were still people. Was she supposed to kill people now? People who, above all else, were lost in eternal darkness with nothing but their lives?

A figure waddled into the corridor. Its skin was ashen grey and mostly bare, its ribs drawing a set of lines over its chest, its belly falling inward. All the mass of the creature was concentrated in the thin muscles along its arms and legs. As it raised its skull-like face, Yrith could see reddish circles where its eyes were supposed to be. Inadvertently, she took a step back, fighting against the urge to cover her mouth.

“Oh gods…”

At her side, Leyna mirrored her own expression. She was staring at the creature with horror in her eyes, unmoving. Yrith forced herself to look back at the miserable thing before them. It broke into a run. Behind it, two other emerged, clad in some sort of giant bug shell armor.

Yrith did not waste any time. Her fingertips flared, her mind calling to Oblivion. The summoned atronachs, two of fire, two of crackling lightning and swirling rocks, created a wall separating Yrith’s group from the Falmer. She watched them clash with a sick fascination, unable to tear her eyes from the sight. Face to face with the Falmer, the mindless atronachs seemed almost intelligent, calculating their moves against the raw, thoughtless fierceness. Yrith held her breath and…

“Yrith!”

A cry resounded through the corridor before she was yanked to the floor. An arrow brushed her hair. She gaped at Cain who was holding her against his chest, then at Leyna looming above them as she managed to produce a ward just in time to stop another arrow.

“Blast! They’re closing in from both sides!” Keneel-La managed before charging forward. His blade plunged deep into the chest of the first Falmer with no hesitation. The creature let out a helpless rattling sound as it sunk to its knees. Its body jerked from side to side in its last struggle. The Dragonborn pulled the blade out, proceeding to another opponent. Yrith gritted her teeth. Despite their ghastly appearance, their blood was still the same red as hers.

She pulled herself to her feet, calling her magic again, casting spell after spell, shielding her friends and herself with a crust of stone, creating swirling barriers of fire and frost and coating them with translucent wards. As two jagged chitin blades struck against the Dragonborn’s ward, Yrith sent in more magicka, replenishing it instantly. Still, the enemies multiplied, as if they were breeding on the spot. Sooner or later, they were bound to break through.

Cain joined the Dragonborn’s side, drawing his dagger with one hand, the other one flaring with fire. Leyna too joined the fray, supporting the wards and casting glowing explosive runes among the Falmer. Yrith called more atronachs to their aid. Two of the older ones fell under the incessant volleys of arrows and spells.

She frowned. Eventually, this place would be crowded. Then, it would matter little how powerful they were. They were already heavily outnumbered. The walk had left them weary, in dire need of rest. Surely the Dragonborn must have expected as much. But despite that, he considered this path to be safer than the surface one.

She clenched a fist, the other hand swinging fast to release a ball of fire. He had been right. The Falmer did not back away when the fire hit. Instead, they attacked with more ferocity, mindless of pain, mindless of the stench of burnt flesh that sent uncomfortable tickles down Yrith’s stomach. Just how many were there? She did not dare to count.

She scanned the corridor. Its width now worked against them. More Falmer swarmed down by its entrance, held back only by her atronachs and the wall of wards and fire she kept just before them. Keneel-La and the rest faced the wrong side, still fighting against those coming from within the complex. They had to move out, not in.

Yrith spread her magic, examining the place. She had to do something. Anything to separate the Falmer on the inner side from her companions. If she only hadn’t sprung the tripwires…

The tripwires.

Up in the ceiling, hidden behind infinite plates of Dwemer metal, were the giant pincers. If they were to sink down upon the blind elves…

She took a breath, trying not to imagine the carnage. These creatures had no clue… but she had to live. They had to live.

She knelt down, touching the floor, sending all her hopes for keeping Cain and Keneel-La safe to Leyna. Her hands glowed with magic, now not blazing orange or protective green, but the blue of raw magicka. It penetrated the marble block underneath her and ran along the wiring embedded inside, up the walls and into the ceiling, finding the cogs and a set of pulleys on a spring holding the pincers up. It would be enough to cut the spring. But the cut would need to be clean and quick. Or maybe there was another way to severe it.

Furrowing her brows in concentration, she began examining the metal structure. It was different from the swirling storm she had faced in High Hrothgar, providing little room to let her magic in. She would need a minuscule explosion to disintegrate the substance, or immense heat to melt it.

A bolt of ice made her jump into the air. She turned around just in time to see the Falmer at the entrance take down the last atronach. A flaming figure stepped over the dead body of its comrade, preparing to lunge. Gritting her teeth, Yrith quickly summoned more, raising a ward before more missiles could reach her. On the other side, Keneel-La, Cain and Leyna did not even turn to see her efforts, too occupied to keep the assaulting mass of bodies at bay. She sank back to the floor, finding the spring again.

There was a part where the wire was slightly thinner. Yrith focused on it, forcing her magic in. The Dwemer metal resisted, hard enough not to let anything in, but pliable enough not to be too brittle. She ground her teeth until it almost hurt, sending in but a few thin strings. As she finally found the tiniest fissure in the metal, she drove the magic in like a wedge, turning, imbibing the metal with it, sending in heat from the pits of Oblivion until it burst.

She winced as the pincers came down upon the Falmer like lightning, followed by a number of metal plates and a shower of gravel that had been the ceiling. One green lamp on the wall exploded into a myriad of glistening shards, littering the lost elves with innumerable crimson wounds. Two ended up pierced entirely by the pincers. One was buried deep under the debris. For the first time, the Falmer faltered, both those imprisoned behind the pincers and those fighting the Dragonborn’s group. Keneel-La did not hesitate, using the chance to nearly behead one and plunge his sword into another’s chest. Cain too raised his blade and slashed across the nearest enemy’s throat, using a ward to prevent the blood from dying his face. Even Leyna sent a missile of lightning at the paralyzed Falmeri mage standing just behind the three. At last, there was no one to battle on this side, the rest of the Falmer behind the pincers either fatally wounded or on the run. Keneel-La turned to Yrith.

“Good thinking,” he nodded in acknowledgement. “Let’s get out of here then.”

Without another word, he stormed past her, toward where two of Yrith’s atronachs remained, still fighting the other group of Falmer. Yrith, Cain and Leyna followed, all holding their magic at the ready.

They clashed fiercely, with hardly any time to think. Yrith produced shield after shield, sending atronachs into the Falmers’ rear. A blade nearly cut through her ward. She strengthened it, piercing the opponent with an ice bolt, mentally trying to remove the picture of the blood from his body. Two others she deflected with a fire bolt, letting her atronachs deliver the finishing blows. She felt her body shake with exhaustion, her wards flicker. And then, when the next Falmer before her buckled in her knees, Yrith felt a sharp sting in her calf, followed by cold, numbing pain spreading through her body. She attempted a cry as she dropped to the floor, but her voice failed her.

“Yrith!” Cain’s cry seemed to be coming from a great distance, even if she knew he was kneeling right by her side.

Searching for the source of the pain, her eyes found a dark bolt sticking out of her leg, with black feathers and a tiny phial attached to its end. The translucent liquid that had used to fill it was almost gone. With all the strength she could muster, she looked up, to where the pincers still pinned the Falmer to the ground. A person was standing just by them… no… a machine. A humanoid machine with its legs attached to a set of circular plates serving it as wheels, made in that same Dwemer metal as everything else in these halls, holding what seemed to be an elaborate crossbow with cogs and a set of weights. As Yrith laid her eyes on it, the automaton raised its metallic hands, once again loading the weapon. This time, it aimed at Cain.

“NO!” Yrith cried, sending her magic out in a flurry, not caring where it would hit. It rushed through the corridor like a shockwave, sending everything to the ground. Yrith did not wait for it to finish. She fired lightning at the thing, now gathering itself from the floor. She missed. She fired another, her vision more and more blurry with each moment. She missed again. She yelled inarticulately, firing a sphere of all elements at once, making it large enough to engulf the unliving enemy. This time, she hit the machine square. It folded and crackled, letting out a shower of sparks. Behind it, another emerged, followed by something reminiscent of a large mechanical spider.

Yrith groaned. Her vision darkened. For a moment, she almost forgot where she was. She felt so weak…

“Get up!” a voice came from the distance. Something was pulling her arms, yanking her from side to side.

“No, let her…”

“There’s no time. She needs to get up. Yrith!”

She felt sharp pain in her calf, then another wave of cold. She forced her eyes open, catching her breath. Keneel-La was squatting beside her, gripping her in her armpits, his eyes steel-hard, but tinged with affection. Somewhere above him, a ward thrummed as it deflected more missiles. Leyna and Cain must have stood, protecting them with all their might.

“Get up, hatchling. I know you’re hurt and tired. But we’re going to die here if we don’t move out this instant. Get up.”

She saw his mouth moving and fought hard to process his words. Die… she did not want to die. She did not want them to die. She needed to stand up.

The ward flickered and vanished. Keneel-La jumped up, drawing his sword again, moving, moving fast from side to side to dodge the bolts until he was swinging the blade in the automaton’s face. Yrith faintly registered hissing and stomping behind her, calling atronachs and dremora to their help. Cain fired in all directions, his own movements shaky and distracted. Now, it was Leyna, kneeling down beside Yrith, placing her fingers on Yrith’s wound and sending threads of golden healing magic into her flesh. In her other hand, she was gripping the dark bolt, sniffing and furrowing her brows.

“Nirnroot and imp stool,” she spat, tossing the bolt away. “Of course it has to be something that repels magic. Come… stand.”

Yrith could feel the pain leaving her. She felt so drowsy now, so ready to give in to the darkness.

“Yrith!” Slender fingers slapped her lightly on the cheek. Yrith squinted into the kaleidoscope of flashing colors and lights. Just as a bolt of fire came her way, Leyna covered her, taking the blow instead. She screamed, her ward cast too late to shield all of the damage. Her coat was now torn and smoking, the smell of the charred fur joining the stench of death all around.

“Yrith,” she breathed, collapsing beside Yrith, “remember how you asked me what it was that you could do, that night Cain got hurt? I didn’t know… but I know now. You can save our lives... and I'll have your back. As promised… I’ll have your back. So please… stand up.”

Yrith felt Leyna’s fingers close around hers. She felt… water… falling down on her hand. Leyna was crying… the proud, beautiful Leyna was crying.

With a grunt, Yrith forced herself to sit. Then, slowly, to stand. Barely keeping her balance, she still extended her hand, waiting for the elf to take it.

“You already had my back… a million times today,” she whispered, staggering as Leyna took the hand and pulled herself up. Yrith felt terrible. Her head throbbed. She fought to feel her own body, as if there was nothing connecting the mind with the vessel. Even her magic was so far, so difficult to control. She searched hard for it, struggling to keep the connection. She had to ignore the exhaustion. They needed to survive.

“Leyna…”

“Yes?”

“Hold my hand… please.”

Leyna did not question. Raising another ward to shield them, she touched Yrith’s fingers again, gingerly closing her hand around them. Yrith gripped her tightly, the one stable point she could find. She concentrated all her power at Leyna’s hand, touching the stream of magicka coursing through her friend’s body, joining it with her own. Leyna stared at her with her eyes wide, jaw dropping low.

“Yrith, is this…?”

“Can you hold a ward with me?”

“I… think so…”

“Let’s do it then.”

Yrith touched the automatons, then the Falmer on the other side to measure the distance. With her next breath, shimmering walls formed on each side of the corridor, separating Cain and Keneel-La from the machines and Yrith’s atronachs from the Falmer. The Dragonborn and the Dunmer next to him turned to her, weary to even raise their brows at the sight.

“Yrith? What are you planning?” Keneel-La exhaled, wiping the skin on his forehead. It glistened in the light of the Dwemer lamps, even if Yrith could hardly imagine any sweat coming through those scales.

“Storming through,” Yrith managed, trying her hardest to keep up the ward and listen to the Dragonborn at the same time. Leyna was the only reason she could still hold. Her sight went blurry again. Just a bit longer. A bit… “Just… with protection… so that… we don’t have to… fight them all…”

The corridor before her went dark for a moment. She gritted her teeth for the umpteenth time that night.

“Very well,” Keneel-La nodded. “I will lead and try to clear the way. Cain, you will have our back.”

“Understood,” Cain said in a tired rasp.

They took their positions, Yrith and Leyna still holding up the ward, hands laced together to maintain the connection. Their free hands moved to adjust the protection, reducing its reach and forming a spike pointing toward the exit. Keneel-La took the tip. Cain remained in the rear. The atronachs guarding the edges of the barrier flickered and vanished. Yrith sighed. She could not find the strength to call more.

As the Dragonborn raised his hand, they moved as one. They did not break into a run. They chose a speedy gait, certain, steady, menacing. The Falmer in their way hesitated, taking a step back. But when no one attacked, they came down on the four of them with new ferocity, clashing into the ward with snarls and hisses. Yrith and Leyna kept it steady, faces twisted in blind focus.

Nobody fought. The Falmeri blades and arrows bounced off the ward, creating ripples that were quickly smoothed by Yrith’s magicka. Yrith could hardly see their figures, relying mostly on her magic. Still, she imagined how all of this must have felt to the others. To watch the hordes of enemies through the screen of the ward, as though they were in some distant reality, disconnected from their own. She had seen it before in her dreams when the Demon filled her with images of other people’s fates. She was living it now. It was all she could do. To pass them and watch.

They were almost outside, back in the tunnels. The ward was now their source of light. The Falmer blocked the way. Without stopping, Keneel-La Shouted.

“FUS RO DAH!”

The unrelenting force swept the blind elves from the path ahead. Keneel-La, with the rest of them close in tow, stumbled through the now clear tunnel, picking up his pace before their opponents could gather themselves. The darkness around them deepened, the glow of the ward too weak to penetrate it. With all the muscles and tendons in her body tense in the strain, Yrith forced an extra drop of magicka out of her fingertips, lighting the way. A sliver of warmth left her. The world before her turned and flickered. Piercing pain shot through her hand and into her chest, reaching her wounded leg. Her knees gave way. The ground underneath was uneven, full of rocks and roots, cutting into her skin and filling it with dirt.

“Yrith!”

She tried to stand, but her legs would not listen. Somewhere behind them, the earth shook with numerous steps. The Falmer still followed. She was too weak. She could not keep up.

“Leave me,” she breathed, not having the strength to look up into their faces. “Just go, you’ll die here…”

“Not in a thousand years,” voices sounded in unison. Not one. Not two. Three.

A warm sensation spread from her feet up to her chest. Leyna was using the last bits of their combined magic for healing. Yrith covered her face, not minding the dirt on her hands. This could not work forever. Magic alone could not fix wounds. It could only drive away pain and enhance the healing process.

Yrith bit her lip, feeling blood on her tongue. She forced herself to stand again, shaking, feeling the heat of her body rising.

“I’ll… I’ll go…” she chattered, finding support in the sponge-covered wall. They had to run. How far, she did not know. The Dragonborn likely did not know himself. Still, they ran. She could not see anything anymore, simply following the sound of the footsteps. They ran.

Just a little further, she convinced herself on every step.

Still, they ran.

She had lost all feeling, all sense of direction. She did not know whether she was still conscious, with the world shrouded in darkness. Even the footsteps seemed to recede after some time, leaving her in strange, motionless silence. She could only hope they were finally reaching a safe place. She ran. Further and further, she ran, until there was nothing anymore, and the last thought flickered away, leaving her mind empty.


She did not know how long she had been unconscious. It could have been hours. It could have been days. When she finally opened her eyes, the marble floor underneath her was warm, and the bulky pipes on her sides filled the air with moisture. Her head throbbed, her whole body ached, sticky with sweat, dirt and blood. Every movement sent tendrils of sharp pain into her limbs. Still, she forced herself up, noticing the blot of dried blood where her head had lain just moments before. The image turned and twisted before her eyes. She hissed, gripping her head with both hands, blinking to chase the blur away.

She was in another Dwemer corridor, a dead end by the looks of it. Water gurgled in the canal crossing it a small distance away, covered by gilded grating. There was no one nearby, not even a shadow in the distance. No bedrolls spread within the perimeter, no rucksacks propped against the pillars. Her own rucksack was missing as well.

She took a breath, her hand slowly sinking to cover her mouth. She was alone.


Yrith only found the strength to take a few steps. She dropped to the floor again once she had crossed the canal, panting, shivering despite the warm air. Even the water was warm. She had no idea where it had come from, but she drank it nonetheless. Despite everything, it had a soothing effect on her scorching throat. She let it flow down before allowing her whole body to sink on the floor. It was hard. But it held her firmly, unlike her feet. She fell into slumber with the sound of pumping and buzzing in her ears.


Her head was still pounding when she opened her eyes again. She did not know whether she had slept at all. It felt as though she had dreamt while awake, her mind processing two realities at once. One full of broken blind elves, hisses and flashes of light, the other marked by continuous thrumming, like a heartbeat of a huge organism of stone and gold. She had woken into the latter, tired, with limbs heavy as if made of the ever-present Dwemer metal. And she was still alone.

She forced her weary eyes to ingest her surroundings. The corridor she was in ended just a short distance ahead, forking into a road with gilded rails. Lifting herself on her shaky arms, she crawled closer to it, trying to put as little strain on her injured leg as possible. Fighting the tears of pain welling in her eyes, she turned her head, but no cart seemed to be riding on the rails. Across the railroad, a gate was embedded in what seemed to be a tower, rising up into the tall ceiling, unseen behind a screen of steam. There was no other way out, as the rails entered a shaft on each side. Perhaps there was a staircase inside the tower, or one of the Dwemer lifts. She hoped for the latter.

Yrith sighed. To get to it, she would have to cross the rails. She touched the leg, examining its state, but winced as she pulled back. It was in no shape to be lifted, let alone used.

She tried sending in a thread of the golden healing magic, but it only caused the pain to spread. She curled up, holding her knee just to have something to grab. She had never appreciated Leyna’s skill properly. Now she missed it, not knowing enough about her own body to fix it. And it would not heal without food to build on.

Her eyes pinned to the tower. She could die here or die trying. Yrith knew what choice she’d prefer. With all her remaining strength, she stood, using her magic to support herself. Just like back in Erinor’s captivity. Just how many times had she faced death already? She could not count. Perhaps she would wager on life one more time.

She stepped over the first rail. Her leg buckled under her, sending her down. She saved herself from a sharp blow in the head by a mere inch, panting as she rolled over the second rail. The screws holding the sleeper in place bored painfully into her back until she managed to gather herself, slithering to the door. Exhausted, she used her magic to open it. The doorway revealed a circular room with a lever in its middle, connected to four cogs on the sides of the room by belts of metal. Yrith let out a breath. It was a lift.

She trundled inside, collapsing just by the lever. Her fingers found the handle, but she did not pull. Her eyes slid up the shaft. She did not know what she would encounter there. Perhaps the Falmer were still around, lurking in the dark in search of her and the Dragonborn’s group. She tried to spread her magic to check, but she could not reach too far. Touching too many things at once hurt almost as much as moving her body and filled her mind with incomprehensible buzz. She pressed her fingers to her temples in attempt to ease the pain. It helped none.

Closing her eyes, she gripped the handle. Doubt would lead nowhere. She had to take the risk. So she pulled.

The hiss from below nearly deafened her. The lift quaked as the cogs slowly began to move, falling into the notches etched in the walls and pulling the whole platform up. Yrith slid to the floor, breathing heavily. She felt weak, her body unwilling to move another inch. She kept her eyes closed, pressing her head to the warm stone. The light thrumming from inside of it felt strangely soothing. She let it fill her ears, as though the lift was singing her a lullaby. And up she went as the world slowly filled with darkness and the air became warmer yet, leaving a thin screen of moisture on her skin and a heavy sweet taste on her tongue. She let her body rest. There was nowhere to rush.


When her eyes opened again, she was not in the lift. The place looked unfamiliar to her, built in dark, glossy stone, lit by blue and green light whose source Yrith could not tell. It smelled unfamiliar, like stale earth mixed with sweet berries and a pinch of the Nibenese sour pepper. The air stung in her nostrils and made her want to sneeze.

She rose to her feet, realizing the pain in her leg was gone. Rolling up her trousers, she inspected its state. A dark stain marred the calf where the bolt had pierced the skin, but it seemed to have been treated. The wound had closed, the tissue was regenerating. Even her hunger had receded, and her head felt strangely light. She looked around, searching for the one who had treated her, but the room… hall… place was empty.

It was formed by two octagonal platforms, one of which she was standing on, connected by a bridge of sorts. The entire area was enclosed with an ornamental fence, separating it from the dark walls. The platform opposite of Yrith held a desk in its middle. On its top lay a solitary book, wrapped in a dark cover that seemed strangely familiar.

Yrith looked around for a door but found none. Had she died? Was this afterlife?

She pinched herself, feeling a sting in her cheek.

No, surely a ghost’s skin would not sting.

She looked again, now searching for the person who had healed her. Still, there was no one.

“Hello?” she tried. The sound of her voice was muffled, as though it could not reach further than the tip of her nose. There was no reply.

She raised her hands, letting out red light. The detection spell found nothing at all. A feeling of unease surged in her, one that had nothing to do with solitude or the inability to escape. Was this a dream? An illusion?

She was afraid to close her eyes and search her mind. It would make her vulnerable from the outside. And so, gingerly, she took a step forward, making for the other platform.

It was quiet. Even her footsteps were stifled, as though the air here was too thin to carry the sound. Instinctively, she touched her chest as she walked. Her heart was still beating, the rhythm somewhat soothing to her mind. She still breathed, even if she could not feel the air coming in and out. Curiously, she tried to send out her magic. It separated from her fingers before she could control it, dissolving into nothingness. She shuddered. There was nothing to protect her.

The other platform was further than it seemed. The space must have been warped here, making it impossible to estimate the distance. It must have taken her nearly an hour to reach the steps leading to the elevated dais, if she could trust her feeling. Even time could tick differently here than in the world she had known before. Perhaps one day she would return, finding that her friends had long passed and Skyrim had become a Thalmor province. The thought made her stomach turn. She shook her head to chase it away, choosing to focus on the book before her.

Surely, this must have been a dream. It was the very book she had stolen from Urag. The very book that had raised her hopes and set her mind on Apocrypha. She extended her hand to it, but pulled back before touching it. There was something sinister about it. As if it emanated black light that would absorb her soul if she ever touched it. She stood there, unmoving for a while, just watching the book. It lay on top of the desk, silent and dormant, tantalizing. Yrith frowned.

“Nice trick,” she told the empty room with a sigh. “There’s nothing else here.”

She circled the desk to confirm her words. Save for the book, it was empty. There were no dark corners, no gaps in the fence, no hidden crevices in the walls. There were no cracks in the floor, nothing to attract a person’s attention. The place was entirely empty, with just that one desk and a book on top of it. She knew what was expected of her. And she also knew it was the only thing she could do. On many occasions, she would welcome the lack of choice for the sole comfort of not having to think too much. Now, she felt an unpleasant tingle in her fingertips. Slowly, she picked up the book and opened it.

It had not changed. The text was still there, the same as before, instructing on how to think about time and space. She had nearly memorized it back in Winterhold, and all the words were now so familiar. The sight of them and the touch of dry paper on her skin had a calming effect on her. She sifted through the book, page after page, looking them up and down in unhurried tempo. They glided through her fingers with a soft rustle that only she could hear. And then, she reached the last page and her eyes widened.

The text that had been there, the final note from Septimus Signus, was replaced by a diagram. If she had not known better, she would call it a conjuration circle. It had everything it needed. A center, a timeline circling its edges, a set of constellations with clearly defined focal points. Only the constellations were not ones she had ever seen, and the whole thing was… moving. Glowing. Growing.

Or perhaps she was shrinking.

She stared at the central point, unable to move her eyes away. Some invisible force was holding her in place, making her a part of the picture, until the center became too large to observe as a whole, pulling her in. She wanted to scream, but there was no air in her lungs. Her sight became blurry, then dark. A hum filled her ears, making her lose any sense of position. She gave in, letting the current take her. There was no point in fighting back.

The darkness dissolved as quickly as it had come. Yrith cautiously moved her fingers. They obeyed. She let out a breath, standing up from where she had been kneeling. The ground underneath her rustled as she moved. She looked at it curiously and froze. Her hand instinctively pressed against her mouth.

She stood on pages. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, perhaps even more. Pages with pictures. Pages with lines of neat text. Pages written in Altmeris, as well as Nordic, Saxhleel, Daedric and a vast number of languages she had likely never heard of. Pages in various scripts, with sundry depictions, some familiar, some surreal. She raised her eyes to scan the area. Again, she stood on a platform surrounded by ornate fencing made in dark metal. One side opened into a bridge descending to a vaster area with a dark pond in its middle and connected to another bridge leading to more platforms. The whole complex, as far as she could see, was floating on the surface of a sea of the same black water that filled the pond. And all around it, pages lay scattered among pillars and pillars of books, holding up by some unknown magic. Books were everywhere. They lay on altars standing on the edges of the platforms. They filled the baskets occasionally standing by the bridge entrances. They floated on the water all around her.

She turned around, but the platform followed, leaving her facing the bridge. Again, she was presented with no choice. She took a step back, and the platform moved under her. She took a step forward. Now, the platform stayed, and pages rustled under her feet. The whole place rustled. Sheets of paper fluttered through the air. At times, it seemed as though the books changed places by themselves, or a new one appeared out of the thin air.

Yrith knew where she was now. This was a library. The library. The greatest library in Mundus. And she was alone.

Notes:

If any of you have been rereading the story recently, you might have noticed that the first chapter is different. Yep, I completely rewrote it to improve the quality. I also removed the word “detention” to make it less Harry-Pottery. Others are going to follow eventually.

P.S. To RealityGlitch: This is what you get for your constant cliffhangers. Vengeance is sweet. *evil grin* <3

Chapter 29: The Path of the Lost

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Yrith walked slowly, cautiously, over the rustling floor. In a way, it reminded her of the autumn grass, yellowed and crumbling on its ends. She took in the air, but it smelled nothing like Urag’s cozy Arcanaeum. Its scent was heavy, not foul, but not pleasant either, sweet and lingering. Inviting. The scent of hidden secrets, both wonderful and terrifying.

Stepping out of the first bridge, she eyed the nearest column of books for a moment, wondering if she was allowed to touch. The moment her hand reached out for the topmost tome, Yrith heard a rumble. She froze, turning after the sound. The path leading onward, away from the platform where she now stood, had shrunk. She pulled her hand back, letting out a deep sigh. So this realm was built upon choices. Following her temptations was not an option.

Hesitantly, she took a step forward. An eerie feeling overcame her as she approached the pond in the middle of the platform. Something was lurking inside. She felt a presence, something strong, an aura of imminence seeping from the dark water. She took a step away from its edge, treading lightly around the perimeter. Her body, or whatever vessel it was that she steered in this world, felt stiff, her breath hardly there. The pond slowly passed, as if she was not moving, but it was the world that moved instead. Then, it was behind her. And just as she was about to step on the next bridge, something shot from the pond and wrapped tightly around her chest.

Her knees hit the pages underneath her with a painful thud. Her hands sprang up and gripped the thing, trying to free her from its grip. It was smooth and oozy, filling her with cold upon the touch. The more she tried to tear it off, the more its hold on her tightened. The image before her eyes twisted and faded behind a palette of colors. She gasped for air. A voice sounded within her, reverberating through her every bone.

A wanderer strays into my realm. How quaint. You do enjoy consorting with beings of power, do you not, Yrith Ravencroft? Or Zulvahzen, is it now? The One Who Speaks True.

Yrith fought for her breath, wheezing as the pressure on her chest increased. Then, it let go, sending her to the ground. Panting, she vaguely registered a thick tentacle, dark as the water it had come from, reflecting the greenish haze around, as it receded back into its pond.

She lay on the ground, feeling too weak to stand up, simply letting the air in and out. Red marks covered her hands where they had made contact with the creature, as though it had burned her. She wanted to speak to it. To ask how it knew her name. But she was too afraid of its touch. Too afraid of its cold grip that took her breath away.

The pond went still. She watched it out of the corner of her eye. Then, she rose, slowly, keeping her magic ready just past her fingertips lest the oozy tip of the tentacle came at her again. The surface of the water was dark and smooth like a mirror. She put a foot forward. Silence followed, filled only with the ever-present rustle of the pages. The other foot followed. Nothing.

Yrith walked sideways, trying to keep her eyes on both sides. Only when she was halfway through the next bridge did she turn to face fully what was ahead. Still, she attempted to send her magic out to see what was around.

The impact made her stagger, until she nearly fell off the bridge, into the depths of the ocean below. She gasped, clutching the ornate banister. The power guarding this place mingled with the magic, filling her mind with a presence so intense she felt like bursting and imploding at once. She groaned, forcing the being out, her eyes nearly closed and teeth gritted too strong. The presence glided away, leaving a strange feeling behind itself, like the quiver of the air left after the flutter of a butterfly. Yrith had no doubt that it had left her willingly, playing with her, caressing her hair through the ghostly green haze. No, perhaps it never left. Perhaps it simply turned its attention elsewhere. She covered her mouth. Whatever it was, it pervaded the place, filled every corner of it, scented the air. Whatever it was, it was not only outside of her, but inside as well. She was walking on it. It tingled on her skin. She was breathing it.

She felt her body tremble as she stepped further. The bridge took her to a fork, each way leading upward, to a different platform. She scanned them thoroughly. The one in the center was empty, connected to other platforms by a set of bridges with columns of books arching over them, forming gates of sorts. The one on the left held another pond where Yrith suspected another tentacle creature. The one on the right held a stone altar, a simple tablet with the Oblivion symbol, illuminated by sparkling vapors wafting around it. And near the altar stood the strangest being Yrith had ever seen.

It floated, though erect, with its hands gripping a book. Tentacles like those of an octopus grew from all over its body, shielding what seemed to be tattered remains of a cloak. Its face was reminiscent of a giant hard-shelled insect with feelers as tiny as her fingers. Its belly was open as if the creature did not use its mouth to devour, but rather the carnivorous-plant-looking pit leading directly into its stomach. Yrith stared at it, half fearful, half amazed. The creature moved from one side of the platform to another, but it paid her no heed. Yrith took a tentative step back, then toward the middle bridge. The creature let out a deep sigh, turning a page in its book. Its strange, worm-like eyes did not move away from the text.

Yrith stepped onto the bridge. Nothing happened. She proceeded to the platform, gaining confidence as the creature simply floated in its place, too absorbed in its book to notice a possible intruder. As Yrith finally stepped on the next platform, she let out a breath. And the platform dissolved under her.

She cried out, grabbing the edge of the bridge in the last moment. Her hands glowed with magic, but the blue stream stayed clear of the bridge, repelled by its surface. Yrith sighed. Her fingers felt slippery and stiff, but she forced her muscles to work, moving hand over hand, slowly making her way to the banister. She would have sworn her weight had increased in this realm, feeling every ounce of it pulling her down into the depths of the liquid blackness below. Twisting her face, she forced herself to look up and seek the ornate fencing, focusing on it with all her might. It seemed to her as though the closest pole moved, as if testing her will to survive. She huffed. This was all in her mind, but she had to thank the Dragonborn for his training nonetheless. It gave her direction.

After what felt like eternity, she finally reached the construction, grabbing the pole. She could barely feel her hands. For a moment, she just hung there, taking deep breaths, begging her body to hold on. Then, she drew herself up and hauled her body over the edge with a powerful swing. The dents left after the collapse ploughed painful lines in her stomach. But she was up now, sitting on the bridge, leaning wearily against the banister. She wished she could fall asleep, but now she knew that every moment of inattention could prove fatal in this place.

When she caught her breath at last, she dared a look where the platform had once been. A view of a great complex opened before her, almost beautiful in its asymmetry. The ornate fences were rather walls of tangled metal tendrils, tall like castles, lining the edges of numerous platforms and bridges. Many creatures similar to the one she had seen near the altar roamed the place, adjusting books in piles and stacks, at times returning pages into the tomes. Every time the librarians passed one of the many ponds, the water rippled, sometimes revealing a smooth tip of a tentacle, sometimes surrounding a small altar dominated by a flower bud of pure light, golden or blue.

Yrith scrambled to her feet, pondering if she should be happy that her access had been blocked. Her eyes slid to the water below where the fallen platform had sunk, then to the bridge connecting it with the complex... but the bridge was not there. It had not crumbled, Yrith was sure. She had not seen it fall, and the edge of the next platform was smooth, lined with the same ornate wall as the rest, as though the bridge had never been there. A different part now led to a bridge, connecting it with the platform on Yrith’s left. The one where the pond was. The one she had avoided before.

She stared at the construction, her mind blank momentarily. The place toyed with her, twisting, changing unpredictably, letting her pass when she would not expect it, creating obstacles where there were to be free passages. Again, the choice she had been given was false. There had never been a choice in the first place. Following that logic, the only path that made sense to take was...

Her eyes found the silent librarian standing by the altar on the right-hand platform. The creature still floated back and forth, keeping its eyes fixed on the book, as though the world around it was nonexistent. Which, as Yrith thought about it, might have been quite true.

She walked back to the fork. Up on its platform, the creature looked menacing. Even if Yrith stood next to it, it would likely be three times taller than her. Hesitantly, she stepped on the bridge to the platform. The creature did not seem hostile, but she would not bet on it. She did not trust anything anymore. Her hands clenched into fists, tingling with magicka. It was the only thing she had now. She prayed it would save her if the creature decided to attack.

Slowly, she climbed the bridge, watching the creature with every step she took. It still read, seemingly undisturbed by her presence. Or, perhaps, unaware of it. Yrith stepped carefully over the pages, trying her hardest to stifle the rustle under her feet. But the more she tried, the more the pages whispered, as if they had a voice of their own, trying to warn the creature of an intruder. And when Yrith stepped on the platform, the creature froze suddenly, turning away from the book for the first time. For a moment, its eyes met with Yrith’s.

Then, it lunged.

Yrith staggered, warding herself with magic, but the creature did not seem to mind. It sent her falling until she felt her back hit the floor, hard despite the layers of crumpling paper. The ward crackled, battling the magic of the place. The creature pressed on it, forcing it to touch Yrith’s face. A thin line of lightning in the shield made her drop it before it could reach her skin. The creature touched her. The world turned upside down and lost all color before darkening entirely. Yrith rattled, catching her breath. The creature did not just hold her body. It held her mind. And Yrith saw... thoughts. Memories. Not of a creature of the dark, trapped in a land with nothing but aeons of knowledge and a labyrinth of secrets, but those of a person that had once been human.

She had never been to the place she had now entered, but she knew its smell. Dust filled the innumerable aisles, making the beams of sunlight coming through the windows seem like showers of golden glitter. She, or he, was sitting at a desk, staring at the pages of a thick tome, filled with gruesome images of human intestines in various stages of some unknown disease. He shook his head, turning and turning. Perhaps his search would never bear fruit. Perhaps he was wrong to dream. But he could not give up. He could not let the reality continue. Not if it would take his greatest treasure.

Wearily, he sighed, ready to put the book away. But then, something caught his eye. An inscription, a single line of writing at the bottom of the last page, nearly imperceptible under the many lines of original text. A reference. A cure.

Quickly, he jumped from his seat, rushing to the section to which the note pointed. And there, he found a book like none he had ever seen. Its cover was pitch-black, its texture almost as if it had been burnt. It bore a strange, tangled ornament with no inscription. He opened it. The world shifted and twisted, light turning into darkness, darkness into light again. And there he stood, in the world full of secrets where every piece of knowledge ever known had been gathered. He would find it. He was certain.

The scene changed. He was now watching a baby, sleeping quietly for now in her crib. The little girl’s skin was ashen grey, even if she was not a Dunmer, marred by dark stains stretching from the corners of her mouth to her neck and ears. He watched her quietly, touching the tiny hand that lay clenched loosely on the little one’s belly. She was so small. Too small for her age. His little treasure. She did not deserve her fate. But he knew now what he had to do. He had found it at last. He would save her, give her the life she was meant to have. He took her fingers in his own, caressing them gently. Soon.

He had finally done it. His little girl, healthy now, with cheeks rosy and limbs as restless as could be, was crying as she should. At last, she had the life... but at what price? How could he ever think that he could gain the life for her for free? A life could only be paid with another life...

He stared at the figure lying at the feet of the crib. Her hair, red as the setting sun, spread around her like a stretching web of blood vessels. Her face, once beautiful and vivid with a gentle smile, was now empty, lifeless, her skin the same ashen color his own baby had been born with. He fell to his knees, brushing a finger against her paper skin. His tears fell into her open eyes. She did not move. She would never move again... why? Did he want too much from life? Was a wife and a child too much to ask for? Why did life punish him so?

He gritted his teeth, groping for the cursed book. No, he would not let it end like this. He would not accept it. He would bring her back, she would live. The ancient library held every secret in the world. For sure, it would hold the answer to his question. It would give him all he needed... if only he searched long enough. With newly found determination, he opened the book again.

The great library opened before him once more, with its piles of books stacked into pillars and arches, the sweet scent of knowledge that only this place could offer, inviting him inside, further into its bowels. He took in the air and touched the first book, too thirsty for knowledge to care about anything else. The world around him faded. The only thing that mattered now were the lines of text. He would search and search, stay here forever, until he found the key to his dream. After all, time was of little importance here. Time was endless...

He searched and searched. He read and read more. Lost in the incessant tomes and lines, he cared little for the itching of his skin and all the feelings that had overcome him. The hunger. The pain. The exhaustion. They were only illusion.

His skin had adopted greenish tones, somewhat lustrous. Ah, but surely it was just his sweat reflecting the strange light of this place. Just like the thick tendrils growing from his head could only be his hair, glued together and hardened after too much time spent here. Nothing mattered. Only the books did. Only the knowledge did. And he would search on. Perhaps he could not remember what he searched for... but he would remember once he found it. For sure...

But he was tired. So tired. He had forgotten time and lost the way out. Now, the only option was to keep searching. To take book after book and immerse, to lose track so that he would forget his despair. He was so alone... words were his only companions. The only thing to sate him, even if they were just words and no more. They had lost all meaning. He did not need it anymore. His place was here, he knew it now. It had always been here. He should have known. For he was meant to watch over it, to protect it... he would protect it. The sacred knowledge and the place itself. No intruder would ever take it. He would crush them all. Just like the little stray who dared disturb his research. He would destroy her, grind her mind to dust, make her a slave of this place. Just like himself.

Yrith felt the brunt of his weight on her body. He would crush her, strangle her. She tried to leap back, but he held her too tight. His tentacles wrapped tightly around her head, filling her with thoughts that were not her own. Protect... she too had to stay and protect...

She gasped, her whole body glowing bright blue with magicka. No, she could not give in. She did not belong here. Her place was elsewhere. This was but another of the many challenges on her way, meant to test her, to slow her down. She had come with a goal. She would not lose it now.

With brute force, she grabbed a tentacle and pressed. The creature recoiled, only to attack with double the ferocity. Thousands of needles pricked her head and assaulted her mind. Her focus shattered, her vision broke into a vast field of colorful distortion. She fought for her breath, blinking to regain her sight. He was still looming above her, so close. And then, she became him, pressing her own body to the ground... but the person he held was a dark-eyed, red-haired woman, staring at him in accusation. The mother of his child, still beautiful in her death. He stared at her, faltering. Her face was twisted in rage. The look was too painful for him to bear, stabbing him like a knife of ice.

“You killed me,” she said quietly. Tears came down over her temples in streaks, falling with soundless splashes into the fan of her hair. “You never really cared.”

He hesitated, his grip loosening for the briefest of moments. She was so dear to him. She would be so dear to her... to their child... he needed her...

She needed her. Yrith needed her. She knew this woman. Her hair was not red, but raven, just like her own. A mirror image of herself, if only she were a few years older and a touch more beautiful. Still a mother, but her own. A beloved mother she had lost.

“You killed me,” she repeated. “Why did you do that, Yrith?”

Yrith opened her mouth, but no words came out. She stared at the person before her, pinned to the ground under her grip. Why had she killed her? How could she? It was a moment of weakness. Her own damned weakness, a punishment for the desire she should have never harbored. The knife stabbing her chest was not ice-cold, but white hot now, burning like the fire that had taken the dear mother. Like the fire of the atronach she had summoned, out of the plain, silly feeling that had clouded her senses. If only she could have stopped it in time. She had never meant to harm them. She had never wanted them to die. And now, the only thing left in her was...

Anger. Not regret, but anger at the one who had done this to her. To them. She should not be the one to pay. He should. She had done nothing. Her mother must know...

“I didn’t,” Yrith said slowly, loosening the grip. Her own words felt soothing, filling her with unexpected strength. “I never killed you! It wasn’t me!”

She withdrew her hands, propping herself against the ground. She was shaking but certain now that her words would reach their target. Singird had told her. Her mother had told her herself. She had done nothing. She had trust in herself.

Her mother closed her eyes, then opened them again, her face now peaceful. She raised a hand to touch Yrith’s cheek.

“You’ve grown so much,” she whispered, giving a gentle smile. “You’ve become so strong.”

Yrith felt stinging hotness in her eyes. She touched the hand with her own. It felt warm, a home she missed so sorely.

“Maman...”

The mother shook her head, stroking Yrith’s face. “Go now. You have things to do.”

Yrith clutched the hand firmly, wishing for the time to freeze. “But... there’s so much I have to say... so much I have to know!”

The hand slipped out of her grasp, her mother still smiling. Yrith felt warmth in her chest, the warmth she had so craved when this person was still around. She did not want to let go. She had waited so long for this moment.

“Do not forget yourself, Yrith,” her mother said with a tone of urgency. “Do not give in to the temptations of this place. I’m but a shadow in your heart. I am what you kept of me. I have no answers for you. You must go. I can’t hold him off forever.”

“Him...”

Yrith gasped, blinking her eyes. The image disappeared, replaced by the acutely suffocating reality. She was lying on the ground, one tendril around her neck, others holding her limbs. From within their roots, she could see the remnants of the face that had once dominated this body. The man from her visions, a father, a husband, too broken to let go. A seeker of knowledge that was beyond his grasp.

“S-stop...” she wheezed through the tiny slit left in her throat, fighting tears, fighting the image that forced itself before her eyes. “This is... not who you are...”

He growled, shaking her as though she was a mere rag doll. She rattled and coughed, but still, she looked at him firmly, glowing with magic, sending it onward, to him, searching for his mind.

“She went to rest,” she said, both aloud and in her mind. She could not be sure if she was talking to him, or herself. But she continued, repeating her mother’s last words to herself. “So let go... you can let go. Remember who you are. Your search... is over.”

The man-creature froze. Then, slowly, he loosened his grip, the tentacles hanging limply from his head.

“But...”

His voice was gurgly, high-pitched, unused for years. Perhaps not meant for speaking anymore. She could see his struggle, both mental and physical. He hesitated, then tried again, letting out a few rattling sounds. Every bit of effort brought new sound. And then, he spoke with newly found strength, his voice still inhuman, but true.

“But... where will I go?”

Yrith looked at his trembling figure, feeling a sting of affection. He had loved too much. Too deeply to be understood, too strongly to have the strength to live. He had been hurt and betrayed. And still full of longing. This soul needed rest. She gave a weak smile.

“On,” she said.

He kept looking at her, a lone tendril caressing her face. She closed her eyes momentarily, now feeling safe enough to do so. When she opened them again, he was smiling. A crooked, horrendous face was looking at her, but she could feel its peace, just like she had felt it from her mother.

“Thank you.” He lowered his head in deference, extending a slime-covered hand. Yrith took it, letting him pull her on her feet. They watched each other for a moment, until Yrith knew it was time. She looked at him encouragingly.

“Safe journey,” she said. He nodded.

“And to you. I have nothing to give, but perhaps this will help you find your way. The master of this place has a weakness.”

She looked at him in question. He waved to the platforms down below, and to the number of other creatures like him, roaming the library, arranging books, or quietly sifting through their pages.

“You have retrieved my memory. My feelings, everything that was mine. You have retrieved them... from myself. They had never left me. He cannot touch what is not his.”

She stared at the creatures, wondering what life lay locked deep in their minds. They were all people. People who had lost their way, just like him.

“Thank you,” she nodded.

He still smiled that crooked smile. And then, with his last sigh, he plunged himself down, into the dark waters. Yrith watched him fall, his tentacles flying loosely about him, until they were gone, leaving him human again. He looked into her eyes once more, his face at peace. As he touched the surface of the black sea, he closed his eyes. The body sank, leaving behind a circle of greenish ripples. Yrith knew at that moment that he was not there anymore.

She kept watching, until the last ripple had gone off to the horizon. Then she turned to the platforms below, expecting a bridge to form before her and open the way onward. But there was no bridge. Instead, a different creature was staring at her, with countless eyes watching her from amidst a tangled knot of darkness. Her eyes widened, but she did not back away. She knew who he was. Even if she ran faster than the wind, she could not escape him in this realm. She felt herself tremble, her tired mind wishing for a moment of leisure. But now was not the time. She had to stand her ground.

She straightened her back, taking a breath. She would not show him weakness.

As if responding to her reaction, he spoke.

“It seems I have invited myself a dangerous guest.” Yrith could not tell if the voice was in her head, or outside of it. Perhaps it made no difference here. When it came, she felt ages of both wisdom and foolishness weigh on her shoulders. This person... being, was old as time itself. And yet, she knew he felt young, or, rather, timeless. As though he had seen nothing, with those eyes wanting to see more. Perhaps he was not wrong in a sense. Perhaps she was not wrong either.

“You are Hermaeus Mora,” she stated the obvious. It was not a question. She felt him chuckle.

“Brilliant observation. And you are the one they call Zulvahzen, The One Who Speaks True. But you have many more names, Yrith Ravencroft. Many that you have forgotten. Many you do not yet realize.”

She gave him a long, questioning look. A few of his eyes blinked lazily. She was sure they did it just for effect. All his appearance was just for effect. He could take on whatever form he wanted. Yet this, shapeless and menacing, was what he chose.

“And you know them?”

He laughed. “Clever question. Most people would ask what those names are, but not you. Although, I do not think I need to answer. You know it already.”

She knew. She did not need to nod. He would feel her answer anyway.

“Why have you appeared?” she asked instead. “I thought you wouldn’t.”

“Indeed. But that makes two of us. You did something unforeseen. I do not like it. Not even the Dragonborn could deprive me of my seekers. And yet, you walk free in this land of mine.”

Yrith’s look hardened. The seeker had not been his, and he knew it. But perhaps this was his reason. She reminded him of it. Deep inside, the seekers were still their own masters. She could not help but smile, even as she asked the most ridiculous question she could think of.

“Are you going to kill me then?”

She felt no fear. After all, if the seeker’s words were right, he could not kill her unless she herself consented to it.

“Now, let’s not be too hasty. What good would killing you do me, Yrith Ravencroft? No. If I wished to kill you, you would have long been dead. But you are more valuable to me alive, and you know it. You possess, or will possess, in your way of speaking, something I want. Let us make a bargain. I will show you the way to whom you seek, for he is not in this realm, as you and the Dragonborn thought. For that, you will give me what you’re after. As you mortals like to say, it is nice and simple. A good deal.”

“He is not here? Then where is he?”

“Good try,” he purred, “but all at the right time. First, you will give me your answer.”

Yrith’s eyes narrowed. The Dragonborn had warned her. Hermaeus Mora was someone capable of trapping a person for eternity if it served his purpose. Surely this good deal he spoke of would not come without a twist. She took a moment to consider his words. He could trap her on her way to Septimus Signus, but that would not help him. He would not have to bother with talking to her at all. Then he had something else in store for her. Just how was she supposed to reason with him?

He cannot touch what is not his...

So unless she agreed, he could do nothing. She took a breath.

“What is it that you want?” she asked, looking straight into his many eyes. He quivered, chuckling.

“Why nothing spectacular. Surely you expect me to ask for your power, but I do not need it. There is enough power in knowing. What I desire is simple knowledge. Something that is out of my grasp. Something that you are painfully keen on retrieving.”

 “The Elder Scroll?” Yrith asked, one brow quirked. He twirled, if she could call it that, his many eyes blinking.

“A trifle thing, the Elder Scroll. I am the Master of Fate and Time, Elder Scrolls mean little to me.”

He was lying, she was certain of it. But perhaps that was unimportant. She could care less about how he felt about Elder Scrolls. She must not be distracted.

“Then what?”

“I want nothing but a single word. The name. The name, spoken in its true form, in the Tongue of the Old. That is my price.”

Yrith stared into his many eyes, slowly drifting from one to another. He wanted the Demon’s name? The name lost in time? What would such knowledge bring him?

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. She could not rush her decision. A good deal it seemed, but surely there had to be a catch. What would she give him? Would command over the Demon mean so much to the already powerful Daedric Prince? Or would she give something else? Would it mean she would lose possession of it? If only the Dragonborn was here to advise her. But she had no doubt that this was Mora’s plan. A plan she had to crush.

“I will only give it to you,” she said thoughtfully, “if I get to decide the exact time and way and no one else is involved without my consent.”

The bundle of darkness now shook as Hermaeus Mora laughed, all his eyes bouncing up and down. He sure put a lot of effort into making his appearance seem real.

“Are you sure, Zulvahzen,” Yrith felt the name resonate within her, “that you can afford to make such demands? You are standing in my realm.”

“That depends,” she shrugged with as much nonchalance as she could. “This is my mind. And you can, of course, leave me to my devices, but then there will be no one to fetch the name for you.”

He fell silent. Yrith fought her own doubt, still feeling the touch of the cold tendrils from the pond on her. Perhaps he could not touch what was not his, but he could still cause her damage. She waited for what felt like all the time in the world, pondering if he was truly thinking, or if making her wait gave him an upper hand. She stood still, watching him intently until, at last, he spoke.

“You are indeed The One Who Speaks True. So here is my proposal. I show you the path. You will give the name to me on your conditions, but if you die before that, it will fall in my possession.”

Yrith smiled. That was more like it. So he intended to kill her before she would be able to set her conditions. How smart he thought himself to be. A cheap trick with just as cheap a solution.

“Fair enough,” she nodded.

“Then I believe all is settled. Now, you would like to find your sage, would you? I believe you already have all that you need, but let me just give you a hint. It is true that Septimus pledged his soul to me. But he was unfit for this realm, as are many who seek my knowledge for too long. I do not thrive in lunacy. But if you are to enter the land of madness, you must learn to think like its master. Your only obstacle is yourself. Choose the path that is the least logical, yet most at hand.”

Yrith waited for him to continue, but he spoke no more. She frowned, scrutinizing his uneven, many-eyed form.

“That’s all? You told me you’d show me the way.”

He laughed again. “I just did. For all your cleverness, your ears are surprisingly clogged. Oblivion is not your world. There are no paths to walk or road signs to follow. By now, you should know. But very well. Let me give you one more hint. You are searching for the Shivering Isles. Remember that.”

Her frown deepened. Of course she knew what the Mad Prince’s realm was called. What good would that knowledge be? But there was no point in arguing. She had attempted to turn their deal in her favor. Of course he would do the same.

She nodded, hinting a curtsy.

“I will,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Your eyes do not speak of understanding. Let us hope for your timely enlightenment then. Farewell, mortal child. We will see each other again.”

With a soundless twirl, Hermaeus Mora disappeared from Yrith’s sight. She knew he was still present in every inch of this world. He would enjoy watching her struggle until she left it, or even after that. She took a breath. Still, she was on her own.

She looked around, scanning the place inch after inch. Now she had to find her path, but what was least logical and most at hand if she wanted to leave Apocrypha? Reading books seemed the least logical, but she was sure that was not it. She could not even touch them without the place reforming itself, imprisoning her where she was. Unless it would reform into the Shivering Isles. But no, when she thought about it, it seemed perhaps too logical.

Delving into the minds of the seekers was illogical, but not at hand. She watched them as they roamed the place, lost in eternal search for knowledge. Then what? Continuing her journey as she had until now? No, that was too logical as well. But perhaps...

She turned around, facing the way back. With little hesitation, she began to walk, soon finding her way across the bridge, to the platform with a pond. She circled it with caution, watching its surface. It remained still, no tentacle claiming her this time. The master of the place had retreated to silence.

She walked on, through the archways of books and bridges connecting the platforms, until she stood back where she had appeared. The platform was circular, with nothing to remind her of her journey. There was no portal, no sign that this place should be connected to some other realm. Not even a field of magic. Nothing she could hold onto and follow. Perhaps that would also be too logical.

So what was she supposed to do? Kill herself? No, as much as it sounded illogical, ridiculous even, she could not see it as the thing most at hand. If anything, she would end in the service of Hermaeus Mora forever, now owned by him for real. The thought made her shudder. But then what was the answer?

She paced across the platforms and bridges again, eyes defocused, mind searching for possibilities, forcing her weary mind to work. But surely any possibility she would have to search for could not be considered at hand. What was it that Mora had told her?

“Your only obstacle is yourself.”

But of course, she knew that. She knew it all, and he had made a fool out of her. How was she supposed to figure it out? She had always hated vagueness. Textbooks were so full of it, all those tomes written by people who had thought themselves smart and above ordinary folk’s standards. Of course he did too. He was an immortal Daedric Prince, after all, while she was just a measly human coming for a visit. Still, a human he was at least willing to commune with.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. Become like Sheogorath, the Daedric Prince of Madness. What would she have to do to achieve that?

“You are searching for the Shivering Isles. Remember that.”

She propped herself against a banister, watching the horizon fading in the greenish haze. It was not like the isles would just pop out of that black liquid all of a sudden...

Or was it?

She blinked. They were isles after all. They would be in the middle of the sea. But taking that leap seemed too far-fetched for her own good. She had no guarantee the liquid would not dissolve her, or that it would be swimmable at all. What if she had been fooled?

She stared into the depths below. The liquid showed nothing of what was underneath, only the vast expanse of blackness glittering in ghostly green. Jumping in would just be pure...

“Madness...” she voiced aloud, rolling the word on her tongue. She shuddered, remembering the seeker she had freed. His soul left the moment he touched the surface. Several times she closed her eyes and opened them again, trying to picture all the possible scenarios. But the truth was, she knew nothing of what would happen. She could only guess.

Time passed as she stood there, pondering. She was truly her own obstacle. If she could make sure she would survive... but not even her magic worked as expected here. She had to rely on Herma-Mora’s advice. After all, there was no other way she could leave anymore. Unless she somehow willed herself out. She was not sure it would be so easy.

And so, after an undefinably long while of contemplations, she gripped the banister, swinging one leg over it, then another. Mora needed her. He would not let her die just yet... she had to be brave. Daring. Unlike the Yrith of the real world.

She took a breath, then another. Before she could take the third, she pushed herself off with all her might.

Notes:

This chapter is probably the hardest one I’ve ever written, for various reasons. I do hope I did a good job and managed to edit out all the ambiguities so that it is readable. Feedback is much welcome!

It was also supposed to be longer, but I decided to split it and move the Shivering Isles part into the next chapter. As such, I also had to rename it – so there will not be two “Path” chapters, but three. The previous one was called “The Path of the Blind”, this one was supposed to be called “The Path of the Mad”, but since there are no Shivering Isles, I’ve decided that the name doesn’t quite fit. So next time, you may look forward to the real Path of the Mad. :)

Chapter 30: The Path of the Mad

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Yrith was falling. The world had turned upside down, then askew, all the shapes becoming blurry smudges on her way. The platforms with their tall fences disappeared from her sight. The air swooshed around her and stole her breath, whistling in her ears, sending tears in her eyes. But she refused to close them, looking ahead instead, to where the greenish surface was mercilessly coming closer. Soon, she would touch it.

But then, it opened.

She stared into a whirlpool raging underneath her. Masses of dark liquid swirled in an endless circle, inviting her inside. She was still falling, deeper and deeper, until the liquid was all around her. But she never made contact. Before she could, the world became dark, all vision fading into a shapeless blur. The sound of the wild waters all around her filled her ears. The uniform humming deafened her, taking away all sense of direction. It grew louder. Closer. Darker. Until it took every inch of her. And then, there was nothing at all.

She could not determine the moment it had become so quiet. There was nothing around, only emptiness, devoid of color, or sound, or warmth. Her world had shrunk into the sheer essence of her presence. She tried speaking, but she had no voice. She tried touching, but there was nothing to touch with and nothing to be touched. She tried looking, but there was nothing to be seen. It was void all around.

She wanted to scream. Her only companion were her frantic thoughts, searching for whatever was happening. Was she dead? Had she ceased to exist? But her mind still worked. It was the only thing that worked. She could not feel her body, she could not see. She was alone in complete darkness, in the middle of literally nothing. She would close her eyes, but she had no eyes either. Even a tremble of her body would be a welcome sign, but there was nothing. Fear gripped her. This could not be her destination.

She did not know if time passed here, nor if there was any at all. Words were difficult to form in her mind, as if they too did not exist anymore. There was something primal in this way of existence, like that single thought preceding all creation. It scared her that she could not take a breath to calm herself, or grip something, or do just about anything. She needed to calm down. She needed to find a way. But how when nothing seemed to exist here? In the end, there was still fear... fear of not having control. Fear of forgetting. Fear of vanishing entirely.

Instinctively, she clung to every memory she had. She pictured them in her mind as best she could, shapeless, colorless, odorless. But still hers. There was the sound of flapping books. The smell of dust on them, and the joy of sifting through them. There was Cain’s lonely face, yet warm smile. Leyna’s slender figure, sharp tongue and secret longing for affection. Keneel-La’s beady eyes, lightly sparkling with kindness and hard with determination. Urag’s brute features, and the grumpy voice that made her feel comfort. And Singird... the ever so demanding Singird, with his hard look, yet a gentle side that he so carefully hid from others. The smell of starched linens and smuggled tea on him. She fixed her mind on the memory of his person, picturing every line in his face, painting it on the canvas of nothingness before her.

The darkness threatened to swallow her, but sooner than that, she would swallow the darkness. She would drown it in thoughts, break free of its curse.

Slowly, her mind found peace. She kept picturing things. Everything she could remember. Everything she could think of. Mountains and snow, and the flapping of dragon wings. The sun’s warmth. The sound of wind in her ears and its caress on her face. Trees and hills, and seagulls on the horizon...

The air was lukewarm and salty. She felt herself breathe. And shake.

She opened her eyes. She was staring into plumped dirt, smelling the fresh soil. Her body lay on the ground, twisted but unhurt. Shakily, she gathered herself and sat up. The land she had entered was not Apocrypha. There was sea, but its color was a welcome bluish green, revealing fringes of multi-colored kelp in its depths. Water lapped gently on the shore of dark soil and littered pebbles. She turned to the other side, finding a grove of larches and oaks. The sky was blue and white, sunlight streaming down from behind a bushy cumulus. Her eyes scanned the land over and over again, wide in disbelief. If she was in the Shivering Isles, they looked surprisingly... normal.

She stood, testing her strength. Her body listened without a hint of protest. Surely then, she could not be awake in her own world.

The trees in the grove rustled, inviting her inside. Yrith looked around, but there was hardly anywhere else she could go. Hesitantly, she took a step toward the wall of greenery. The ground seemed to hold her firmly. The air smelled of salt mixed with the freshness of the vegetation. She remembered this scent from long ago, when she had always stared at the vastness of the sea from the Daggerfall embankments, embraced by home, yet invited by that glittering horizon. She could imagine spending an eternity here, just looking, with no need to go anywhere. Her memories would keep her company.

She sighed, slapping herself lightly on the cheeks. The image of the Dragonborn and the purpose she had back where she had come from seemed so distant now. More distant than the far edge of the sea. Perhaps if she stayed long enough, she would forget them entirely.

Clenching her fists, Yrith walked into the grove. Immediately, the air felt cooler. She shivered, stepping over the roots of a crooked, ancient-looking oak tree. It seemed to have a wrinkled face, or, rather, several faces, looking into different directions. She stared at it, wondering if it was only an illusion or if the tree was staring back. She waited, but nothing happened. It simply gazed at her, as if measuring her worth. At last, she shrugged, searching for the place where the ferns and brushes would be the thinnest. There was no path to follow, no indication of the way she could go. And so she simply walked, letting her feet choose the way.

The infinite brushwood was difficult to cross. Her feet rose and sank in a nearly scripted pattern, scratched and whipped by the numerous twigs. She could see no regularities, nothing that could even remotely lead her in a definite direction. She looked up at the sky, but the thick vault of branches above her head obstructed her view. The leaves moved back and forth in a hypnotic motion, capturing her in a moment of stillness. The wind that brushed them whispered in her ears. Somewhere far beyond the rustling, she could hear its voice. And her name in it.

She turned abruptly to where the wind blew. It created a path, opening the branches and leaves to form passage. Yrith watched it with doubt, extending her hand into the air. If it was illusion, then it affected her sense of touch as well. Was she being led after all? She scanned the area around her. It was still the same place with plants anywhere she looked, wild, impassable. Safe for that one path that she was sure had not been there moments before. She searched for the way she had come. There was nothing. The thicket she had kicked down to let her pass seemed to have grown back to its full height. Maybe even taller. She bit her lip. This pattern seemed awfully familiar.

There was no other way but to follow the path that was created for her. Her feet trod lightly on the grass, finding the free, soft spots, following the whispers. She felt them more than she heard them, the beckoning, just like back in Daggerfall, but now they were so clear to her. Sweet. Meant for just her and her alone.

They seemed to lead her further and further into the wood. She stopped counting the time or thinking about her purpose. The whispers were now all she needed. This voice caressing her arms and hair. It was gentle, soothing. She could forget all the pain. She could leave it behind. Stay here forever.

The breeze had become fresher as she went. She looked curiously at the path ahead, stopping for the briefest of moments just to take in the scent. It was familiar. Too familiar. She buried her hand in the curtain of ivy just before her, moving it aside. Salty wind filled her nostrils. She stared at the shore before her, the same one she had initially left. Dumbstruck, she took a few steps, her feet finding the pebbles. It felt just the same as when she had woken up. She looked up and blinked. The clouds had not changed. The sun still shone from behind them, sending down golden pillars of light. She looked back at the grove, but the path she had walked was now lost. She must have spent hours there, but still, everything was the same.

“Impossible,” she said out loud, wincing at the sound of her own voice. She put a hand on her chest and huffed. She was still breathing. She could move and speak. But the world around her was frozen in time. Or, perhaps, in a loop.

She looked around, but there was no way of circling the grove. On both sides, the rocky beach was surrounded by looming cliffs of black and red sandstone, too steep to be climbed. If she didn’t want to go back, she had to step into the sea. But she doubted the same thing would work twice.

The grove twinkled at her with tiny droplets of water on its leaves. Yrith looked at it pensively. Before she knew it, she was making her way to it again, removing the branches that obstructed her entrance. This time, she circled the crooked oak from the other side, taking a different way. Again, she found no regularities, nothing to focus on. She took a random path, stepping over roots and vines of thornbush, removing the giant ferns. Again, as she went, she could hear the wind whisper to her, carrying the sweet sound of her own name on its currents. Sometimes it swirled around her, making her turn after it. As she did, she saw out of the corner of her eye the bushes move, closing one way, opening another. It did not matter anymore. The wind knew her heart. It wanted her to forget everything. The path did not matter. The purpose did not matter. She did not matter, and the thought was strangely liberating. She took in the air, stopping in her tracks. The moss was so soft and warm. She sat for a while with her back to a patulous tree, smiling at the patches of light showing through the canopy of leaves. What else did she need in the end?

She closed her eyes. The breeze was so gentle. It was warm enough to provide comfort, cold enough to feel refreshing. The moisture from the wood felt nearly drinkable. She did not miss anything. Darkness engulfed her. Sweet, soothing darkness...

Her hand reached blindly for the moss, brushing its surface. It felt almost like a duvet. Soft and welcoming, like an island of warmth in the middle of eternal winter. Except...

There was no winter.

She opened her eyes. How could she ever forget? Where would all the comfort go if there was no struggle to counter it?

She rubbed her temples, trying to focus on a single spot. A twig on the ground... but the ground moved. Just like everything else, even the moss under her was moving, shifting endlessly. There was no place that would stay steady, nothing that would not try lulling her into some sort of forgetful delirium. Why was she here? She closed her eyes again, visualizing a memory. Now, a single image was enough. A blind creature with ashen skin, raising its chitin blade to strike. Of course. That was where it had all begun. She needed to find Septimus Signus, talk to him and then go back to where the Dragonborn and her friends waited for her. She repeated it to herself once, twice, thrice. She kept repeating it as she jumped to her feet, covering her ears to shut out the voices from the outside. Blindly, she rushed through the woods, letting the twigs whip her and leave a vast net of thin red lines on her skin. She ran, kicking the vegetation away, not looking, not thinking. When the vines caught her hand, she twisted it out of their grip. When she tripped, she stood back and ran on. It seemed to take ages. Until, again, she felt the salty breeze on her skin and opened her eyes, finding herself back on the shore, still under that same cumulus obstructing the sunlight. She sighed, sinking to her knees.

“What in Oblivion is this place?” she hissed under her breath.

A laugh came in response, accompanied by the sound of clapping hands. Yrith turned around abruptly, staring at her unexpected company.

“What in Oblivion indeed? What in Oblivion... oh wait. This is Oblivion!”

The man’s hair and beard were greyed, yet his golden cat-like eyes were full of life. He was thin, scrawny almost, but bore no signs of hunger. His garments were rich, half purple, half vermillion, almost like a jester’s. He stared at her with a strangely crooked smile, seemingly enjoying himself for no apparent reason. Yrith stared back, wondering how she was expected to react.

“So... I take it I have reached the Shivering Isles?” she tried, feeling the ground become wobbly under her.

“Technically, you could say that. Although it has been long since my isles have actually shivered. Suppose they grew heavy with all that cheese their inhabitants consume!” He laughed to himself.

“Your isles? So you are...”

“No! Not yet! Don’t say my name!” His voice fell into a whisper as he put a finger over his lips. “You’ll spoil the surprise!”

Yrith studied his face, unsure what the man was trying to tell her. But after all, if this was the Daedric Prince of Madness, then she could expect just about anything. She cleared her throat, giving herself time to think before she dared respond.

“Surprise? For whom?”

“What?!” the man exclaimed, his eyes bulging. “Me, of course! Who else? Or wait... it could be the boneman standing right behind you, couldn’t it?”

Instinctively, Yrith glanced over her shoulder. There was nothing. The man laughed.

“Ha! Gotcha! Can’t see him, can ya? Well, he’s really there! If you’re mad enough to see him, that is.”

Yrith smiled at that. “But I couldn’t compare with Lord Sheogorath himself, could I?”

“Ah, now you’ve done it! You said my name! Trying to appeal to my ego? Or throw me off balance? Oh, you can’t do that. You see, I have no balance!” He laughed maniacally. “Well well, but you do, don’t you, little mortal? My tricks don’t work on you. You have managed to throw me off my imbalance. To be frank, that’s not a very nice thing to do!”

Yrith blinked. Was he blaming her? Did he expect her to apologize? If so, then for what exactly? Trying to stay sane while wandering through the whispering woods? Indeed, this was a land of madness. Was she supposed to give in? No, she couldn’t. Surely if she had done that, there would be no way out. She would stay here forever, trapped in her madness, while the world outside continued its existence without her. Or it would silently cease to exist. She had to go back.

She bowed slightly, resting her eyes on his ridiculously ornate boots with raised tips.

“I apologize,” she said quietly. “But it was necessary. I am searching for answers, not a place to spend my eternity.”

“So you are,” he said, drawing her attention with the sudden change of his tone. She looked up to find his face serene, free of its previous lunacy. “And now you think that you deserve them, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “I’m not the judge of that. But I am willing to fight for them.”

“Fight!” Sheogorath exclaimed again. “What fancy words you mortals like to use. Very well. Then tell me. What part of the Shivering Isles is this? Mania, the realm of bliss, or Dementia, the realm of despair?”

Yrith sized him up, pondering the reason for his question. He could be asking to simply guide her to her destination. Or he could be testing her. He could also be playing with her, driving her into giving a wrong answer. She pondered his innocent-looking smile, not too wide, but not too small. His eyes pierced her with sharpness she would never associate with a madman. Or a mad god, for that matter. Surely if he was asking her a question, there had to be a meaning for it.

Her eyes scanned their surroundings. The place looked peaceful enough to be Mania but dull enough to also be Dementia. There was sun, but there were also clouds. The grove she had entered was neither light nor dark. The wind that had whispered to her invited for gods knew what. She could imagine being lured into blissful forgetfulness or dumped into a pit of despair with no way out. Perhaps it could do both. And then, there was the walking in circles, through unexpected paths and openings. Thrilling in the process, frightful in its entirety. Where was she? At some kind of a boundary?

She closed her eyes and heard familiar words. Those spoken by Hermaeus Mora just before he had bid her farewell.

“Oblivion is not your world. There are no paths to walk or road signs to follow.”

Of course. She smiled.

“It is both. Or none, depending how you look at it. Mania and Dementia were never places to begin with. Just aspects of this realm. Choices to be made.” She threw up her arms in a gesture containing all of the Shivering Isles. Sheogorath laughed.

“Well! Well! Look at the little mortal, beating a Daedric Prince in his own game! Now, is your answer right? That’s the question, isn’t it? I’d say it’s as good as any!” He gave her a meaningful look. “Suppose you want some cheese now, but not yet! But very well, you’ve proven yourself. You see, you’ve had your path open before you all this time. All you need to do is to go to that oak with four faces and ask it for directions! Isn’t that brilliant? I’d say insanely so! Now go! Chop chop!”

Yrith raised a brow, taking a while to consider him. Brilliant indeed. She could not decide if he was mad or a genius. She settled for both.

He regarded her with a piercing gaze that could be both significant and impatient. She quickly bowed, backing away and making for the grove again. For the third time, she entered it, stopping by the old oak. It gaped at her with its mouths open and eyes wide, doing its mad home proper justice. She opened her mouth, suddenly feeling ridiculous. Was she really supposed to speak to a tree?

With a sigh, she shook her head. By the time she left this place, she would truly be mad.

“Er, hello?” she tried.

Nothing happened.

“I’m looking for Septimus Signus.”

Silence. She waited, watching the tree closely. At one moment, it seemed as if its mouth moved, but perhaps it was just a play of light. No sound came out of it, no answer reached her. She rubbed her temples.

“He’s a scholar. Specializes in the Elder Scrolls. And he was sent here by Hermaeus Mora.”

Still no reply. She frowned.

“Hello? Is there anyone who could lead me to him?”

A quiet rustle was all the reaction the tree gave to her. Yrith looked around, wondering if Sheogorath had meant another tree, but there was none other that would even remotely resemble a face. Was she supposed to do something else? Touch it? Ask in a different way?

Gingerly, she extended a hand, brushing against the bark. It was coarse under her touch, just like she would expect of oak tree bark. She spoke to it again. A loud crack tore the air just beside her. With a start, she jumped aside, staring at the grinning figure of Sheogorath.

“Well, who would have guessed! At last, you fell for something! I was almost afraid this moment wouldn’t come. All right then, I suppose you deserve some cheese for the entertainment. But really though, did you seriously believe that a tree would answer to you? A tree? A piece of wood?! Are you perhaps... mad?”

The last word was drawled with a generous amount of affection. He stretched his arms toward her as if to embrace her. Yrith’s mouth twitched.

“I’m still not planning to be,” she uttered curtly. She was quite certain that if Sheogorath simply decided to keep her, he would accomplish just that. She was entirely at his mercy. The thought gave her shivers. She scanned the pattern on his jester-like outfit, trying to figure out what it symbolized just to get the whole affair out of her head.

“That’s a shame. Madness is liberating. You would see... but oh well. Not even a mad god can have everything, can he? Then perhaps another time.” He gave a wink. “Now, what shall we do about you? Oh, I know! Haskill, dear, would you grace us with your presence?”

Yrith could feel a swirl of magic in the air before another figure appeared just by Sheogorath’s side. This time, it was a balding man, very much unlike his master. A human for sure, looking almost unusually ordinary. As he studied the scene, he gave a long, weary sigh.

“Yes, Lord Sheogorath?”

“Oh Haskill, why the long face again?” Sheogorath gave the man an affectionate pat. “Now what did I... hmm. I forget. Never mind that. Let’s have a cheese party! And a cake with topping made of people’s entrails! Not bad, eh?”

Yrith’s eyes widened in disbelief. Haskill simply rolled his eyes.

“That’s a wonderful idea, My Lord,” he said, and Yrith was quite sure he considered the idea to be everything but wonderful. “But before that, I dare assume there were some other things you wished to take care of?”

Sheogorath pursed his lips. Yrith pondered whether she found the childish disappointment on his aged face amusing or upsetting.

“My dear Haskill, must you always take the boring side? All right, all right. Please, escort our guest to the Link. And you, dear mortal,” he turned to Yrith, “I will see you again, I am sure. You will remember me when the world leaves no place for sanity. And then you’ll be plucking eyes in my name! Well, that’s that. Don’t forget to knock on your head before you enter it. We must not forget our manners, eh? Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I’m afraid I must leave. You be good now. Toodle-oo!”

With that, Sheogorath’s figure dissolved, leaving nothing but a faint quiver in the air. Yrith let out a breath, taking a glance at Haskill. The man released another sigh, dusting his robes.

“Please, forgive my Lord Sheogorath’s whims,” he spoke, adopting a funeral tone. “He so does enjoy when a guest arrives to entertain him.”

Yrith nodded slowly, unsure of how to respond. One part of her wished to address Haskill’s apparent normalcy, but she would prefer not to do anything that might upset the person tasked with guiding her to her destination. Even in this dream world, exhaustion was slowly beginning to take a toll on her. She missed the Dragonborn sorely. Perhaps she had already said things that would bring her demise. Perhaps she would say them shortly. For once, she would welcome the chance to say whatever was on her mind without the fear of being smitten off the surface of whatever land she was standing on. She missed Keneel-La’s guidance.

“Where are we going then?” she said, trying to make it sound conversational, rather than pressing. Haskill sighed again.

“Ah, that. I must say Lord Sheogorath must be feeling rather generous today, not putting you through any real trials.” Yrith contained a snort, wondering what Haskill would call the whispering wood. “So I suppose you would now like to see the Sage. Then I shall create passage. But on you will go on your own.”

Yrith’s brow quirked up. “The Sage?”

The man shook his head, looking at her like a father disappointed at his child’s ignorance. “Have you not connected the dots yet? Is your pursuit blind, like a fly chasing the light at night in hopes to find the sun? Your journey here is no coincidence. It has never been. Even the Dragonborn realized it. A moment too late, of course. Either way, he could never prevent you from venturing here. If only you told him about the message you found in your parents’ old library. He would realize then that he never had a say in where fate took you.”

Yrith took a moment to process his words. What was he saying? No, it couldn’t be...

Find the Mad Sage of Time.

Had she really been that ignorant? Had the answer been lying before her all that time? A book and a message from her parents. The last words of Selas Travi. They all had one thing in common. She shook her head, wishing for a bed and a moment of quiet to ponder everything, which she could not afford. A sigh escaped her lips. Her head hurt, heavy with turbulent thoughts. Dream or not, her head hurt.

“Take me to him, please,” she said wearily. He nodded.

As he raised his hands, a portal glowing in shades of dark blue and violet opened before him. He stepped aside, providing passage to Yrith.

“When you enter this portal, you will find yourself in a cave. There, you will meet the Link. He will guide you on. You should hurry. Your mind is strong, but still mortal. You seem to be crumbling.”

Yrith did not need to ask what he meant. She felt her strength leaving her slowly. She did not dare contemplate what would await her if she succumbed to the power of this realm. All she knew now was that she had spent too much time in Oblivion. Every moment now drained her. She had been foolish to think she could just walk it freely.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“I am only fulfilling my duty. Don’t forget to call me when you’re done. I have my doubts that you would make it out on your own. Although my Lord would be more than pleased to welcome you among his precious subjects.”

She smiled faintly, nodding. Then, with a slight bow, she stepped forward, entering the portal.

Wild humming filled her ears. She covered them instinctively. Her head throbbed as though it should split any moment. She waited, feeling magic all around her. It enveloped her with its innumerous tendrils, pushing her forward, into a place unknown. She let it take her, following its lead. A few moments later, the humming ceased, leaving a thrumming echo in her ears. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness.

The room she had entered was a small square-shaped place, crowned by two very much unidentifiable armless statues, one looking up, one down. Between them was raised a platform, touching each of them with its opposite tips. On the remote tip from Yrith stood a throne-like chair. In it sat the oldest-looking man she had ever seen. Despite having barely any wrinkles, with his snow-white hair, ghostly pale complexion and deep dark circles under his eyes, he seemed ancient. Yrith stared at him, then winced as the portal behind her disappeared. He gave a low nod.

“Ah, so the doom is upon us,” he said, his voice nearly as resigned as Haskill’s. Yrith gave him a questioning look.

“Erm...”

“Yes, you want to know. Your face says it all. You want to know who I am, you want to know what I meant, you even want to know why you’re here in the first place. You seek answers. One would say I should be able to provide them. All of them...

“My name is Dyus. You might have heard of me, or you might not have. I was once a librarian. The Librarian. The Keeper of the Great Library of Jyggalag. I was also once the Last Remnant, the only thing that was left of the said library after Jyggalag so unceremoniously transformed into Sheogorath. I am now the Link, which connects this world with the world of the New Jyggalag, and with some others. Ah, yes, and more questions bloom in your mind as I speak these words, don’t they? No, I am not here to give you a history lesson. And no, I am not mad.

“As for your other questions... I cannot answer. Once, I believed that I knew every event that had ever happened and that was to unfold in the future. Every person, every fate, all was recorded. I knew the library by heart. And yet... two centuries ago, a person came who contradicted all the records and changed this land forever. Now you come. You, of whom there are no records whatsoever. We have entered a new era. A new timeline, perhaps. One where there is no such thing as certainty. One where the future is written as it unfolds and where even past can perhaps be altered as long as its memory remains intact. You are the Great Anomaly. I do not even know your name.”

Yrith felt the urge to rub her head. She could not understand the man’s words. Was he mad? No, true to his words, he did not seem to be possessed by the curse of this land. In fact, she felt as though few people were truly mad here. Maybe Sheogorath’s madness was something that could be understood. Maybe it did not exist to begin with. She studied him, but there was nothing she could read from his face.

“Yrith,” she uttered quietly. “My name is Yrith Ravencroft.”

“Yrith, The One Who Speaks True, as spoken in the tongue of the old elves in times when they were all still one people,” Dyus nodded in acknowledgement. “You carry a good name. Tell me, Yrith, what is it that you seek?”

“I’m looking for a man called Septimus Signus. But... I thought everyone knew. Lord Sheogorath knew. Haskill knew as well.”

“I am not part of this world, and neither am I part of any others. Unlike them, I am confined here, with no ability to observe the outer realms. What they know, I do not.

“Anyway, the scholar. Indeed, he may have answers that I don’t. But extracting them will not be easy. I am afraid the man is rather more... affected by his insight than I am. He was just a mortal, after all. And he has observed. He has calculated. He knows... too much for his own good.”

“I was told,” Yrith said. “But I still need to see him.”

“So you do. At this time of the day, he is usually deep inside the tunnels underneath this complex. You will have to follow the stars to get there. He has a curious weakness for stars.”

Dyus gestured to the statue on his right, the one looking down. Yrith stared at it, wondering what she was supposed to do. When he said nothing, she walked to the statue and circled it, studying its scarce detail. Only on her third round did she notice a tiny circle of stars embedded in the statue’s pedestal. She touched it... and the statue moved, revealing a staircase.

“Quite trite, I know,” sighed Dyus. “But he wouldn’t have it another way.”

Yrith smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be going then.”

“Indeed. I have a feeling you might not have the chance to say goodbye afterwards. I suggest you make haste. You look tired. I wish you safe journey.”

Yrith dropped a curtsy before descending the stairs, his words weighing on her with the gravity of all Oblivion. With a dull, lifeless sound, the stone fell back in place. She gave it a frown. She had no idea how she could ever go back. It seemed that the path led only forward.

The corridor she had entered was lit by a myriad of tiny gold and silver stones covering the low ceiling, truly reminiscent of stars. Yrith noticed they even formed constellations, some of which she knew, others she saw for the first time. They seemed to form a pattern of sorts, like a chain that was meant to lead her somewhere. She followed it curiously, taking her time to scan the artificial sky. She saw repetitions, always in the same pattern, but never quite identical, as if the constellations shifted slightly as they progressed.

Staring at the strange path above her head, she cried out as she hit the wall. The stars made her dizzy. In fact, everything made her dizzy. She took a breath, speeding up. Now the stars seemed to be dancing before her. Above her. At her sides. Everywhere. Her fists clenched instinctively as she hurried through the years of stellar history, or at least that was what she suspected the incessant constellations to be. She wondered how long she had been here. Hours? Days? Weeks? Time was hard to count in Oblivion. For sure her time was up. She did not have long, and in that short time, she would somehow have to find the strength to gain information from a man she had never seen and suspected to be as mad as they said. She closed her eyes for a while, walking blindly, trusting her instinct rather than the sight that seemed to fail her. And then she felt the air swirl around her. She opened her eyes to see... the universe. It expanded before her, forming a dome of sorts, or whatever vast area she had just entered. And in its middle, on the biggest planet there was to see, sat a greyed man, whispering inarticulately to himself. She could only hope that this was Septimus Signus.

She walked closer, now treading over myriads of tiny flickering dots, hardly able to tell up from down. Her pace was slow and wary, her legs trying to keep the fragile balance that kept her, to her knowledge, standing. The man paid her no heed. He sat bent over something, entirely absorbed in whatever he was doing. But when the distance between them had shrunk to merely three feet, he let out a low growl.

“Not a step closer, abomination,” he said, not bothering to look up.

Yrith froze. She did not have to see his face to know that he meant the last word. He knew exactly who she was. And she was not in his favor.

“I’m sorry?” she tried.

“Don’t pretend you did not hear. Even the stars hear. Everything hears. You hear even better. Your auditory apparatus serves you well enough, does it not? Stars have none. Look how they flicker with envy at your life. And yet you waste it on meaningless squabbles, trying to decide the fate of the world that is well out of your hands. Your magic serves nothing. You might as well dissolve in it… and less harm comes to us.”

“Excuse me, but...”

“Excuse you? Why should I? What have you done to deserve it? Your past is marked with blood. Your future is marked with your past. And your past is marked with your future. And therefore, your future... you should know the drill. What do you have to redeem yourself? You deny all the constants! The world has truly gone into a loop, and yet you stand here, unaware, your consciousness well out of the circle that you yourself have created. Do you realize what you’ve done? Of course not! Because you have not done it yet, have you? And yet you have. It is so simple, and still, you cannot grasp it. And to think you should have an exceptional mind. What do you truly have?”

Yrith’s head hurt with all the words flooding in her ears, making as little sense to her as this whole place. She was tired. She wanted to just sleep. And she had no idea how she could ask this man for information.

She let out a breath.

“I only have questions,” she said.

“Questions. Of course. We all have questions, don’t we? Time is our ultimate question. Fate. It all lies in the stars. Tell me, mortal scourge. What guarantee do you have that if you ask me, I will give you a true answer?”

Yrith shrugged wearily. She was not able to play with him anymore, like she had played with Hermaeus Mora and Sheogorath. Her mind was cloudy, her legs shaking. “None,” she breathed. “I’m willing to bet on it. You gave the Dragonborn a true answer when he asked, didn’t you?”

“The circumstances were different! All probabilities worked in my favor. All eventualities would lead to the same conclusion.”

“And now they don’t?”

For the first time, he lifted his head. His eyes, as far as Yrith could tell in the dim light of the stars, were clouded, set deep in his wrinkled face.

“What?”

Yrith raised her brows, suppressing a weary smile. “I asked if they don’t. The eventualities. Don’t they lead to the same conclusion?”

“You really don’t understand anything, do you? Time loop! There is no conclusion! Thanks to you!” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “None. There should be. But there isn’t. Now where did it go, eh? Did you take it away? Someone before you? You don’t even know, do you? But you are in the middle of it. You led the world here. Now lead it out.”

The throbbing in Yrith’s head grew stronger and louder. She wished to press her hands against it, make it stop at any cost. She could see no true madness in this man, yet she could not understand a word of what he was saying. Or was she becoming mad as well, feeling as though this place was rather filled with normalcy? What would happen if she did not make it back to her world? Would she stay and eventually be as mad as everyone here? She grimaced, half in exhaustion, half in concentration. What could she say to make him answer? What would she even ask? She had doubts he would answer more than one question from her. If he answered at all.

“Please,” she breathed. “Name. I’m looking for a name... the name. The name lost in time. Could you help me?”

“Indeed you are, aren’t you?” he muttered, turning back to his own shadow. Yrith, her eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the darkness, could make out the shape of a small circular platform. The man seemed to be drawing a diagram of sorts on it, even if she could not tell what exactly he was drawing. To her, it appeared as though all the lines and dots he made were invisible. Perhaps he was creating another constellation. She would never know. “The old secret. The one that you should have never uncovered.”

Yrith opened her mouth to ask more, but closed it again, the words of Septimus Signus sinking in slowly, like a torn wing of a butterfly falling on the ground.

“You mean to tell me,” she said thoughtfully, trying to place the new piece of the puzzle in her head, “that I... already did? Do I know the name?”

“Do you?” he laughed. “That is a wrong question. Did you? Yes. Will you? Yes. Or perhaps. Depends on how you look at it. Do you now? Take a guess.”

“I...”

“You do not understand. I know. You cannot understand. You are a paradox. But you so desperately want me to be a part of it, don’t you?”

He looked up at her, fixing his eyes on hers. She could see them almost clearly now. She wished she could turn away from his accusation, but she could not.

“That’s not the point,” she whispered weakly.

“What difference does it make?”

She tried to breathe deeply, not taking her eyes off him. Her chest felt tight, under pressure. Everything felt tight. Her thoughts mingled without order, escaping her grasp whenever she tried to get hold of them. She was in no position to reason with anyone. But still...

Unwillingly, she sank to her knees.

“What difference does it make?” she repeated, letting the words ring in her head. “What difference does it make if you tell me what I need to know, if the future is given?”

“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it? If I gave you the answer, I might as well be telling you everything. And the world would burst and implode, and time would be no more. You will have to figure that out for yourself.”

“But I have no means!”

The man laughed maniacally, leaning toward her. Her breath seized up in her throat as he drew closer, scanning every bit of her as if her sole existence amused him.

“Very well,” he whispered in her ear, “I will make an exception, even if it makes no difference. You talk about means, and by means, you mean power. Power to bend time, power to leap, power to transcend the borders of your own existence. But there are three things that you should know. First, you, and only you, are the master of your existence. If it has any borders at all, those were created by you, and you are the one who can take them down. The world that you see – Nirn, this realm of Oblivion, Mundus, even me... this is your world, and it is shaped by your own mind. Second, everything lies in the stars. In their patterns... Magnus, in his rush, created a guide for our time. Magic pours through the stars, and this magic can be sent back. You have seen the mechanism before. The Dwemer knew it. The conjurers of the old knew it. And you know it. Only, for some reason, no one ever thought to connect it with just time. And third...” he let out a snort. “Well, you already have all the means necessary. What do you think guided you to me? The very thing you were looking for. By the time you learned about it, your fate was already written there. And it is being written as we speak.”

“My... fate? What do you...”

The words died in her throat. Yrith gasped as the world turned with her, the stars from all around penetrating her closed lids to dance before her eyes in a mad waltz. She could not hear his next words. The darkness from her journey was forcing its way back in. This was her limit, she would not get any further. She clenched her fists, trying to remember how she would leave.

Oh, yes. Haskill...

“... go, before your life wanes... protect... time loop...” The words were muffled, nonsensical. With the last bit of strength, she gathered her magic. She had never tried to summon a person, especially not when in Oblivion itself. But it was the only thing she had, as her voice had left her. She concentrated on the flow, her mind clinging to it as though it was the only thing that existed anymore. She spread it and called. The darkness threatened to swallow her. She wanted to hear her own voice, to feel her breath, to feel anything. She called again. And again.

When nothing happened, she screamed, expecting the sound to die on her nonexistent lips. But it tore through the darkness, opening the view before her once more. It resonated through the air, flew into every crevice, penetrated the walls, until it was gone, leaving just a faint echo to resonate in her bones. Before her stood Haskill, giving his usual sigh.

“About time,” he said dispassionately. “Even Lord Sheogorath started growing restless. Something about explosions and the end of cheese... Now I expect your business is done here, correct? Judging by your state, you would not do much of it anyway.”

Yrith scowled, drawing a raspy breath. Her business was far from done. But she nodded meekly, feeling pain in her skin, as though it was dissolving.

“Yes, please...”

“Very well. Then sleep.”

“What?”

“Go back to sleep. The real one. Let your mind drift away. Yes, yes, I know what you’re going to ask. But see, it is that easy. You just leave. Awaken in your own world and let us exist a bit longer. Go.”

Yrith stared at him, but before she could move a muscle in her face, he touched her temples and pressed. Darkness spread before her once more, but it was different. She felt herself falling, deeper, deeper, just like when she travelled here. She trembled, wrapping her arms about herself. She had enough falls, enough depths. If only she could rise. If only she could grow wings, like a dragon, so that she would not have to go through this. She was tired, so tired...

Then even the feeling of falling disappeared. Everything stilled for a moment, the absolute silence taking over for the shortest of moments, spreading cold throughout Yrith’s body. Then, everything went alive at once. Her magic, her voice... she could feel them both bursting before leaving her lying on the floor, helpless.

She could hear the heartbeat of an engine. She could feel warmth, contrasting the rivers of sweat on her face. There was breath brushing against her skin. And whispers.

She opened her eyes and gasped.


He opened his eyes and gasped.

“Master Larkwing?”

The voice was curious, rather than concerned. Singird knew why.

“You heard it too,” he exhaled.

“The Khajiit did as well,” another voice joined, soft and velvety. Their silver-patched companion was looking eastward, into the distance. Somewhere beyond those clouds, a complex of golden-domed towers would stand proud, looming over a vast valley.

“Let’s set out,” Singird said firmly as he stood up, shaking his bedroll off his person.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“And by daybreak, it may already be too late. Everyone knows where she is now. He knows...”

“But will we even make a difference?”

Singird gritted his teeth, forgetting his magic as he forcefully rolled up his makeshift bed, nearly tearing the belt he used to tie it apart.

“Let’s just go and find out,” he hissed. He did not know whether to feel happy or anxious. He finally knew where Yrith was. He could pinpoint her location with a needle on a life-sized map. But he was not the only one.

Notes:

I found this wonderful Sheogorath & Haskill fanart which I just have to share with you. :) No idea who the original artist is as there are more sources to be found and it’s pretty much untraceable for me, but whoever it is, I praise their ability to capture expressions. Bethesda could learn!

Chapter 31: Recalling the Transmundane

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 31: Recalling the Transmundane

Those faces were familiar. Wrinkled, worried faces. Always worried. Always full of shadows from this angle. The greenish light from the surrounding lamps gave them an extra tint of unhealthiness. They were still, contrasting the constant drumming of the engines somewhere in the background, echoing from wall to wall, supplementing the heavy scent of dust and oil. Dust and oil for the old Dwemer automatons, sweat and blood for Yrith. She could feel every inch of them on her person.

She tried to feel her body. Bend her fingers. It did not listen. Her leg, the one hit by the venomous dart, burned, yet the pain felt as distant as the day it had been injured. The rest lay slumped, unable to move. She opened her mouth to speak to the faces above her. From her mouth came a primal, raspy sound, like the grinding of a whetstone. It hurt.

“Water,” one of the faces said, and in that instant, a hand appeared just by Yrith’s lips, holding a waterskin. She let them lift her and pour the soothing liquid in, fighting not to cough and spit it out instantly. A cold wave sank down her throat, spreading new life. Yrith blinked. Her vision sharpened almost painfully. She took in a deep breath to get her body to work.

“Welcome back,” a voice said, “to the world of the living.”

Yrith frowned, pondering whether the Dragonborn knew where she had gone, or if it was simply a figure of speech. At his sides, Cain and Leyna only expressed relief.

“How long...” Yrith wheezed quietly. The rest of the sentence froze on her lips. How many times had it been already that she’d asked this question?

“Divines only know,” came a thoughtful reply. “We don’t know ourselves how many days we spent searching for you all around Blackreach. Daylight doesn’t reach here... We only found you when we gave up all hopes.”

Yrith’s eyes widened as she fought her exhaustion. “You... searched for me? When? Where? How did you find me?”

Three pairs of eyebrows arched at the question. Yrith scanned them cautiously, one after another.

“What?”

Keneel-La shook his head. “You don’t remember getting separated from us?”

Yrith did not reply, but his nod told her he had read her face.

Leyna gave a quiet snort. “We lost you when the Falmer were chasing us. You helped us escape, remember? The two of us... raised a ward,” her voice fell into a whisper. In the shadow of her face, dark against the bright, greenish light likely coming from one of the Dwemer lamps, Yrith could swear she saw a flush creep into her elven face. A flush and a hint of modest pride. “But then, when we broke into a run, you were suddenly just... gone.”

“Gone where?”

“You tell us. The road did not fork anywhere.”

Both Keneel-La and Cain gave supportive nods.

Yrith let her eyes close by themselves. She was quite certain she had not just lost her way. She had been led away from them, perhaps by none other than Hermaeus Mora. The only thing she did not know was what part of her journey had been a dream and what part had been real.

“Where are we?” she asked just to keep the conversation going. She heard a light chuckle in reply.

“That’s the thing,” Keneel-La hummed thoughtfully. “There’s a story about this place. I will tell you once you regain a bit of strength.”

His words woke her up with immediate effect. She opened her eyes, inspecting her surroundings. They seemed to be at the end of a strangely curved corridor. The path wound around something akin to a huge kettle made of the gold-like Dwemer metal. Occasionally, it was adorned by circular engravings. Lenses made in green glass had been planted on the perimeters of the circles, forming constellations of sorts. Strangely enough, they seemed untouched by the layers of dust which could be found everywhere else. From the top of the kettle shone light in many separate beams, painting a glowing kaleidoscope on the outer wall. The rest of the corridor remained shrouded in shade save for the few places lit by lamps.

Yrith tried to send out a thin strand of magic, touching the walls and sliding up. The kettle-like wall led to a dome elevated high above them, holding a rather complex mechanism of movable glass panes. And on top of it was...

She could not contain her gasp as her magic touched the object. If it even was an object. A great rush of energy greeted her, so strong she had never felt anything like that before, even counting the focal points at the College of Winterhold. It was ancient. It was powerful. She drew back out of fear of being swallowed. Then, she gave the Dragonborn a shy look. He frowned. He must have guessed what she had done.

“Later,” he said firmly. “Let me bring you something to eat.”

She was not hungry, but arguing with Keneel-La would be about as effective as trying to chase a skeever away with a slice of cheese. She sighed, trying to ignore the curious looks of Cain and Leyna, sitting by her side and roving between her and the Dragonborn. The lizard moved away, disappearing from Yrith’s sight.

“Did he tell you what this place is?” Yrith turned to her friends. They shook their heads.

“First time hearing about a story,” Cain muttered. “The two of you... spend a lot of time discussing things we don’t know about.”

If she had not spent the recent days lying injured in the middle of a Dwemer maze, Yrith would have blushed. Now, only the tingle at the nape of her neck reminded her that poor Cain knew nothing of what had transpired between her and the Dragonborn. Nothing about Apocrypha. Nothing about the Elder Scroll. She exchanged silent looks with Leyna. The elf gave an unreadable smile and nodded.

Yrith looked at the Dunmer boy at her side. When had she grown so fond of him? There was nothing left of that sly, mean classmate she remembered back from Winterhold. His eyes spoke pure affection. Devoted, unsuspecting, almost like a child that had not known perfidy. She sighed. He of all people...

The truth would hurt him. She could not do anything but help him conquer that hurt.

“Cain, there’s… something I should tell you,” she said, feeling a familiar lump settle in her throat. “A lot of things.”

Cain froze. Then he frowned, forcing an unconvincing smile on his lips.

“You don’t have to push it. I understand you have a lot on your plate as it is.”

“No, I have to push it. You’ve given me so much… I know you’re afraid for me. So then at least… let me be open with you.”

Cain’s frown deepened. “Which also means I will have to openly let you risk your life at every moment, won’t I?”

Yrith looked away. It would be so easy. So easy to just take him up on his offer and back out of the conversation. The fruit of ignorance smelled too sweet. But she would only be extending the wait.

She shook her head. “Don’t we all risk our lives at every moment?” she uttered softly.

“This is different…” he muttered.

“How is it different?”

She could see Cain’s hands clench. “You’re playing with divine powers here. If you get involved…”

“I was involved before I even knew it. And now it is too late to go back.”

Cain did not like what he heard. She knew from his furrowed brows, from his bent posture that leaned slightly over Yrith as if he was trying to shield her with his own body. She knew from his trembling lips. But she also knew he had been expecting her to say just that. And hoping he would be wrong.

His fingers slid over the floor, his nails scraped the stone as his hand clenched again, producing a sound that gave Yrith the chills.

“Did something happen?” he asked.

Yrith tried to shrug in her prone position, half to shake off the unpleasant vibe. “I just spoke to two Daedric Princes.”

There was silence, only disturbed by the constant pumping of the engines. Yrith felt the looks of her friends bore into her with the intensity of a swooping dragon. Then, three voices rose above the rhythmic thrumming.

“What?!”

Yrith’s eyes slid over the sitting friends and up to the Dragonborn, standing now above them with a waterskin in one hand and a burlap sack in the other. They all shared the same, incredulous expression.

“I’ll explain,” she said.


“How are you still alive and sane?” Keneel-La wondered, handing Yrith another piece of dried meat. She did not take it. Hunger was the last thing on her mind. She felt the eyes of Cain on her person, urging her to at least take a bite. But it seemed the recent events filled not only her mind, but her belly as well.

“Is it so strange?”

“Strange? It’s unthinkable! Normal people go insane after visiting just one realm. Exceptional minds, or people protected by things like dragonblood, like me, can take one. You just stormed through two and you don’t seem even remotely disturbed.”

“I was at my limit by the time I left,” Yrith conceded. She was almost ready to ask what would have happened if she’d succumbed, but she did not want to imagine Cain’s face after such a question.

“You could at least look it.”

She gave a weak laugh, shifting her eyes to Cain fully. He was not looking at her, staring instead at the outer wall. Yrith doubted, however, that a wall was what he saw. Since the moment he had learned about the Elder Scroll and Apocrypha, he had adamantly refused to look at her. Leyna, it seemed, had given up all efforts to placate him, listening in silence, albeit intently, to the conversation. Yrith was almost afraid to ask the next question. And yet, it was all she could think about. She could still feel that field of energy up there, even without reaching out to touch it. It attracted her like a piece of lodestone would attract a hobnail. She was quite certain about what it was. After all, Septimus Signus had told her before.

“Will you tell me about this place, then?” she dared. The Dragonborn gave a long sigh.

“You will not rest until I do, will you?”

She shook her head and felt a smile play on her lips. If she had been tired before, all that exhaustion was now gone. If not for the fact she could barely move, she would have forgotten all that she had been through. She would have jumped on her feet and run to explore. Why she suddenly felt so eager and fresh, she could not explain. The gravity of the situation did not feel so heavy anymore. Even if somewhere at the back of her mind, the fear still lingered. Or perhaps it was the fear itself that now fueled her.

The Dragonborn’s twitching jaws reflected her own curiosity.

“Somehow,” he started slowly, “you were led in your delirium to the ruins of Mzark. The only thing left of them on the surface is the old tower – inaccessible if you don’t have the right key. Which is the only thing that keeps me relatively at ease, because when you woke up, you gave a nice clear magical sign to everyone who might ever be looking for you. And to those who don’t as well.”

Yrith gazed at the lizard with wide eyes.

“I don’t understand... how? Where are we? What happened? I mean... I managed to get in, didn’t I? And what exactly is this place? What do you mean by sign? And...”

Keneel-La raised both of his hands. “Slow down,” he said, drawing in a long stream of air as though he wanted to take Yrith’s share too. “I know this is important for you, but let’s take it one step at a time. In reverse, that is. I will have to answer your last question first.

“I suppose you didn’t realize when you woke up, but... you screamed. And not just that. You released... a wave, I would say. A wave of magicka, not something that would shake us, but we all felt it. We felt your voice in it. Even if I’d been up on the surface, I could have guessed where you were. If the Demon, whoever he is, is looking for us, it’s probably only a matter of time before he finds us. He must have already located us. Now he only has to find the way. This place is quite safe, but there is no place in the world that would be completely impenetrable. We need to get you on your feet and be gone as soon as we can. And as for how you got in,” he took another breath, casting a long look someplace afar, which Yrith suspected to be the exit, “We found this lying by your side.”

He took a moment to fumble around his pockets until he pulled out a metal ball, just enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Grimy but unscratched, it was covered in Dwemer ornaments, only partly discernible under the dirt. As the Dragonborn turned it in his fingers, it gave off a quiet, melodic hum. The sound faded as quickly as it had started. Leyna stared at it in unconcealed awe. Yrith could almost swear she saw her fingers fidget with desire.

“What is it?” Yrith wondered.

“A Dwemer key. This was used to access the secret parts of their ancient cities.”

“The Ayleids used similar keys,” Leyna added quietly. “The Altmer seem to have... lost this technology. But the tunes remain.”

She fell silent. Yrith watched with her brows raised, but only the rhythmic pumping of the place came in reply.

“Tunes?” she asked.

“Melodies. These keys are attuned to the melodies of the lock. You can’t hear the lock with your bare ear. But they correspond... similarly to how a normal key fits into a lock with its grooves, there are patterns that go together, but... it’s practically impossible to make a replica of an attunement sphere. The lock and the fitting keys were made together by a Mastersmith. Once the keys were lost, well...” She threw up her arms to imply impossibility.

Yrith stared at the weathered sphere. So ordinary on the surface, yet...

“Unbelievable,” she whispered. “But... I don’t remember having one. Or finding one.”

At her side, Keneel-La gave a soft snort. “Indeed. I would be surprised if you had. My guess would be that the daedric magic led you. No Daedric Prince can directly manipulate our world, but if they made a connection, it is quite possible that you, under their influence, walked the path they wanted you to take. Which leads me to the nature of this place.”

He paused, staring into nothingness as he pondered his next words. Yrith wriggled in her bedroll, watching his jaws for a hint of movement. But then, her attention was swayed by his eyes. Eyes that bore the distant look of someone who was recalling something he would rather forget.

“Mzark,” he said at last, “is the place where I found the Elder Scroll that helped me defeat Alduin.” He let the sentence hang in the air for a moment. As Yrith opened her mouth to mark her triumph, he spoke again.

“I never thought I would return here. Maybe I would roam around through the Blackreach on my travels to disappear from people’s sight, take the lift, but the oculory... Obviously, fate had other plans for me. Perhaps I am meant to be your guide. Although I find it rather curious that this place should host another Scroll. It would suggest that the one I found had not been here from the start, but rather it was pulled from elsewhere.”

So it really was an Elder Scroll. Yrith fought to contain her smile. She finally understood the words of Septimus Signus. She really had found it.

“What do you mean, pulled from elsewhere?”

Keneel-La opened his mouth, only to close it again. He scanned the ceiling and the inner, kettle-like wall of the curved corridor, up to its top and down again. “That is...” he paused again, then shook his head. “Perhaps it would be best if I showed you instead. It’s better to make haste anyway. Lest someone come... I suppose you cannot stand?”

He did not wait for her to reply, reaching out to help her up. Cain, despite his lasting deep frown, jumped instantly to her other side. She felt a fierce flush in her cheeks.

“Don’t,” she gasped, trying to raise her hands. They hardly listened. She closed her eyes to call for her magic. The touch of the Dragonborn’s calloused fingers on hers stopped her.

“You don’t,” he said softly. “Save your magic. You might need it sooner than you’d wish.”

“But...”

“Look at you. You’re all bone and hardly anything else. How much strength would one need to support you?”

No amount of flush was enough to express what Yrith felt. Fortunately, there was no mirror to look into. She always hated mirrors.

She gritted her teeth, letting the Dragonborn and Cain lift her, raising her gaze to the kettle-like structure they were about to circle. Leyna kept in tow. Yrith tried not to imagine what the proud elf must be thinking of her now.

They walked in silence. The narrow corridor was rather barren, only the grey stone wall embraced it on the outer side, while the inner shone with the Dwemer gold. In her mind, Yrith painted tiny stars on them, just like on the way to Septimus Signus. Stars were magic, and now she felt closer to them than ever.

At her side, Cain gave a low grunt. They had entered a ramp and continued upward, against all gravity. The Dragonborn on the opposite side held firm, but she could feel him huff almost imperceptibly. Her brows knit into a single line.

“Let me do the rest,” she muttered, calling upon her magic once more.

“No. You need to preserve your magicka in case...”

“And what good will it do if the two of you drain yourselves instead? Let me...”

She infused her torso, her limbs, every tendon in her, the spine that held her head, with the glowing energy, until she herself seemed ethereal. There was no need to hide her magic now. She was not cuffed and led to her death. And so she walked proud, leaving the three stunned figures behind. They would rouse themselves soon, and walk in her footsteps. But now she was her own master.

She steered her feet onward, up the ramp, watching the artificial horizon. The light from above drew a clear line where the ramp peaked. But then, her eyes found the ceiling, a dome of sorts, only split into a number of hexagonal panes. The light drew crooked ornaments on it as it shone through the mechanism. As Yrith ascended, she turned to whatever cast the shadows and found a number of massive metal arms, each holding an equally massive ring. The rings carried up to three glass lenses. From what it seemed, Yrith assumed they were supposed to move so that they could redirect the light that came down in the center in the form of a wide column. When she looked at the base where it fell, it all made sense.

A narrow bridge led over what she had thought to be a kettle, up to a small circular platform in the center. Instead of a kettle, she now saw a large gold sphere, holding another circle filled with lenses at is top. It was enclosed with a series of hoops of various sizes, one sitting on top of another. The one in the middle was adorned by four star-spangled arrows, each directed, as far as she could tell here under the ground, toward one cardinal point. She took a moment of silent observation, holding herself not to laugh. She knew what this was. She had seen it so many times already. But then, there had to be something to make the whole mechanism move.

She did not have to search too hard. The ramp she walked on led to a wide ledge. Six pillars were raised on it, if she could call it pillars. Five of them were cylindrical with chamfered tops, the four on the sides each holding a button while the middle one exposed what she assumed to be a star chart. The pillar closest to Yrith was different. A prism of sorts, reminding her in shape of the Arch-Mage’s tower in the College of Winterhold. Atop of it sat a holder for something that was obviously missing. A cube, Yrith assumed instantly. It must be a cube.

She slowed down, until she was standing, forgetting her magic. She stumbled as her body broke, and quickly restored the flow. Her gasp felt almost like a roar. This place was strangely disconnected from the rest of the Dwemer complex. Quiet. Surreal.

The machine before her – underneath her – around her – even if made in Dwemer metal and style, seemed as though it did not belong here. There was something sinister about it. She inspected it, finding connections. There were tubes around the room and in the machine as well, connecting it to some outer sources of water and energy. There was wiring linking the pillars with the massive arms and their lenses. But there was also something else. The pillar of light shining from above was not just light. It was magic, in its purest form, and it came from elsewhere. No Dwemer complex could provide so much, and there was no end to it. As if Mundus itself powered this place.

She laughed at her own ignorance. It was not the Elder Scroll she had sensed earlier. It was this pillar. And the Dragonborn was indeed right. There was no Scroll here. It had to be summoned.

Her smile grew wider yet.

A huffing sound made her turn back where she came from. The Dragonborn stomped after her, Cain and Leyna at his heels.

“There’s nothing one can do once you’ve made up your mind, is there?” the lizard snorted. Behind him, the Dunmeri boy gave an entirely different kind of snort. Leyna did not listen. Like Yrith, she was silently inspecting the place, her face motionless, but her eyes ablaze.

Yrith shrugged.

“So here we are.”

Keneel-La’s wistful tone made Yrith turn after him. He watched the pillar of light absently, fingers fidgeting with the buckle on his belt. She wondered what he was remembering now, but did not dare ask.

“It’s been a long time,” he said. “But not long enough.”

“I’m so—”

“Don’t be. We had to come here. Well,” he quickly masked his face with a smile, “you can enjoy the place. Astonishing, isn’t it? The Dwemer have quite a few of them.”

Yrith raised a brow at the sudden change, but chose not to pursue it. She scanned the six pillars that would control the mechanism, then the lenses and the beam of light in their middle.

“Quite a few of them?” she inquired quietly. “Exactly like this?”

“Well, not exactly. The puzzles are different. The outcome is usually different. The system is often similar.”

“So completely different,” she concluded.

“Well, that’s a bold statement,” he laughed.

She shook her head. “This is no puzzle. And the outcome is the only outcome there can be.”

Now he was the one to quirk his bony brows. “What do you mean?”

“This,” she sent out a strand of magic, not bothering to make her arms wave in the direction of the mechanism, “is a conjuration circle. Well...” Her magic touched the light. A wave of raw power washed over her. She retreated, touching her chest as she took a deep breath. “Not a circle. A... something. It is three-dimensional.

“What Singird Larkwing wouldn’t give to just get a glimpse of this,” she added, more to herself.

“Your conjuration master?”

She stared at the lizard beside her. “You know him?”

“Well, given he was the one who made a deal with General Tullius that I be hired to rescue you, I’ve at least heard the name.”

“What?!”

Yrith’s eyes wandered to Cain and Leyna, both staring at the Dragonborn with the very same question on their lips. The silence of the following moment resonated in her ears.

So it was Singird. Not the Imperial General, but Singird... who appeared to have just the right connections. She forgot the machine, tossed the image of the imposing pillar of power aside. Singird... He had mentioned his parents had been recruited by the Imperial army. Now, despite all the undesirable effects, he had used this connection to... help her? How in Oblivion could he manage to convince General Tullius to invest the Imperial resources for such a cause? Unless...

Unless the case of his parents and myself had something in common.

She replayed that thought in her mind many times. As if reacting to her instinct, her magic made her body pace, but she ignored the movement. The physical reality, no matter how fascinating, faded in the shadow of this new knowledge. Singird had managed to get her out of death’s grasp. Saving her... from Imperials. On the orders of their own general...

The Imperials had abducted her in the middle of a battle with the Stormcloaks where Leyna’s father, a former runaway Thalmor, had also perished. And then she had been saved by the most powerful person in Skyrim, on the order of the Imperial General, because Singird had pleaded to him. This alone made no sense at all. Who was her enemy? Stormcloaks? Imperials? Thalmor? None? All? Had even her rescue been a ruse? Was she walking into a trap?

No. No...

Why Singird? Why would General Tullius listen to him?

Questions. So many questions and no answer. Just moments before, she had felt so close to the end of the journey. Now it was as though she had only just begun.

General Tullius would never have arranged for her rescue had he not had a good reason. Singird must have found something. Something that would make the General think it was worth hiring the Dragonborn...

“Yrith?”

She had not registered someone had been tapping on her shoulder. Or that they had been calling her name for quite some time. Up until now, she had not even taken notice of the three people staring at her with the intensity of a Winterhold blizzard. Even Cain kept his eyes on her now, his fiery brows furrowed.

“Yrith?” Keneel-La repeated. “Are you with us now?”

“I...” she exchanged looks with Cain and Leyna. For some reason, they seemed to be bothered more by Yrith’s own shock than the fact that it was Singird who had arranged for their rescue. She gave a silent sigh. “I’m just confused.”

“I can see that. Can you please be confused after we finish here? We shouldn’t stall.”

She nodded, trying to focus on the machine before her. A conjuration circle. She just had to arrange it correctly so that it would indicate a certain time, just like Singird had taught her.

Singird...

Singird and his conjuration ritual... his attempts, more successful than he would have imagined, to make Yrith study conjuration circles. To call his great-grandfather’s soul from the depths of Aetherius, or perhaps from the depths of time itself. Because his parents had been, by his own words, obsessed with him.

Coincidence? She did not think so. There was something she was missing. Unnatural chill ran over her spine and spread across her body. Now of all times, she was afraid to take a step forward. Now, she realized how dark and deep the tunnel ahead of her was, and how she had no idea what was inside. In slow motion, she turned to the beam of light in the center of the room. She had to. She just had to do it. She would retrieve the scroll, return to Singird and ask him about it. That’s what she would do.

She took a breath and turned to the Dragonborn.

“How do I work this?”

“That’s a good question,” he said as he made for the ledge with the pillars, gesturing for her to follow. She stepped toward him cautiously, inspecting the buttons and the tiny map on top of the pillars. “Last time I was here, I had a Dwemer Lexicon to activate the device. But I don’t have it now. So, what surprise will you have for us this time, Yrith?”

Yrith’s lip twitched. So she served the Dragonborn as a good source of amusement. She entertained the thought of asking him to pay her instead of him receiving all the reward. Perhaps she would one day, when they would stand on equal footing.

“What is a Dwemer Lexicon?” she asked matter-of-factly.

“The way I understand it, it’s a sort of medium to store information. Something like a book, only this thing looks like a small dice that fits into any pocket and stores infinitely more content. It’s supposed to go here,” he patted the closest, prism-like pillar, “where it will activate. The Lexicons were apparently commonly used by the Dwemer back in the day. Though I suspect no living mortal can decipher them now.”

So she had been right. A cubic thing belonged on top of the closest pillar. She touched it lightly and ran a finger through the empty space on its top. Three cogwheels skirted it, angled so that they would enclose three sides of the cube. Her fingertips found gentle patterns embedded in the cogs, likely something to fit into the Lexicon. A wave of energy pulsed in her fingers and shot up, into her arm and further. She gasped and pulled away.

She felt a presence at her side and raised her head to look into Leyna’s face.

“May I take a look?” the elf asked.

Yrith stepped aside in a wordless invitation.

Now, Leyna’s hand ran among the cogs and over the glistening surface of the pillar. She moved here and there, finishing at the same place as Yrith, on the cog engravings.

“These cogs don’t turn,” she commented thoughtfully. “So there is no place for combinations. I assume this one doesn’t read mechanical inscriptions, but uses magical imprints instead.”

Yrith raised a brow. “How can you tell?”

“My father’s dictionaries. They contained information on all means of communication, even those long lost in the past. This could make it quite easy for you. A magical imprint is like an identification of sorts. Maybe just a bit of your magic would be enough to activate it.”

“And how would it work?” Yrith asked, doubt in her voice, but she was already moving back to the pillar.

“You said this is a conjuration circle, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“And you are trying to summon an Elder Scroll, I presume?”

“I am.”

“So wouldn’t it make sense to make an imprint of yourself?”

“So you’re saying,” Yrith said slowly as she processed the suggestion, “that I should feed this thing magic and it would somehow allow me to summon the Elder Scroll?”

Of course she would have to use magic, but she would have to first know when and where the object she was trying to conjure was. She would have to mark its time and place. Enter the coordinates and persuade the machine to reflect them. And only then she could summon the Scroll, provided she had enough resources to do that. Now that she thought about it, what was the use of launching the mechanism when she did not know the Scroll’s location?

“There are far too many unknowns...” she added in half-whisper. “I suppose the Dwemer Lexicon gave the machine coordinates?”

“And your magic would too,” Leyna concluded almost dismissively.

“I don’t understand. How would that work?”

“It would work,” Cain said, the suddenness making Yrith flinch with surprise, “because the Elder Scroll is tied to you.”

Yrith outlined his figure. He stood with his head high, crimson eyes fixed on Yrith’s face. She stared at him. There was certain clarity in his features, something she had not seen there before. His voice too had lost the familiar tremble. For a moment, Yrith struggled to concentrate on what he had said instead of how he had said it.

“W-what?” she asked dumbly, unsure what her own question was directed at.

“The Elder Scrolls, whatever they are, are tied to things. People. Creatures. Objects. Places. Time... Maybe all of them. That Elder Scroll was probably linked to you the moment you were conceived, and it will be linked to you the moment you die.”

He was so calm. Unlike just a few moments before. As if he...

“Cain...”

He raised his hands in a silencing gesture.

“Don’t. I know what you want to say. It is fine. Looking at this place, considering this whole situation... I should have known. Don’t worry though,” he added with a remarkably wide smile, “you won’t get rid of me that easily. I wish I could have peacefully told you all that I harbor inside. But perhaps I can hold onto that wish and hope that one day, it will come true.”

He gave a weak laugh. Yrith reached out her hand, but he shook his head.

“Fetch that Scroll. The story that is written inside it, or one of the stories, one of the possibilities it may present to you... hopefully it will bring an end to this.”

“Indeed,” Keneel-La joined. “But be careful. The Elder Scrolls are not supposed to be read just like that. Even the most erudite of Moth Priests can only gaze into one or two at most before they lose their sight... or mind.”

Yrith frowned.

“But then, why am I supposed to retrieve it?”

“The Elder Scrolls work in mysterious ways. The one I recovered was the one used by the old Tongues to cast Alduin out of time. It was the Elder Scroll that revealed to me what had happened back then. It literally took me back in time. But it only worked at the Time Wound on the Throat of the World. I did not truly read it. I just... let it take me wherever... or, rather, whenever it would. Didn’t Paarthurnax suggest you need something similar?”

She nodded.

“Then go and do your magic.”

With a hint of hesitation, she touched the pillar again. So, a magical imprint...

Three of her fingers rested on the flat side of the cogs, letting her magic pour into the ornaments. A drop... just a tiny drop was enough for the whole mechanism, all six pillars, to light up at once. The stars on the central cylindrical pillar suddenly moved, taking the form of a new constellation. She blinked and stepped back. The light remained. It worked.

She backed a few more steps to observe the result. The buttons were alight with bright turquoise glow. The stars in the diagram on the central pillar shone the same, connected by a glowing line that went along the movable circular panes the map consisted of. So Yrith would have to transform this image into something three-dimensional. She was relieved it was only this and not something harder, like the five-dimensional charts of Septimus Signus. This, at least, seemed doable.

“So this... is my path,” she said, half a revelation, half a question to the Dragonborn. He lowered his head in approval.

“Now the buttons...”

Yrith stepped forward before he could finish the sentence. She had to lift her hands to touch the buttons on top of the pillars that had likely been constructed with an elf’s height in mind. She, small even for a Breton, now felt even smaller.

She tested the buttons gingerly, only giving each a light tap. One to move the lens arms clockwise, the other counterclockwise. One to move the sphere and the loops on it, the other to move them in the opposite direction.

The mechanism played a light game. Every now and then, a different lens redirected the light from the central beam. Or two lenses. Or three...

She just needed to find a match. All the lenses had to be involved. She had to recreate the constellation. Add a dimension. If she had Singird’s maps with her, she could have easily found where it was, and perhaps even what time it indicated. Sadly, she had neither the maps, nor the time to do so.

Soon, her fingers moved almost on their own, following her thoughts. One forward, shift the loops twice, one backward...

The mechanism responded slowly, making her wait every time she pressed a button. It rumbled as multiple engines propelled the massive structures, but there was no sound of rust in the bends, nor did any dirt hinder the cogs. The lenses danced smoothly, if slowly, sending flares and glints on the metallic sphere, the stone walls and the four figures standing on the ledge and watching in awe and expectation. They turned... and turned... and turned... The whole world seemed to be turning.

Yrith was so immersed in her work she almost missed the correct combination. Her finger froze above the button just when she was about to press it. No. Wrong button... It was not the lenses she had to move now. It was the sphere. One more step, one more push... and the lines would connect.

She hesitated. Then, her hand moved to the right pillar and let the finger sink.

The device turned for the last time. Yrith squinted as the light assaulted her eyes. All the lenses were now connected by beams of light that broke apart only to join again, taking sharp turns, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. The machine made a resonating grunt, then a creak as a cocoon-shaped casket made of emerald glass made its way down to the center of the loops. It split in two as its ends moved apart and revealed a set of gilded bars. In their midst floated a scroll like none Yrith had ever seen.

It shone light silver, as though reflecting the color of Yrith’s eyes. Its spectral fabric revealed the patterns and inscriptions recorded inside. She could see them move, constantly reshape themselves as the scroll turned in the air. Yrith wondered if she could even touch it. At her side, the Dragonborn released a sigh of astonishment.

“Now this is something... why does this look so completely different from what I found here?”

“I think...” Yrith whispered, almost afraid to break the silence, “I think it reflects how I imagined it in my thoughts.”

The lizard stared at her, then the scroll. “Truly?”

“Except for the moving script, that is... Can’t an Elder Scroll take on any form, depending on the kind of magic that summons it?”

“It is possible. I suppose I am more matter-oriented than you.”

She smiled lightly as she stepped down the ramp, toward the scroll. But then, she stopped, gazing at its translucent form.

Matter-oriented...

So she was magic-oriented then.

With her breath held, Yrith sent out her magic. It bolted out in a clear line, illuminating the ramp and the gilded sphere in pale blue. The instant it touched the scroll, time stopped. Nothing moved. Silence was deafening. And then, it burst back. The scroll dissolved into a cloud of silvery glitterdust. Absorbed by Yrith’s magic, it fired toward her. It enveloped her, head, limbs, torso, it filled her eyes and ears, it entered her mouth and soaked through her skin.

She knew this feeling. She had known it long before, when her magic began to awaken. Master Neloren had tried to describe it to her. And yet, this time, it was different. It was... everything. Pain and joy. Happiness and despair. Hurt and comfort. Hunger and satiety. There were people, both unknown and known. Memories from the past, snippets from the present, perhaps shards of the future, or things that may not happen at all. She felt them in her blood and bones. Instinct led her to focus on those she knew. On the hateful Cain, whose anger she could now taste from the other side. On the crying Cain. Smiling Cain. Peaceful Cain. Hateful Leyna. Joyful Leyna. Regretful Leyna. The Dragonborn and his thousand faces, his knowing smile that almost hurt to wear. Singird, uncompromising, then kind and loving. Then fearful, desperate... She stayed with him longer. Was this a premonition of the future that was to unfold? Or his past? No...

It hurt. Why did the pain feel so real? It was everywhere. On her skin and in the bones, it slashed through her muscles, it tore her lungs. A trickle of blood came down her brow and hindered her sight. His sight. She could not breathe. Her, his body had been ripped apart. The only thing that remained was one last, desperate thought.

Not her...

She screamed. Out. It had to go out. Out of her mind, out of her system, someplace she will not see, not feel...

“No!” she heard her own voice, drowned amidst the torrent of crackling blue light. It spurted out of her in every direction, wild, uncontrolled. She heard a crack. An arm of the ancient mechanism broke. It would never work again. Glass shattered in a myriad of glistening shards before they melted in the storm. Just like her own flesh melted in the pain. It would not leave. With every passing moment, it cut deeper and deeper. Without the help of magic, her fingers found her stomach and clutched it, locking her in an eternal loop of implosions and explosions. She screamed more, only to lose breath and triple the agony her torn lungs brought to her.

“No...”

“Yrith!” someone called. She could barely hear the voice. Her ears – her whole body – failed her. Sounds were distorted. Images wrapped in the fabric of the Elder Scroll, strangled by its script and buried beneath the scenes it showed.

What was reality? Was it inside? Was it outside? The voices multiplied, both in and out. They yelled, and whispered, they begged, and cried.

“Yrith! Yrith! The scroll!”

“No! No...”

“Let go!”

“No! Sin...”

“You have to!”

“...gird...”

No. It couldn’t be reality.

“You can’t...”

She had to listen to the right voice.

Not her, please...

The right one. Listen. Focus. You’ve done it before.

The scroll pressed on her mind. She felt her body hit the ground as the magic holding it upright sprang out of her control. Her fingers moved aimlessly, lightning crackling between them in explosive sparks.

Footsteps. She heard them all around, distant thuds, then fading patter.

“No...”

Her name. It was her name they were calling. Again, and again. As if it was a magic key to bring her back.

Name... a key. Names were good. Names meant something. She had to find the Name. End this, just like Cain wanted. Just like she wanted too. The Scroll was her tool. It was the key. She could not become its slave.

Her fingers clenched. The magic around them swirled and formed humming spheres. More images flashed before her eyes. With gritted teeth, she forced them out, crushing them and casting them to a remote corner of her mind. If they would not leave, then she would become their prison. She would bar them and not let them out. The Scroll would remain a hidden demon locked deep inside. Until she would need it.

They fought back. Her head throbbed, her eyes burned. Her magic changed color to fiery orange, then vermillion. Beneath the image of helpless Singird, Oblivion burned a thousand flames. Her teeth screeched. Yrith tore the scene apart and crumpled its remains. In her mind, she thanked the Scroll for the warning. She would not let it happen. Determination bloomed on her face. She was back in control.

“Yrith!”

The voices thundered, gaining in strength as their echo bounced over the circular wall. Yrith resisted the urge to cover her ears. She was panting, lying on the floor with her arms and legs spread wide in odd angles. Her whole body was sore and trembling.

“I’m alive,” she muttered numbly.

“You are lucky to be.” Keneel-La’s usual mirth was now noticeably shaken. “Luckier than most of this place for sure… And here I thought this couldn’t get any worse.”

“I...”

“The Elder Scroll... what happened to it?”

“It’s... inside. In my mind.”

“Blazes,” he breathed. “One doesn’t get bored with you, eh?”

Yrith didn’t have the strength to smile.

“Well, that at least saves us the trouble of having to carry a huge scroll all the way to Winterhold. Now, let’s take you back. Rest as much as possible. We need to leave this place, but I can’t imagine we’d have to carry you all the way.”

“I...”

“No, you can’t use your magic that way. You did it once now and look at yourself.”

She wedged a hand under her head to get a better view of her body. Her clothes were torn. She was covered in a not too tempting mixture of dirt, sweat and blood. The leg that had been pierced by the dart now also seemed to be broken. Broken, just like the summoning machine that had offered its last Elder Scroll. At least the leg was not in thousand pieces, half of which had been melted into puddles of goo.

“Oh,” she produced.

“Too tired to even be bothered. Now that’s serious. Let’s see if that stays. I’ll try to carry you as gently as I can. No promises though.”

He slid his arms underneath her to lift her up. As he raised her, cautiously, Yrith felt the weight of her injured leg pull on the supportless muscle and tendons. Her whole body tensed, teeth grinding against each other. But she could not moan. The Dragonborn was right. This was her fault.


“Leyna.”

The bundle beside Yrith wriggled rather unwillingly. Despite the general warmth of the place, the only thing visible of Yrith’s Altmeri friend was a flood of white-gold hair. The rest was huddled up in the furs of a bedroll. Keneel-La was out, scouting, it seemed. Yrith lay in his own bedroll, as it seemed she had managed to lose all her borrowed possessions on her journey. Cain’s breathing on the other side of her was steady and peaceful. She would only have a short while.

“Leyna,” Yrith raised her whispering voice slightly to add some urgency. The elf turned ever so slightly to gain a view of Yrith through the slits of her eyes.

“Hmm? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I’m worried.”

“Helps nothing at all,” Leyna muttered, burrowing back into the fluff of her furs.

“No, Leyna! Listen to me!”

Twisting her face in apparent annoyance, the elf turned back to Yrith. “What?”

“Can you heal me? As much as you can. I’ll give you magic. Just fix my body.”

For a moment, Leyna just stared at Yrith, dumbfounded. Yrith did her best to appear as though she did not know how foolish her request was. She did know. She knew too well for her own liking.

A good while of staring later, Leyna sat up at once, eyes fully open.

“Have you lost your mind?!”

“Shhh! You’ll wake Cain...”

“So what? You know it’s impossible. People have met fate far worse than death when healers experimented with speeding up the healing process. Your body needs time.”

“Time that we don’t have. It’s enough if I can move again. You don’t have to heal it fully.”

“Yrith, I have less than a year’s worth of experience in healing.”

“You’ll still the best healer of us all.”

“I could ruin your body!”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that...”

“You won’t. I am a walking Elder Scroll. If that was my fate, I would have known.”

Leyna did not reply. She did not even move. As if frozen, she sat still, gazing at Yrith with wide eyes. Her features slowly reformed, from denial to sheer shock. She opened her mouth, but no sound left her lips. She closed them again.

“What did you just...” she mouthed, almost voicelessly.

Indeed. What had she just said? As if someone had said those words for Yrith. Was she really so bold as to claim she was a walking Elder Scroll? She had one inside her. One that could easily go berserk and take over, no matter how much she wanted to believe she had tamed its wild magic.

But now she had to say something. She had to heal. Both Cain and Leyna, and perhaps Keneel-La as well, would gladly die for her if she was in danger. She could not allow that. She could not afford to be immobile.

“The Elder Scroll showed me a lot of things,” she said calmly, even if deep inside, the memory of the horrid display the Elder Scroll had revealed was all except calming. “I think Cain was right. They were possibilities. Eventualities. I saw so far past this moment. I don’t think you can harm me.”

“These things... they are fickle. You can’t just...”

“I know,” Yrith hurried with her answer. “But even so. Is there anything at all that can be done? I don’t want to be a burden. I can’t be. If anything happened, the three of you would not leave me behind, would you?”

Leyna sized her up, raising a brow. Then she shook her head. “Foolish question.”

“Indeed. So can you heal me?”

“No. It’s impossible. I can release some tension in your muscles, I can glue things together inside you, I can help you forget pain, perhaps. I can’t heal you.”

Yrith sighed a bit more loudly than she had intended. “Then do what you can, please. Do everything in your power so that I can move again.”

The look Leyna gave her was all but disapproving. But she had not said a definite no. She was mulling it over. Thinking of her options, perhaps anticipating a challenge. Slumping her shoulders, she rubbed her temples, deep in thought. After a good while of silence, she finally set her golden eyes on Yrith.

“Maybe there is a way. I will try to fix you just a trifle. But I need you to work with me. To focus inside. To feel my magic in you and stop me the moment anything feels wrong. Can you do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Close your eyes.”

Hesitantly, Yrith obeyed and let herself sink into darkness. Suddenly, the pumping felt louder and sharper. The floor underneath her felt harder. Her magic swirled, replacing her sight with mental images that were just as clear, if not clearer.

“Now,” Leyna continued, “direct your magicka into your stomach. Touch it, don’t interfere with it. Can you feel the stomach moving?”

It was harder than it sounded. Yrith had manipulated things outside before. She could send the magic to the focal points interacting with the outer world or withdraw it from there. She could manipulate her vessel, all those muscles that she normally controlled at will. But seeing her insides was another story. No, not just that. It was difficult to even locate her stomach properly. There was a whole new world inside her. Everything moved. Everything had a life of its own.

“Is that even... possible?” she tried.

“It should be for you. You can feel or manipulate anything with your magic. You would feel yourself, correct? It’s the only way I can think of to make this safe. I need your feedback.”

“So you’ve never tried this before?”

“No, but you can’t really go wrong with mere observation.”

Yrith gave a nod in the direction of Leyna’s voice. She took a breath and tried to focus all her attention inside. To touch one piece of tissue after another, to feel every undulation, every friction. Little by little, an image formed before her closed eyes. An image of a vast network of nodes and connections. Veins, tendons, tubes, organs, joints, muscles… and things much, much smaller than her bare eye could ever see without the use of her magic. There were too many for her to observe at once. Too many to conceive.

“…rith?”

Somewhere in the distance, Leyna seemed to call her.

“Hmm?” she replied absently.

“What is it?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re panting. Yrith?”

She opened her eyes and the image dissolved into the murk of the Dwemer corridor. The sound returned, the engines began pumping again. She had not even noticed them ceasing.

“I… I’m… sorry. There’s a lot…”

“I suppose there is… specially for someone like you. Can you just focus on one place?”

She nodded again, taking a few more breaths. Her heart was beating fast, she could feel it. Now, even her magic responded to it. The things she could do this way. Every healer on Nirn would give their left hand to have just a glimpse of what she had seen. Why had she never thought of gazing inside her before?

Yrith closed her eyes again, inhaling deeply to calm herself. She synchronized her breath with the resounding hisses around. When she gained a steady tempo, she turned her attention inside in attempt to navigate through the infinite maze of links and intersections. She found her heart, the loudest of all. Its rhythm had stabilized, now beating in a series of pleasant staccatos. Yrith’s magic poured over it lightly, leaving it to its own life. She found the lungs, air pouring in to freshen her blood, and then out again. The magic zigzagged through her, going from organ to organ, seeping through the tissue walls until, at last, she reached the stomach. It pulsed, very softly, hardly having had anything to digest in a very long time. It gave off a slightly painful tremble. A sensation that she, Yrith, as a whole person, had hardly registered beneath the layers of excitement and restlessness. A shaky sigh escaped her lips.

“I feel it,” she said. “I feel my stomach.”

“You feel what it does? What’s inside? What’s around it? How it is structured?”

She scanned the stomach again, sliding slowly along its inner wall, then outside, feeling all the folds and protrusions, the tubes it connected to, the liquids flowing inside and around.

“I do.”

“Good,” came the response. “Now, can you feel the legs? The wounds on them?”

It wasn’t difficult now to steer her magicka down the leg muscles, feel the bones, the tears in her skin, the numb toes. In fact, it was much easier than navigating to her stomach. She was quite certain the previous task had been a test. A test with raised difficulty... She smiled. Leyna could very well compete with Singird Larkwing in teaching methods.

As she touched the muscles in the legs, she felt them prickle. Her whole body yanked up and down at the sensation. Leyna frowned.

“What is it?” she asked again.

“I feel them,” Yrith exhaled. “It’s a strange feeling.”

“Very well. Can you tell me the state of your broken leg? Is the bone fixed right?”

Yrith’s magic touched the bone where it had broken. The makeshift splint, made out of a light Dwemer tube that Keneel-La had brought from gods knew where, held it stable. At a closer inspection, however, Yrith noticed a slight twist, unnoticeable from the outside.

“Not entirely,” she said.

“I see. So before I begin, you will have to fix it. This is a mechanical process, so you will do better there than I would.”

“You mean, move it to the right place?”

“Precisely.”

Yrith nodded. She strengthened the flow of magic, trying to move the bone. As if a razor-sharp blade cut through the limb, burning-cold pain flashed through it and shot up toward her spine. She hissed and gritted her teeth as she tried to contain the moan. Somewhere near, Cain was fast asleep, a state she wished to prolong as much as possible.

The bone moved ever so slightly. She rotated it again, fighting the tears that poured through the thin gaps between her eyelids. Just a bit, just a bit... until, finally, it clicked inside and the bone seemed almost whole. Almost.

Yrith let out a shaky sigh and opened her eyes. Her arm felt numb as she moved it to wipe away the sweat on her forehead. But at least that she could now move.

“It’s there.”

Leyna lowered her head, half in a nod, half to inspect the limb. She touched it lightly, almost too lightly, her fingertips tickling like feathers. Yrith’s hairs stood upon the sensation. A few moments after, Leyna raised her gaze to meet Yrith’s.

“Good. Keep concentrating on the bone and everything around it. I will feed it some magic. Note that it will not grow right away, I can’t do that. But your body should be able to regenerate the tissue on its own within a few hours, maybe a day. At least to the point you can move it. Though it will still be fragile. But if you feel any change in the structure, you must stop me immediately. Do you understand?”

“A day is...”

“The best I can,” Leyna said uncompromisingly. “And if Master Marence heard me talking, she’d skin me alive.”

“Suppose Master Marence never expected us to get into a life-threatening situation?”

Leyna gave a bitter laugh. “We were in one from the start. A well-played game...” She shook her head. “Can we begin?”

“Take my hand. I’ll supply you.”

With a light flush, Leyna extended a hand, touching Yrith’s. Soft blue glow enveloped their joined fingertips. Instinctively, Yrith’s eyes closed again. She felt the energy inside her flow both ways now, out to Leyna and in to her leg. And then, a pool of warmth poured over the limb. The golden glow of healing magic gave her eyelids a gentle hue. It tingled on her skin, then underneath. It caressed the bone and the loosened threads of her muscle. Yrith gritted her teeth, expecting pain. But instead, relief was what spread through her, easing the tension, bringing comfort. Leyna’s magic danced around the tissues, wove its way through their strands, filled them with new life. The elf’s concern had been groundless. There was no restructuring. If Yrith had not known Leyna, she would have believed she’d come to a true master healer. Thread by thread, the golden magic formed a tapestry around the bone, then permeated the muscle, until it formed a protective shell over the skin. Yrith had not even realized how cold she had been before. Now, it was warm. Inside, and outside, amidst the furs of the bedroll, in the endless beat of the humming engines. Her mind stayed with the limb, otherwise pleasantly empty. The hue on her eyelids blurred and faded until it was peacefully dark.


“Yrith!”

Someone was calling her. The voice was strangely distorted. There were a number of other sounds, loud, piercing, tearing her from the depths of her slumber. Her brows creased by themselves. She tried to cover her face, but someone took her hand in a firm grip and pulled it away.

“Yrith, wake up! Hatchling!”

“Uhhh...”

A rough, calloused hand gave her a light slap. The touch was cold and sharp. Her eyes cracked open in an instant.

“What...” she uttered drowsily, but the sentence was promptly cut.

“No time to explain. We’re leaving. Work with me a little, I’ll carry you...”

Yrith took a breath to wake up. It did not help that the air was warm and the furs around her soft and cozy. She took another.

Leyna had been working on her leg...

She tried to move her toes, then raise her knees. Both of her legs obeyed.

“I can walk,” she said.

“What? That’s...”

With a quiet grunt, she forced herself up, finding purchase by the closest wall.

“I can walk,” she repeated with growing confidence. It was not perfect. There was tension in her legs, something pulsed inside the muscles and around the bones. She could feel Leyna’s magic still working, tingling, wading its way through the tissues one tiny strand at a time. Still, she could walk. At least walk, if not run.

The Dragonborn’s eyes bulged for a split moment. He quickly shook the surprise off.

“I don’t know what deity I should thank for this miracle, but that’s a relief. Then come. I sent the elflings ahead. We’re taking the lift.”

“The lift? To the surface?”

“Yes. Come, I’ll pack this.”

“But you said...”

“Move now, talk later. Let’s go.”

Yrith was not much help with the packing. The Dragonborn’s eyes shone the dangerous glow she remembered from their battles. He moved swiftly, with no hesitation, no needless gestures. The bedroll seemed to roll up by itself under his fingers. The scarce supplies soon rested among the few requisites he carried in his rucksack. One last check to make sure they had not left anything behind. Then, they moved.

For the Dragonborn, this might as well have been a light walk. For Yrith, after long days of motionless trance, it was a furious rush. She did not complain. She said nothing, even if her freshly healed legs prickled and stung. The wild tempo had taken the air out of her lungs. She closed her eyes ajar, fixing her gaze on the lizard’s heels. She pricked up her ears for the steady pumping of the ever-present machines.

Hiss and whistle. Drum and thrum.

Tudum, tudum.

She set the rhythm and ran. Her mind was empty again. Unpleasantly empty.

Notes:

I know it’s been a while! Almost 9 months… and boy, does it feel good to write again! I can’t believe it!

Since some of you might be curious, I haven’t been sick and it wasn’t work that took my time. It was something far better, though not always pleasant. I’ve gotten myself a baby! She is now exactly six months old (happy anniversary!) and absolutely precious. So now you can imagine what it feels like to write with a tiny squeaking bundle of cuteness by my side. :D

Anyway… I hope this chapter read well. I feel extremely rusty, I’ve done a dozen times more editing on it I normally do and I’m aware it contains an insane amount of information that will later need to be addressed. Don’t worry, it will.

That said, I mentioned this earlier, but I had to increase the estimated number of chapters this is going to have from 35 to 38. That’s the thing with mystery stories… piles upon piles of information that I somehow have to distribute and cram into chapters. But it’s fun, hehe. :)

And you never know, the number may still change. But not too much anymore.

As always, I’d be happy to hear from you!

Mirwen

Chapter 32: The Story Does Not End Until It’s Truly Over

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Yrith would have liked to think that they ran. That their speed was fast and furious, that her hair waved behind her like a standard over a proud city. But she did not run. She stumbled, rather, one foot sinking before another in a free style that was not so free. Keneel-La was kind to her. He did not force her to let him carry her. He did not even suggest it. He walked patiently by her side, one arm extended to provide support which she, at times, gladly accepted. She wondered deep inside whether they would have moved faster had she allowed him to hoist her up in his arms. But he didn’t pursue it and she was grateful.

The lift could not be farther than just a few hundred yards. Still, it took her so long. She fought every step, secretly strengthening the bone and muscle in her leg with magic so that it would hold, knowing full well there was a lot more strain ahead. The two of them, she and the Dragonborn, walked in silence, letting the rhythm of the place take over.

The entrance to the lift was sneakily hidden just under the ledge with the control pillars, leveled with the top of the Dwemer mechanism sphere. Yrith could see the path had been cleared, pieces of rubble tossed or kicked out of the way without much order. Glass had been shattered everywhere, covering the place with a glittering crust. Only the beam of light remained, its magic untouched by Yrith’s raving. She gave it one last look. The power inside her surged like a wave, and then fell back into the ocean of her subconscious, leaving but a gentle ripple on the surface.

“Looks like we’re both going to bear the brand of this place for the rest of our lives, aren’t we?” Keneel-La commented as he noticed her look.

She gave a nigh inaudible snort.

“I wonder…”

He left the sentence hanging in the air, unfinished. Yrith did not ask.

They entered the short corridor leading to the lift. Yrith could hear Cain and Leyna talking quietly. She could not make out what they were saying from the distance, but she found comfort in hearing their voices. As if she had a home to return to. As they slowly approached, the words became clearer.

“… should be happy here, being a Dunmer, no?” Leyna’s tone was conversational, with a tinge of amusement in it. A theatrical snort came in response to her statement.

“What? Have you ever been in any place in Morrowind that is not Blacklight? I’m not a Redoran, we don’t live in burrows!”

“Well, how should I… oh! Yrith! You’re standing!”

The two elves turned toward the newcomers at once, Cain’s eyes bulging at the sight of Yrith. She hinted a smile, but did not reply. Keneel-La gave them a nod.

“The path was well cleared. Thank you. Now, on to the surface, I suppose.”

There was longing in his voice, one that had long been suppressed. Yrith was not surprised. If dragon blood was what coursed in Keneel-La’s veins, then he would surely be drawn to the skies. But there was also something else. Fear?

“What will await us there?” she asked in a quiet, timid voice.

“Let me put it this way. When I emerged a while back, I saw a group of men in red kill my brethren down in the valley. I should mention that the Tower of Mzark stands on the border of The Pale and Whiterun.”

Imperials far out of their territory slaying dragons, Yrith translated in her mind. So they were surrounded.

“So why are we resurfacing?”

“Because,” Keneel-La said as he entered the round platform of the Dwemer lift, placing a hand on its lever, “this tower at least is thought to lead nowhere and we might have a chance to sneak past them. They are expecting to find us in Alftand, which is much closer to Winterhold and also much more explored. Every known exit from Blackreach will be guarded closely.”

As he said it, he prodded the rest to join him. When the last foot landed on the lift platform, he pushed the lever down with all his might.

Deep underneath them, an engine rumbled and thrummed. Yrith felt the vibrations deep in her body and had yet again to hold her body with magic. Instinctively, Cain held out a hand to support her. She took it gingerly, more for his comfort than her own.

“How in Oblivion are you standing?” he said, his voice sounding more like a whisper in the grating noise.

She shrugged. “A miracle, I suppose.”

“Will you be all right? If I remember the map correctly, there are two mountain ridges between us and Winterhold.”

“I can only hope. There’s little I can do about it anyway.”

He was not happy with her answer. But in the end, all he could do was watch.

“I still don’t understand why we didn’t fly to Winterhold,” Leyna muttered over the noise. The Dragonborn gave her a light pat on the shoulder.

“Because, Leyna,” the Dragonborn hurried with an answer, “aside from the danger of being easily discovered and taken down since the enemy would be prepared for it this time, dragons are proud creatures. To have them carry you out of the goodness of their heart is not how they think. I had them carry you out of that mess because back then, they considered you nothing more than a piece of baggage. It took me all the resources I had to make them. They only respond to power. But if I asked them to carry three people who are in full strength and health, capable of walking on their own two feet, they would rather kill those people to show their superiority over them.”

“Yrith rode on a dragon.”

“That’s not the same. She made an impression. And Paarthurnax is different. Unlike the rest of his kin, he responds to wisdom. But,” he raised a hand when Leyna opened her mouth again, “no, he would not take you either. He will not leave the Throat of the World. He has a good reason to stay in seclusion.”

Leyna turned to Yrith, her golden brows raised sky high.

“Just how in Oblivion did you manage to impress a dragon?”

Yrith felt her cheeks heat up at the recollection. A dragon that could become a true friend in an instant. One day, she hoped, she would come back to the mountain with a story to tell. She would offer the old drake a good tinvaak…

“I… gave him a name,” she said quietly.

At her side, Keneel-La started coughing.

“You… what?!”

“Well, it’s more like I gave his name a meaning, but…”

“Doesn’t matter, you… oh,” he shook his head in disbelief. “Now I see… I knew you must have done something for him, but a name… a meaning that he, a dragon, the Master of the Way of the Voice, no less, accepted… ‘impressed’ doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

“Is a name that powerful?” Cain wondered aloud. “Would a name really change so much?”

Keneel-La’s jaws widened.

“What would happen if I told you to take this,” he raised the Dwemer tube that had served Yrith as a splint just a few hours back and that he had decided to hold onto, “and jab it into one of the cogs that move this thing up?”

Cain raised a brow. “It would probably break the lift?”

“And what would happen if I told you to jab it into Yrith’s chest?”

Underneath his ebony skin, Cain paled visibly.

“Why…”

“Hypothetically, let’s assume you would do it. What would happen?”

He shook his head. “She’d… die… probably… but I wouldn’t!”

“Exactly. Even in this conversation, it makes a big difference when I say ‘cog’ and when I say ‘Yrith’, because that’s how you identify what we talk about and what you interact with. For Yrith, it makes a difference when I call her ‘Hatchling’ and when I call her ‘Yrith’, because when I use her name, I imply a certain level of seriousness. And now, we’re only speaking of words. Imagine that merely saying a word would hold power. As if you grasped the owner of that name and could do anything to them that’s within the limits of your power. But then, as the shape of the object you hold determines how easy it is to control it, that name would do the same. Someone who is free will never be as easy to control as someone shackled by their own nature. A name describes your nature, and for a dragon, whose language is equivalent to magic, a name is everything. If Yrith offered Paarthurnax such power, then there is no measure for how grand a gift she gave him. He will be, to put it quite simply, forever in her debt.”

“So the Demon’s name could really destroy him? Literally?”

“It is quite possible.”

“Say, Keneel-La,” Yrith began quietly.

“Hmm?”

“Paarthurnax said that dragons are born with their names. How…”

“Ah,” the lizard’s smile darkened, “indeed, this may be quite confusing. A name can bear many meanings, as you yourself probably discovered. A dragon name is never just one word. It is a combination that can have many interpretations. A dragon is born with a name, yet only his deeds decide the interpretation. When the deed is great, the dragon’s name is pronounced officially, which, on one hand, gives him power, on the other hand, it gives others the means to control that dragon. Many dragons remain formally nameless, but within the system, they mean nothing. Quite a nasty way to exact power if you ask me, but Alduin was never known for kindness.”

“So when I suggested to Paarthurnax that his name might have a different meaning…”

“You gave him freedom. Freedom he was seeking for thousands of years. Even if he, wise as he is, might take time to process it in all its greatness.”

Yrith stared at the Dragonborn a good while before she realized she was smiling. Smiling like the biggest fool of all, feeling like the biggest fool of all. What was greatness? A simple blow of wind that would move all the small specks of sand out of their places? It took so little. It felt like so little. And yet, apparently, it meant so much. Greatness… she wondered if it truly existed.

The tremble in her magic-infused legs and the sound of stone grinding against stone woke her up from her trance. The lift was slowing down, until it finally stopped. She had not even realized the coldness of the wind that bit into her cheeks. Everyone trembled now. The warmth of the Dwemer complex had made them forget what Skyrim winter felt like. As she focused her eyes on the sight before her, the snow, shining even through the gilded grating of the tower gate, painted colorful smudges in her vision. The air stung in her lungs. Everything in her screamed for the comfort of the Dwemer cities. And yet, she welcomed the roughness as an old friend. As if new life spread in her, she took in all the air her lungs could accommodate. Finally, after long days, weeks, perhaps, they were on the surface.

“Now this feels surreal,” Cain breathed, and she could see the same kind of rapture that she felt in his eyes, even if closed ajar in the sudden deluge of light.

“It does so every time indeed,” Keneel-La concurred. “Now, we will have to cross the mountains. As bad as I feel about this, Yrith, could you scan the perimeter?”

“So we will not be covering our tracks this time?”

“The dangers of it outweigh the merits, I’d say. Better to know what’s around, risk being found and having to run than dashing right into the tip of someone’s blade. In the end, we will have to fight. It’s not a question of if. It’s a question of when and how.”

She nodded, letting her magic out. The region was mountainous, every inch of it hard to traverse. She imagined they might be at a great disadvantage with rucksacks on their backs and Yrith’s injury, not to mention the numbness that remained in her after all those days spent in the depths of Oblivion. Surely, the Imperials would have supplies nearby, places to return to without having to carry too much weight. And they were trained to fight too.

Yrith tried to shake off all the unsettling thoughts running through her mind. There was a cliff behind their backs, impassable with its jagged crown. To their left was a plateau, gently rising into a slope. On its far end, amidst a few lichen-covered pine trees, a great bonfire burned up to the skies, with several creatures roaming around it lazily. She examined them, her teeth unwittingly sinking into her lower lip.

“There are… giants to the left. And mammoths. Is that the western side?”

The Dragonborn gave a nod.

“It is indeed. Giants don’t scare me much, but we don’t want to go that way. It would only bring us further and eventually we would run into a dead end. What’s on the other side? The valley down the eastern side and around? There is an altar with a stone circle and a statue of Talos that we should pass. Further that way are two Nordic barrows that lead up to a mountain pass. That’s where we are headed. If your magic allows it, search the pass too. It should lead us straight to Alftand, although we want to avoid the old city itself. We will instead go along the mountain ridge and turn just before Saarthal to reach the Shrine of Azura. That should take us to Winterhold from the eastern side which, hopefully, no one is expecting.”

“Isn’t that risky? What if a storm hits us?”

“Every path is risky. I’ve survived a few storms in Skyrim. They are not kind, they will tear your skin off if only you let them. But they are not impossible to survive if you know what to do. An Imperial blade and a magic bolt though, they are a different story.”

“Well, so much for safe passage,” Leyna uttered quietly.

Yrith kept her thoughts to herself. She did not feel entitled to question the safety of their journey. After all, she was the reason for all danger. She was the reason for this journey to begin with. And all she could do now was to ensure all was as safe as could be.

She searched on. As Keneel-La had suggested, there was a valley eastward. There were two forts to the north, one full of men and women in full combat gear, a professional army, it seemed, and the other occupied by rough, hard people whose weapons mostly consisted of silver. Vampire hunters, perhaps. Neither of these should present much danger.

She focused on the other side. To the south, she could find another giant camp. There was less snow in that direction. She could feel that the blanket of white covering the vast fields of vegetation around was fresher. So that was the Whiterun tundra. There was a patrol a few hundred feet from the camp. Two men, walking back and forth in laid-back gait. It was hard to discern colors with just magic, but the shape of their uniforms was definitely a Nordic cut. Not Imperials then. Or, not appearing to be Imperials.

“You probably know about the forts on the north,” she said to the Dragonborn, half of her mind still scanning the land, “and the giant camp on the south. There’s a patrol, maybe Stormcloak, maybe some hold guards. And to the east…”

She left their destination to the end of her search. As Keneel-La had said, there were two barrows. Yrith felt a chill run down her back as her magic touched their guards. There was no life in them, just like the skeletons of the Midden. The power that steered them was different from her magic. Dark, otherworldly. They were shadows of the people they had once been. Lost, trapped in this world until they would serve their purpose. She left them, not eager to explore them more. She doubted the Imperials would dare approach the ancient burial sites, but she scanned their surroundings nonetheless. To her surprise, there was life. Three people. Different from guards, different from bandits or any kind of hunters. Travelers. Or not.

No, that was impossible…

“Yrith?”

She recoiled before the lizard’s touch, realizing she had been holding her breath. She let it out, drawing in new air.

“What did you find?”

Her magic link was still working. What had she found? Was he real? So close? Did he really know where she was?

“Yrith?”

“I… that’s… Sin… Master… Larkwing. I think. With two other people.”

“Here?”

“I… think so.”

“So he has found you as well. That wave of magic you released must have given him direction. Is he headed toward Alftand?”

Yrith shook her head. “I think they’re coming this way.”

“I see. So Kharjo must be with him.”

“Kharjo?”

“S’kharr. The Khajiit that helped you survive when you were captured.”

“I see…”

Yrith recalled the silver-furred cat man. It felt like ages ago, that day she had first seen him, when he had put her out of starvation. And the day after that, when she had called him… and the third day, when she had met the Dragonborn for the first time, in the middle of something that pretended to be a negotiation. So he was with Singird now. Why did that even surprise her?

And then there was the third one. Someone Yrith had not been expecting to come into her life ever again.

“Who is the last one?” Keneel-La asked as if reading her thoughts. She shook her head in disbelief.

“Qassir. A classmate of mine…”

“I see…” He fell silent for a moment, ignoring the surprised looks of Cain and Leyna, eyes clouded with thoughts. Then, he gave a nod. “In any case, that means we’re going to meet them. They, at least, are good news. Hopefully, if there aren’t any trackers on their tail. Any bad news? Patrols, scouts?”

Yrith tried to get her attention off Singird’s group. She would have loved to follow them, to stay with the familiar, comforting presence. With little eagerness, she broke away, scanning their surroundings and the path further up to the pass. The life up there was scarce.

“A few ice wraiths, two trolls in the pass,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll be able to circle them.”

“Not much of a problem. Any people?”

Yrith shook her head. “None that I can see.”

“Very well. Let’s set out then. We’ll keep to the northern mountain wall. I know,” he raised a hand as Yrith made to speak, “we’ll have to pass the barrows. I fear the undead less than I fear people. They, at least, won’t strategize and set out targets. People will.”

With that, he opened the gate. It gave a creak that spread far and wide and rebounded from the walls of the surrounding mountains. All four of them twisted their faces. Yrith knew that just like her, the others wished few souls heard the sound, and that those who did were not human.

Before them opened a gentle slope that descended into a steeper one on their right and the plateau with giants on their left. She could vaguely discern the two monumental figures and their animals in the distance. The bonfire around which they stood illuminated the surrounding area like a beacon, bright even amidst the snowy landscape. In a way, they simply seemed like campers, sticking to their livestock and the warmth of their fire.

As the four of them took the first step outside, Yrith felt the snow crunch under her boots. What an unbelievable sensation. The coldness hit her with triple the intensity now, and she felt another wave of shivers. Movement was difficult. Even more difficult than before, as her feet sank in the snow and she had to raise them high to take another step. She dug her fingers into her sides. Her injured leg kept sending lashes of pain into her system. She was still helping it with magic, concealing it from the sight of any potential passersby, as well as her own friends.

“Will you be fine?” a voice issued by her side. She turned to meet Cain’s gaze. His expression was that of a person having a light conversation over a mug of tea, but she could still see the worry underneath. “If I can help with anything…”

“You mean carry me?” she smiled despite herself. “That would be counterproductive. And there’s nothing you can carry for me. But thank you.”

He gave a sigh. “I know. I just… wish I could. Why is it always you?”

“Not always,” she shrugged. “But maybe because ultimately, I am the target?”

“Not for the Falmer. Or Dwemer machines.”

“When you deal with the Daedra, you never know what’s going to target you,” Yrith said wisely. Now she was talking like the Dragonborn.

“The Daedra… right.”

By their side, Leyna gave a quiet snicker. Cain cast an exasperated glance at her, but she only smiled back.

“Now,” the Dragonborn cut in, “I know the three of you have a lot to share, but we should really move as quietly as possible. Yrith, the moment you can’t stand, you’ll let me know. There is no room for pride now. What we need to think of are solutions.”

Yrith lowered her head in understanding. She hated even hearing him speak like that. But if that was the only option how to protect their lives, then she would do as he said.

They set out. Yrith tried to guess what time of the day it was, but it was nearly impossible with the sun hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds. It was simply grey in the skies and white under their feet. She had loathed this weather in the past. Now, she was happy to be back.


Crossing the road connecting Whiterun with Dawnstar was easier than they had imagined. The trees were thick and lush, offering shelter from both the harsh wind and unfriendly sight. The snow that occasionally fell from the branches in feathery clouds covered their footprints well. Now, they were nearing the belt of mountains embracing the Alftand basin on the north. Yrith fought for every step, limping by the Dragonborn’s side. He paid her no heed, staring at the path ahead with a deep frown that had hewn sharp, jagged shadows into his lizard features. Eventually, he stopped under one of the few bare trees in the area. Yrith used the occasion to prop herself against its trunk, basking in the sliver of comfort it provided.

“Can you look around again?” he asked.

It was about the fifth time in that short while they had been traveling. Nevertheless, she nodded without asking, spreading her magic. Singird was closer now. Pleasantly close. Except for his group, only a few ice wraiths roamed the area around the altar of Talos and the stone circle that was, according to Keneel-La’s information, called Weynon Stones. Then, a lone raven in the sky. Otherwise, there was no one.

“Still the same,” she commented. The Dragonborn sighed.

Cain tilted his head to the side. “Are we expecting someone?”

“Indeed,” the lizard snorted. “Don’t you think it’s too quiet?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I took the lift to see the situation, I saw Imperials. Now there are none. Anywhere. It makes no sense. As unknown as the Tower of Mzark is, I wouldn’t expect to find no resistance at all. I don’t like this.”

“Were they really Imperials?” Leyna asked, looking here and there as if the said soldiers should jump from behind a tree at any moment. “Couldn’t they just be some vagrants?”

“No. Not even vagrants in Imperial uniforms. Their fighting style was too synchronized for that, they looked like professional soldiers. Unless my own eyes deceived me.”

“Deceived…” Yrith repeated slowly, mulling the word on her tongue. No, this couldn’t be… not on this scale…

She closed her eyes, focusing entirely on her magic. She had to find traces. The slightest trace of magic other than her own. A hem of an imaginary cloak. A so-called cloak of invisibility… only this one would be woven with threads of magic instead of fabric, it would not cover its wearer, but instead blind the eyes of an observer. She felt her teeth grit until they hurt, her eyelids press into each other, her nails dig into the skin of her hands. Someone was talking to her… No, she needed to concentrate. The slightest lingering spark…

She found it. No. Them. Many, many sparks. Her breath quickened as she focused on them, dismantling the spell that had been working against her this entire time, thread after thread. The land changed. There were footprints, beaten paths amidst broken brushwood… people. Many, many people.

She felt all the blood retreat from her cheeks.

“Keneel-La…”

She forced her eyes to open and look into the lizard’s face. He gave her a long, knowing look.

“How many?” he asked plainly.

“I’m… I’m so sorry…”

“How many are there, Yrith?”

“I… don’t know. We’re surrounded. From every direction.”

It was the end. It took one great illusion to deceive her unskilled mind. There were too many. She scanned the place again. The image of Singird was no illusion. It remained. No. It had changed, in fact. It moved fast, here and there. He must have been running from something. Fighting… No. He could not fall with them. No…

“Leave me here,” she said quietly.

“Yrith!”

She could not choose which of those three voices to follow. She chose none.

“It’s over. If you leave, maybe at least you can save yourselves. I…”

Two firm, calloused hands gripped her shoulders and shook her.

“What did I tell you back in High Hrothgar?”

“I…”

“What did I tell you? Tell me now.”

What was he talking about? She didn’t know. Everything was surreal, grey, drowning in darkness. What had he told her? What would it matter?

“I don’t know… I don’t know!”

“Shouldn’t we run…?” Cain tried, but Keneel-La shook his head to silence him.

“There’s nowhere to run. Anywhere we run, they will have the advantage. Yrith,” he turned back to her, “remember. After I put you through that trial with a blindfold. After I told you my story. What did I tell you?”

“I…”

His story…

“… that…”

How he had come from Morrowind. How he had nearly died when running away. How his sister had nearly died. How he had nearly died again when crossing the border to Skyrim. How Alduin had attacked. How his mortal enemy had saved his life. Was that it? No…

“You said,” she whispered between the shallow breaths, “that the story does not end until it’s truly over.”

He lowered his head in confirmation. “I did. Etch those words into your mind. Repeat them, wallow in them, feel them with every inch of your body and soul. Feel them as the magic courses through you. Feel them as you face your enemies. Make them your purpose. And remember,” he said as his own fists clenched tightly on her shoulders, “that if you don’t take the life of the person that points their blade at you, they will take yours. And Cain’s. And Leyna’s. They started it. They have come prepared for whatever fate they may meet. So deliver it to them. No holding back this time, Yrith.”

“The story does not end…” she whispered.

… until it’s truly over, she finished in her thoughts. He gave a nod and patted her on the shoulders. Then, his hands left her, aiming right for the hilts of his two blades.

“You know the drill,” he said to all of them. “Yrith, you stand side by side with us.”

Cain stared at him incredulously.

“But…”

“They outnumber us heavily, Cain. We’ll have better chances if we go all in.”

“Chances? What chances?” Leyna snorted. Yrith could sense the restraint in her. Her voice shook. She too was clutching her dagger, even if Yrith knew it would not be her weapon of choice.

“The story does not end until it’s truly over,” Yrith muttered mechanically as she positioned herself so that she stood back-to-back with the Dragonborn. Before her was a wall of trees. A wall from which someone could leap at any time. She fixed her eyes on it, wishing she could just set it on fire that would consume anyone who would try to pass through. After a few silent moments, she felt the nudge of Cain’s arm on one side and Leyna’s soft touch on the other. It wasn’t a triangle anymore, and she wasn’t in the center. It was a square.


The buzzing arrows were easy enough to deflect. These people were weak. Perhaps not weak, but weak enough against magic. They ran against them with their swords pointing at their hearts, but they never reached their targets. The more skilled of them dodged the magical missiles, but even they could not get close enough to deal damage. Arrows were the only thing that reached the Dragonborn’s group, if they could get through the trees. Yrith took them down, leaving the killing blows to the others. The men fell. The snow underneath them melted, turning into a mixture of blood and dirt. Yrith could taste iron on her tongue and her nostrils filled with death. She stared in horror at the bodies before her, both those that moved and those that lay at their feet. They were mindless. Their eyes were empty, perhaps they did not even see Yrith and the rest. They just charged, one after another. Many, many people, throwing their lives away in the blink of an eye. Did they have families? Friends? Not anymore…

“Damn,” the Dragonborn cussed behind her.

“Are these… decoys?” Cain yelled over the fray as he fired a bolt of pure magicka from both of his hands.

“Decoys, distraction, whatever they are, they’ve been used as scapegoats. Don’t you three even dare think of who these people are. Someone knows full well the extent of our power and our weakness. And they will use every advantage they have against us. That said, the numbers they have…”

He didn’t finish. Instead, he released a roaring Shout.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!”

Yrith had heard this one from Paarthurnax. Even with her back to the lizard, she felt the heat from his fire breath. She did not want to imagine the scene before his eyes. She did not want to hear the screams. She forced herself to look at the arrows. They, at least, did not have a heart that would stop beating upon the impact.

The story does not end until it’s truly over…

She repeated it, again and again, the words becoming a mantra she would hold onto. Her only hope. Cain’s only hope. Leyna’s only hope. Singird’s only hope…

Just as she thought of him, something in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She sent a scorching wave toward the coming arrows and shielded their whole little group before turning her head to see what it was. A glimmer on the horizon. Flashes of light. Magic… magic against magic, sparks setting the snowflakes alight, giving halos to the white trees. Their fight was not the only one. But why were the mages there and not here?

“Yrith!”

She turned just in time to block another volley of arrows. Behind them, she saw the faces of the exhausted, desperate soldiers. They seemed more exhausted than her. Some had seen through the ruse and decided to run for it. In vain. Somewhere behind those trees, another circle began to shrink. Those who ran met their fate in the shape of a fiery magical missile. Whichever direction they would choose to face, they would only find death. Yrith’s eyes met with the eyes of the closest man. He gave a sad but relieved smile as he sank to his knees, not minding the cold. She saw his lips move. He was begging her. She let out a shaky breath.

For the first time since she had met the Dragonborn, she raised her hand to deliver the killing blow.

At least he would die with honor.

She released an ice bolt. It never found its target.

As it flew toward the poor man, it was cast astray by the same beam of magicka that sent the man flying until he hit the closest tree, his life left to wane away at time’s mercy. She stared at the caster. It was an elf, standing in the front line of a whole mage squad. An elf she knew all too well.

“Long time no see, little Yrith,” he said amiably.

Her breath stopped. The cries of the battle stopped. Everything stopped.

“N-no…”

He should have been dead. She had killed him. Countless times she had replayed that moment in her mind, the pain he had inflicted on her vivid as much as the pain of taking a life, even if rotten. He had fallen right there before her eyes. And yet, here he stood.

She could smell the mint on him even from the distance. She still tasted the wine he had dripped on her chapped lips. She still felt the dark blade on the skin of her neck.

She retched. He gave a light chuckle as if observing his own child. Then, he lifted a hand, fingers sparking with magic, and fired. Not at her, but to her side. At Cain.

No, he wouldn’t. Not Cain.

As if someone had pulled a Dwemer lever, all the sounds returned at once. Yrith produced a ward just in time to shield the Dunmer boy at her side who seemed to have been yelling something at her for a good while. Both of his hands were burning with magic, sending one ball of fire after another, even if now they seemed smaller and weaker than before. Leyna was warding them from the other side, the magic shield tattered and flickering on its edges. Keneel-La kept Shouting, his voice becoming raspy and wheezy. They were running out of resources. And now, the mages had come. What a flawless plan.

Yrith’s face hardened. Whatever trick he had used to come back, she could not let Erinor kill a single one of her friends. She could not succumb to his ruthless tactics.

The story does not end until it’s truly over…

She did not even aim. Magic burst from her clenched fists, forming into atronachs. They would not last long against the casters, but still, they could provide some distraction. If only she could create an opening…

The mages against them moved, spreading to cover more area. This did not look good. And yet, she could still see a path to the north-east.

“Cain?” she yelled.

“Finally listening?”

“Never mind that,” she brushed him and his worried tone aside as she cast a ward with one hand and a poorly aimed bolt with another, all too aware he had been trying to reach her all this time, “can you still go? I’ll give you magic. Your aim is better than mine.”

The brief moment he took to reply felt like eternity.

“Are you serious? Of course I can!”

The sudden smile in his voice gave her courage. She did not hesitate to give him her hand, careful not to gaze into his mind as she flooded him with magic. Their hope was a decision, not a state. It would only take a while until the ecstasy of the moment would evaporate. And so they would fight now. She would let Erinor and his men taste all the rage she felt toward him. She would make him pay double.

As their hands broke apart, Cain’s missiles flared with new life. He fired rapidly, not giving the enemy time to think. Speed was his only way to occasionally hit. When he hit, he hit hard. One in the head, another in the chest. Mages fell. Not Erinor.

The slick elf glided among the others as bolts of magic followed him. At times, he hid behind someone else’s ward. Others, when there was no ward to protect him, he would simply grip the shoulders of a fellow mage and send him to death. Once, his living shield survived the blow. He did not hesitate to use him again.

Yrith felt her mouth twist by itself. She hated his ever-present smile. She wanted to wipe it off his face. She wanted to strangle him. Her missiles missed as well. The Dragonborn’s Shouts, now less frequent as the lizard, protected by Leyna’s ward, took longer breaks to draw breath, did not seem to affect him. Something was not right. Yrith was quite sure he had not been this quick and resilient the last time she fought him. Was it the surprise back then? No, certainly not.

She quickly produced a ward as a bolt of lightning flew at her. With the other hand, she sent a fire atronach to the side of the enemy line, followed by a dremora. The effect was opposite to what she had intended. She wanted the mages to back away. Instead, they rained on the creatures like skeevers on a slice of cheese.

She could not even think of an appropriate curse before she had to block another bolt. There were too many. They did not mind dying. Where one fell, two others took his place. Were there even so many mages in Tamriel? And most of them high elves too. All men. Not a single woman. That said something about Erinor.

She sent a dremora on their other side. The trick did not work. Erinor had read her intentions well. Now, the mages were firing from the distance and even extending it. Slowly but surely, they moved to block the passage entirely. Yrith’s chances slimmed yet again.

“How do we break through?” she called to Keneel-La. With shock, she realized he was panting. His Shouts had ceased entirely.

“By force, it seems,” he grunted, slipping behind Leyna’s ward to avoid a fire bolt. “Can you and Leyna do it again?”

Yrith assumed he was talking about the ward they had used against the Falmer. She would have liked to look at Leyna and confirm. The constant fire did not let her. It seemed the mages against them grew fiercer and faster with every moment. No, that wasn’t it. It was her that was becoming exhausted. It was her who was now too slow.

She took a breath as she fired another missile. It went wide, disappearing somewhere in the treetops. As if answering to the moment of weakness, Erinor’s face appeared out of nowhere, just before her. She gasped and backed away instinctively. Her back hit the arms of Cain and Leyna, causing them to miss their shots and barge into Keneel-La. Erinor did not bother with magic. He pulled out a thin sword with a gilded leaf-shaped guard, thrusting its hilt into Yrith’s chest. Dull pain hit her like an avalanche and spread far into her body. She staggered. Her injured leg gave way under her. In a desperate attempt, she sent forth a ball of fire. Erinor sneered and waved it away with magic. She could see Cain trying to get to the wicked elf, but a wall of fire rose before him, separating him from Yrith. On the other side, Leyna cried out as the first shot hit her. Not magic. An arrow. In all the chaos of fire, ice and lightning, they had forgotten the remaining soldiers. Keneel-La’s huffs were drowned in the ringing of blade against blade. He too was preoccupied with his own opponent and much too weary from the previous fight.

She lifted herself on her elbows, only to be hammered down on the ground again. She could not find the breath to cry out. Erinor was playing with her. He would not kill her. Again, he would savor her torment with gusto. She retched again. And then, she felt stabbing. Stabbing in her forearm. Stabbing in her thigh. Stabbing in her hip. Again, and again, and again, white hot pain flashed through her like lightning in a thunderstorm, but the pain was not the worst. The pain, at least, reminded her she was still alive. But with it, came the cold. It was the cold of nothing. Through the tears in her flesh, her magic was, by some inconceivable force, leaving her.

Until it stopped.

She was barely breathing. There was hardly any life left in her. The stomped snow under her felt even colder and harder than it was. She gathered all her strength to look up. The elf stood above her with a soft, yet triumphant smile. In his hand, he twirled a thin dark blade, sparks of magic running along its edges. It was quiet now. The battle was over. Yrith could not hear her friends. She was afraid to think of the reason.

“I do not lose, little Yrith,” Erinor said with a smile. “Not even in death. You are out of magic, and so are your friends. Well, well, well. Who would have thought I would gain myself a nice trophy by postponing the time I finally deal with you. The Dragonborn’s head will fit nicely in my collection of dragon heads.”

“You wish, scum” she heard Keneel-La’s muffled voice. At least he was alive then.

“Oh, did I hear something? Perhaps a rustle of the wind…”

The mages standing behind him laughed. Then, their line broke to form an aisle for several newcomers. Five other elven mages, dragging along…

Yrith’s heart shrank. No. No…

“We found these at the foothills,” one of the elves said as he tossed his burden on the ground. So they finally met. Yrith stared into his dark eyes, her heart beating faster despite the fear and exhaustion.

“S-Singird…” she whispered. Even in her situation, she found solace in the name. In his presence. He was alive. Beaten, covered in blood. But breathing. Alive.

He said nothing as he looked at her, but she could read the words right off his face. Words of regret. Words of shame.

I failed you…

She was the one who had left Winterhold. Who had failed who?

“Well, well, well,” Erinor sang sweetly. If only she could silence him. If only she could turn that smirk into agony. “Look at what we have here. A kitten,” Yrith had almost missed the silver-furred Khajiit friend of Keneel-La’s, “a naughty child of the desert,” Qassir lay the furthest from her, his eyes staring absently into the sky in spite of the barely noticeable cloudlets of steam rising from his mouth, “and a mediocre mage calling himself a Master. And his own student calling him by his given name? Intriguing.”

He cast a wicked glance at Yrith. The dark blade moved over to the nape of Singird’s neck. If she had not been pale before, Yrith paled now. They had just met. They had just met! Would he kill them all? One after another, slowly, painfully, right in front of her eyes, before he would finally kill her? She wanted to cry out. She was scared to. He would take it as an incentive. Every move, every gasp or moan, every word was a sign to Erinor. But then again…

“What is it, little Yrith? You’re not scared, are you?”

Silence was as well.

Yrith glared at him with all the hatred she had for him. She wished to kill with her eyes. Why was the world so unfair? If only it would end already. If only it was over…

“Indeed, you have a reason, don’t you? You’ve gotten so used to your borrowed power. It’s not yours, abomination. And you are out. You can’t do anything but watch, can you?”

If only it would end…

The story does not end until it’s truly over.

“You’re out…”

The words were so sweet on his tongue. He laughed and twirled the blade again. The magic on it gave a light crackle. Magic. Yrith’s magic.

She was out. He had deprived her of her power.

She stared at the blade, understanding clearing her mind of all doubt. A smile formed on her lips. A bestial smile, wild, uncontrolled. She laughed with him. She laughed louder. He tilted his head to the side, amused.

“So you have finally lost it, haven’t you, little Yrith? Poor, powerless, little Yrith…”

She was still laughing. And then, she stopped.

“You’re right,” she hissed as she stared right into his beautiful, cruel eyes. “I’m out of magic.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.”

Erinor raised the dagger. His final moment of glory. His final mistake.

“But you’re not!” Yrith cried. It was her magic. It would answer to her. Her fingers clutched the air. Her blood was still warm. Warm enough to provide the tiniest bit of energy. It was all she needed to create the link. She did not aim for the blade. She aimed for Erinor.

One moment he laughed. Then, horror marred his face as he realized what she was doing. He realized too late.

The dagger fell from his hands and jabbed itself into the ground just next to Singird’s head. The spell Erinor tried to cast did not work. His magic did not obey him anymore. It was all under Yrith’s control. With a hint of cruel satisfaction, she pulled. He screamed. The sound of it cut deep under everyone’s skin. But he was powerless. The more he screamed, the more hunger she felt. She pulled. And pulled. And pulled.

“Stop her…” he rasped. “Stop her!”

Only a few of his mages dared turn to Yrith. She did not give them time. It was too easy. Too easy to just seize their life force and take it for herself. To shatter their souls like porcelain dishware tossed down from its shelf. Vaguely, she realized she was baring her teeth. Power flowed into her, filling her with new life. She ignored their screams. The sight of him, lying before her, helpless, his eyes begging her to spare his soul, was exhilarating. She wanted more. She drank his life in great, satisfying gulps. She drank theirs too, all those that tried to oppose her. The rest of them ran, stumbling through the snow, falling and rising again to get away from her as fast as they could. Run, away from the abomination. Away from the damnation. Never mind their fallen comrades.


It was quiet. Yrith’s fingertips burned. Her head throbbed, her heart raced. She had done it. She had devoured the foul elf’s soul so that he could never come back again, she had broken the cursed blade and undone every threat. The bodies lay in her feet, lifeless. She had saved her friends. She had cleared their path. She had…

Her eyes found Singird. He stared at her with wide eyes, face twisted in shock. He said nothing. But his long, piercing look was impossible to bear. She turned to Cain. The Dunmer’s mouth was open, as if the hinges holding the jaw had come loose. She turned to the Dragonborn, but his face was carved in stone, unreadable. Questioning, perhaps. Leyna, Qassir, even the silver-furred Kharjo…

There was no joy in their stares. No triumph. No gratitude. Of course, there wouldn’t be. She had just devoured the souls of several mages. She had denied them the path to Aetherius. She had the power to erase people from existence. She scared them. She was an abomination. Now, everyone could see it. Now, everyone knew.

In the end, she had lost. She had lost everything. They would hate her and fear her. They would avoid her and never speak to her again. Perhaps it was just right that she would die by the Demon’s hand. She did not deserve to live.

She found herself struggling for breath. Her throat felt tight, barely letting in any air. She had to leave. Get away from them, leave them to their safety. They would be better off without her. They had always been.

She staggered backward, barely keeping her balance. One step, two, three… then she stopped, turning to Leyna for the last time. They were all lying on the ground, their limbs covered in nasty gashes. She knelt beside her elven friend, finding her fingertips. The hand yanked under her touch, but she held onto it, sending in a wave of magic. Magic that was not hers…

“For healing,” she rasped, feeling the tears fall on her lips.

Then she turned away, forcing her feet into motion. Run, run away. Away from the madness, away from the hurt. Away from their looks, away from the blame.

She would run until she would be out of breath. She would run after that too. She would keep running forever, despite the pain, despite the innumerable wounds on her, despite her body that was crumbling apart.


Singird could not find the right words. What had just happened? What had he just witnessed? This was… Yrith? The look in her eyes, the mindless ferocity… he did not know this Yrith. This wasn’t the same person he had met back in Winterhold. Where was she?

He looked up where she was standing, despite the quite obvious wounds littered all over her slight frame. He gazed into her face, long and deep. No, he was wrong. She was still there, that beautiful girl he had been searching for. She was there, and under that layer of false triumph and demonic smile, she hurt. She hurt so much he had to clutch his own chest. It was all there, not just this battle, but all those months of struggle and solitude, all the suffering she had gone through, all the hard lessons she had had to learn. She must have known the elf, he was sure about that. She loathed him, feared him. He had driven her into this state. He had all but deserved his fate.

He wanted to stand and embrace her. To finally hold her in his arms, after all this time, after those moments when he thought he never would. But he did not find the strength. He did not find the courage either. She was so close, yet so far. Perhaps she would crumble under his touch. Perhaps she would burst and consume him.

She turned away, her eyes roving from one person to another. And then, out of all people to approach, she chose… Leyna Travi. Why?

They shared something intimate. He could see Yrith touch the Altmer’s hand, and his heart yearned to be in her place. Magic flared between them, and then it was gone again.

Her next words were accompanied by tears. He watched as she stood again and broke into a run. Why? Where was she going? Yrith!

“Yrith!” he cried, but she did not hear him anymore. He was not alone. Three other people were calling her name. All of her companions with whom she had come here.

The Dragonborn was the quickest to turn away.

“Damn it, damn it!”

He fought to stand. Singird beat him to it, even if barely able to keep upright. He limped to the closest tree, propping most of his weight against it as he tried to circle it. If she could run, he would never catch her. Still, it would not stop him from trying.

“Wait, Master Larkwing… let me…”

Singird didn’t want to let him. He took a step away from the tree and fell into the smooth blend of snow and dirt.

The Dragonborn hissed under his breath.

“Dammit. Leyna, can you…?”

Miss Travi nodded, flooding the Dragonborn with golden magic as she crawled to him. His wounds ceased their bleeding. He was visibly relieved. Still, he grabbed his rucksack, pulling things out of it without much order. A waterskin, a belt, a non-transparent bottle filled with splashing liquid, a stuffed burlap pouch, spare shirt. As soon as his fingers clutched the shirt, he ripped it apart, quickly using the long, thin shreds in place of bandages or to strangulate his limbs. He rose the instant he tied the last knot, shaky, but determined.

“I’ll get her,” he said, nodding to Singird as he passed him. Singird gripped his arm, losing balance once more as the lizard moved.

“I’ll go with you,” he still tried, knowing full well how pathetic he must have sounded.

“Merciful Talos,” the Dragonborn shook his head. “Yrith was quite a handful on her own. So now I have two fools with no preservation instinct on my neck, eh? You stay here in Leyna’s care, she’ll fix you right up. I’ll bring the hatchling back.”

He took two steps before turning around to glance at Singird once more.

“I promise,” he added. And he was gone.


She did not know how long she had been running. Time had lost all meaning. She only knew it had become dark and she could not see. She did not care. She did not care when her injured leg finally buckled under her and sent her to the ground. She did not care about the pain that spread throughout her body, or the coldness of the snow she was now lying in, or the fact that she had nothing with her. No food, no water, no bedroll to warm herself up. It did not matter. Nothing mattered.

She had killed so many. Not just killed. She had devoured them. Their own life was now coursing through her and giving her a semblance of strength. Erinor’s life too…

Her stomach knotted. She didn’t know how she managed to stand and lean against the closest tree when the contents of it decided to leave the entirely wrong way. She felt disgusted with herself. It had felt good. For a moment, she had been literally drunk with power. She had craved more. She might have taken more…

What if, one day, she would lose control? What if she would turn against her friends too?

No, that must not happen. Never.

She stood there, head against the tree, her mouth open, even if nothing came out anymore. There was nothing left inside. She felt so sick. Sick of herself. Sick of this life.

A while or two, or an eternity later, she was staggering through the snowy pine forest. She let her feet work on their own, until they gave way again. She found herself half buried in the snow, staring into the coldness below. But who cared. Who cared about anything…


Warmth woke her. A tight, strong embrace. Arms accustomed to hard physical work and heavy burdens, firm and solid as a rock, yet tender in their own way. She opened her eyes, realizing she was resting against Keneel-La’s chest. But how…

She pulled away. The Dragonborn looked at her gently.

“Apologies. I didn’t find the strength to carry you in my state, and I didn’t bring anything with me. This was the only way to warm you.”

“I…”

They were alone. He must have come after her, even after everything she had done. She didn’t know what she wanted to say. Everything felt so wrong. She realized she was sweating and shaking.

“Y-you… you should have left me…”

“And what good would that do, eh? What happened to your purpose? What happened to the Elder Scroll you hold inside?”

“It only makes me more dangerous…”

“No, Yrith. Despair makes you more dangerous. It’s natural. Even the most docile animal will bite if you drive it into a corner. And you have the misfortune of being a very powerful mage.”

“But I felt… I…”

“It felt good, didn’t it?” he said quietly. He knew. There was naught but understanding in his lizard face. Painful, agonizing understanding. “The power, the triumph, the knowledge that he is gone, it all made you feel good, didn’t it?”

“But…”

“I know the feeling. Even killing a stranger can have this effect.”

“I devoured his soul…”

He gave a sad, yet warm smile. “And he would have done the same to you if he only could. Perhaps he was going to. You did exactly the right thing. You used his weakness against him.”

“Doesn’t that make me the same as him? How can this be the right thing?!”

“You managed to save yourself and all of us. How is it not the right thing?”

“I devoured their souls. All of them. Ripped them apart, denied them the right to exist, the journey to Aetherius. It’s just…”

“It was their choice, Yrith. Until the last moment, it was their choice.”

“To die like that?”

“They picked their side.”

“Did they even know who they were fighting for?”

Keneel-La let out a long, weary breath. She felt his hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t ask yourself these questions, hatchling. Ignorance is also a choice. In most cases anyway. You can’t spare everyone just because they might not be aware of what they are doing. This was their souls or yours. Ours. You were trying to save our lives. And you did.”

Yrith shot him a dark look. He made it sound so noble. So purposeful. He made her look like a hero. Easy for him to say when he was one.

“I was trying to take revenge,” she uttered grimly.

He laughed. She wished to hit him in the face.

“Indeed you were. It would be strange if you weren’t. The short display he presented was enough to help me understand how much he must have done to you back when you were captured. Hurt, Yrith, is not a sickness. Hurt has to be healed. Wounds on the soul can fester too.”

“But I…”

“It’s all right, Yrith. He is gone. He can’t hurt you anymore. He can’t hurt any of us, thanks to you.”

Tears were flowing uncontrollably, like rivers bursting their banks. No matter how many walls and dams she tried to build in their way, they just poured.

“You wouldn’t be in any danger in the first place if you weren’t constantly trying to protect me,” she sobbed, feeling foolish for receiving comfort from him on top of everything else.

His smile grew brighter.

“But that’s a choice as well, isn’t it? Our choice.”

She blinked as she tried to clear her vision.

“What?”

“To be honest, you’re not being very fair. By shifting all the responsibility onto yourself, you’re denying us the right to make our own choices. What would you do if the tables were turned?”

“I…”

She couldn’t find an excuse anymore. Of course she would do the same. Of course she would give her life for Cain and Leyna, for Singird, for Keneel-La, perhaps even for Qassir and the silver-furred Khajiit. It was for this reason it all hurt so much. It was for this reason she had to cry. But, curious as it felt, it was for this reason that she could smile too.

She shook her head.

“I’m so sorry…”

“If you are, then come back with me. I think young Cain may have ripped all his hair out with worry by now. Not to mention Master Larkwing. Such fine hair he has…” he laughed. “I have to give it to you, you never fail to surprise me.”

Yrith paled. And there was that too. Upon their arrival, she would have a lot of explaining to do.


The sun was peeking over the eastern horizon when they finally reached the cave. Yrith’s eyes fell on the Nordic burial urns at its entrance, but the Dragonborn passed them with no concern. She could feel the warmth of a campfire coming from the inside. They entered in silence, but the quiet voices echoing through the place told them all was in order. She hesitated before stepping up from the shadow. But then, she drew a breath and took a resolute step forward. All eyes turned to her in an instant.

“Yrith! By the gods…!”

Cain cast aside all restraint. He flung himself on her person, wrapping his arms around her so tightly it hurt. Then he pulled away, stepping into the line formed by all others.

“You’re alive,” he commented wearily. “We were so worried…”

“I can only concur.”

She looked at Singird. He, on the other hand, held onto all of his restraint. She could see his hands fidgeting. His jaw trembled, his eyes were shaded by dark circles. But deep underneath all that, there was the joy from seeing her in one piece. Quiet, grateful joy.

“I know,” she whispered.

“Then why did you run?” Even Leyna joined them. The snort she gave could not be more unconvincing. “What were you thinking?”

Qassir and Kharjo simply observed, but their eyes did not leave Yrith for a split moment.

“Foolish things,” Yrith shook her head. “I was worried that…”

“That we would look down on you, or fear you, or whatnot, as always, eh? Don’t you ever learn?”

She flushed fiercely as she looked away. There were more burial urns. A brazier filled with dead embers. The remains of a dried-out snowberry wreath. The places they had to pick for shelter just to transport her safely across Skyrim.

“Damn you fools and your stupid choices,” she snorted quietly.

At her side, Keneel-La laughed. There was a moment of silence, save for the crackling of the campfire. Maybe now they were finally regretting…

“What?” Cain’s voice issued just a tiny bit louder than the softest crackle.

Yrith turned to him, wondering if the weakness in her knees was due to injuries and exhaustion or her own silly words.

“Who asked you to protect me?”

They all stared. All except Leyna who gave another snort.

“You’ve gone completely troll, haven’t you?” she asked, shaking her head. Her voice was so light. She was smiling a contagious smile. Yrith felt her own lips curl.

“Likely,” she said. She really felt tired. So, so tired. In a good way.

“Welcome back,” Cain said, his face bright with relief. “I haven’t seen that smile in a while.”

Yrith gave a nod. She had not felt that smile in a while. But still, it had come. They were there, after the spectacle she had given. They were there, not judging. Not forcing her to go back. What had she seen in their faces back then? Perhaps it wasn’t disgust after all.

A gentle pat on her shoulder made her turn to the source. Keneel-La was beckoning her forward, the merry sparks back in his eyes. She nodded. There was one last thing to do.

She crossed the empty space between her standing spot and the group of people by the fire. When she stopped, she was standing before the person she had most yearned to see and most feared to face. He had changed. His robes were ragged, his hair way less shiny and obedient, his face hard and weathered. And yet, his eyes shone brighter than she remembered them. They were fixed on her, and even with no words, she could guess his thoughts. She took a breath.

“It’s been a long time,” she said.

He gave a slow nod. “Too long,” he managed. His voice was shaking more than hers. And then, with no concern for whoever might be watching, he pulled her close and aimed for her lips.

The scent of starched linens was gone from his person. But he was still Singird. Too tall for her, and much too straightforward.

Indeed, she’d have a lot of explaining to do.

Notes:

Did Erinor survive, or did he die and come back? That’s the question… ;)

And I know, I might have cut it right after Yrith ran away and made the chapter shorter. But I thought wrapping it up here would be more fitting than a forceful split. Not every chapter needs a clilffhanger. :)

Chapter 33: Through the Gale

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Singird felt as though reality was slipping away from him. It was Yrith he had hugged. It was Yrith he had kissed. She had not forgotten him. She had gone straight to him and he did not care for whoever might be watching. Suddenly, she was there, in his arms…

Everything should feel right. She was back. But right was not the word he would use. She had changed beyond his wildest imagination. His Yrith had grown into a hard, fierce woman. Too powerful, yet somewhat too vulnerable. If someone drew a picture of her, perhaps he would not know the difference. She still had those beautiful silver eyes, that captivating look in her face, both keen and distant… and still, he could hardly recognize her. Her cheeks were less round, cut sharper. Her arms were covered in distinct lines of muscle. Despite all the exhaustion and hardship, her grip on him was firm and strong. The way she carried herself… he could not decide if it was prouder, or more burdened. Perhaps both, however absurd it sounded. Her recent experiences must have taken a toll on her. And yet… she was so beautiful. Perhaps more than before. Even with her face covered in sweat, grime and blood. Even with the look of a hunted animal that has run its share.

He wanted to keep her locked in his embrace, to claim her, to taste her warmth. But even if he tried to ignore them, he still felt all the looks on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the intent gaze of Cain Aldaryn. Instinctively, one hand of his sank from Yrith’s shoulder. Those crimson eyes were burning their way into him. For sure, the Dunmer did not approve. Perhaps some time ago, he would have ignored a mere student expressing his disagreement. But now, he was a different man. Yrith had taught him to listen. And observe.

He stepped back, looking around. Contrary to his expectations, only Cain Aldaryn and Leyna Travi seemed surprised. The Dragonborn’s beady eyes sparked with amusement and Qassir Tahlrah looked hardly moved at all. Kharjo’s cat face was as unreadable as ever.

He felt something brush against his forearm. Instinctively, his other arm followed, catching Yrith just before she could hit the ground. She hung in his arms limply, her face pale with the effort to keep her eyes open despite her wretched state. Still, she smiled a painful smile.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed.

He should have realized. Instead of selfishly claiming her, instead of only following his own desires, instead of painting images of her in his mind, he should have looked at her properly. He lifted her in his arms and she looked at him weakly.

“Don’t be,” he shook his head. “Let’s find you a place to sleep.”

Everyone moved from their places in apparent will to help. Kharjo dug in the pile of things they had managed to gather by the entrance and pulled out one of the bedrolls he had snatched on their way from some unfortunate Imperials.

“Here,” he said as he spread it just by the fireplace. “The furless cub needs some warmth.”

“Thank you,” Singird nodded, laying Yrith down gently. She was so light. Much lighter than he remembered her. He wondered how much she had been eating. Whether she had been resting properly. In the end, one could hardly rest when all Skyrim was up on their feet to hunt them down. He touched her face lightly. She was burning.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “A long day, I suppose. Or three. Or a hundred…”

Singird’s lips curled up. At least she kept her good humor about her.

“Rest,” he told her. “There are many more long days ahead, I’m afraid, and you’ll need your strength.”

“Mhm.” She closed her eyes. Or, rather, they seemed to have closed by themselves. Immediately, she was fast asleep. He looked at her with care, wishing to curl up by her side. Instead, he raised his head back to the rest, his gaze meeting the Dragonborn’s.

“That was fast,” he commented for lack of other words. “A truly long day it’s been, hasn’t it?”

The lizard gave a sigh. He bent down, finally dumping all of his burdens on the floor. Then he stood astride them, measuring them with his eyes as if their size could express how much Yrith had been through.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he said wearily. “Yrith especially has been… well, I think she’d better tell you herself. Just know that last night’s battle was only the tip of the cake. Some things even I can’t fully grasp. And I daresay I can understand a damn lot of things.”

Singird nodded, unable to express how much he felt those words himself. Even before Yrith had left the College, there were far too many mysteries about her. Now, he could not fathom even his own part. He wondered how long it would take for Yrith and himself to exchange everything. Surely after the long days, there would be many evenings full of stories ahead. Oh, how he wished to be back in Winterhold. How he longed for those lazy days when time just went about its own way and he cared little for it. He looked toward the cave entrance, to the coming winter outside. Just two mountain ridges. That was all that separated him and Yrith from that comfort. Two mountain ridges of potential battles and running in fear. He contained a sigh.

“I suppose we’d better go to sleep ourselves,” he muttered, eyes fixed on Yrith’s gently heaving chest.

“Indeed,” the lizard seconded. “I’m tired as it is, and I haven’t even taken a race in a crippled state after fighting my worst nightmare, like certain someone.” He too glanced toward the sleeping Yrith, staying with her for one pensive moment before he turned back to Singird. “But, awkward as it may sound, we’ve never been properly introduced. So before I choose to sleep with you in the same room, or cave, my name is Keneel-La. You may have heard of me once or twice.”

He extended a hand, holding it out for a shake. Singird’s brows shot skyward. So this was the Dragonborn. Even when he did not face the fire, it seemed that two merry sparks danced in his eyes. True, as the Chosen of Akatosh, Alduin’s Bane, and whatever other titles he had, he had likely lived through worse. Still…

This was not a defense mechanism. He had managed to convince Yrith to come back. Singird truly believed that his smile, whatever its source, was genuine. It felt warm and soothing. However he had doubted General Tullius, now he knew the man had chosen the best protection for Yrith there was. The best for both her vessel and her spirit. Suddenly, he felt a rush of gratitude toward the sturdy lizard. He took the hand in his, shaking it firmly.

“I am Singird Larkwing. You may have read about me once.”

The Dragonborn’s jaw widened. “Ah, I’m sure General Tullius mentioned you more than once in the letter he sent me.”

“That is very generous of him.”

“Indeed. Hmm, and here I was warned about you being overly serious, but you seem quite fine to me,” the lizard laughed, causing Singird to blush instantly. He was lucky the Dragonborn was now preoccupied with stuffing his rucksack to the side of the cave, looking around for a place he could make his bed for the night. Or day. “Well, time to hit our bedrolls, I suppose. Hopefully there will be a chance to exchange some stories later, because I am very much interested in your prior adventures.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Singird nodded in accord. “Kharjo mentioned some underground tunnels. Blackreach? I thought that place was a legend.”

“I would say that’s quite accurate. But it’s a long story. One I would rather leave for when we are fresh enough to enjoy ourselves. And I reckon Yrith would have something to say as well.”

“And her story is the one I’m most eager to hear,” Singird whispered.

“I’m quite sure she feels the same about yours,” Keneel-La said, kindness creeping into his rough voice. He turned away as though embarrassed, scanning the cave absently. When his eyes found the pile of crates and other properties Kharjo had gathered near the entrance, his face brightened. “I see we got ourselves a bundle of spare bedrolls, some food and… a keg? Kharjo?”

The Khajiit wiggled his ears as he stood to attention. “Our Imperial friends were much willing to share. Such goodness is unheard of in these troubled times.”

“Tell me about it.” The Dragonborn smirked, or so Singird guessed from the way his reptilian jaws parted. He clapped the Khajiit on the back, chuckling lightly before he made his way to one of the crates and grabbed several apples. He threw one of them to Singird who barely managed to catch it. But then, the lizard’s expression sobered again as he gestured toward the mouth of the cave. “We will need some protection. Kharjo, can I count on you to take the first watch? As much as I hate to admit it, I could use some sleep.”

The catman sniffed and narrowed his eyes. Over the recent encounters with his kinsmen, Singird had learned that this meant assent.

“Kharjo would prefer the night watch,” the Khajiit said, “but he will wait for that till there’s some proper adventure to be had.”

“Don’t you worry, there will be enough adventure for everyone. Though with our Yrith here, you might get more than you bargained for. Speaking of which,” the lizard gave Singird a meaningful look, “perhaps we should raise some magical protection as well this time.”

Before Singird could open his mouth to speak, Qassir hurried to his side.

“May I?” he asked, dropping a curtsy. “I’ve been helping Master Larkwing with this since Whiterun anyway. Not that he needs any help, of course.”

Just by sheer instinct, Singird’s hands clenched into fists. Of course he needed help. Every time, he relied on the courtesy of his own student, a Redguard with reputedly no aptitude for the arcane arts. He could very well stand Yrith exceeding him in every way possible. In case of Qassir Tahlrah, the circumstances felt rather aggravating. Especially since the boy never failed to remind him in the most irksome way possible. He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly to regain composure. The lizard watched him with his head tilted to the side, then just smiled and shrugged.

“Whoever wants to take care of it, as long as the protection is functional. Preferably something to ward off both magic and physical missiles and to keep outsiders out.”

“I suppose I can let Mister Tahlrah do it then,” Singird said slowly, trying to sound as indifferent as possible. “He always provided the barriers.”

“Please, do. Now then, let’s not waste any more time. I won’t risk staying for more than a day, and I’m afraid tomorrow will come sooner than we’d wish.”

With that, the Dragonborn made to spread his bedroll, leaving everyone to their own devices. Qassir walked away with a single nod, his hands flaring with magic. Everyone went about their own way, not sparing another word. Watching their backs, bent with the gravity of the recent events, Singird bit into his apple and set out to find his own place to sleep.


The bedroll he had picked for himself smelled of sweat and liquor. Of course. It had belonged to some Imperial soldier, and everyone knew how soldiers liked to spend their long evenings. Singird felt his face twist in disgust. He forced himself to carry it across the cave and spread it in a cozy corner, as close to Yrith as possible. On the other side of her, he could spot Cain Aldaryn doing the same. An uneasy feeling settled just at the nape of his neck. Something about the Dunmer made him feel almost unwelcome. And he was quite certain it had something to do with Yrith.

He burrowed into the bedroll, closing his eyes in hopes to chase all the uninvited thoughts away. They were all tired. Perhaps his mind was playing with him, making him doubt the boy for no reason, just as he had back in Winterhold. It could be just his own prejudice. Perhaps when they have all rested, he would see things in a different light. Sleep would surely bring relief. He listened to the rustle all around, as the others laid themselves to sleep, letting the sound lull him.

But the smell of the bedroll distracted him.

After all the travelling, battling, finally meeting Yrith… he was distracted by a godsdamned bedroll. He tried to focus his thoughts on something else. Winterhold. Perhaps soon enough, they would be back, and his room would be cozier than this place. He opened an eye to view the fireplace. To feel its warmth. But the fire was slowly dying and the fading glow of the embers was drowned in the light coming from the entrance.

And now, it was the light that tore through his thoughts and invaded his senses, even when he tried to close his eyes.

He groaned quietly, turning onto his stomach. The ground underneath was so hard he had to roll back. He gritted his teeth, watching the frozen ceiling through his fingers. It glared back at him, crackling, laughing at his futile attempts. Godsdamned ice. Godsdamned winter. Godsdamned exhaustion with its clutches of steel that took even his sleep away.

At last, he gave up, leaving the time to flow at its own pace. The half-slumber he had fallen into brought no comfort whatsoever.

A quiet snap of the dying embers woke him after what felt like long hours. In reality, judging by the light from the entrance and the shadows that had only moved a slight bit, it couldn’t have been more than a few short moments. Singird sat up, his head feeling heavy on his shoulders. Everyone seemed to be asleep now. That was, everyone except Cain Aldaryn, who was staring up just as Singird had been a while before. He took a moment to observe the boy. Even he had changed. His face was now marred with a long scar. It was apparent how much weight he had lost over the time he had been away. For sure, this was not a choice he would make willingly. Singird should have no reason to doubt him.

And yet…

The Dunmer wriggled and tossed. Their eyes met. Instinctively, Singird averted his gaze, but then he turned back, trying to appear as casual as possible. The boy fixed his crimson eyes on him.

“Can I help you, Master Larkwing?”

Singird quickly shook his head. “Just… looking at who’s awake.”

The boy nodded, rubbing the back of his head against his bedroll.

“I’m surprised that they can sleep so soundly,” he muttered to himself, but Singird could almost agree. Almost.

“Even in Yrith’s case?” he asked, feeling a wicked tingle of curiosity.

The boy’s eyes found her heaving chest, then slid to her face, watching the cloudlets of steam rising from her lips with every breath. Singird had never seen a look so gentle in the crimson eyes of a Dunmer. He felt his own face flare. Perhaps he should have never asked.

“No,” the boy uttered quietly. “She’s… had it different.”

For a moment, he kept his mouth open as if to continue, taking a few breaths. But then he closed it, falling silent. Singird could nearly feel all the thoughts running through the boy’s mind. All the thoughts that mirrored his own, the care, the concern, the…

Affection.

So that was the answer. No malice, no ulterior motives. Singird closed his eyes, rubbing his fingers against his temples a little too strongly.

“You… love her,” he voiced his thoughts without planning to. The silence that followed felt too long, even if it was but a few short moments.

“So do you,” the boy whispered into the furs of his bedroll. Singird could not see his face anymore, even if he wished to. But even so, the muffled sound of the boy’s voice gave him a strange feeling of unease. No. In fact, it strengthened the one that had settled there the first time Singird had met the Dunmer’s gaze.

“You hate me for it,” he dared. And, to his great surprise and unease, he realized that he cared.

The boy wiggled and squirmed in response. The bedroll creased as he clutched it.

“Do I?”

“I certainly have this feeling.”

“I don’t.”

The answer was too quick, too curt. Singird glowered at him, wondering what expression the boy was wearing. What he was feeling. After all, Singird himself could not decide on how he truly felt.

“If you say so,” he muttered quietly for lack of other words.

The Dunmer sighed. He laid himself on his back again, watching the flowers of frost on the ceiling, as if he could find his own feelings there. Instinctively, Singird’s eyes drifted the same way. The winter could surely paint beautiful images. If he could take one of those flowers and put it in Yrith’s raven hair…

Perhaps Cain Aldaryn was thinking the same thing. Perhaps there was so much on his mind that he could hardly bear it.

He looked back at the boy, studying his distant expression.

“You can talk about it,” Singird told him, surprising himself. “Whatever you say will stay in this cave. At this moment, I’m not your teacher.”

The boy raised himself on his elbows, eyeing the still figure of Kharjo, sitting at the entrance, face turned outside so that he would see any potential intruders. Singird nodded in understanding. But contrary to his expectations, the Dunmer spoke.

“Yeah, I hate you.”

For a moment, he let the sentence hang there. Singird blinked at the sudden honesty, opening his mouth to reply. But the boy continued.

“I hate you… for noticing her sooner. I hate you for being there for her while I was busy figuring her out. I hate you for sending us to fetch the godsdamned fish together and giving me the chance to… change. To know myself… And now I hate you for saving my life and making me watch from the sidelines.”

Singird stared at him. There was no trace of hatred in the boy’s voice. Quite the contrary. Just how in Oblivion had he managed to make Singird feel so defeated? Guilty, even. He too found himself hating the Dunmer. Hating him… for giving praise above any he had ever received in his life.

Indeed, Yrith had been in good hands. Perhaps he himself couldn’t have done a finer job protecting her than this boy and the Dragonborn.

He looked at the Dunmer with a mixture of envy and respect. What should he say now? All the words that came to his mind sounded so ridiculous in the shadow of this confession.

“I…” he began, already feeling stupid. “Thank you. For being there for her while I wasn’t…”

Suddenly, the boy shifted his gaze toward Singird, looking him directly in the eyes.

“You thank me?”

“That’s what I said, yes.”

He gave a snort. But then, his face brightened with a smile so dazzling Singird almost felt the need to shade his face. “Well. I suppose I should be thanking you.”

“For?”

“Helping me find the courage to say this. You say you’re not my teacher at this moment, so I’m not talking to you as your student. I’m talking to you as a rival.” He took a long breath, sitting up straight.  “Giving up is not my strong point. So,” he raised a hand, pointing an ebony finger at Singird, “make one wrong move, one step astray, and I will take her. This is a showdown… Singird.”

Singird would have clenched his fists. He would have hissed at the Dunmer, glared into his dark face, made him repent for the insolent words. The old Singird would have surely done that. But now, he couldn’t. He laughed. He could hear himself laugh at the top of his lungs, like he had not laughed in a long time. There was something intrinsically annoying about the boy. And yet, he could not help but like him. There was no pretense in Cain Aldaryn’s speech, no hidden motives. In a way, this Dunmer had faced him like a true Nord.

“Very well,” Singird said, his lips curling up by themselves. “Let it be a showdown. Cain.


Quiet murmurs broke through the throbbing in Yrith’s head. No… they caused it. On and on they went, perhaps inaudible for others, but very much apparent for her, like continuous drizzling of water. Not the peaceful drizzling one observes from the safety of their home, but the annoying, cold drizzling that prickles one’s skin and soaks through. She rubbed her brow, then buried her face in the furs of her bedroll, pressing its fabric against her ears. It did not help. The sound seemed to come right into her mind, unhindered. Whispers in a language that she could not speak, yet it felt so familiar. Whispers of suffering and death. Memories of wicked triumph, turned into sheer power.

She tried to breathe, relax her body. Feel each part of it. Instead, she felt her bones and muscles ache and her wounds pulse with pain that had nothing to do with the voice in her head. She felt how parched and hungry and tired she was, despite the hours she must have spent lying in the cave. And yet, she felt as though she had barely slept at all.

Drowsily, she lifted herself, looking around. Half of her companions seemed to be sleeping, as far as she could tell in the faint glow of the embers. Kharjo kept watch at the entrance, sitting so still she would have easily confused his cat frame for a stuffed decoration. Keneel-La, nestled in the tightest nook of the cave, was trying the sharpness of his dagger. Qassir, similarly to her, seemed to have only just woken up, looking around and trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

Her eyes drifted to the Dragonborn. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, the movement of his fingers against the blade almost instinctive. But when Yrith’s eyes found his figure, he turned to her, shaking the stupor away.

“Morning,” he said quietly. “If I can even call it that.” Momentarily, his gaze roved to the darkness outside. Then, as he stared back at Yrith, he noticed her unease and tilted his head to the side in question. “What is it?”

“A bad dream, I suppose,” she muttered. “I… it’s like I hear voices. In the Dragon Language.”

Keneel-La’s eyes narrowed. “In Dovahzul? What do they say?”

“Something about… killing… for honor.”

Slowly, he put the dagger aside, his eyes following its blade, from what Yrith could tell. Then, he looked back at Yrith, examining her as though he had just found a rare historical artifact.

“You truly are sensitive to these things, aren’t you?” he said thoughtfully. “What you hear is no dream, nor illusion. Down this cave is a crypt. Hidden there is a wall, a memorial to the Nords of the old. If you ask me, they hardly deserve it for driving the Snow Elves off the surface, but… well, the wall has a hidden purpose, which you might have guessed. It contains a fragment of draconic power. There are many walls like that hidden across Skyrim.”

Yrith nodded. “There’s one up at the Throat of the World, isn’t there? Paarthurnax showed it to me.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, that’s bad news,” a voice issued from the shadows. The two of them turned to Qassir who was now slouching over his bedroll, his handsome face uncharacteristically grave.

“Beg your pardon?”

“I thought I was mistaken when I woke up and didn’t feel any connection, but this cave was supposed to be shielded from all sides. I created the protection myself. If the urchin can hear the wall, then it has either died out, or it has been breached.”

“Well well, I couldn’t have asked for a better start of the day,” Keneel-La snorted as he pulled himself on his feet. “Time to wake everyone up, I suppose.”

At the entrance, Kharjo gave a quiet sniff. “Kharjo does not see or sense anything,” he reported.

“Neither did I on my shift,” Keneel-La sighed. “Could any of you guess how long it’s been since you felt the barrier missing?”

Qassir shook his head. “I’ve just woken up.”

“So have I,” Yrith seconded, “though I can’t say exactly how long I’ve been dreaming of the voice.” She looked around, as though an enemy should materialize out of the thin air. After all they had been through, she would not even be surprised anymore. Then, she turned back to Keneel-La.

“Permission to scan the surroundings?” she asked, her fingers stretching and curling back up to suppress the need to let her magic out just yet.

“Granted,” the lizard said absently, his eyes already roving through every crevice and corner they could find. On his knees, he crawled to Leyna who was closest to him, touching her face. The elf wiggled unwillingly in her slumber, turning to the other side.

With little hesitation, Yrith allowed her power to spring out on its own, guiding it to spread around. Instinctively, she closed her eyes, focusing on the shapes and life it touched. The vast area she covered was nearly empty, save for a very few people walking around. For sure they were patrols, pacing back and forth, armed, mostly dressed in light armor of Nordic cut. Some had more of a wanderer attire, though Yrith doubted many would just aimlessly travel through the winter Skyrim lands. Still, nothing she would call outright suspicious. She sent her magicka further, but found only still, peaceful land, disturbed only by wild gusts of wind whirling up ruffled puffs of snow. She could feel her own brow furrowing as she searched for traces of any kind of illusion, and still, she found none. No ripples in the power currents, no strangely lifeless or static places, no anomalies, no unnatural patterns. Nothing…

“So?”

She shook her head as she opened her eyes, withdrawing her magic.

“Nothing. If there is any kind of illusion in effect, it’s none that I can detect. It just looks like there are only occasional patrols, never more than three people together.”

“Hmm…”

Keneel-La scratched his beardless chin, or so Yrith could trace in the dark. Other than that, he was motionless, staring somewhere on the ground where the sleeping lot of their little party lay still deep in their dreams.

“So it’s either some undetectable illusion, or…”

Yrith waited for him to finish, but he never did. She wriggled in her place.

“Or?” she pressed.

“Pardon me. Either that, or they have become… afraid of you.”

Yrith felt her shoulders stoop, as if someone had draped over her a mantle of worry too heavy to bear.

“A… afraid of me?”

“Indeed. You managed to devour the man that had, at least figuratively, risen from the dead to haunt you. He had every advantage over you but still couldn’t best you. What do you think this tells the one who is after you?”

“Probably that now they can become serious,” Yrith uttered grimly.

“They’ve been serious all this time.”

Yrith followed the new voice with her eyes, squinting at the new silhouette rising from the ground in slow, fitful motion. Singird had woken up and joined the conversation. At last, Yrith sent a ball of magelight to the ceiling to gain a better view. She had never seen his hair so unkempt and his eyes so droopy. Despite that, he looked keen and awake.

“But I’m still alive.”

“And all of us, including you, made it harder for them to change that. You underestimate your abilities,” Singird said, adding a low grunt as he stood. “He’s been afraid of you this whole time, hiding in the shadows, never daring a direct attack. Now you’ve just proven to him that he has a good reason to.”

She looked away, feeling her stomach turn. Was that a reason to be happy? Did Singird, he of all people, the obstinate, uptight Nord, the man of principle, approve of her wicked tactics? Was he encouraging her in them? Or was he talking out of pity? Was it a good thing that their enemy was afraid of her? Perhaps short-term, it could bring them advantage. But what would happen to her and Singird once everything was over? Would he become afraid of her too? He would have every reason, after all.

“I’m not sure I’m happy about this,” she muttered into her bedroll as she pressed her face to her knees.

“You don’t need to be happy about it to use it to your advantage,” Keneel-La said to her gently. “Defense mechanisms don’t always feel right. Still, they are there for a purpose.”

Yrith raised her head to look the lizard in the face, feeling heat in her cheeks. The damn reptile was so unfair. Always knowing the right words…

She gave a silent nod, wishing above all to find a place to contemplate in solitude. A wish that she knew would not be granted for days to come.

“In any case,” the lizard continued, “I’m afraid we can’t stay here. How scattered are the patrols, Yrith? Any chance we could simply make our way through without being noticed?”

Yrith forced herself to sit up. In the end, this was her rescue mission and she should at least play her part. Leave the wallowing in her despair for later.

With a sigh, she shook her head as if to clear it and sent out her magic once more, forcing her mind to refocus on the guards. They were spread rather evenly, but the land was mountainous, the forests in the valleys were lush and the occasional wall of stirred-up snow left them at a disadvantage too.

“Theoretically. If they don’t know where we are already… I’m not even sure how many of them are Imperial and how many are… whoever else can be.”

“Right, this is still Stormcloak territory… hmm. Let’s just have a quick breakfast and be on our way. I’m not too convinced that this place is safe anymore.”

And then there was food. She did feel hungry. Yet filling her stomach was the last on her list of desires. Kharjo was already on his feet, giving out slices of smoked fish, fresh apples, bread and goat cheese. The first real meal Yrith had seen in ages, likely the courtesy of some charitable Imperial they had met on their way. And still, she found no appetite in herself.

Taking the precious meal with little enthusiasm, she suppressed a sigh and watched as the Dragonborn tapped Leyna on her cheek, shattering her peaceful slumber into the cold, unpleasant unreality.


Yrith had no idea how long they had been walking. It felt like days, although it must have been less than an hour. The air around them was pure white, biting into them as though their clothes were nonexistent. She was quite convinced that this was no weather to be treading around in, and that the Dragonborn would have happily agreed with her if he hadn’t considered staying at the cave even more dangerous. She gritted her teeth, forcing her legs to move, half with willpower, half with magic. Despite all the magic she had stolen the previous day, she felt weak and tired. Instead of her feet, she had two weights of lead, and the muscles on her shins felt like paper, ready to be torn at any moment. The only thing she wished for now was a warm bed. But that comfort was still a long way ahead.

For the umpteenth time, she checked whether all the others were still with her. They were almost solely relying on her magic now, having no other means to navigate in the gale. And Yrith did not bother taking long detours to avoid the guards. There could have been a guard right before her and they wouldn’t have spotted her. At least in this case, the snowstorm was convenient. So, with the assistance of Keneel-La, she chose the shortest route possible, only careful not to bump directly into a patrol.

“Well, Kyne, thank you for the gifts, but you didn’t have to be so generous,” she heard Qassir mutter behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see the Redguard bent low in his struggle to keep up against the harsh wind.

“I didn’t know you worshipped the old Nordic gods,” she commented, kicking away a clod of snow to clear the path. She tried to ignore the pain signals her recently injured leg kept sending her. At least the storm swept away her quiet hisses and grunts. Nobody needed to know. Especially Cain and Singird.

“It’s more of a…  figure of speech, really,” Qassir huffed his way along the freshly dug trail. “Let’s say the gods did very little to make me believe in them. And even if they did, what have they done to deserve to be worshipped?”

Yrith laughed. “Those are the words of a heretic, friend.”

“Only if they prove it to me. I am in the Nordic land and we were talking about Nordic gods. Who says I was talking about gods in general? I am a Redguard after all.”

She could almost feel him winking at her. If she’d had the strength, she would have kicked him for the inept joke. Instead, she only gave a snort, keeping her eyes fixed on the nonexistent path. They fell silent again. In her head, Yrith recited a mantra to keep her feet moving. Left and right, step and go, left and right, step and go…

Her eyes were nearly closed, formed into two thin slits just to see ahead. With the snow, perhaps it wouldn’t have made much difference if she closed them entirely. Still, she kept looking forward, into the endless white. She was frozen to the bone, but their steady tempo helped her get used to the chill. Almost like a Dwemer automaton, she walked and walked, oblivious to the wind. The mantra resounded in her mind, a music box lulling her into a sweet trance until its cogs stopped turning. Or until something came and broke it into pieces. But nothing happened.

Their journey was peaceful as could be. No guards spotted them, there were no surprise attacks, no avalanche, no unexpected occurrences. Only white everywhere and wind in their faces. Yrith had fallen into her pace, nearly comfortable at its steadiness. The pain seemed almost bearable. No… it had even ceased. Just like all the other discomfort, the cold…

She took a deep breath and the air slipped smoothly into her lungs. The wind was still there, yet she hardly felt it. As if it simply passed them, as if the swirling air was just a pleasant, warm breeze leading her onward. Into sweet oblivion…

Oblivion. No, it couldn’t be…

She froze, barely keeping balance when Qassir crashed into her. Never mind that, she quickly checked that their group was whole. All six of her companions were standing behind her, eyeing her with curious looks.

“What is it?” Keneel-La asked. She could feel his voice hardening into that steel-cold tone he adopted every time things became serious. The mere sound made her hairs stand even more effectively than the gale. More so that he had read the situation right.

She focused on the magic laid all around them, touching the land. Only it wasn’t. The image blurred in her mind, as if someone had poured oil in her inner eye.

“I think we’re walking in a circle.”

“What do you mean? That’s impossible. We’ve been walking upward all this time, and you read the terrain…”

“I’ve seen this at work once… in…” she cast an uncertain glance at Singird, then Kharjo and Qassir. Then she shook her head, deciding to put her worry aside. For now. “In the Shivering Isles.”

Singird’s reaction was instant. “In… where?!”

Keneel-La waved his words away. “Not now, Master Larkwing. Let’s exchange stories later… Yrith, what do you mean?”

“Bent space… going somewhere, never reaching your destination, only to eventually find that you’re back where you started. This. But I don’t think he can bend the space. At least not here, on Tamriel. I would bet on an illusion. Just like everything else he does. Which means I have no idea where we are in reality.”

“You sure know how to put a person at ease. And your vision is not working?”

“It’s…” Once more, Yrith tried to see around. It almost hurt. Instinctively, her hand reached for her eyes to rub them. “… distorted. Though it wasn’t just a while ago. Whatever he’s trying, I don’t think he wanted me to notice that I’ve lost track.”

“So, this tells us that he knows exactly where we are. Is he playing with us?”

“I…”

“Frankly, I think he’s trying to exhaust Yrith as much as possible.”

Yrith turned to Cain who seemed to hate his own words. His eyes were turned to the white ground, his fiery brows knit together.

She looked at him in question. “But why would he do that?”

“Think about it. He always avoids direct confrontation with you. Doesn’t that mean he wants you as weak as possible?

Keneel-La put a gloved hand on Cain’s shoulder, patting him lightly with his fingers.

“Indeed, that would make sense. But it would mean our nameless friend is a lot less divine than he would prefer, eh?”

“Still, to command an illusion of this scale…”

“Hush, Master Larkwing, let’s discourage our friends only after we’ve made it to safety. For now, let’s focus on the problem at hand. So, if I understand correctly, we are all under some sort of illusion?”

Yrith gave a nod.

“Right then. How do you break an illusion?”

“Well, the easiest way is probably simply finding the source of the spell and cutting the flow. Although the safest one would be with another illusion… so that the caster is convinced their illusion is still in effect. It’s a lot more complicated when there is seven of us though.”

At her side, Leyna was playing with her fingers, deep in thought. As she turned to Yrith, one finger gestured to the path ahead.

“Wouldn’t it be enough for one of us to break through the illusion and lead us out?” she asked. “Not all of us have magic, after all.”

Yrith rubbed her brow, staring at the swirling white through her fingers. “Technically,” she admitted slowly, “it could be possible. But not if we want to keep pretending we’re still in. This way we’ll be in for some serious retaliation.”

“The question is,” Keneel-La said, “do we have a choice?”

His fingers snapped around a snowflake. Yrith’s eyes followed them as they crushed it. It did not melt. Curiously, she touched the air before her with magic. She could feel the snowflakes toss and dance. She grabbed one and turned it. It glittered. Upon closer inspection, it shone like a mirror, reflecting… anything and everything. A world of pure white. She shook her head. Of course. The presence of the storm would be no coincidence, would it? She must have been ensnared since the first time she examined the land from the cave.

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, pulling off a glove and reaching for another snowflake. It was not cold. She did not even feel the touch. “It’s not just our minds that are affected. This whole place is. And something… I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something just… doesn’t feel right.

“Of course it wouldn’t feel right,” Leyna snorted. “We’re under illusion.”

“Yes, but there’s just more to it than simple mind control or mirages. An additional layer of… something.”

“Kharjo can quite feel it too,” the silver-furred catman nodded. “Or, can’t. He can barely feel his whiskers. And that is bad.”

Keneel-La looked the Khajiit up and down, his face stiff in concern. Only his brows moved, slowly knitting together.

“I have a bad feeling about this. But we can either go along with it until it’s too late, or break through and try our luck. Yrith, will you do the honors?”

“With all due respect,” Singird said before Yrith could utter a word of response, “I think Yrith’s had enough. Isn’t there any other way? Perhaps one of us could…”

Yrith put a hand on Singird’s arm, pressing slightly into his muscle. “I’ll have to be involved anyway. No one else can… see around.”

She looked away, feeling foolish for claiming to be superior. Then again, if superior meant hunted to the edge of the world, then she would happily give it away.

Singird gave a sigh. “I can never protect you, can I?”

“You don’t have to protect me,” she said to him gently. “I can’t always run away from my own fight.”

He nodded in silence. She could feel all the words behind his pained face, but he spoke none. She would have spent eternity looking into it, but instead, she forced herself to close her eyes and search for a way out. If only everything wasn’t so distorted…

“I think it’s best that we hold hands, just in case something tries to separate us,” she said absently, tucking her gloves into her pockets and extending both her hands for someone to take them. For a moment, they stayed empty. Then, she heard Keneel-La’s voice issue nearby.

“Won’t you need them for casting spells?”

Indeed, she had never tried to cast without her hands. But then again, she considered magic a rather good friend of hers.

“I’ll manage,” she replied, keeping her hands out for the taking. Strangely, they still felt no cold.

“Very well.”

She could feel both of her hands being grabbed. One was surely the Dragonborn’s calloused lizard hand. The other… a humanoid one, too big to be the slender Leyna’s, or even Cain’s. A grip she knew all too well, firm, but gentle. So that was Singird, seizing the chance to take her before anyone else could. She suppressed a smile, forcing her mind off the daydream threatening to absorb it. Way out. She had to search for a way out.

If everything was distorted, the illusion had to be superficial. No strange lands, no complete Oblivion to get lost in. It covered a great area, but the Demon obviously had his limits. Still, it was something affecting them all the same way, creating a mirage of… of what? She could only see a storm made of myriads of fake, mirror-like snowflakes. Was it that simple?

No, it wasn’t just the storm. There was that something. If they had been under the impression of going steadily upward, then it must have affected their state as well. Something to completely fool all of their senses. Still, the question was whether the feeling came from outside or inside. Perhaps addressing the storm would still solve the issue. In the end, it was the only thing she knew how to deal with, given she had already defeated one of the greatest gales on Tamriel back in High Hrothgar.

She took a breath and spread her magicka in a thick layer. It swirled and undulated uncontrollably, like a sea of wild waters that run wherever they please. Yrith gritted her teeth. This was much harder without being able to channel the magic through her hands. She had to find something. Something she could move at will. Feet? No, she could not do it while standing. So…

She opened her eyes, showered with immediate curious looks.

“What is it?” Keneel-La asked, frowning.

She shook her head. “Nothing. I’m going to use my eyes to control the magic. I will have a blind spot, so I will sometimes turn. If I do, please, follow my lead.”

“As you wish. Tell us if you need assistance.”

“Will do.”

Once again, Yrith made a connection with her surroundings. She could not spare the time to look at her companions now, but she imagined she must have looked quite surreal, with her eyes glowing brightly with magic. The current gave her a strange, ticklish feeling that made it hard not to blink. Still, with eyes stinging and misty, she persevered, penetrating the wall of white just ahead of her. Just as she had expected, it worked similar to the storm covering the path to the Throat of the World. Magic was everywhere, changing the space, creating a myriad of fake images reflected in countless icy shards. How elaborate it was. She could not imagine the amount of effort it must have taken to create. In a way, she had to admire whoever had built such a wonder. If only they could use it for other purposes. How the world could change for the better had they been a different kind of person.

She sighed, carefully undoing shard after shard, flake after flake, cutting through the fine web of magic to see beyond. In her hazy view, she could not even spot guards. They could be found out at any moment, but if they ever wanted to escape their white prison, it was a risk she had to take. And so she worked, chipping away at the magical barrier separating them from reality.

The bits glistened as she worked at them, despite the absence of sunlight. A lace was undone, the strands fell off all too easily. A frown formed on Yrith’s brow as she looked at the pathway forming before her. She had expected resistance, but there was none, except the fact that it was hard to see a difference in the endless white. Still, she sensed it, the clearance and the sudden touch of cold. A film seemed to have come loose, uncovering her skin. She hissed and jerked to the side, but maintained the connection with gritted teeth. A thousand tiny needles pierced the skin on her face, a white-cold blade slashed through her lips. Her senses were finally returning, bringing a shock, if not to her body, then at least to her mind. The effort to keep going took away her breath. With all her might, she had to focus. She could not afford to get distracted now. Not even by her own perceptions.

“Yrith…!” she heard someone call her name, but she couldn’t turn after the voice.

“No,” she said without a thought, squinting in attempt to keep her concentration intact. “If I stop here, it’ll all be for nothing.”

“Yrith! Gods above, stop! Please!”

She felt Singird’s hand leave hers, only to touch her face. She recoiled, her magic finally giving way. His touch burned like the fires of the Deadlands. Everything burned. The cold had crept under her body, the infinite needles assaulting every inch of her. Then, the needles became white-hot razors, cutting deep, tearing off her skin, blinding her. Something snapped as she moved her legs, and a new eruption of pain paralyzed her. She wanted to scream, but found no voice.

The glistening white mist around them hardened, aiming for Yrith’s skin. It was too cold and too hot. Yrith’s senses stopped working. She could not understand the signals anymore, her sight blinding her with splatters of color, her hearing sending in a series of cacophonic whistles and buzzes. She felt her tongue as she bit it. Only vaguely, she could hear screams around her as something hit her companions. Soon, it would crush them all.

Blindly, with no sense of direction, she mustered all her remaining strength, producing a ward as hard as she could make, wrapping them all in a humming sphere. Her fingers trembled, the magic still threatening to go wild in the wake of the pervading pain. She fell to her knees to gain support, only to be flooded with a new wave of shambolic signals.

“H-help me…” she breathed, clenching her glowing fingers instinctively. “Help me!”

She could not touch them. Everything hurt, everything ripped her skin into pieces. And so she just sent her magic forward in a tangled mass, making contact, connecting with everyone in their group. She heard gasps, screams, even, but she could not focus on them. The ward. She had to protect them…

Leyna caught on first, if she could trust in what the last functional bit of her senses told her. She could feel the calm of her soothing, golden magic stabilizing the connection, taking hold of the barrier around them, gripping it firmly to keep it steady. The pain subsided one tiny bit, only for her senses to fully wake and send in more. Yrith moaned. And prayed.

Then, thank all the gods and spirits, she felt a pair of different people join, strangers whose magic she had never touched. That must have been Cain and Qassir. Cain’s magic was warm and gentle, protective like a mother’s embrace. She wished to take it for her own, to nestle in it and find peace. But she couldn’t. It was all meant to hold the ward. Yrith’s teeth screeched and hurt as she gritted them too strongly in the effort to stand her ground.

Qassir’s magic was fierce, strengthening the ward with a repelling power. Another bit of pain receded, but the tremor would not go away. It was too late. Too late…

The last one to join, to understand at last what was going on, was Singird. But he did not fortify the ward. He focused on… Yrith. She felt her body gaining new support, her muscles relaxing against all odds, the cold giving way. Her limbs trembled with the sudden change, the warmth making her feel weak. She breathed deeply to keep herself from falling or breaking away. But she would not last long. The ward would not hold forever. Something had to happen. Something…

“Keneel-La…” she whispered, hoping he would hear her in spite of all the humming and swooshing. Hoping her quivering voice was enough yo reach him. The Dragonborn’s reaction was instant.

“Yes?”

His voice was so alien, so distant. A strange buzz in her ears. She tried to focus on the words. Just a bit longer…

“Can you… the Shout…”

“What Shout?”

Her ears hurt so much. The lizard voice came through a thick wall, quieted down into a mere rustle in the wind. The words…

“The one…” even her breath was failing her, “you used… to clear… the path… to Paar… thur… nax…”

No. She could not hold up any longer. The pain was too great. Warm or cold, her skin was torn, her leg was hurt, her head hurt with all the muddled impulses and the effort to keep the ward in place. The shards of the storm were too many, attacking from too many places. They came at not just the ward and the air. She felt them inside, in her head, assaulting her mind, trying to take over. She had to repel the illusion as Master Neloren had taught her. Fake being controlled, give a false impression of triumph… but she was so tired. What was the Demon trying to do? What would he do once he took over? She could not understand. Not this time. She could not fake anything. He had succeeded. She had no strength to fight anymore.

Her breath. She had to focus on her breath. On their magic. On the ward. On anything.

In and out… her breathing slowed. Her mind dimmed. There was nothing. Nothing to hold onto. Everything was slipping away.

Singird, Cain, Keneel-La… how they would hate her for this. But she was so, so tired.

And so at last, she gave up and let herself sink.


“Yrith…!”

He wanted her to stop. He begged the gods, the Daedra, anyone… just so she would stop. She didn’t seem to notice all the blood on her. She just continued, stubborn, blind to everything happening to her.

“Yrith! Gods above, stop! Please!”

Her skin… the whole of her. Even without the blinding light of her magic fiercely bursting out of every inch of her body, he almost couldn’t recognize her. Thousands of minuscule wounds covered her, spreading over her, disfiguring her. No, no! This could not be happening. Not now, when he had finally found her…

“Yrith!”

She could not hear him anymore. He wanted to touch her, but his touch seemed to bring her even more pain. Singird found himself crying. The tears stung and burned on his face, but this excuse for pain could not compare to her torment. He was so powerless, and everything he tried to do only made things worse.

Frantically, he looked around. Everyone else seemed to be fighting the same battle as him. Wearing the same, desperate face. Why? Why? Why?!

Why did it always have to be her?

A shower of piercing snow, or whatever it was that came at him, hit him. He shrieked and covered his face. Several people screamed. He tasted blood on his lips as he bit into them. And then, despite everything, Yrith had somehow managed to raise a ward to protect them. A magnificent sphere, worthy of an Arch-Mage. But as she held it up, it flickered and quivered. It would not last too long. He raised his hands, ready to cast his own ward, weak and only able to protect them from one side. But as his fingertips flared in blue, a new wave hit his senses. No… it hit his mind directly. Yrith… this was her magic. With it came more. Pain beyond anything he had ever felt, shredding his flesh and burning him to ashes. Visions of… everything. Mountains, trees, snow, people… the inside of them too. Their minds. Their pains, joys, memories… information flooded him as though all of Mundus suddenly entered his mind. Unbearable, crushing…

He yelled and yelled. He could not focus on a single thing. His head hurt so much it could split any moment. And still… he felt her above all else. She was on fire. White, blinding fire, ice-cold, yet scorching. There was numb pain spreading in her leg, and he felt it in his own, suddenly weak and barely able to keep balance. And her skin… her skin…

No, no, no! She must have had a reason to do this. This was not something that would happen on its own. She had raised a ward. And now…

The ward. It was stronger now, he noticed. The gale was outside, not hitting her anymore. Three other people supported it. And still, she must have felt too weak to go on. There had to be something he could do. Something. Anything.

This was her magic. There was so much of it, so easy to grab and simply manipulate. He did not have to think about not using too much. He took it in, then sent it out along with his own. It embraced Yrith gently, squeezing her in a warm, protective embrace. If only he could make the pain go away. If only he could pull her out, into safety. She was so fragile. But he could not let her go. And so he held onto her, becoming a pillar she could lean on, a cushion she could fall into.

And then, she fell, her magic finally dying out.

At the same moment, a deafening shout shook the land and resonated in his bones. The Dragonborn stood beside him with his legs spread, panting as a wave of untamed magic left his lips. The ward disintegrated and so did the storm. The air cleared. The sudden quiet drummed in Singird’s ears.

He stood there, trying to catch his breath. The moment he did, he dove down to Yrith, raising her head into his lap, embracing her with his arms. Her chest rose and sank, but her breath was shallow, accompanied with the faintest wheeze. She was motionless, not even shaking, the few spots of skin that did not bear the bloody wounds ashen gray.

“Yrith, please,” he whispered into her raven hair, his fingers clutching her arms. “Please…”

Someone else had kneeled next to him. Cain Aldaryn. Leyna Travi. Even Qassir Tahlrah. They all watched in still, wordless terror. Only the Dragonborn and Kharjo the Khajiit were still standing, preoccupied by their own matters.

“Damn,” Singird could hear the lizard utter above himself. “This is… no way. That’s Anga’s Mill down there, so we’re in… Eastmarch?”

There was a moment of quiet. Singird stroked Yrith’s hair gently, his fingers running through the strands. Then, the Dragonborn’s words sank in. Eastmarch… the home of Ulfric Stormcloak. And, of course, his generals. That would mean… no, impossible.

He lifted his gaze, staring at the Dragonborn in disbelief.

“Eastmarch? No, how could we…?”

“That over there is the lift that’s exactly between Irkngthand and Raldbfar and that bridge is the first one on the road to Windhelm, so right now…”

Singird slid Yrith gently into his arms, standing despite the sudden rush of exhaustion.

“So instead of going up, we were going down all along? This is bad news. We need to get out this instant.”

“It is bad news for sure, but what’s on your mind, Master Larkwing?”

Instinctively, Singird pressed Yrith closer to his body. Not again. He would not let it happen.

“General Toddvar is,” he uttered gravely. “He is most likely the one in command of the Fake Imperial Army.”

The lizard gave Singird a look that would make a dragon crawl away. Singird shuddered.

“Then we are in some serious trouble,” the Dragonborn said.

Notes:

Happy New Year!

I wanted to post this chapter on New Year’s Eve, but it needed some polishing and improvements. At last, this chapter is edited by courtesy of RealityGlitch who is, aside from being an amazing writer, the best damn beta in the land! Here is my thanks to her and I hope you guys enjoy.

Mirwen

Chapter 34: Flying Pace

Chapter Text

Clop clop, clop clop.

The sound carried on through her dreams, taking her away. Away from danger, away from pain. A good, soothing sound.

Clop clop, clop clop.

Up and down she went, bouncing steadily. It was not comfortable, and yet it was. Something was holding her firmly, bouncing with her, brushing against her burning skin. Something warm was wrapped around her. She felt so heavy. Heavier than a rock that would at least keep its shape. But she was shapeless, and if that thing holding her in place moved aside for just a split moment, she would fall into the depths of whatever was underneath. But that thing held still and strong.

Clop clop, clop clop.

The smell. Someone’s breath… not fresh, not stale, exhausted, judging by the frequency, yet resilient. Leather and grime. Blood. Sweat. Not human. Someone else’s. Two in one. One known and desired, one faintly familiar… what was it? One from a bad memory. A memory filled with longing and a feeling of great loss. Leaving home… and yet now, it was a good smell and she welcomed it.

Hay and bran, lustrous, yet sweated fur, silky hair waving in the breeze… elegant gait.

Clop clop, clop clop, clop clop.

Or canter, to be precise.

A horse. But it couldn’t be…

She forced her eyes to open and gasped. The hand holding her tightened its grip. The ground underneath her, cobblestones, if Yrith could take a guess, swayed and ran away, blurred by the motion, Yrith’s own drowsiness and the dim of the twilight. As she raised her head a little, a new smell hit her nostrils. Freshness. Salt. Sea?

How in Oblivion…

“That’s it. I’m dead,” she exhaled.

“Ah, not so fast, hatchling. You don’t die on my watch. But you came awfully close this time. And… sorry for the repetition. Suppose I should say closer than any other time. You have this awful habit of exceeding one’s expectations in exactly the wrong way. Aside from all those other ways.”

She could not turn to see Keneel-La’s face, but his hand was as firm and steady as ever. Warm too…

She tried to recall what had happened. Her head was throbbing and the constant bouncing did not help it. But there had been no bouncing before. Only pain and struggle.

“I don’t… where did we get a horse? How did we even survive?”

The Dragonborn gave a low chuckle. “How indeed? Clear Skies… I don’t know how you figured it out, but the Shout worked, even through the illusion. But I managed to attract the whole hold with it. And by the whole hold, I mean Eastmarch. We must have been led the exact opposite way. It just gets better and better, doesn’t it?”

“Toddvar…”

“Yes, General Toddvar. Master Larkwing shared a not so positive piece of information about him with me. So it seems you know something about him too, eh?”

“I… I wouldn’t say I know something. It’s more of a hunch…”

“Based on?”

Yrith tried to recall the distant memory. She shuddered, and neither the cold nor her exhaustion had anything to do with it.

“He would have let me die… back when you came to our rescue in that clash between Stormcloaks and Imperials, Erinor tried to… trade me. I think. At least it seemed so. And Toddvar, he… I’m not sure exactly what happened, but he did not seem even remotely sorry for leaving me to my fate. Even though he had been a friend of my parents’. A friend of mine too…”

“You knew him closely?”

“I… thought so.”

She felt the Dragonborn wriggle behind her, unbuckling something from his waist. Instinctively, she looked around for potential danger, remembering his dagger. But the road ahead was empty, as far as she could tell over the horse’s wide neck, and the slope on her right, taking a long, gentle descent to what she assumed was the sea shore, offered no answer either.

“That’s a rather important piece of information,” he said, continuing with his groping. There was a quiet plop, followed by a jerk of his hand.

“I get lost in all the important pieces of information,” Yrith sighed wearily, again trying to glance over her shoulder, to no avail.

“Understandable. Here.”

Something touched her hand from behind. The lizard’s fingers were clutching the neck of a waterskin, holding it out for her.

“Thank you,” she smiled lightly, even though he could not see her, trying to grab it with her clumsy fingers. They barely made contact with it before her whole hand sank, unwilling to rise again. She tried to concentrate on it. The hand remained limp. Was she really that weak? After all the training, all the days spent outside, building her muscle, all the carrying of heavy burdens… now it seemed it had all been for nothing.

Struggling to swallow her frustration, she enveloped the waterskin with magic, lifting it to her lips. Even her magic seemed to respond to her slower than usual. But at least it still worked.

As the liquid poured from the waterskin, Yrith felt a familiar taste on her tongue. A taste of hope and brighter tomorrows.

“I know this… concoction!” she called, taking the substance in in full gulps.

“As you should. Kharjo gave it to you back in captivity, didn’t he?”

“What is it?”

“Well, what… pretty much everything, I’d say. Aside from water, there is carrot and parsley root, a bit of venison and a bit of spadefish, egg and flour, onion, a drop of butter, two drops of honey, jazbay grapes, juniper and a thousand herbs. No potion will put you back on your feet better than this, that I can guarantee.”

“So I owe Kharjo again,” Yrith uttered between the gulps.

“Well, technically, the recipe is mine,” Keneel-La teased.

“But I already owe you my life a hundred times.”

“Maybe you forgot a couple. Well, one can’t ever expect proper gratitude, ain’t that right?” He sighed theatrically. But then, his voice hardened again. “In any case, we will need to have a good talk, together with Master Larkwing, once we… well, probably once we are back in Winterhold.”

“Which is? Where are we exactly? This breeze…”

“Indeed, we’re close to the shore. It’s not too far now, but still too far for my liking.”

“How long have I slept? The horses…”

“Kharjo says he… made a good deal in fort Kastav. I’m not sure I want to know how exactly he earned the horses. But we’ve been on the run since, as much as the horses could take. You’ve slept a good day and a half, if I calculate correctly. And preferably you should sleep more. Believe me when I say I’m not remotely happy we have to take you out on the road in this state.”

“In this state…”

Yrith tried to focus on her body, feel her fingers. The not quite magical concoction she was drinking had chased away some of the hunger. But she was still cold and tired… but also, somehow… distant. If she had felt pain before, now there was close to none. Her skin felt as though it was not her own, as if she was merely dressed in it. She tried to bend a finger, but it hardly even trembled. She let out a breath.

“What happened? I don’t understand…”

“Neither do I, to be honest. I don’t know what kind of illusion it was, but when you removed it, it looked like something was tearing you apart. I’m still wondering how you found the strength to share your magic with the others back then, but that’s essentially what saved your life. And all of the others.”

Tearing her apart… indeed, there had been something of the sort. The memory of it was so vague. A picture covered with too thick a layer of resin. She had felt something hurting her, cutting deep, until she… asked for help. Had she really? That was something new. So in the end, her very core now believed there were people to rely on. In all this struggle, there was something to smile at.

“All of the others? Where are they?”

Keneel-La shifted back and forth, adjusting Yrith slightly to gain more comfort. Strangely, she hardly felt his touch or the change of position. And she did not feel how the lizard squeezed her as he, judging by his side pushing into her back, glanced back, to the trail they were leaving behind.

“They’re following. Qassir and Leyna are covering our tracks with magic. Although it’s probably meaningless if that Demon, or whatever he is, can find us by tracing magical residue. But at least the Imperials won’t, so that’ll be one more step he has to take. We can’t spare the time to let Kharjo do it the hard way.”

“How long till we reach Winterhold?”

“If we stopped now and continued straight there with the first light, I’d say we could be there tomorrow by midnight, given the horses need some proper rest. But I don’t want to take the direct path. It’s too risky, too much in the open. I’m not sure what our Demon friend is expecting, but I’d say the path through the mountains is safer. At least there we won’t meet many patrols. The terrain is rough, the space is limited. Not saying we will manage without an incident though.”

“Won’t it be rough for us too?”

Keneel-La laughed, patting the stallion they were riding on the back of his muscular neck. “Have you ever had the honor of riding one of these creatures? These are Skyrim horses. They’re not your average Colovian breed. They outshine even the mountain goats.”

A tiny smile formed on Yrith’s lips as she imagined herself riding a horned horse with a goatee. She let the nearly empty waterskin sink down into her lap, guiding her magic to wipe her lips before she spoke. “Then it must really be safer. So if we take that route, how long will it take us?”

“A little less than two days, if we’re lucky. We will stop by…”

He froze, turning to glance back again. Yrith could hardly move her numb body, imprisoned between the lizard and the horse’s neck. She strained her ears for any sound she could catch, but could only make out a faint buzz of several voices. Keneel-La pulled on the reigns slightly. They had slowed down into a mild trot. Another horse caught up with them, carrying Cain on its back. Yrith tried to guess the horse’s color, but it was impossible in the slowly stretching shade of the mountains. Even Cain could not spot Yrith looking his way, unaware that she was awake. His gaze was following Keneel-La intently, his expression somber.

“You bring news, I assume?” the lizard called, trying to shout down the wind.

“There’s a group of riders on our tail. No idea how they caught us,” Cain reported.

Keneel-La gave a slow nod. “I was afraid this might happen. What riders? Stormcloak? Imperial?”

“Neither. They’re… Thalmor.” Yrith could swear she heard a tremble in Cain’s voice. Not that she was surprised. Why Thalmor? Why now, after everything that had already happened?

She could faintly feel Keneel-La clutching the reins, his grip almost painful. If he had been walking, this would surely be the moment he would freeze.

“Thalmor? In a Stormcloak territory?”

“Leyna’s father was a runaway Thalmor,” Yrith said quietly. Immediately, Cain’s eyes found her, his face flaring with new life.

“Yrith! You’re… awake!”

“Though it feels like I’m still dreaming, but yes, I am.”

“Thank Azura,” he breathed.

“Indeed,” Keneel-La seconded, “but now we need to do something to keep Yrith safe. How far are they?”

“I’d say an hour’s ride away, but their horses are fresher. And they have magic.”

“Yes, that is a rather nasty contributing factor. And you’re sure they are Thalmor?”

“They wear their uniforms and all of them are high elves or wood elves, but that’s all I know.”

“That’s strange. Even if they were here on some Imperial business, to ride in the open like this is just too risky, even for the elven mages.”

“Master Larkwing seems to think they work in liaison with Toddvar.”

Keneel-La sat up, pressing his belly to Yrith. She felt movement, as if he was sizing Cain up and down. He took his time pondering the new information. Then, he replied in an even voice: “The Thalmor? Working with Toddvar? It’s not Toddvar working for them?”

“He said something about Toddvar using the Aldmeri Dominion for his own purposes.”

“What have we gotten ourselves into… Cain, send Kharjo ahead. Tell the others we’re changing routes. We’re going straight for Winterhold. No breaks unless absolutely necessary. The lot of you will follow Kharjo, not me. He can see in the dark like no one else. Yrith, what are you…”

She wriggled in his arms to turn and face him. It was impossible. Her body did not listen and he was holding her too tightly. She wanted to see his face, to understand the sudden change.

“But you just said…”

“I know, I know,” he said with uncontrolled urgency, gesturing for Cain to be on his way. The Dunmer nodded with lips pressed tightly together, raising a hand to turn his horse back. “But this is the Thalmor we’re talking about,” Keneel-La continued. “It’s not just some local faction interested in gaining a bit of land. Let’s just sum it up. You are abducted by the Imperials, rejected by Toddvar in a tradeoff, they hunt you down across the whole Skyrim until you get directly under Toddvar’s nose, but instead of sending some Stormcloaks, he first sends mercenaries and now…”

“Mercenaries?”

“Yes, mercenaries. When I Shouted, the ones that came after us were mercenaries. No Nordic armors, no Cyrodilic cuts. Plain old mercenaries, just like me. Some of them I even recognized. Now, it’s the Thalmor, deep down in the Stormcloak territory. That man does not want to be seen, Yrith, and the Thalmor, the proud justiciars who answer to almost no one, cover his back. And even if our little group is catching onto his schemes, he counts on the fact that no one would ever believe us. After all, he and his men never came after us. He’s clear like the tears of Mara, he was even blackmailed with you as a hostage of the other side. Except it was he and his people all along.”

“But that would… no, I mean… he would be killing his own men just like that…”

“Haven’t you noticed that he never hesitated to make sacrifices? To him, they are not his men. They are tools fit to be disposed of the moment they stop serving their purpose.”

“But…”

Yrith’s stomach was turning. She had just drunk a waterskin of life-preserving substance, and now, she simply felt like returning it. Her vision was darker than the surrounding darkness.

“What does he want with me? If he can command the Thalmor… what does he want?”

“What indeed?” the Dragonborn whispered, putting a firm hand around Yrith’s waist while the other one clutched tightly the reins.

“I… I really don’t want this…”

“Yrith.”

“How can I fight someone like that? I…”

She was so tired. And no place in the world was safe. He could trace her steps, cripple her mind, find her anywhere… and send an entire army of elven mages after her.

“Master Larkwing has mentioned before that there have been several attempts at your life back in Winterhold. How exactly did they happen?”

Winterhold. That had been so long ago. Yrith bit her lip, suppressing the overwhelming pressure in her chest, trying hard to remember.

“There was… an ice wraith attacking us when we went to fetch fish with Cain, then an avalanche on the same occasion, then someone tried to poison me with the Spirit Blight…”

“Go on.”

“I think that’s it.”

“Is it really? How did you get abducted then?”

“We were called to Saarthal… no, Leyna was called to Saarthal, by her father, and I accompanied her. And then…”

“Just like that? You simply went with her?”

“There was a letter. From Selas Travi… only… I think he mentioned it was swapped. That he’d never sent it. It instructed Leyna to…” For a moment, Yrith held her breath, the words reluctant to leave her lips. The memory hurt. Even now, in this state, she could recall it so clearly. Leyna’s tears. Her own body sinking next to her when her dying father spoke his last words.

“Find the name… lost… in time…”

Words meant not for Leyna, but for her. Yrith.

“To?”

“To bring me along,” she whispered. And if she hadn’t gone, perhaps he might have been alive.

“Indeed. The only attempt that happened directly in the College was the poison, correct?”

“Yes…”

“I thought so. Poison can find its way to its target, even when the one who concocted it hides in the shadows…”

“… what?”

“Toddvar, assuming it was him who aimed for your life, can’t step inside the College. He can’t even execute a true assault on you there. He can only manipulate those who are already inside. There is something there that protects you, and the closer you are, the more desperate he gets, the more scared he is that you might reach it. So we just have to get you there no matter what. We will get you there.”

Yrith wondered if Keneel-La believed in his own words so firmly, or whether he made every effort to not sound uncertain. They were so close after all. One last, desperate chase from home. And then…

“But what will it solve?” she voiced her concerns. “Why is he even after me?”

“You’re powerful and you’re a threat to him. Or his master, whoever the Demon is.”

She really wanted to see his face. Was this it? Was power the only motivator for the Demon? But why then would he attack her back when she couldn’t even cast spells properly?

“No… there must be more to it. He knew my parents before he knew me.”

“We will find out, Yrith.”

“We? Doesn’t your contract end when you get me to the College?”

“Technically, it does. What I do after it though, that’s solely my choice. Ah, Kharjo!”

The catman took Cain’s former place, saluting them from his horse.

“Master Larkwing told Kharjo to give this to the cub,” he said, extending a hand. Between each pair of his fingers, he was holding a vial. Potions.

“Thank you,” she nodded, pulling them closer with magic. Uncorking each of them, she drank them at once, scowling at the bitter taste. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn it was the taste that pulled a person back together, no matter the contents. “I don’t suppose there will be potty breaks, will there?”

She heard Keneel-La chuckle behind her. “That depends on how well we manage. But the horses will need breaks anyway. Kharjo, how far can you see ahead? Any threats?”

“Aside from the snow on mountains, Kharjo can see none. But there is a mine with people standing outside.”

“Let’s go slightly off the beaten path just before we reach it. A group of riders in Winterhold may be rare, but if they are just miners, they won’t care. Warn us if anything comes up, will you?”

“Kharjo can do that, yes.”

“Let’s go then. We’re right behind you.”

“Like warm wind in the back,” the Khajiit whispered, winking slowly. He shifted on his horse to speed up. Yrith noticed he used no reins or bridle at all, nor was he seated in a saddle.

The Dragonborn steered his horse in the Khajiit’s footsteps. Quickly, they accelerated again, the breeze turning into a scourge whipping their faces mercilessly. The sun had long hidden behind the mountains, the whole land drowning in the darkness. Still, Yrith looked up. It had been so long since she had seen the Skyrim aurora in all its beauty. The innumerable colors gliding over the skies, spreading their glitter over the spillage of stars. She had not even realized how much she had missed it. In all her misery, the sight made her feel a thousand times better. Aside from the incoming effect of the potions.

“Yrith? How far away can your magic reach to manipulate things?” Keneel-La interrupted her meditation. Her eyes left the sky immediately, focusing on Kharjo’s blurry figure ahead.

“I’ve never really tried manipulating anything further than the greatest distance to which you can throw a ball. It just didn’t occur to me that I could… so I have no idea.”

“Well, let’s find out then. Could you find those Thalmor and trip their horses?”

“Just that? Possibly, but wouldn’t it be better to disorient them? Might have a longer effect and I don’t fancy hurting them.”

“If you feel up to it, you have my support.”

“Let’s see what we can do then.”

Yrith closed her eyes. The stamina potion had sharpened her senses. Now she could hear the lapping waves a few miles across the shoreline, the cry of the last seagull, the clatter of horse hooves just behind them and the quiet chatter of the miners ahead. She focused on a further distance. About ten people were riding just through the opening where a mountain pass entered the plains leading to the ocean. Next to one of them was a spare horse, carrying a bit of fodder and some bedrolls. So they had more than one advantage over Yrith’s group.

She touched their magic lightly, trying to feel the extent of their power. They did not bother hiding it, letting it leak into the open air. She felt it swirl and dance about them, leaving a clear footprint in their wake. And surely enough, the amount of it was by no measure small. Even the Bosmeri members of the group wielded an amount that would easily match up to Cain’s or Leyna’s. The Altmeri mages were even a greater threat. Yrith bit her lip from the inside. She could not allow an open conflict. They would know what she was capable of. The element of surprise was not an option anymore.

Gently, she tried to touch the mind of one of the horses. She had never tried a contact with an animal, save for that one unfortunate incident with ice wraiths. But the process could not be much different. Surely they must feel the same basic emotions as humanoids. Fear, comfort, anger, longing, suspicion, unease, joy, fulfillment, love, hate…

It was a mare. Well-tended, strong, resilient. The finest breed from the finest bloodline. There was little that she lacked, but… there was one thing. Her little foal. Left far away, in the midst of the golden aspen forests of south. A small wooden shed with a carpet of hay, that’s where she had last seen him. Her thoughts were fixed on that tiny building, on the peaceful breeze that caressed her little one’s mane, on the song of the larks and thrushes in the treetops, on the beams of sunlight shooting through the fiery leaves and painting a kaleidoscope of lights on the ground. Back there were no men in the dark robes, no hard voices she would have to obey. Now, she was alone under their command. They had no true love for her. The little one had.

Yrith felt a tug of compassion. How she felt the mare’s anguish. Indeed. Her own needs were not much different from that of a mare.

Her teeth rattled as she gritted them, bouncing on horseback. Clouding the mare’s mind with an illusion was not enough. She had to do more. Show her the way, free her from their control. Her gain would be Yrith’s gain as well.

Mind after mind, she tried to understand the horses’ needs. Some of them were leaders, some of them simply followed their kin, but each of them had a desire of their own. And none of them would be solved by reaching Winterhold. She smiled. It was time to help each other out.

South, she commanded softly, a rustle at the back of their heads. Go south and you will be free.

She was no artist, but their wishes painted the image for her. A forest of lush grasses and trees of all shapes and colors, a soft, fluffy pasture spanning all the way from the foothills to a river gurgling in a distance, a line of warm barns with piles of hay and straw and baskets of apples and other fruits, horses and foals running and kicking up their rear legs in a dance of delight. A quaint cottage with a painted stone base and a shingle roof, and before it, a laughing man bowing to a plump, florid woman with eyes like two lapis stones standing in the middle of a small vegetable garden. Incessant clucking of hens. A lost paradise.

South is the way, Yrith whispered to them. Go where the sun shines strongest, where the winds are warm, where the colors are plenty. Go where you are home.

She felt them stop. Something prodded them on, but they gazed back, toward the promised land. Yrith could sense their hesitation, their sniffing, the way they tossed their heads to feel the air. She took a breath and focused on perfecting the image. Scenting the flowers and hay, warming the sunlight. She caressed their manes with illusory breeze and sent sweetness in their nostrils. She filled their ears with buzzing of insects and caring voices. She brushed their hooves with straws of grass and tickled their skin with the patter of a long-horned beetle. A lone butterfly fluttered before their eyes, making them watch its flight and forget the cold voices of reality.

Go where you belong. You are your own masters.

There was one last moment of stillness. Then, they went. She felt them bolt out, their heads filled with purpose, mindless of the voices screaming into their ears, of the kicks and tugs. She felt as some of them became lighter, tossing their burdens away. They went after their dream, blinded, deafened, and no voice, touch or magic could ever stop them. They went south, leaving their self-proclaimed masters behind.

“…rith…”

Carefully, she broke the contact, leaving their own minds do the rest.

“Yrith!”

She opened her eyes. It was dark, the aurora’s glinting trail now being the only source of light for the land. She realized she was panting, barely able to catch her breath. The effects of the potions were gone, transformed into the elaborate mirage. Her trembling hands were trying instinctively to grip the horse’s neck, with little success.

“I’m… alive,” she breathed, but felt the contrary.

“Yes, I would like you to stay that way for a while longer, if you would be so kind,” Keneel-La muttered. “If it’s too difficult to sidetrack them, you can just…”

“No, I did it. I think we’ve lost them for a while. Hopefully it’ll take time for them to catch up to the horses and even more time to convince them that south is not the way.”

“You… really?”

“Unless he gets involved and breaks the spell, of course. But I think it will still take time to gain control over them again.”

“How many were there anyway?”

“Ten plus one packmule. I confounded them all.”

“You managed to delude eleven horses at once? Talos almighty. You really need to rest now. I know this is not the most comfortable place to sleep, but you have to forgive me. We can’t stop now. I’ll cushion you as best as possible.”

“What about our horses?”

“We will let them rest and refresh themselves when we gain an enough margin. I will wake you when we do to check on our elven friends again. Just to make sure.”

“Please do,” Yrith yawned. Her head felt like a ball of lead, pulling her down. She felt the Dragonborn adjusting his grip, wrapping his arm tightly about her shoulders. The furs on his coat felt so warm. She let her head fall into them, drawing in their scent. A smell of oils and fire and wilderness. No peace and flowers, but still, she could feel the other side of freedom.

She closed her eyes, falling into a light slumber filled with ceaseless bouncing and strange dreams where salt rained on rippling meadow grass.


The break had brought her relief. But it had been too short. They had stopped only for a few hours, to allow the horses and themselves the necessary rest. They had settled in a recess under a glacier, away from the main road and prying eyes. Now, the only eyes that watched them were those of the horkers on the shore, digging their long tusks in the sand or scouring the shallow waters for stray fish. Over those few hours, their suspicion of the group of unexpected visitors had turned into mere curiosity. Now that everyone was up on their feet again, the horkers tossed their heads and tails, cutting the wind with their tusks in silent warning. Yrith stood shakily, one hand propped against a horse while Singird supported her from the other side.

“Ready?”

She looked up at Keneel-La, sitting already in his saddle, his back straight despite all the exhaustion he must have surely felt.

“No, but I doubt it changes much,” Yrith smiled weakly.

“I suppose it doesn’t,” he nodded. “Let’s get you up and be on our way. Elves still haven’t caught up?”

Yrith had checked it just moments before. Even so, she checked again. The little party was still many hours away, continuously struggling to keep their horses on the right path. Despite herself, she grinned, the feeling of satisfaction creeping into her face.

“Judging by your expression, I’d say not?” the lizard commented, jaws wide with amusement.

“You’d say right.” And they would not catch up ever.

“Right then. Up you go. Master Larkwing, if you will.”

From where he sat, he leaned down to take Yrith over from Singird who gently lifted her up. Even knowing what he was made of, she had to admire the Dragonborn’s strength and the ease with which he pulled one leg of hers over the horse and seated her before himself, on the padding made of a bedroll with makeshift straps with which it was attached. Her saddle was as comfortable as it could get. Still, her head spun just from the prospect of another long ride.

“You take care,” Singird said as he squeezed her hand. She could feel a slight tremble in him and tried to squeeze back. Her hand still lacked its usual grip.

“You know I’m trying my best. I always am.”

“Sometimes too much,” he smiled, giving her hand a light pat of his fingers. Then he turned away, looking for his own horse.

Keneel-La and Yrith took the lead this time, leaving Kharjo and everyone else behind. Daylight was slowly conquering the night, even through the thick blanket of clouds above their heads. Yrith felt the gap between herself and her lizard protector widen. He must have been leaning back.

“Looks like it’s going to snow again,” he commented. “That’s Skyrim for you.”

“Will it slow us?”

“That depends. The question is whether our elven admirers will be affected the same way.”

“Maybe more than us,” Yrith said impishly.

“What in Oblivion did you really do to them? You’re becoming one to truly fear.”

“I just showed the horses the way home,” she shrugged.

“Should I ask?”

Yrith smiled. “I think I’ll leave this up to your imagination.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he laughed. “But so long as your solution worked, it’s all good.”

“It should,” Yrith said. She fidgeted a little in her unorthodox seat, trying to find a suitable position. Keneel-La’s grip was as firm as ever, but her lower parts screamed for comfort. She looked down, but no amount of examining helped her find a solution. At last, she gave up, gazing ahead through the gap between the horse’s ears. There was little to look at, except the dots on the horizon painted by the grey murk of the day. Or so she thought. Upon closer inspection, she realized they were moving. She opened her mouth to speak. At the same moment, she heard Keneel-La’s voice from behind.

“What is that?” he asked, his tone steel-hard. “Those shadows up there.”

“Riders? Patrol?” Yrith guessed.

“Too many for an ordinary patrol. Can you check?”

And so she did. Her magic touched a small group of guards, or soldiers perhaps.

“I’d still say it’s a patrol. Six people, Nordic uniforms. Quite standard. And no magic they would be capable of using. They can’t possibly pose a challenge for us.”

“And there’s no one else around? Nothing suspicious?”

Yrith looked further, to the sides, even above and under the ground. She touched the air and tried to scan its currents. She smelled the winter and tried to look beyond its chill. But no danger revealed itself to her. She shook her head.

“Nothing.”

The Dragonborn took a deep breath, pondering her answer carefully. He leaned back slightly, making the horse slow down. If he had been trotting lightly before, now he was hardly walking.

“I see. Still, six people, that’s not common for an ordinary patrol. Let’s not risk it. If I have learned anything at all during this journey with you, it’s that I can’t ever trust what I see. Who knows if one of them is not going to somehow send the whole mountain crumbling down upon us once we pass them. Or something like that.”

As they slowed their pace, other people caught up to them. Yrith could now see Cain on one side and Singird on the other, their questioning looks challenged by the constant bouncing.

“Did anything happen?” Singird asked, looking around. Then, his eyes found the group in the distance ahead. “Are those…?”

“Guards, or Stormcloaks, likely,” Keneel-La replied pensively. “We’re taking a turn. Let’s go down to the coast. The glaciers will shelter us. If worse comes to worst, I know of a few glacial caverns down there. Although that’s an option I would be quite happy to avoid. Master Larkwing, would you give the others a signal?”

“I will. We’ll stay on your tail.”

“Quite literally, won’t you? Thank you. We’ll go ahead and ride down.”

They exchanged a wave of their hands as Keneel-La prodded the horse to speed up. Yrith felt the wind in her face grow stronger and colder. She had to close her misty eyes, only guessing the moment they turned right, toward the ocean, and began their descent through the long, narrow ravine.


“It’s been so long,” Yrith whispered when the first hoof of their horse touched the moist sand. Before them was a field of gently bobbing ice floes, paving the path all the way to a small island of ice in the distance. But her eyes wandered north, to the horizon, beyond the many tiny isles and rocks. There stood a pillar of stone, its wider end on top, holding one of the most ancient structures on Nirn. The octagonal towers of the College soared to the skies, sending a silent greeting. Only now, Yrith could feel how close they were. The sight made her want to run on. If only she could.

“It has indeed,” Keneel-La said dreamily. Of course. His sister was there too.

“We will reach there tonight, you said? Or will the detour delay us?”

“It’s not really a detour. We would have to cross to the sea side anyway, in the city at the latest. But the terrain is rougher here, so we will see. And perhaps we will have to go through the Winterhold strait to get to the College from the other side. Keep an eye out for potential perils. I hate to ask this of you, but you’re the only one in our group who is, in terms of power and skill, on par with the madman against us. Naturally.”

“In large measure, I owe that to you,” Yrith said, but then fell silent. Her mind was occupied by scanning the land ahead, behind, and everywhere around. It felt strangely empty. Out of all holds in Skyrim, Winterhold was the one most devoid of life, filled mainly with ice, snow and rock. Here and there, she could find a lone pine tree. A few ice wraiths, some horkers near the sea, a frost troll a distance away. In all that emptiness, the small bundles of life she found traversing the area felt quite conspicuous.

“… should really be more confident,” she heard the lizard saying to her. She frowned, ignoring his words.

“Sorry, Keneel-La, but… I have an odd feeling.”

“Hmm?”

“There are many more patrols scattered throughout the area. The closer to the city, the more there are. But they weren’t there before. I think they must have set out when we left the main road. But still, they’re all only small groups. Just… many of them.”

“Right,” Keneel-La mused. “This doesn’t sit well with me. Are there any directly on the coastline?”

“Not yet, but there will be. We will for sure meet them, there are very few passages we can take. I could perhaps create a ward wall that would keep them away, but…”

“No, you need to preserve yourself. And a ward might not really help us. Especially if they lie in wait just outside the College too. We need to prepare for a possible fight. For now, let’s continue without change.”

“Very well. I’ll keep watch then.”

“That will be very kind of you.”


“I’d really appreciate a fire,” Leyna said with chattering teeth. She was pacing back and forth, visibly reluctant to take a bite of the bread she had been given to refresh herself, using both her arms to rub herself instead. Yrith felt for her. The shore, with the endless line of ice blocks and cliffs that separated it from the mainland, truly felt colder than the rest of Skyrim. Perhaps with the exception of the Midden. How long it had been since the two of them had taken that path to leave the College. That time, she had summoned a fire atronach to warm them. Now, she could not do it. Not while they were hoping to stay unnoticed.

“So would I,” Keneel-La nodded. “The cold does not do good to us Saxhleel. But we’ll be on our way shortly.”

“It’s not much warmer in the saddle,” Leyna muttered, finally deciding to have a taste of her bread. Next to her, Qassir was bent down, examining his mare’s hoof and fixing something with magic. Upon Leyna’s words, he looked over his shoulder, giving a light smile.

“Not that you chose the best place to go to if you want warmth in general,” he smirked. Leyna coughed, fighting a stray breadcrumb.

“Oh please, can’t you let me dream?”

“Hmm. No?”

With little hesitation, she raised a foot and kicked the Redguard in the calf. He staggered, nearly falling over.

“Hey!”

Yrith laughed. She had never seen Leyna express herself this way, and it was hard to decide whether their journey had made her appreciate the little things, or it was simply Qassir's insufferable nature. Perhaps a bit of both.

“Thank you, Miss Travi. I should have done that a long time ago.”

And now, even Singird was grinning at the expense of his own student. For some reason, Yrith found herself struggling not to kiss him.

Soon, she told herself inwardly. Their break would be over shortly, and then they would be travelling in the direction of Winterhold once more. She took a pensive bite of the dried meat that she would have happily refused had Keneel-La not insisted on her need to make up for her blood loss. Soon…

She scanned the area once more, checking the positions of the patrols. And nearly choked on the meat. Keneel-La raised his brows as he looked at her.

“Take your time with the meal, we’ll wait for you if…”

“The patrols have blocked out all passages,” she cut in. “The one on the main road must have taken a different route than we thought.”

He left his mouth open as if to speak, but his words were taken away by Yrith’s report. He looked up the wall of ice, then, for some reason, toward the sea.

“Well then,” he said, wrapping the rest of his meal in the first piece of cloth he could find in his rucksack, “I suppose I need to amend my statement.”

“What are we going to do then?” Cain asked, following the Dragonborn’s example.

“No matter how I look at it, we will just have to meet them. Everyone should prepare for battle. Leyna, you keep close to me and Yrith. The two of you might have to ward us all. I would prefer Cain and Kharjo to ride first and perhaps see if there are any potential ways to circle or outwit them. Master Larkwing and Qassir, if you could secure us from behind.”

They all nodded, even though Yrith could swear she saw a mixture of unwillingness and resignation in Singird’s face. She wondered what had transpired between him and Qassir to cause so much antipathy. Though perhaps for Singird specifically, it was enough that Qassir was simply Qassir. Despite the situation, the thought brought a smile to her lips.


They had been riding for hours. Hours of stumbling over the windy shore and through ravines where it was impossible to tell the difference between a rock and a chunk of ice. Yrith was under the impression that the steam that had been rising from her mouth was all on her face in the form of frost. In a way, she envied the horses who could walk and move around. Even in Keneel-La’s firm embrace, she was cold. All the others must have been freezing. Still, she kept looking forward attentively, her magic spread around. The closest patrol was now moments away. Her eyes moved from Kharjo’s cat figure to Cain’s elven one. The two did not seem to change their pace or to take any sort of action. As if reading her thoughts, Cain turned around, shaking his head.

“No success, it seems,” the Dragonborn muttered behind her. She could feel him moving. One hand of his left the reins. He must have been gesturing something to Cain. The Dunmer nodded in return. As if someone waved a magic wand, the two riders at the front stopped. Keneel-La and Yrith, together with Leyna riding just next to them, came to a halt just as they reached them. Soon, Singird and Qassir joined them as well.

“Should we really stop?” Leyna asked Keneel-La. He put the hand back on the reins, clutching them tightly.

“Under these conditions, yes. There’s no way for us to maneuver. We go either back, or forward, and we won’t know until we see what’s in stock for us. Everyone ready your magic and weapons. Just, don’t attack if not necessary. We defend first.”

They waited. Yrith had had enough of those moments that felt like eternity, but fate didn’t seem to care. She counted seconds in her mind, wondering how accurate she was. They would soon appear up on the horizon. And Yrith’s group had every disadvantage they could. If the patrol had archers, shooting Yrith and the rest down would be a piece of cake. They would have to rely on wards.

She looked around. Everyone was staring up, to the top of the slope they had been trying to cross. And then, they all tensed. She turned her gaze up. The first three helmets of the riders appeared just above the peak level. Then, their shoulders followed. The other three must have been behind.

They stopped, watching Yrith’s group momentarily. Then, the first rider took his helmet off, waving it in the air.

“Hello there!” he shouted, and the echo bounced from one icy wall to another, making it almost painful to listen. “We finally found you! Is everyone all right?”

Yrith exchanged uncertain looks with Cain and Leyna. Had she heard right?

“Are they… friendly?” Cain whispered, barely loud enough for Yrith to hear. She looked up at the guards, then back at him. A strange feeling flashed through her, as if something was tearing her away from reality. Was it him again? Another illusion? No, it couldn’t be. Unless she had grown so cautious and ready she now managed to recognize it before it struck. But something was off. Something…

“Not sure,” she said just as quietly. “Why would they be searching for us in the first place?”

“I don’t like this,” Keneel-La growled, and his hand left the reins again. Yrith could imagine he was clutching the hilt of his sword as he tended to do in precarious situations. “Let’s just… Cain, what are you doing?”

Cain was not listening. Instead, he kept his head up, staring at the guards. Absently, he prodded his horse into a trot.

“They will help us,” he called without looking back.

“Cain! Stop! We can’t be sure!”

“I know they will!”

The horse sped up into a canter. Yrith paled. No. It couldn’t be…

“Cain! Dammit!”

Keneel-La was fidgeting in the saddle. Yrith felt his struggle herself. She too wanted to ride after Cain. To stop him. The riders up the hill were still, waiting in silence. The one without a helmet stared intently… at Cain.

“He’s…”

“Enchanted,” Qassir finished for her. With all she got, Yrith suppressed the urge to look directly into the guard's eyes. If all of them removed their helmets…

“Everybody close your eyes!” she yelled. “Blindfold yourselves if you need to! Now!”

“But we have to… what?!”

It would be a challenge to keep seven people, two of which had no magic of their own, safe and engaged. Still, she needed them to see without seeing. They had to feel as she did. And so she forced her magic in their minds without asking. She shut her own mind, avoiding their thoughts and feelings at all costs. At least only two people would be new to this.

“Is this… your magic, Yrith?” There was surprise in Keneel-La’s voice, but nothing more. She thanked the gods for his composure.

“Yes. Can everyone see?” she called. She felt their nods. All except one person…

“What do we do about Cain?” Leyna asked the most painful question of all.

“Let me.”

Just as he spoke, Qassir rubbed his mare's flank with his heel. The animal bolted out wildly, nearly shaking her rider off her back. Qassir held on with sheer willpower, forcing the horse to go up. Cain was already halfway to the patrol. Yrith watched them, holding her fists clenched and her mouth closed so tightly it hurt. If Cain reached them, chances were they would have to leave him at their mercy. No, it could not happen…

She concentrated on Cain’s stallion, making his hooves feel as heavy as possible without the necessity to trip him. The horse slowed down considerably, the sudden struggle apparent in his step. Qassir kept prodding his mare, soon catching up. The Dunmer looked at him with pure rage the likes of which Yrith had never seen in his face.

“You trying to stop me, Sandman? Just as always? You trying to deny Yrith the help she deserves?”

Qassir laughed. “What do you know, son of the Aldaryns? What do you know, demon worshipper?”

“You…!”

“Wake up!” the Redguard snapped his fingers.

Yrith bit into her lip too strongly. She tasted blood on her tongue, but cared little for it.

“No! Don’t fight! Just…”

“I know!” Qassir glanced back at Yrith blindly, with his eyes still closed. “Dammit!”

With little hesitation, Cain fired a firebolt from each of his hands. Qassir cussed again, quickly raising a ward. Yrith extended it to protect him from behind once he got ahead. As soon as Qassir stood between Cain and the patrol, the ward should protect Cain too. She waited, counting his mare’s steps…

Further, further!

A single inch away…

Now!

Or not…

Yrith suppressed the need to open her eyes. The ward was in place. And nothing changed. Now she was cussing too. How was this even possible?

She wished to call to Cain. To go and embrace him. But he wasn’t himself. He would not listen. He would try to protect her in his own way. No. That was not his way at all. Cain…

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to move her focus to Qassir. The Redguard did not lose any time. He prodded the mare on, right into the open pit of Oblivion. She fought the slope bravely. Keneel-La had been right about the horses of Skyrim. They were sturdy, resilient, all that one would need to conquer mountains of ice and snow. The mare climbed up without protest, her hooves safely finding the best path among the rocks and icy debris. Yrith watched as Qassir readied himself, his hands flaring with magic. He let it out the same moment the group of people just above him darted out. His volley of bolts poured over them, spilling around like water, then fading in the ground. Qassir forced his eyebrows even tighter together, quickly making a turn and backing a few paces. Then, he turned back to face the patrol again, extending his hands and sending a new wave of magic through his fingers. The space between him and the guards rippled as though Yrith was looking at a mirror image on the surface of water. They fell off their horses, creating a small pile just in front of him. So Qassir was spellbrewing. The space itself repelled both their magic and their physical forms under his command. So now, Yrith knew he was a member of the AWA. Not that there had been much space for doubt before.

With her strange, inverted sight, she could feel Qassir twisting his face with the tremendous effort. He was relying solely on his own power. And it wasn’t enough.

Several guards had managed to gather themselves, tossing away their helmets. An impact of magic dyed the ripples violet and soaked through. Qassir groaned.

“I thought the guards didn’t have any magic,” Keneel-La grumbled into Yrith’s neck.

“I don’t think it’s theirs,” Yrith said helplessly. “I don’t think they do any of this consciously.”

She tried to trace the original source of the magic, but through Qassir’s barrier, it was nigh impossible. Her sight could not reach beyond it either. He had locked them away from anything outside. But, as it seemed, he had not managed to lock the things outside away from them. He growled and strengthened the connection. Two rills of blood sprang from his hands. Yrith gasped.

“N-no… Qassir! Use my magic! You’ll kill yourself!”

He looked at her desperately, his instinct finally winning over his will. His eyes opened. In them, she could see… what was it? Shame? Defeat?

“Bring both of you back,” Yrith pleaded. Why was he hesitating? Her magic was there for the taking. One gesture, one leap of his mind. She had already offered it all. “Shut them out and come back, both of you!”

“What is he doing?” she heard Singird speak from behind. “Why doesn’t he use your magic?”

“I don’t know… his hands are bleeding. If he's running out if magic, he should…”

“Is that… magical overcharge? He has mentioned it before, but I never thought…”

“Magical overcharge? He can’t channel any more magic? We have to go there! Keneel-La!”

The lizard grabbed her hands firmly, preventing her from taking the reins from him. Even Singird yanked to the side, but he was too far to even touch her.

“No,” Keneel-La said firmly. “Remember it’s your life we’re trying to protect here.”

“But we have to…!”

“And what will you do? You can’t send your magic through him. Will you do what he’s doing? What is it he’s doing anyway?”

“I… don’t know…”

She felt a tug on her sleeve. Keneel-La? No… Leyna had prompted her horse to come closer.

“Let me just help both of those damn trollheads back,” she told Yrith softly. Then, she rode off, chest nearly pressed against the neck of her horse.

“What's your plan?” Yrith called after her, but she could not hear her anymore. She flew on the wings of wind, careless of anything around.

Cain, occupied until now with shooting one missile after another at Qassir, turned to Leyna. He tilted his head to his side unnaturally, like an owl, giving her a ghastly smile.

“Come to join?” he asked dreamily.

Leyna prodded the horse to increase his already furious tempo. She did not waste her time by speaking to Cain. She simply passed him, instinctively raising a ward to protect herself. Her only objective was Qassir.

Cain bared his teeth, releasing a snake-like hiss.

“None of you understand!” he yelled. “Why doesn't anyone understand?!”

He fired several magic bolts in the air. Then at Leyna. Then at the struggling Qassir again. The Redguard spared him no expense, still protected by Yrith's ward which she was holding up almost instinctively. His only focus was keeping up the barrier, his hands still bleeding. Even more than before, Yrith noticed.

As Leyna approached the fighting Redguard, she pressed her legs to her horse’s sides lightly to slow down. Carefully, she dropped the reins, grabbing instead her scarf. She wrapped it tightly around her head, covering the area from the tip of her nose up until the top of her forehead. Then, she approached him, touching his hand. Yrith could see her golden magic enveloping it, then the other one. They were talking, but she could not make out any words. Yrith extended her ward, doing the only thing she could think of to protect them.

The conversation was as brief as it could. As the last word was said, the two of them both turned their horses and broke the connection. Once again, the guards fell over, now unhindered. Not for long.

Qassir and Leyna rode only a short distance before they stopped. They came as close together as they could, their knees touching… and then, Qassir jumped. He cushioned his fall with a bit of magic before landing on Leyna’s horse, just behind her, wrapping his hands tightly around her wrists. He whispered something in her ear. Then, the barrier materialized once more, this time, by Leyna’s hand.

“Clever,” Yrith commented, amazed.

Keneel-La pressed her shoulder. She could feel the tension in him that mirrored her own.

“What is?” he asked.

“Leyna can’t spellbrew. But now, Qassir is just channeling magic through her, using her as a medium. Leyna is an Altmer. They’re practically made of magic, she won’t easily suffer from magical overcharge.”

“That is smart indeed, but what is spellbrewing?”

“It’s…”

Yrith fell silent with her mouth still open. The shield was complete. The current of violet magic ceased its flow, leaving Cain free… and disoriented. Yrith quickly sent her magic forward in its raw form, catching him in a firm grip before he could fall. He was blinking, looking around in confusion. Then, his eyes stopped at Qassir, widening at the sight of the vast spiral the Redguard was still holding up. Yrith felt him gasp. Qassir turned back, shouting something at him. Upon receiving an answer, he raised his head, exchanging nods with Keneel-La.

“We’re taking off!” the lizard called, leaning to the side to turn his horse.

Again, Yrith tried to look back at him unsuccessfully.

“But where will we go?” she called back. “The guards are blocking the way back too!”

“We’ll have to somehow take them by surprise.”

Yrith frowned. This was not their own magic the guards were using. They were also resistant to any sort of normal magic, the only thing apparently working on them being physical impacts. Even if most of Yrith’s group had daggers, they were hardly skilled enough to take on a trained guard. Taking them by surprise was unlikely. And chances they would survive such an encounter were…

Well, they did have the Dragonborn…

But she still did not quite feel like going all the way back only to risk it. It was enough that they had nearly lost Cain. If only there was any way around…

But there was. Quite an easy one. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Why hadn’t any mage in their group thought of it before?

“Keneel-La, let’s go right to the Winterhold strait!”

“What? Through the water? The horses will freeze to death! And we with them!”

“No,” Yrith shook her head vigorously, “over it!”

“What do you…”

“Five of us have magic. Turning water into ice is the basic of basics. Making the surface coarse so that we don’t slip should be no issue either. It’s just alteration.”

“That… why haven’t I thought of that? I have frost breath too!”

“Ingenious,” Yrith smirked despite herself. She did not have to say another word. Keneel-La swerved the horse downward, toward the sea and the seemingly impassable terrain of water, rocks and ice floes. Yrith glanced back with her magic, checking how the rest of the group fared. They all followed, including Cain. Qassir and Leyna rode at the rear, like they had most of their ride. Quite a few paces behind them were the patrol riders, having finally gathered themselves. Something had to be done about them too.

For now, their magic was useless against Yrith's group. Even Cain was now riding with his eyes closed, relying on the sight Yrith provided for them all. The horses, thankfully, seemed unaffected.

The sea was approaching quickly. Just before the line where land met water, several rocks stuck up from the ground, making their passage all the more difficult. Yrith concentrated on the closest ones, calling the power to pull them out and toss them into the sea. She did not wait to hear the splashes of water. Before they landed, she whirled up the snow, forcing it to land evenly and hardening it ever so slightly. The last thing they needed was for their horses to trip and send their riders flying.

In her mind, she watched every step of their horses, ready to balance every potential fall. She would have happily concentrated on the enemy's horses, confounding them the same way she had the Thalmor ones, but she found herself at the limit of her mental capacity. Any more things to concentrate on and all would crumble. And so she focused on keeping them going. Just a few more steps…

A bit further…

One last step…

Now!

Yrith felt how Keneel-La drew himself up as much as possible with no stirrups to support him, letting go of her momentarily. She lurched, holding onto the horse’s neck with all her might. Only her fingertips left the sleek fur, aiming at the water surface. The moment she released her magic was the moment she heard the Dragonborn Shout.

“FO KRAH DIIN!”

Frost… cold… freeze…

She felt the words raise the hairs on her body, reverberate deep inside her. His draconic magic worked well with hers. The dark water solidified and paled. Yrith scraped the smooth platform that had formed before them with another spell, creating a sandstone-like surface. Now, they were safe to go. At least for a little bit.

As the horses entered the icy plain, Yrith could feel their pursuers speed up, as if there was nothing that could stop their own horses from simply taking flight. She clenched her fists, pressing them to the side of the horse's neck. There would be very little time to take care of them for good.

Qassir and Leyna were still the last, but they kept up well. Yrith stayed with them for a moment, measuring the distance between them and the chasing patrol. It would work. Just past this rock, then it would be safe…

She waited.

One last second…

With another breath, she concentrated her magic on the ice just a short distance off the shoreline and pushed. Qassir and Leyna both had the same idea, each sending a pair of fireballs to the ground behind them. The frozen surface sizzled, cracked and melted, leaving a wide belt of deep, cold water separating the two groups. Once again, the guards halted abruptly, some sliding off their horses for the umpteenth time. Yrith let out a breath. They were safe, for now at least.

“Having a rough day, eh, friends?” Keneel-La uttered with a more than apparent hint of satisfaction. Then, he gave Yrith a pat on the shoulder.

“Good job. You've done amazingly.”

“We're not done yet,” Yrith panted, readying her magic again. More water to make into passable terrain ahead.

“Indeed, but still.”

He Shouted again, just as she released the spell. At least, fortunately, the rocks would keep the ice in place.

They slowed down a little, letting the horses catch a breath.

“I think you can withdraw now,” Keneel-La said to her gently. “No illusions threatening us anymore, it should be safe to look.”

She had nearly forgotten she'd kept them all seeing with her magic. Slowly, she pulled it back, leaving mind after mind until only hers remained. At last, she could let her thoughts roam free. The strain had left her feeling even weaker than before. She had hardly realized how much she’d had to invest. Now, she was clearing the path before them almost automatically, using the last of her power to see if they would run into other enemies ahead.

“We’re going under the Winterhold bridge and then from the rear side of the city, correct?” she asked, wrapping one arm about herself. For some reason, she felt dreadfully cold.

“That would make most sense, yes.”

“There are… guards. Just before the bridge…”

“I suppose there would be… Yrith? Are you all right?”

Of course he knew the answer already. And she was so tired of this situation. Of this very question.

“Just tired, I think…”

“Rest. We still have a few hours before we reach Winterhold.”

“But… the ice…”

“Can be arranged.”

Keneel-La firmed up behind her, cueing the horse to a halt. Everyone gathered around them. They were all catching their breaths, visibly exhausted and shaken from the previous experience. She glanced at Cain, but the Dunmer avoided eye contact, staring at the ground. Yrith felt a tug in her chest. She would have offered her friend a hug, but he was too far. She tried to extend her numb hand to him, but it did not listen again. Perhaps she wouldn’t even have the strength to embrace him after all.

“What is it?” Kharjo asked, tearing her out from her thoughts. She looked up to see him wiggle his whiskers and sniff the air. “Any more battles ahead?”

“Not now, no. Or at least I hope so. But we need replacement for a bit. Cain, Master Larkwing. Could you take the lead for a while and freeze the water for us?”

“That’s the least I can do,” Singird nodded. Then, he rode closer, extending a hand to touch Yrith’s cheek. She looked up at him to see him smile encouragingly. “Rest safely, Yrith. I’ll pave the way for you.”

With that, he turned his horse toward Cain, passing him on his way to the front. As he did, he leaned toward him, whispering not so quietly in his direction. “Do you really have time for sulking, Mister Aldaryn?”

Yrith could swear she saw him wink at Cain before he rode off. The Dunmer flinched in his saddle, speeding up to follow without answer. Yrith stared at them, forgetting her state momentarily. What was that? Were they… competing? At what? For what?

Behind her, Keneel-La chuckled.

“Still at it, I see,” he said as he turned the horse in Winterhold’s direction again.

“At what?” she asked.

He laughed. Leyna and Qassir at their side did too. “Oh, you should have seen the two of them fighting over you when Kharjo brought us the horses from Fort Kastav. It was quite amusing to watch. We’re setting off!” he called to the rest of the group, cueing his horse to follow Singird and Cain. Yrith watched their backs, trying to imagine all possible conversations that could have happened between the two.

“Fighting over me?”

“Oh, they so wanted to carry you. For a moment I almost thought they were going to start shooting fireballs at each other.”

“This openly?” Yrith wondered. “So… you didn’t let them?”

“Let’s say I was a little worried what their fervor might do to you. And I suppose I don’t trust their riding skills enough to let them. On top of that, my contract has not yet been fulfilled and I don’t plan on losing sight of you just yet.”

She blushed fiercely, embarrassment chasing away the winter chill momentarily. She would have turned away, but there was nothing to turn away from.

“But you don’t trust anyone with anything, do you?” Yrith said, quickly trying to change topic. She felt the Dragonborn poke her back.

“Gotten a little cheeky, haven’t we?” he snickered. “Just so you know, I do trust Kharjo.”

“Enough to give him your wonder concoction recipe?”

He gave her a light pat. “That too.”

Chapter 35: Magical Overcharge

Chapter Text

From the top of the Winterhold bridge, the strait had always looked rather small and distant. Now, Yrith was staring upward, thinking how small and distant the bridge looked from down there, lost in the falling night. Just a few worked stones spanning from one cliff to another. The pillars supposed to hold the bridge standing had been mysteriously cut off, leaving just a few stubs hanging down aimlessly. The bridge seemed to be holding up just by force of habit. But only for an untrained eye. Yrith felt it, the true force keeping it in place securely, as though no damage had been done to it whatsoever. At last, she touched the magic of the College, felt its very foundation swirling, welcoming her home. She shuddered with the overwhelming sensation.

“Is anything the matter?” Keneel-La asked, raising a hand to steer the horse left. Soon, they would be leaving the strait, finally making their way up to the city. Just a short distance from the College’s fishing post to the other side.

“No,” Yrith shook her head. “Just… it feels so surreal…”

“I know,” he said, squeezing her arm ever so slightly. “If I were to return back to Morrowind and see all my comrades again, I would probably feel the same.”

Yrith wondered about that. Perhaps his return would be more grand after such a long time, being the Dragonborn and all. But it was not the amount of time she had spent elsewhere, or the prospect of seeing her teachers and classmates, that made her feel strange. It was… the College. Her, and the silent messages she kept sending under Yrith’s skin. As if she had been waiting for her. As if Yrith’s arrival meant something.

Yrith focused on the area, examining everything around. The place was filled with magic, wild and struggling to addle her senses. She scowled. No wonder her training with Master Neloren had been so difficult with so many distractions. She had not even realized before how many different forces permeated this place.

With her magicka spread in a wide sphere, she looked around the isles off the shore, up the cliff on which the College loomed, then to the other side where the bridge entered the city…

She bit into her lip, hissing as she opened an older bite mark.

“A group of guards just left Winterhold and took to the slope behind the bridge. We won’t be able to avoid them,” she informed Keneel-La darkly.

He gave a sigh. “I was afraid this might happen. I don’t think we have much choice now. The bastard has the whole place under control.”

“If we could somehow ride through them…" Yrith mused, suppressing the need to slouch, "but Leyna’s and my wards don’t work against them.”

“No, the only one who knows how to counter them is Qassir, and he’s in no state to even try, especially with Leyna riding another horse. We're up for some entertainment.”

“Then I’ll have to share my sight again.”

“No. Even you can run out of magic, Yrith.”

“I know. But what else can we do?”

“Hmm.” He fell silent without reply. She felt him tense a little as he moved and leaned forward ever so slightly, pressing his belly into her. The horse sped up in an immediate response, loping ahead until they caught up with Singird and Cain.

“Halt!” Keneel-La called to them and then to everyone following him. He straightened his back again, cueing the horse to stop.

It took them all a few moments to persuade their horses to slow down and gather around. The animals did not seem at all happy at the prospect of taking a break in the middle of an icy plain. Yrith caressed their own horse on the neck, letting her hand slide along his fur. As the eyes of everyone turned to the Dragonborn, he prompted the animal to take two steps back to gain a better view.

“Things are getting complicated again,” he announced solemnly. “The rear path, which I was planning to take, is now blocked as well.”

“More guards?” Singird asked, looking instinctively toward the bridge.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Not a big surprise,” Leyna muttered as her eyes drifted to the College bridge.

“Indeed, but now we need a solution. We have two options. Either we go to the city from this side and ride through the whole Winterhold, or we continue to the bridge. They will always have a clear advantage, but the conditions will differ. Riding through the city means potential casualties. Taking the lower route means less room for maneuvering and possibly more danger to all of us. Yrith, how far are they?”

“The southern group is just up the hill,” Yrith relayed what she saw, “at the beginning of the ravine. The northern one is a few paces off the bridge and I think they feel quite comfortable there.”

“Going there would be suicide,” Singird said with a deep frown. “That slope is deadly as it is, more so on horseback. They wouldn’t even have to use magic to take us down from up there.”

“Sadly, I have to agree with Master Larkwing,” Qassir nodded along. “And there’s space for a single horse at best between the mountain and the bridge wall, we would have to go there one after another. I’d say that gives us the maximum chance of zero to one. Not the best if you ask me.”

No one laughed. Yrith felt Keneel-La’s deep breath on her neck.

“That would confirm my fear,” the lizard said, shifting his weight. The horse raised his head curiously, tossing it to the side. Keneel-La lay a soothing hand on his neck to calm him. “So it seems the only logical option would be to storm through the city. But…”

“On horseback?” Leyna asked doubtfully. “We’ll never make it. They will have backup there, and there won’t be enough space…”

“Exactly. Sneaking through the city would be a wiser option, but that gives us quite a big logistical problem.”

“So we will have to leave the horses behind,” Singird whispered, lowering his gaze. Yrith could feel the sting in his voice. He hated what he had just said as much as she did. As much as the Dragonborn did. They had carried them well and loyally. This was not what they deserved after all that struggle. How would Yrith live with herself if she was transported safely back to Winterhold to enjoy a hearth’s warmth while their steeds would freeze to death?

Perhaps she could give them some warmth until someone came back for them. Create a hearth for them here, under a recess…

Hearth.

She looked up, toward the city that was still hidden behind a cliff’s overhang. Hearth… An idea formed in her head.

“There is a stable for guests behind The Frozen Hearth, no?” she asked.

“There is,” Singird said slowly, “but how are you going to transport them there in secret?”

“We don’t have to. We can just send them ahead. At least this time, my illusion would lead them to reality.”

“Indeed,” Keneel-La hummed behind her and she could hear a sudden trace of hope in his tone. “And it would provide a welcome distraction too. I quite like the idea.”

“And Haran would surely take good care of them,” Singird nodded in assent. “The only obstacle then is the first patrol that blocks the exit from the ravine.”

“Hmm,” Keneel-La mused, “perhaps not necessarily. It’s getting dark. If we choose the right moment to send our horses ahead, we might be able to sneak past while the horses distract them.”

“Very well. So what would that mean for us?”

“Yrith?”

She nodded, scanning the terrain ahead inch after inch, measuring the guards’ line of sight.

“They’re not moving,” she said slowly, “but if they decide to set off, then the furthest we can still ride is up to that cliff,” she pointed her finger up. It was not a great distance away, but perhaps they could still save themselves a bit of climbing. “Otherwise, we risk being seen.”

“Good. Then let’s go before things change in their favor.”


Standing on her feet, Yrith wondered if sending the horses ahead had truly been such a great idea. She still felt weak, hardly able to keep straight, let alone walk or even crawl. Despite the creeping cold, she felt sweat on her forehead. She wiped it off with her sleeve, nearly feeling it turn to ice. It was Singird and Cain now who supported her from each side. Keneel-La remained the only one burdened with a rucksack. The rest of their equipment was still attached to the horses, riding now in Winterhold’s direction. Qassir and Leyna were positioned just between Keneel-La at the front line and Yrith, engaged in a conversation so quiet it was nearly entirely drowned by the wind. Kharjo stood silently in the rear, guarding their backs.

“Everyone ready then?” Keneel-La called to them quietly as possible.

“As ready as can be,” Yrith muttered, not feeling ready at all. Everyone else mumbled their replies. Keneel-La gave a resolute nod.

“Setting off, then. Stick close together. If anything happens, don’t yell unless there’s no other way. Tap the one walking before you until the signal gets to me.”

As he took the first step, everyone began moving. They moved slowly, cautiously. Every now and then, Keneel-La glanced over his shoulder, making sure that everyone still followed. To Yrith's great displeasure, his eyes always stopped at her for a split moment, examining her condition. Even in the dark, she would have sworn she saw a trace of reluctance in his lizard face. A silent message to her.

I would have never allowed this had I any other choice.

She gritted her teeth, wishing, not for the first time, for the journey to be finally over. Soon…

She turned toward the College, but it was hidden behind a cliff. The very cliff whose tip had once fallen onto her. It felt so distant now. Her involuntary fishing trips with Cain. The ice wraith. The avalanche. The Spirit Blight…

Save for the latter, none of it would have posed a threat to her now. And still, she was coming back with her body impaired and her spirit exhausted, limping with the help of two other people, feeling the slowness of their pace in her every step. As if nothing had changed at all.

One step, another, three, four, five… all of them heavy and full of struggle. Time might as well stop this instant and trap her here for eternity. She would feel little difference.

And yet, when the Dragonborn stopped the next moment, she felt it all too deep.

“There,” he raised his hand to point forward, into the empty air. “Is that the place you felt them last, Yrith?”

She nodded, sending her magic forward automatically.

“They're following the horses,” she reported, feeling a sudden wave of hope. “All except one that stayed behind. He's hiding in the ruin just past that cliff. I'd say he's watching the road.”

“Good. Here’s what we’re going to do. Kharjo, you will now escort Yrith. I want the two of you to cross the road first. You should be able to hide behind the trees and rocks once on the other side. We will follow. Should anything happen to us, the two of you will not stop. You will race for Winterhold at all costs.”

“But…”

“Yrith.”

She turned to Singird as he lay a hand on her shoulder. She could not see his face clearly, but she knew what was in it. She took a breath… and let it back out, allowing him to speak.

“I know it’s hard. I know how you feel. And I know I’ve restricted you too much in the past… but please, trust us. Even if we’re not as powerful as you, we can handle ourselves. There will be time for you to return the favor. You can count on that. But for that, you need to get to safety and heal up first. Would that sound fair?”

She stared at him, at a loss for words. Singird, making this kind of promise. That was a good thing. A good thing… and yet, it was just a promise. A future so uncertain she was not sure where to put her trust. Sure, they could handle themselves, she had no doubt. But why then did she want to yell at him from top of her lungs? Because he did have a history of restricting her? Because she had grown so accustomed to being at the center of things, despite always saying how she did not want to?

No. No. No…

She shook his hand off and wriggled out of Cain’s grip, trying her best to stand on her own, albeit wobbly.

“No,” she snarled quietly. “It’s not fair and I hate it.”

“Yrith…”

“But I’ll go. If only for your peace of mind.”

She took a step toward him, falling upon him rather than embracing him. Still, he understood her gesture, wrapping both arms around her and placing a soft kiss on her forehead.

“We’re almost there,” he told her soothingly. “It’s half an hour through the city.”

“That’ll likely be the longest half an hour I’ve ever lived through,” she said, half bitter, half smiling. Then, she let her arms sink, gently pushing him away. She turned to the silent Kharjo, letting out a sigh. “I suppose it’s time.”

“The cub should not worry,” the Khajiit purred, and despite herself, Yrith felt calmness spreading inside her upon hearing his voice. “The Dragonborn prowls almost as well as the Khajiit do. And he fights much better.”

A smile formed on Yrith’s lips by itself. Of course. They did have the Dragonborn.

“Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. “Let’s go then.”


The night was pitch black. Yrith could hardly see anything ahead, and so she was helping herself with magic. Kharjo did not seem to mind the darkness at all, navigating with absolute precision as only a cat could. He paved the path for her with his boots, treading as though he owned the place. Yrith wondered how many times he had been there before. He knew the secret passages of Winterhold almost better than she did. The positions of trees and rocks, the solitary beams left of the shattered houses after the Great Collapse, most rotten or frozen, the elevated platforms of the still standing houses that hid them from sight, he knew them all, well aware which of them were safe to cross and which should rather be avoided. He guided her well, occasionally placing a hand on her head to prompt her to bend.

So far, their group was together. Keneel-La kept in tow, guiding the rest of them in silence. At times, Yrith couldn’t resist the urge to look back to see if they still followed. The night only allowed her to see their silhouettes, but for some reason, it felt more reassuring than checking with her magic.

As they approached the city, the darkness gave way to the lights from the street lanterns, the windows and, sadly, the torches of the guards. The numerous guards, as she noticed, contrary to how Yrith remembered the city. There were always two or three people roaming around. Now, the place seemed almost crowded. She tried to scan their uniforms and find out if they all belonged to Winterhold, but it was impossible to discern. In any case, they would still answer to Ulfric Stormcloak. Or, rather, Toddvar…

“You there!”

Yrith nearly jumped into the air. With her breath held, she sought the source of the voice. The guard in question was looking at the Frozen Hearth entrance where a ginger-haired woman stood with a broom, her tattered apron littered with hay. Yrith struggled not to freeze, her feet moving just by inertia. That was Haran. And the hay on her apron suggested she had found and provided for the horses. Had she shaken off the guards somehow? Yrith would have wished to send out her magic to check, but she could not risk splitting her focus now.

“Me?” Haran asked, tilting her head to the side.

“You. You’re out past the curfew.”

Curfew? Yrith had never heard of any curfew in Winterhold.

“Well, excuse me,” Haran propped the broom against the wall, placing her hands on her hips, “this is my inn, my land and I’m just doing all the work here so I can provide for my guests. Would you care to clean up for me? Be my guests.”

“We’re only doing this for your own good. The roads have not been safe lately.”

“Ah, yes. And who would bother travel to this godsforsaken place and cause trouble to the citizens who already have close to nothing, pray tell? Have you taken a look around? I know you are new here, but this,” she spread her arms, gesturing to the space around herself, “is all we got. The only trouble are those black cloaks that you told us to accommodate. Tell me sincerely, sir. Are you happy living in a place like this? Does it give you all you need after all the trouble you take watching over its scarce citizens?”

“I think that would be enough talking,” the guard growled. “In, and I don’t want to see any kind of disobedience.”

“Whatever you say,” she snorted, opening the door. But then, she turned back, gazing at the guard who was not looking at her anymore. Instead, he was staring directly at Yrith.

Yrith gasped, closing her eyes automatically and spreading her magic to see. The moment she did, she felt Kharjo lift her up in his arms. He was not sneaking anymore. He ran.

She held tight to him, trying to give him her sight, but her magic did not obey. She was too exhausted to do anything but simple spells. A ward to prevent an old rafter from falling on top of them. Another to block an arrow. A third one to avoid being crushed by a tree trunk. Just how was everything so against them?

The guards were everywhere, and they were firing everything at them. Arrows, bolts, magical missiles as well. How did they know about them? No… it wasn’t them. They weren’t even looking. Just walking, firing… blindly, obediently. It was not the guards who were attacking them. It was the Demon himself, using them as medium. She retched. They had no magical capacity. Under their uniforms and gloves and helmets, they must have been bleeding out, and the only reason they did not cry with pain was that the power holding their souls did not let them. How could he. How dared he!

She tried to fire back, but the magic simply washed over them, just like back when Qassir had fought them. She tried to claim their lives, but it was as though an invisible wall of magic separated them from her, making it impossible to touch them. But Qassir had managed before… with spellbrewing. A physical attack…

Her hands flared deep violet as she called to the Deadlands. Two dremoras were all she could manage. They would perhaps deliver a few blows. More than the entirely mindless guards. But then they would fall under their numbers.

A deafening roar thundered through the air. The Dragonborn Shouted, sending half of the guards to the ground. She heard him yell something to the people behind him, but could not make out the words in the fray.

She was panting. There was nothing else she could do. Kharjo was sniffing the air, still evading one assault after another, digging his fingers into her flanks. The endless falling land and ruins forced him to abandon their once safe passage. Before them was a wall of soulless bodies, ready to pour over them. The missiles had stopped momentarily. The Khajiit bared his teeth, putting Yrith down, only to grab her in a different way, flinging her over his shoulder as gently as the situation allowed. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed one of the few daggers by his waist and hurled it forward. It took the closest guard down, sending him off to Aetherius once and for all.

“Come over and nothing will happen to you,” the guard next to him said in a monotone voice, as if his comrade had not just been shot dead. “We do not have to fight.”

Yrith stifled the urge to open her eyes and stare.

“Mother told Kharjo not to trust strangers,” the catman hissed quietly. With one swift movement, he pulled out two other daggers.

“Yrith Ravencroft. You don’t want your escort to die.”

Something was washing over her. Her own eyes fought her, struggling to open by themselves. She felt not beads, but rivers of sweat course down her face. Her breath quickened, her limbs trembled. If only she let go, it would all be over. If only she surrendered herself…

“NO!” she yelled, catching her breath. “No…”

Give in. Let go…

“N-no…”

They were moving. She hardly registered anything anymore. The voice in her head was drowning everything around, pressing on her skull, threatening to crack it open.

Open your eyes. That’s all you need to do. It will be over…

Something cold hit her. Her senses returned to her, nearly making her head explode. She was breathless, lying flat in the snow, her limbs spread around her in all the odd angles. Kharjo was… she searched for him with her eyes open ajar, unable to send out but a spark of magic anymore. At last, she found him, gathering himself from the ground a few paces from her, his back to her, face to their enemies. One leg of his trembled, unable to carry him anymore. Still, he fought, if only to create an opening.

Someone grabbed her by the shoulders. She flinched, shooting her weak hand forward to shove the intruder away.

“No!”

“Yrith!”

“You won’t…”

“Yrith, it’s me! Haran!”

“No…”

“Child!”

Yrith felt the hands lift her upper body, wrapping around her tightly. They were warm and slender. She dared a peek. The hay from Haran's apron was now covering Yrith's coat as well. She let out a shaky breath.

“I…”

“It's all right child, I got you. Let's go inside.”

“But… Kharjo…”

She couldn't articulate the whole sentence. Her teeth were chattering so loud she hardly heard the sounds of the battle over them. Haran helped her on her feet, stroking her back.

“Don't worry. He'll make it. Come…”

She steered her to the stairs and over the wooden platform, toward the inn entrance.

“Careful there, that plank is loose… it's not just the two of you, is it?”

“There… there are… f-five more…”

“Right. Come, in you go…”

The warmth of the inn hit her in the face almost painfully. The hearth blazed with a pleasantly crackling fire, the room was filled with friendly quiet chatter and the smell of tripe soup coming from the counter filled her nostrils. As the door snapped shut behind them, a few faces lifted to look at the new company. Instantly, all the brows shot up. A man with an apron even more tattered and stained than Haran's hurried to them from behind the counter. Through her blinking eyes, Yrith recognized Dagur, Haran’s husband and fellow innkeeper.

“What the… Yrith! Haran, what's going on? What happened? How did you… Yrith, by the gods!”

“No time to explain,” Haran cut him off firmly. “Dagur, get Nelacar and distract the guards. Yrith came with six other people, we need to get them in. Oh, and… I think one of them is Keneel-La.”

“Right, I thought I heard him Shout. Thank the Divines for him. On my way!”

“And Dagur?”

He stopped himself from bolting out by sheer will, tilting his head in question.

“Make sure the two elves stay put,” Haran stressed, squeezing Yrith’s shoulder instinctively. “They must not learn that Yrith or anyone from her company is here.”

“Understood.”

He hurried off, into one of the adjacent rooms, leaving the door open as he quickly spoke to the room’s occupant. Haran turned back to Yrith.

“Come, Yrith. You can’t stay here, they’ll come looking for you… I’m sorry I have to strain you in this condition…”

“But… the people here…”

“Oh, they won’t speak, don’t worry. This lot hates the new regime as much as we do. Now let’s go.”

She led her on, past the semi-occupied tables and fireplace, behind the counter. There, she lifted the dusty weathered rug spanning from the counter to the wall, uncovering a vast trapdoor.

“If you could hold onto this for a while,” she placed Yrith’s hands on the counter. Yrith gripped its edge, still feeling the sweat drip from her. Haran heaved to open the trapdoor, propping it against the wall. Then, she gestured to Yrith.

“It’s a little steep. Let’s just go slowly…”

Yrith did not even know how she had managed to climb down the ladder. Haran, it seemed, had been born to assist sick people with just about anything. She secured her from below with a skilled hand, not allowing for a single slip. The descent was one big blur filled with dull pain of indeterminate source. Her head was spinning. She just wished to pass out. To forget everything.

Haran let her sit on a mead barrel, running off to close the trapdoor behind them. Yrith waited, staring blindly into a corner with two meat-adorned mousetraps sitting atop of a small pile of hay. Her mind was completely blank. There was a battle outside, but if someone had asked her the names of her companions fighting out there for her, perhaps she would not even be able to recall them anymore. She put her head in her arms, simply waiting.

Haran came back with a lit lantern. As she hung it on the wall, she rolled away a few barrels, cleared out the hay underneath and revealed another trapdoor. Yrith groaned.

“Last one,” Haran said brightly. “Sorry for that, but we need to find a safe place for you. A basement is pretty standard. Two of them, not so much. Not for a small inn like this one anyway.”

Again, she helped Yrith stand, supporting her first from the side, then from below. Just one last ladder. One last push. Or fall.

Haran did not let her. She caught her in her arms, cushioning Yrith with her body. They landed softly on the floor, staggering only for a bit before Haran found purchase at the nearby rock, letting Yrith lean onto her.

… rock?

No, her exhausted mind must have been playing tricks on her. It even felt warm here. Deep down in the basement, while the one above was as cold as could be. She was tired. She really needed to sleep.

“… got some spare bedrolls too… Yrith, are you listening?”

She looked up at Haran, her sight blurry.

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Don’t be,” Haran shook her head. “Let’s lay you down. Just a moment… yes, here, sit here on this boulder…”

… she clearly said boulder…

“I’ll be done in a moment. I think we have some pelts to make it more comfortable. Ah, yes.”

She ran off for a brief moment. When she came back, she was dragging a small pile of pelts behind herself. She spread them around, placing a bedroll on top of them. At last, she conjured up a pillow from somewhere, placing it at the head.

“Here,” she said, taking Yrith’s hand in hers. “It’s not much, but…”

Yrith looked down, her lips twisting in something that was hardly reminiscent of the smile it was supposed to be. Not much, Haran had said. A bed worthy of a king.

“It’s amazing,” she breathed, letting herself collapse into the soft, fluffy warmth. It smelled just as amazing. Clean, fresh… if comfort had a smell, this would be it.

With the last of her strength, she kicked her boots off, burying herself inside. Haran was still saying something to her. Perhaps she was even asking a question. There would be time for questions later. Yrith would answer all the questions in the world. But now, sleep called to her and she gladly accepted its sweet invitation.


She was warm. Everything here was warm. The bed. The air. Everything.

Yrith rolled over to her belly, slowly forcing her gummed-up eyes to open. She was alone in the middle of… what was this place anyway? There were rocks and beams and splinters, all sorts of debris fallen around. A few crates scattered here and there, a pile of hay with a trail leading to the trapdoor. It looked like something between a cavern and an old mine, like those from old stories hidden in the depths of the Arcanaeum. Except it was more spacious and… light. She turned a little and raised her head to look around. She could not find the source of the light anywhere. It seemed as though it just flowed through the air in waves, illuminating the whole place. Was this… magic?

She did not even have to think to know the answer. She felt it on her skin, even through all the layers of clothes she was wearing. It was the College, extending her twinkling embrace under the Frozen Hearth. How it had happened, Yrith could only guess.

Her gaze fell on the ground next to her. There was a bowl, nestled in hay, covered with a thick lid and topped with a spoon. Next to it stood a decanter with gentle silver lining. She raised it with magic, taking a sip of its contents. Herb tea, it seemed. It was nearly cold, despite the general warmth of the place. She must have been lying here for an hour or two, maybe even more if Haran had not brought the tea immediately. Where were the others? Had no one survived? She felt a painful pound in her chest. That was impossible. There had been seven of them. She couldn’t be the only one.

Shakily, she tried to raise herself on her elbows and then into a standing position. She held up for a few moments before her knees buckled under her. She tried to strengthen herself with magic, but her supply was still nearly depleted. Panting, she looked up at the ceiling of wood and stone. From down here, it was impossible to even outline the trapdoor that led to the upper levels. And even if she could, she had no way of getting there.

She curled up, wrapping her arms around her knees. Perhaps she should eat something, but her throat felt so tight she couldn’t. If only someone came. If only they told her that everyone was safe. If only she had at least someone to talk to. Anyone…

But there was no one at all. She was alone and powerless, in a place that offered no way out.

“Please… don’t be dead…” she said, only to hear her own voice. It was muffled somewhat, drowned in the flowing magic. And the moment she closed her mouth, there was silence once more. Heavy, crushing silence. She tightened her grip, if it was at all possible in her condition. Her eyes stung.

She was alone, with that silence as her only companion.

It hurt too much. And here she’d almost believed she was strong. Who was it that had tried to convince her? Keneel-La? Singird? Cain? Leyna? Where were they now? Why was no one here? Where were they?

Even in the warmth, clad in her thick fur coat and wrapped in a bedroll, she felt cold. Her grip was not tight enough. It was so, so cold…

She felt like screaming just to chase away the silence. She opened her mouth, taking a breath…

And heard a click from above.

She exhaled, looking up to see a square of darkness where the trapdoor had opened. A babel of voices hit her ears with a wave of overwhelming relief. She focused on them, feeling cold streaks running down her cheeks.

“Careful here, this one's a bit loose… if you could help me with this, Singe…”

“Allow me.”

“Two basements? How come I never heard of this?”

“Oh hush, you know enough of our secrets already…”

“Seems like I know one more now.”

“Ah, hold your muzzle, you blasted lizard. Yes, this way. Don't touch that, boy, it's fragile…”

“Apologies.”

“Harrumph. Not even a Dragonborn has any respect these days.”

“Oh, don’t you give me that look, I’m older than you!”

Yrith could now see Haran climbing down, holding her skirt to not trip. Just as she touched the floor, another pair of feet appeared above her. Yrith recognized the sturdy steel boots of Keneel-La, completely unfit for climbing ladders. Despite that, he managed with surprising grace.

“Down here,” Haran called to him before her eyes found Yrith. Her brows arched skyward as she hurried to her side.

“Yrith, dear… you’re awake already? Oh look at you… what’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

Yrith stared at her, shaking her head slowly as she sat up. Haran’s intent gaze made her realize her face was soaked in tears. She turned away at once, pinning her eyes to the ground.

“I… no… sorry… I…”

“Oh child, what have they done to you?”

Ignoring the people climbing down after her, Haran quickly crossed the small space between her and Yrith, kneeling down on the pelts beside her. She cupped Yrith’s face in her hands, taking a long, scrutinizing look.

“Look at you. Just a year back you were so carefree and cheerful, and your face was so round. Oh child…”

Without a warning, Haran locked her in a tight embrace. Yrith would have never guessed that those slim arms could be this strong. She took a few shaky breaths, staring over Haran’s shoulder, to the place where people were gathering. Keneel-La was watching her wordlessly. Leyna joined him shortly, just as silent and observant. Then came Singird. Yrith pinned her eyes on him, holding her breath as she studied him. He was not wearing a coat anymore. His robes were torn, perhaps burnt. By some miracle, he seemed unhurt, the blood on his upper body only covering the undamaged parts of his attire. She looked him in the face. There was everything in it. Every good or bad feeling she could imagine, even those whose names had not yet been invented. A whole universe. But…

“You’re alive,” she whispered into Haran’s sleeve. “You’re all alive…”

Her eyes drifted to the ladder where Cain was climbing down slowly, supporting Kharjo whose leg was still limp. From above, Qassir was watching, ready to extend a hand lest the Khajiit fall.

“And you,” Keneel-La uttered hoarsely. Even he was battered and shaking, looking at her as though he could not believe his own eyes. Yrith tried to imagine what had happened, but her mind ran in wild circles.

They gathered around her one after another, squatting and kneeling on the pelts. Singird took her still gloved hand in his, squeezing it lightly. His fingers were trembling. Yrith had a hard time determining whether it was in fear or exhaustion.

“When I saw you and Kharjo get surrounded, I…”

He took a breath. Yrith tried to squeeze back despite still feeling weak. But perhaps he would at least sense a tingle. They looked at each other for a few long moments before he shook his head.

“Thank gods for you, Haran,” he breathed.

“Thank gods,” Yrith repeated. “How did you…?”

“Lots of atronachs and dremoras. I can’t even… we just ran. Nelacar, that elf Dagur brought with him, cast some sort of mirror image to confuse them while we retreated to the inn. It was just…”

“Chaos,” Keneel-La finished for him. “I think I’m ready to retire. And I expect Tullius to give me a raise.”

“Kharjo expects his proper share,” the Khajiit purred as he finally stepped on solid ground with the assistance of Cain and Qassir.

“Well, the mission is not yet over… we need to get Yrith to the College.”

“Only after she rests enough,” Haran said sternly, finally letting go of Yrith. She studied her face carefully, her brows knitting together. Yrith resisted the urge to turn away again.

“My dear child… have you eaten anything?”

Without waiting for an answer, Haran picked up the lid on the bowl of soup. Upon looking inside, she gave a sigh.

“I thought so,” she said, wagging a finger at Yrith. “Some things never change, eh? I'm going to get some more for everyone here. I don't want to see any leftovers when I come back. Singird, you see to it that Yrith finishes her meal.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Then, she turned to Keneel-La, scanning the rest on the way.

“Y'all make yourselves at home here. I doubt anyone will find you at this place, so you can stay until you can get back on your feet. There are plenty more pelts and bedrolls in those crates over there. Help yourselves to the hay too if you want. Privy… can be a bit of an issue, but I'll see what I can do.”

“It's sweet of you, Haran, but we need to get Yrith inside the College as soon as possible,” Keneel-La said wearily. “You have no idea… there's no place we cannot be found. You'd be risking your neck.”

“Actually,” Qassir spoke as he helped the limping Kharjo on the very boulder Haran had seated Yrith on when they first arrived, “I think we are quite protected here.” As his hand left the Khajiit's arm, he ran it through the air, causing the currents of light swirl around it in glittering whirlpools. Instinctively, Keneel-La copied him. A number of hands rose to follow their example.

“How come?” the lizard asked. “What is this place anyway?”

“Not sure, but it's full of Winterhold's magic.”

“Haran?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Grandma said this was left here after the Great Collapse. This house had been undermined. It should have sunk into the sea with the rest, but magic seems to be holding it in place. We kept it a secret. The locals hate magic above all else. I don't think we would be able to run any business here at all, admitting the inn stands on a magical foundation.”

“Curious. Then I suppose we'll be bothering you for a bit.”

“Oh, you're not bothering me. If anyone is bothering me, it’s those guards. They’ve been swarming around here like fleas, setting up curfews and whatnot, claiming that they’re here to protect… and a few days back, we suddenly get a notice that if we spot Yrith or any of the missing children, we are to report it immediately because they are in danger and in need of protection. What a bunch of troll dung! Faralda gets out every now and then to speak with those Dominion black cloaks and she doesn’t exchange a single word with the guards. Whose command are they acting on then? What’s going on?” She threw one more compassionate glance at Yrith. “Oh child…”

Yrith froze. Guards were one thing, but Dominion black cloaks? Did she mean Aldmeri Dominion?

“Faralda speaks to the Thalmor?” she asked, trying to process the information. “Why? What for? Are they… giving her trouble?”

“I wish I knew. I take it they want information on your whereabouts. They’ve been asking about you too, the Thalmor, but not at all kindly. As if they even knew what kindness is.”

They knew none, if Yrith could judge by those few she had seen in her life. And now, after all the trouble Yrith had caused Faralda, her self-proclaimed foster mother had another precarious situation to deal with. She felt a sting of guilt in her chest. She did not even know what she would tell Faralda once they finally arrived. A simple sorry seemed far below appropriate.

“But the guards act kindly, eh? Or at least they tried to pretend they did, until we showed up… Well played, Toddvar,” Keneel-La growled, cutting in her thoughts. “Still in the clear.”

“Toddvar?” Haran whispered, her hand shooting to her mouth. “Oh, he can’t be… a few months back, he was sitting here at the inn, with you, Singird, and…”

Singird gave a slow, heavy nod. “He was. And I was… oh gods… he was the one defending Yrith before me… claiming she had magic…”

He ran a hand through his tangled hair, mindless of the layers of grime it was covered in. His other hand was still locked around Yrith’s. He squeezed tighter.

“The bastard knows where to place his cards,” Cain spat quietly.

“And he… killed my father.”

Yrith turned to Leyna. It was the first time since High Hrothgar she had mentioned her father. She was shaking, but for once, her face remained expressionless, as was usual among her kin. Yrith shuddered. This girl craved revenge. And she would not stop until she got it.

“Oh, that son of a… I had no idea…” Haran breathed, shaking her head. “I… I think I’ll go get that food.”

“Haran?”

Retreating to the ladder, she gave Keneel-La a quick glance over her shoulder.

“Yes?”

He gave a long, heavy exhale. “Please, be careful.”

She nodded. “I will.”

With that, she swiftly climbed up the ladder, closing the trapdoor behind herself. Yrith stared after her for a while, waiting for the snapping sound of it to die away. No sooner than it stopped ringing in her ears did she look back at her companions. The tears on her face had not dried yet, but she fought to convince herself there was no point in hiding what everyone could see.

“The soup, Yrith,” Singird reminded her gently, letting go of her at last. She looked at him like a kicked dog, taking the spoon from him most unwillingly. The soup was already nearly cold. Without heating it with magic, she sipped a spoonful purely out of obligation.

“Toddvar… he called Leyna a Thalmor spy,” she muttered in between the gulps. “When he first met her… all the while he was working with them.”

“Indeed,” Keneel-La hissed. He stood up, walking away and opening one of the crates. Upon inspecting it, he opened a few more, finally withdrawing several bear pelts from the last one. “What a clever strategy. Speaking of which, Master Larkwing, how did you even know?”

Singird rose on his feet. Everyone else save for Yrith and Kharjo was now following Keneel-La’s example.

“From a Thalmor dossier left in the care of Legate Rikke,” Singird said grimly, taking a pelt and spreading it just beside Yrith’s little lair. “It contained instruction for the Thalmor to avoid direct contact for the sake of appearance. They called him an asset. But from the information I gathered through the Imperial archives, it doesn’t exactly seem he works under them. More like the other way around, although I can’t be sure. There is no clear evidence, of course.”

“I would ask you where in Oblivion you got a Thalmor dossier, but…” Keneel-La turned to Qassir who was taking one pelt after another, examining them closely and putting them back in the crate again. “You had something to do with it, didn’t you?”

“Me?” the Redguard hummed innocently, finally picking two pelts for himself. “No idea.”

“Well then, friend, I’d say this is no time for your jests. You come to me requesting access to the Thalmor embassy out of the desire for adventure? I can put two and two together.”

Yrith stared at the two of them in turns.

“Wait. You two know each other?” she spoke her thoughts. And so did Singird and Leyna.

“We’ve met, let’s put it this way,” Keneel-La shrugged, handing a pelt out to Kharjo. The catman slid down from the boulder, tapping on it softly. As Keneel-La draped the pelt over it, Kharjo leaned his back against it, closing his eyes in what seemed as pure bliss from Yrith’s perspective. The lizard turned back to Qassir, frowning. “But this lad so enjoys pulling people by their nose. Don't you, Qassir? How did you even know what to look for? Serious answer, if you will.”

Qassir gave Keneel-La a sideway glance from the place where he lay his pelts, detached from the rest. As he looked back and smoothed out his new bed, he gave a sigh.

“I didn't. After one conjuration class, Leyna accidentally dropped a letter in the Hall of the Elements. A letter that was supposedly from Selas Travi and instructed her to take Yrith to him. Selas Travi was an AWA agent. He would have never dragged Yrith out of the College. But he did have a past with the Thalmor and that was the only lead I had.”

“That letter that my father confirmed he had never sent,” Leyna said. She too went to fetch a pelt, shambling through the quasi-basement with her shoulders stooped. Yrith felt almost compelled to go to her and lock her in her arms. But before she could even decide whether to do it, Qassir gave her a soft pat and regaled Leyna with a smile Yrith had never seen on him before. It looked almost… genuine.

Qassir?

“AWA?” Keneel-La asked with a raised brow. “Some kind of organization?”

“Association of Wizards and Alchemists. They operate here and there, throughout Tamriel, under fake names, with fake objectives, while their true goal is to defeat… that thing that’s hunting Yrith.”

Yrith dropped the spoon back into the bowl with a splash. Mustering the scattered bits of her strength, she pulled herself on her feet, pointing a finger at Qassir.

“You knew all this time?”

The Redguard raised both hands, dropping the bedroll he had just picked up.

“Now now. I only recently realized how little you knew. Your parents were so protective of you. For a good reason, I suppose.”

“Everybody is always so protective of me,” she spat. A hand landed on her shoulder softly. She turned after it, finding Singird standing at her side.

“Yrith,” he whispered placatingly. She shook him off.

“No,” she said, not even knowing what she was saying no to. “I want to know what’s going on. What he knows!”

“We all do,” Keneel-La said to her gently. “But I have my doubts there will be much more to discuss.  Do you have any more information on that thing, Qassir?”

The Redguard shook his head, gathering his bedroll once more. “No. I’m not technically an AWA member yet. Just an intruder, I suppose.”

“So who is in the AWA? Of all the people we know?”

“I think we pretty much named them all. The Ravencrofts. Selas Travi. My parents.”

“Faralda?” Singird asked, trying to cue Yrith back down on her makeshift bed. She stood her ground, feeling a strange rush of energy coursing through her at the speed of light.

“She’s a contact, not a member. They don’t let her in on their secrets.”

“So what about gro-Shub?”

For the first time, Yrith stared at Singird. “Urag? An AWA member?”

“He has quite a lot of their books,” Singird explained.

“No, although I think he’s sort of a secret keeper to them. Much information has passed through his hands. Dangerous information, I’d say.”

Like instruction books on how to travel in time, Yrith thought to herself. One didn’t need AWA to find all kinds of dangerous knowledge. And perhaps not just knowledge…

“What about my parents?”

Yrith’s eyes widened. Indeed, Singird had mentioned his parents before. He shared a similar fate with her. But why in Oblivion would he connect them with AWA?

“The Larkwings?” Qassir said slowly, freezing in midair with a pillow hanging from his hand. He stayed that way for a few moments before straightening back up, clearly deep in thought. “Not sure why you ask, Master Larkwing, but I haven’t heard the name once from any AWA member I’ve met. That still means very little though.”

Yrith brushed Singird’s arm with the back of her hand, gazing deep into his dark eyes when he turned to her.

“Did you find something about them on your way?” she asked.

“Quite a lot, but not nearly enough,” he replied, returning the gesture. At last, they sat back. Singird handed her the soup, offering a spoonful. Reluctantly, she took a sip.

“Care to share?”

“Well. My father was the one who discovered the Fake Imperial Army, it seems. Those madmen who abducted you… they were not true Imperials.”

“Figures. So he reported it to General Tullius?”

“Exactly. The report suggested there was more, but… this is all I could find. Along with the information about my great-grandfather I told you before. I tried to go back to Falkreath and search for more, but…”

He fell silent. Yrith watched him curiously, waiting for him to continue, but he spoke no more. Instead, he turned away.

“But?” she insisted, trying to lean forward to gain a better view of him. He turned again, blocking her. He raised his hands to rub his temples, taking another few moments before finally deciding to speak again.

“There were… complications,” he said evasively. “I never got to search for anything.”

Yrith could hear something break in his voice. A hint of pain so great he tried his best to bury it deep. She wanted to ask, to press him for details. But with so many people around, he would not speak of it. And so she simply slid a hand over his back, making him feel her presence. He turned back to her appreciatively, his eyes glistening in the magic light. Were those… tears? No, they couldn’t be… Singird never cried, after all.

“This is becoming quite tangled,” Keneel-La interrupted her thoughts with a long exhale. “So we know that Toddvar, whoever he is, is commanding that Fake Imperial Army. He is also a Stormcloak general and he works together with the Thalmor. So he basically has connections in all three antagonized factions and uses them all to his advantage. Is that correct?”

“Correct,” Singird said in a low voice.

“We know that Yrith is hunted down by some kind of Demon, as Cain calls him, and this Demon is what this AWA is after, correct?”

“Yes,” Qassir nodded.

“So presumably, Toddvar works for the Demon, or he is the Demon, and he seeks Yrith’s power quite desperately. Almost too desperately. But why? There is something, some kind of connecting point, that we are missing.”

“Isn’t it because Yrith seems to be the only one capable of defeating him?” Cain asked with apparent distaste, curling up as he wrapped himself tight in a bedroll on top of a small pile of pelts.

“My father certainly seemed to think so,” Leyna muttered, “but don’t you think we’re getting in a strange circle? If that Demon, or whatever he is, didn’t aim for Yrith in the first place, she would have no reason to want to defeat him.”

At her side, Qassir shook his head. “I beg to differ. Yrith’s parents were AWA members. They worked within the core group, with most intel on the enemy. And Yrith with all her power became famous within the Association circles the moment she was born. One day, she would become an AWA member as well. One day, she would start hunting for him on her own.”

Yrith’s hands clenched into fists. Even in her exhaustion, even through the gloves, her nails somehow found a way to dig into her palms. She wanted to go and strangle Qassir, to force every bit of detail about his involvement and his association with her family out of him. He had never lied to her, nor had he made any false promises, and yet, she felt betrayed. By his silence. By his constant unexplained presence. But then, he would not talk. It had taken the Dragonborn’s involvement to make him.

She took a breath. Her head was already spinning from the sudden intake of information. And yet, it was not enough.

“What did my parents know?” she asked, knowing already she would not receive an answer, even if he wanted to give it. “They left me a message, but it was all riddles. They knew, didn’t they? That they would die. That I would be the one to face this Demon. How much more did they know? Did they know who he was? How to defeat him?”

Did they know the Name Lost in Time?

It was lost in time, after all… had it died with them? Were they so close to finally having beaten him? Had he just barely managed to get to them first?

“I wish I knew,” Qassir sighed. He looked at Yrith in all seriousness, with unexpected care in his eyes. “The AWA never let any part of my family in on their innermost secrets. All I know is that the death of your parents stirred chaos within all its circles. For more than one reason…”

“So there really was something they carried to their graves,” Yrith whispered.

“Quite possibly.”

She felt Singird’s grip on her arm. She reached back for him, grateful to him for becoming her anchor to reality. For reminding her of the place she was sitting at, that he was still there at her side when she felt so lost. She looked at him warmly, then at the others. Her eyes rested for a while on the ever-silent Kharjo, sitting propped against the rock he had been occupying a while back. Of them all, he alone had fallen asleep peacefully, his whiskers quivering slightly in his dreams. His sleeping frame reminded her of how tired she was.

As if answering her call, the trapdoor opened, revealing the slender legs of Haran. Her long skirt and apron rose a little before she started climbing down slowly, one hand sliding over the ladder with utmost caution, the other holding a big basket.

“Sorry for the delay,” she huffed. “Got held back a little, but I have some information for you on how to get to the College. Can anyone take this from me?”

“Right away!”

Keneel-La hurried to her, extending his hands to grab the basket. As soon as he did, she stopped her descent, groping aloft.

“Keep them coming!” she called. Another pair of hands appeared above her, handing her one more basket. She took it carefully, passing it down to Keneel-La.

“I have more,” she informed him. He nodded, gesturing for others to follow him. Qassir and Leyna, the only two people still standing, left their freshly made beds to join him. Things traveled from hand to hand, ending just at the edge of the vast lair of pelts.

The whole load comprised three wide, shallow baskets whose contents were covered with dishcloths, four steaming, lidded kettles, several buckets of various sizes and one studded wooden basin. Yrith’s nostrils were hit by the warm scent of freshly baked bread and the heavy odor of Eidar cheese. She raised her brows. It looked as though Haran had moved half of her kitchen into their hiding place. After all, this was probably the greatest number of guests she had had in a very long time.

As soon as the last piece was down, Haran jumped off the ladder, soon joined by Dagur whose face was glistening with sweat.

“Damn Dominion lackeys,” he growled as he stretched his arms. “Bath, they say. They’re on to something, I tell you. Eh. Well, I can finally say a proper welcome,” he exhaled, dropping a curtsy.

“And we can finally say a proper thank you,” Keneel-La said as he returned the gesture. “Dominion… you’ve mentioned it before. Are we safe here?”

“Yes, as long as I return in time to hand the elves their silken towels,” Dagur drawled, twisting his face into something akin to a demented hagraven. He knelt down to uncover one of the baskets. From it, he took a slice of bread, handing it to Leyna who stood the closest from him. “Hopefully, Faralda will remain their only concern.”

“Hopefully, the foul skeevers will leave soon with no concern whatsoever,” Haran corrected him dryly, tearing off the dishcloth from another basket containing a number of various dishes. She withdrew a bowl, pouring a portion of soup into it from one of the kettles and passing it to Leyna to go with the bread.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Dagur sputtered with utmost disgust. “The Jarl made us accommodate them! He! A Stormcloak devotee. Said they had a diplomatic immunity. Godsdamned bastards. They’ve been asking so many questions. Especially about you, Yrith…  whatever they want with you.”

He gave Yrith a long, grim look.

Yrith looked away. “They…”

“Dagur, let's leave these things for later,” Haran said as she put a hand on his shoulder. “Look at them, they're all battered… help yourselves, here,” she filled another bowl and handed it to Cain. Then her eyes turned to Yrith and she frowned, pointing the ladle at her.

“Yrith! You still haven't finished that soup?” she scolded her. “Merciful Stendarr, girl, how did you even survive up to this point? And you, Singird,” she wagged her finger at him, “you should know better.”

“There was an important discussion,” Yrith objected, but Haran waved her hand to shush her.

“Discussion or not, you have to take care of yourself. And take these off,” she pointed at Yrith's gloves. “Really, child, once you set your mind on something, you forget everything else, don't you? No changes there either. Yes, go on...”

Keeping her head down to avoid Haran's scolding eyes, Yrith pulled off her gloves with the innkeeper’s help. It was a strange feeling after all the time she had spent outside in the freezing cold, wrapped in so many layers. Thinking about it, she hadn’t taken them off even once during their wild horse race. Now, despite the warmth of the place, her skin felt as though it was shrinking with cold. She inspected her hands, finding wide spots of dirt on them. Instinctively, she rubbed them against each other, but nothing changed. Instead, a strange feeling spread through her palms and then up her arms, as though her skin was made of a thousand overstretched lute strings.

“Yrith…”

She ignored Keneel-La’s voice, fighting now her coat. After all those days full of exhaustion, with hardly any movement, after so much time of doing nearly everything with magic, she felt slow and clumsy. Every button on her coat fought with her fingers, and the odd feeling did not help.

“Yrith, wait, I have to…”

“I’m fine,” she muttered, nearly tearing a button off. She forced her fingers to obey, taking a breath to gain more control over her body.

“Yrith.”

It was Singird this time. She threw him a quick glance, finally undoing the last button and shaking her coat off. Then, she pulled up a sleeve on one arm and gasped.

“What… is this?” she breathed.

The whole arm looked as though sewn together from many different pieces of skin, each of different color. Yrith slid three fingers along it, but her sense of touch was so impaired she hardly felt anything at all. Still, the reverberating feeling from before did not leave. That same, distant feeling she had had when she had woken up riding with Keneel-La.

She stared at the limb for a few long moments, realizing how quiet it had become. No one was talking. Until Leyna finally decided to break the silence with a trembling voice.

“Yrith, I’m… I’m sorry… I… we couldn’t heal it better.”

Yrith raised her head to look at her. What was she talking about? What in Oblivion was she talking about?

“Heal it…?” she stuttered, nearly coughing the words out. “Heal what…?”

Something brushed against her skin. She vaguely followed the source with her eyes, finding Singird. She hated the look in his face.

“You were bleeding,” he told her, looking not at her, but down on her arm. Her ugly, disfigured arm. “When you undid that illusion in Eastmarch… you were bleeding so much I just thought…” He shook his head as if trying to cast the image away. “I don’t understand what happened. One moment you were fine, and then…”

He fell silent. For the second time in just a short while, it seemed to Yrith that Singird was crying. Perhaps he was. With no tears, yet still crying. For her.

She looked around. Everyone was watching her with the same eyes filled with… was that pity? And the moment her own eyes found them, they all turned away. All except Cain whose crimson eyes seemed to have lost its fire. He kept bouncing back and forth, almost ready to run to her. But he didn’t.

“And then?” she whispered, wishing for Singird to toss the burden away. But the one to answer her this time was Keneel-La.

“You were covered in blood,” he sighed. “Almost completely. Things started coming after you. The air, the snow, the cold, everything… but you seemed to have been bleeding even before their assault. As though they only came to finish the job. When it finally stopped, you were… your skin was tattered. Literally. Leyna spent a whole night trying to save you. Cain, Qassir and Master Larkwing, they all assisted her the whole time. We just… couldn’t do more.”

So it was not just her arms. Her whole body must have been like that. One big, mottled, patched-up scar. Nothing left of the original. Nothing…

“Why?”

“Yrith…”

“Why has no one told me? We’ve traveled for two days…!”

“We have indeed,” the Dragonborn said quietly.

“Then why?!”

“Because if you learned of this any sooner, you’d… I’m sorry, Yrith. I needed you to stay strong for a while longer.”

“WHY?!” she yelled, not even addressing the Dragonborn anymore. They had all seen her. And yet now, she wanted to hide her face. To hide everything. To run away on those feet that had no strength to carry her anymore. She had never felt beautiful, but now she felt outright ugly.

And yet, she could have been dead. If Leyna had not been there, with all her extraordinary healing skill, she would have perished. She would have simply… killed herself.

She forced herself to look up, seeking Qassir. The Redguard looked outright miserable. As she would expect him.

“You know what happened, Qassir, don’t you?” she asked him quietly.

He glanced at her briefly, then turned away.

“I took my guess.”

She turned back to Singird, taking his hand in hers. He would have that skin of hers right before his eyes. She resisted the urge to pull back again.

“Magical overcharge,” she said simply, causing him to raise his head and arch his brows in question.

“What?”

“That’s what happened. That illusion didn’t just make us stray from our path. It cloaked us away from reality completely. From our reality… I had my magic stretched out the whole time. In a bent space, spreading it many times further than necessary. I had to fight the storm. Fight all the elements, all the magic that showered down on me, without even realizing… not even my body can take everything. If his plan worked… if I hadn’t realized, if you hadn’t helped me, if you hadn’t healed me… I would have killed myself, offering all my magic to him in the process.”

She spoke so calmly, as if she was explaining how to cook potatoes. Detached. Indifferent. Why? A moment before, she had been so angry. So desperate. So full of loss. Now… she was not there, in her body, at all. It simply spoke on its own, delivering the results of her cold analysis. She hardly felt it, after all. She might never feel it again.

There was silence. Singird stared at her, speechless. So did the others. Until Haran, still holding one of Yrith’s gloves, touched Yrith’s free hand, letting out a breath whose tickle Yrith could not feel on her skin.

“Child… you have to finish your soup.”

Yrith nodded, taking her bowl again. Now, more than ever, she did not feel like eating. But even more so, she did not feel like talking, or looking at anyone, or having to bear their looks on her. She took a sip. There was far too much of the soup for her liking. But it was all good. At least it would last. At least she would have a reason to not look for a long time.

With a soft splash as her tears hit the soup’s surface, she took in another spoonful.

Chapter 36: Hugs and Kisses

Notes:

This chapter is extremely graphic and violent. I did not really plan this, but it happened… so if you’re a more delicate soul, please, do NOT read this before going to sleep.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The wail from outside sounded mournful and ominous at once, as if it foretold the events of this day. Yrith raised her head, wondering for the umpteenth time how this place could be so warm when she could hear the winter’s rage so close. She was glad they were leaving. This place felt like prison, only allowing to peek into more darkness through narrow bars. Even if she was to be confined to the College grounds later, at least there, she could breathe fresh air and walk more than a single house’s distance. There, she could train with a whole fortress and a library at her disposal, not just simulate tricks she had never tried in fear she would tear the place down.

She let out a tiny web of magic, transforming it into a shell so hard that not even a diamond could break it. The spell Qassir had taught her and the other mages looked simple enough. It would be different on a greater scale though, when it was held up by five different people, expected to withstand assaults of multiple guards.

She drew her magic back inside, picking up a glove to put it on. As her spotted, patched hand held it up, she inspected her skin, letting out a silent sigh. At least the lessons had kept her busy enough to forget this. Though in the evenings, the nasty thought always found a way to creep into her mind. Now, there were scars on both her soul and her body.

“It looks like a guar,” a voice issued from behind her. Yrith flinched, looking over her shoulder to find Cain fastening a dagger to his waist. His fingers were moving on their own while his eyes were gazing at Yrith’s hand, raised just barely in his sight.

“… what?” she managed.

He gave her a soft smile. “That patch,” he pointed to a darker spot on the back of her hand. “It looks like a guar. I used to ride one when I was little. With my maid. Now, you carry one of my happiest memories on your person.”

“Cain…”

“And you carry a crescent moon embracing the sun on your neck. That is the symbol of Azura. Must you make even your wounds beautiful?”

“Cain, you don’t have to…”

“There’s nothing ugly about you, Yrith. Whatever happens only seems to be making you into a more amazing person.”

His smile grew dazzling. He pulled on the dagger sheath to try its tightness, then gave Yrith a light pat before retreating to join Keneel-La.

Yrith put the glove away, touching her cheek. It seemed to be burning. That was a low blow from Cain. It really was.

She slapped her face sharply to return back to reality. There was little to be done though other than to wait for the others. She was fully dressed already in her partly stolen and now fully washed and dried clothes and she had nothing else to gather. She pulled the glove on as the last touch, joining Singird who was inspecting the state of his coat. It was a little too big for him, having been inherited from one pf Haran's forgetful guests. Upon closer look, Yrith could see that one of its pockets was missing a flap.

“Aren’t you bothered about that?” she asked, pointing at it. He gave it a brief glance, then shrugged.

“I’m not planning to put anything there anyway.”

“I see. Who are you and what have you done with Singird?”

He sized her up. Yrith tried to look as innocent as she could, but she was sure he saw the amusement in her face. His lip twitched.

“Oh? And when did you find the gall to talk to a master like that?” he whispered to her.

She grinned, but did not find the time to reply. The same moment, the trapdoor opened and down came Haran, dropping one rucksack after another. Yrith raised her brows and glanced at Singird who mirrored her surprise.

“I almost forgot about those,” he said.

“Kharjo didn’t,” the Khajiit said as he joined them. His eyes were gleaming as he traced his own rucksack. He sniffed the air as though they would bring in new scents.

“Yes,” Haran nodded, taking note of the Kharjo’s remark and pointing an accusing finger at him, “and that’s precisely why I didn’t bring them in earlier. We do not store dangerous substances at the inn. Nor do we offer them to our clients.”

Keneel-La clicked his tongue as he looked at the catman. “What, Kharjo? Moonsugar again?”

“It is not dangerous,” the Khajiit whirred quietly. “It helps slow down the effects of potions. Why are the locals always so suspicious of our trade?”

“Well, you and J’zargo certainly seem to find some common arguments,” Singird snorted.

Yrith looked at him, for a moment recognizing that stern teacher she remembered from a few months before. But come to think of it, she had overheard J’zargo saying something like that before. She wondered if there could be a speck of truth in what Kharjo was saying. Still, she had to agree with Singird that bringing such a highly addictive substance on the journey served nothing good.

“Well then,” Keneel-La sighed, “whatever the qualities of moonsugar, Kharjo, I would ask you to keep it sealed until you are out of this inn and out of the College. I did not come all this way with the intention to smuggle narcotics.”

Kharjo gave a shrug. “The Khajiit does not have to. There are others who already do that for him.”

Singird knit his brows, lacing his fingers tightly together. “Here? At the College?”

The Khajiit shrugged again. “Every Khajiit will one day miss the taste of home. There are those who bring it back.”

“Seems I will have to have a good talk with Ri’saad.”

“Allow me to join you on that occasion, Master Larkwing,” Keneel-La uttered with his jaw twitching. “Well, at least that means that the College maintains contact with the outer world, one way or another. They will not starve to death. Gives me a bit of hope for our upcoming visit,” he chuckled. “Either way, we should be on our way shortly. Haran, lead the way, please.”

The innkeeper nodded, letting out a heavy sigh. “Stick close together then. We’ll have to cross the inn as quickly as possible. Everyone’s ready, I hope?”

A number of nods and quiet murmurs came in response.

“Good. Back door it is, and then the cliff side. Let’s go.”


They had gone as quietly as possible. Dagur had kept the Thalmor guests occupied while Haran snuck Yrith and the rest of the group out into the backyard and to the cliffs on the sea side of Winterhold. Yrith kept her magic spread the whole time while the rest of the group was scanning the land for potential threats. The guards were uncomfortably close for her liking, but so far no one seemed to notice the small party that had mysteriously reappeared on the surface of Nirn. They stopped just by the closest cliff, behind the stables where their horses whinnied quietly. Yrith would have liked to at least say goodbye to their steeds. But she knew the risk it entailed. The guards had already shown way too much interest in their mounts, and so Haran had to carefully pick a path that would take them away from all possible prying eyes. Now, she was standing before them, her face filled with concern.

“Y’all take care,” the innkeeper whispered, looking here and there to make sure they were not followed. “Suppose you need to go now if you want to make it in time for the shift change… Keneel-La, please, escort them safely.”

“As long as the situation allows it,” he nodded and Yrith could feel the heaviness of his tone. “Well then…”

“I know. I hope we’ll meet again.”

She bowed slightly before finally retreating, making her way back to the inn. Now, they were on their own once more. The College bridge was just a short walk away, hidden in them murk of the day. And here on the cliff side, there was no place for battle.

“You five, are you ready?”

Yrith nodded. So did Leyna, Qassir, Cain and Singird. The five mages exchanged a silent, meaningful look before spreading in a formation. Yrith at the front, accompanied by Keneel-La. Cain and Leyna at the sides, with Singird in the middle and Qassir, along with Kharjo, at the rear. Singird raised his hands to the level of his shoulders, letting out a stream of raw magic. They all connected to it, then with everyone else to create a dome of protective magic. Yrith closed her eyes. All the training they had received the past few days would now be put to the test.

She sent her magic back to supply Singird and Qassir, the only two mages whose lack of elven blood limited their magical capacity, yet the two with most experience. They took it, mixing it with the surrounding air and water. It swirled and hardened into a shell of sorts, pliable enough to bend at their will, strong enough to stop an incoming missile or a stream of invasive magic. Yrith felt a strange tension in her body. It was straining, intense. Especially when she had to supply two other people for the sake of performing the very same spell. She would not be able to hold up for too long.

“We have to move out,” she breathed.

“Yes. Let’s go. Yrith, set the pace. We will follow.”

She nodded, taking to the bridge, along the cliffs. In theory, the shield should also protect them from being detected by magic. By him… but she knew it was only a matter of time before he realized there was an empty space and that there was a way to enter it. She moved swiftly, her mind filled with the wish for the journey to be finally over.

Up on the cliffs, the Winterhold wind assaulted them in full force. Even through the shield, Yrith could still feel a bit of its sting and the chill it brought from the sea along with salt and snow. She fought it head on, not willing to let it slow her down. She could feel everyone else struggling, fighting to keep the shield up. She strengthened the link, providing more magic. Still, they went with their backs bent, as if the wind could truly reach them. She frowned, wondering if this was another trick played by the Demon. But no. It simply seemed like the whimsical Skyrim weather decided to get in their way. Soon enough, the wind brought a shower of snow that took away their sight entirely, making their progress nigh impossible.

Yrith came to a halt. Others followed, gathering just behind her. She turned to them, carefully moving her hands so that she would not damage the shield.

“We have to find a way to see in this,” she said.

“Agreed,” Keneel-La nodded. “Any ideas?”

“Perhaps. I’ll send my magic underground to scan the terrain. I will move the boundaries of the shield in a way that it always covers stable area and we don’t stray to the edge of a cliff. Will you be able to follow?”

“Just a moment, I don’t think they can hear your voice in this…”

Keneel-La turned around, trying to shout down the storm as he presented Yrith’s plan. There was a quick discussion that Yrith could not hear. She felt quivers in the shield as the others’ focus abated for a moment, then it stabilized again.

“They will follow just fine as long as you keep providing,” Keneel-La hummed into her ear as he turned back. Will you be all right?”

“Just fine if we don’t stall for too long.”

“Right. Let’s go then.”

As she exchanged one last look with the others, they began moving again. Their pace was still too slow for Yrith’s liking, but she could not risk making a single step in the wrong direction. They moved steadily along the cliffs, blinded, all but Yrith herself. She kept looking, scanning the ground, following the footsteps of every single guard… until they shifted, slowly turning toward the sea. So the Demon finally figured the way in.

“Assault incoming,” she spoke quietly to Keneel-La, not taking the time to stop. “I don’t think they’re going to change patrols now.”

They would reach the bridge soon. Just two more houses. She resisted the urge to run. There would be time for that later.

“As expected,” he whispered back. “Just hold up.”

She nodded, trying hard to pierce the surrounding snow with her eyes. She did not have to try for long. It dispersed into a mild haze as soon they passed the closest house, blocked by its walls and an elevated cliff.

With her inner sight, Yrith could notice the considerable lack of citizens in the streets. Perhaps they had been warned. Perhaps threatened. Perhaps they simply avoided the guards that flocked to the bridge mouth like crows. Either way, she was glad they did not have to risk casualties.

She steered a little closer to the houses. It seemed she and the others were still unnoticed. But it was only a matter of time before they would catch someone’s attention. After all, the guards did not need to notice them. They simply had to follow the voice that whispered sweetly in their ears. That alluring, yet tormenting voice that took away their will and reason.

Yrith squinted ahead, trying to pinpoint their exact direction, but something different caught her attention. Upon a closer look, she could see how strange their gait was, how they shambled through the snow in the way a drunk person trudges and staggers just before they collapse. Only this was worse. As if…

As if they had already been dead. But they couldn’t be…

Curious, albeit scared, Yrith dared touch their minds. They were buzzing, clouded with a veil of sorts, unable to touch reality anymore. Poisoned, crippled… not dead, but not the people they had once been. If she asked that man at the front for the names of his children, he would not remember. There was nothing. He did not see nor feel, yet she knew he was in pain at the same time. And that was all he felt. All he knew anymore.

“Gods…” she breathed.

She felt Keneel-La behind her fidget.

“What is it?”

“They’re… empty…”

“What is?”

“The guards. They are like thralls. They…” She shook her head, looking away. “They’re not just enchanted. Their minds have been… consumed. That bastard…” She fought hard not to clench her fists and to keep up the shield. Taking a breath, she glanced over her shoulder at Keneel-La. “Should we go in? They are… beyond saving.”

“Well, we did know the scum knows no limits,” Keneel-La growled darkly. “The question is how dangerous their mindlessness is. They will have no restraint either. And he is channeling his magic through them, if I understand it correctly?”

“He is, but…”

“But?”

“They can only take so much. Qassir is a mage with training, and he still suffers magical overcharge. These are Nords with no magical skill or talent whatsoever. If the Demon tries channeling too much…”

“But that’s why there are so many, no? To make that thick whip out of thin strands?”

“Suppose so… but what should we do then?”

Keneel-La gave a heavy sigh. “We don’t have too many options, do we? How well can you handle that shield?”

“We won’t know until we try.”

“I see… Well, we can either wait here until they get ready for us, or go in. I say we go in.”

Yrith took a breath, feeling the magic in the shield to strengthen her grip. “Let’s do that then.”

Keneel-La turned to the rest, signaling for them to follow. “Going in!” he called, making it almost sound like a Shout.

They all nodded, the faces of all mages twisted in concentration.

As Yrith took the first step, she felt the shield move with her. Slowly, they approached the end of the last house. The moment they stepped out into the plain view, the eyes of all guards turned toward them. Yrith was relieved she could not see the faces under the helmets. It was enough she imagined what they looked like.

She inhaled deeply, flexing the muscles in her arms to stabilize them. Any wrong movement now could cost them their lives. They simply had to walk synchronously, steadily. Toward the bridge. It was just a few paces to the first gate, until the College magic would shelter them. So close now.

The guards spoke. Yrith could hardly make out the words through the shield, but they were not important. Whatever taunts they were saying, they would not work this time.

She walked on, simply ignoring the wall of bodies blocking the way. They would break through. The shield would move the guards away, crush them if they resisted.

A volley of arrows landed upon their protective shell before shattering away. A magical missile followed. Nothing the guards did worked. And yet, as her group approached the bridge, a dreadful feeling descended upon Yrith with the weight of a landslide. Something whispered to her in the wind, then it spoke, then it roared, voicelessly, only to get under her skin.

What was it that she heard? Laughter?

She paled, feeling her chest tighten. What was happening? It was nothing. Except the guards were suddenly backing away, moving back together, forming a mass so tight they must have hurt from the pressure…

And then, they exploded. An impact shattered the shield at once, sending Yrith flying. Her back hit a beam of one of the surrounding ruins, her body arched in the sudden deluge of pain. She could not see over the myriad of stars before her eyes. And something warm rained upon her. She was afraid to look. Someone was shouting, but she could not make out the words. From afar, she could hear screaming. Leyna…

No…

A terrible, pungent smell hit her nostrils. Yrith’s stomach turned. She had to get up. This was no time for feeling sick, no time for lying around blinded…

Please, everyone… stay alive…

With sheer willpower, she persuaded her body to listen and scrambled up on her feet. Her head was spinning. She felt broken, like all the bones in her body had been fractured. Her sight was blurry. She blinked, trying to focus on the scene before her. Through the blur, she saw… red. Red everywhere… red where there had been white before, red in the sky, red under her feet, red on her hands. No…

She squinted, reeling from one side to another. Something swished past her ear. A missile? Right… this was a battlefield…

She wanted to rub her eyes with the back of her hand, but it was covered in red as well. Everything was, as if lit by the crimson fires of the Deadlands. She blinked again. Slowly, her sight finally cleared. She almost wished it hadn’t.

All around, there were… not corpses. Remnants of what had once been bodies. Among them lay torn pieces of armor. And everything, every inch of the area, was covered in blood. Next to her, Cain was gathering himself, just as clumsy as she felt. All around, her companions were slowly rising, all except Qassir who was already standing, his hands flickering with magic as he fought to deflect every missile that went their way, sending his magic out and stopping it again repeatedly to avoid channeling too much at once. Every now and then he missed a few shots, and some of them he only deflected. Still, his way was effective. She owed her life to him now. They all did. She tried to run to his aid, but bouncy stagger was all she was capable of. Finally standing on his feet, Cain hurried shakily to support her, holding her arm and letting her lean on him.

“Damn,” he rasped. “What in the bloody Oblivion…?!”

“I don’t know,” Yrith breathed. She was afraid to look more. She did not want to see what it was now that was attacking them. But Qassir… he had to face it. She could not leave him alone.

“The s’wit just used their life force… all of them… at once… the damned bloody piece of daedroth…”

She looked. And her stomach gave way.

“Yrith…!”

“N-not all of them…” she stuttered, nearly tripping over a broken helmet. Shakily, she pointed to the source of the missiles.

A few guards were still standing. No, not standing. Progressing toward them, limping, staggering like an army of zombies, the gaps in their broken armor showing not their skin, but their insides. Occasionally, a part of them burst as they let out another magical missile. Their aim was off, but they compensated for it with their numbers. Yrith turned away again, all her own blood retreating from her face, her fists clenched tight and painful. Despite herself, she sped up to catch up with Qassir. Cain followed suit.

“W-we have to… destroy them,” she panted as she finally reached the Redguard.

“Yes, we do,” Qassir replied coolly, his focus still on the incoming missiles. “Can you assist me?”

“Yes… Tell me what to do.”

“I can help too,” Cain wheezed just behind her.

“Good. Let’s keep it simple. No spellbrewing, no complicated spells. Let’s just… bury them. Crush them. With anything that you can find and control.”

“Alteration?” Cain wondered as he moved to Yrith’s side.

“Alteration, conjuration… whatever you can think of. Let’s send everything we have on them.”

Yrith’s lips twisted. “Sounds like fun,” she uttered colorlessly.

Without waiting for a reply, she raised her hands. They flared bright blue before the power in them turned red-gold, reforming into force that would not penetrate, but manipulate. She let it out, grabbing whatever she could. A beam from a ruin, a loose stone, a tree trunk, a piece of cliff, a large chunk of dirt, even a piece of the bridge gate. One by one, she sent them toward the proceeding mass of empty vessels. Yrith’s would-be weapons rained upon the crowd, hitting hard. She pressed on them, trying not to hear the sounds of breaking bones and all those that she’d rather not name. At her side, Cain did the same while Qassir kept up his defensive tactics. And still, some rose again and kept walking.

“Back away!” Yrith heard someone call from behind. She could only guess that was Keneel-La, trying to shout down the din. “They ignore pain, they will just wash over you. Retreat!”

“No,” Yrith growled. “Not now.”

She dared a glance back. Leyna, Singird and Kharjo were just in the Dragonborn’s footsteps.

“Let’s recreate the shield!” she cried.

“You saw what happened!”

“It won’t happen again!” She raised her hands even higher, enveloping the group with magic, offering it for the taking. “I won’t let him,” she added quietly.

“Don’t. Please…”

Someone touched her arm. Yrith looked back, finding Leyna. Her face was soaked with a mixture of blood and tears, her expression nearly deranged. She kept shaking her head violently, her fingers burying into Yrith’s upper arm.

“Yrith… I can’t anymore…”

Yrith would have liked to say something in response. To study her face more, to offer support… but at the same time, Qassir took a step back, pressing his spine into her.

“We need to do as the Dragonborn says,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “That thing took their life force. He must still have at least half of that power. We’re no match.”

“Damnation,” Yrith whispered so that nearly no one could hear her. As she began turning away, a bright glow caught her attention, coming from just beyond the bridge gate. She frowned. Her mind was playing tricks on her already. Or…

“That’s…” Singird breathed, letting the word hang in the air. Yrith turned back fully to take a look.

It was magic. Lots of magic of various colors, swirling, undulating, moving toward the crowd of zombies. In its wake walked three people. Faralda, Tolfdir and Drevis Neloren, all with their hands up and glowing. For a moment, Yrith forgot to breathe. In the midst of all the destruction and carnage, they looked… magnificent. ***

They approached hastily, but as they left the bridge, they slowed before the mindless mass of bodies. Amid all the light, Yrith could faintly see their hand motion change. With a quick wave, Drevis Neloren directed his magic toward her and the rest of the group. Yrith felt it envelop her before it entered her, soaking through her skin and permeating every inch of her. A moment after, it left again, walking away in the form of herself, copied to the last tiny detail. By her shadow image’s side walked all the others, taking off toward the sea.

The torn, unliving guards turned to the copies, following them blindly. At a closer look, Yrith could see that they too were wrapped in magic, their unseeing eyes glowing bright blue. Whatever spell Master Neloren was using, it must have addled their senses. No, it must have addled even the Demon’s sight.

Qassir let his hands sink with a long exhale. No missiles were firing their way anymore. But Yrith knew that the Demon would realize soon enough. This was not the end yet.

Her eyes drifted back to the masters. Tolfdir, similar to what Yrith had done before, used his magic to grab whatever was in his way. As Faralda imbued everything with frost to harden it into various shapes of pure, unbreakable ice, the two of them sent everything upon the guards.

No cries resounded through the air as the guards were crushed. There were no yells as they fell down into the strait. And yet, Yrith could almost hear the sighs of relief. Their suffering was over. They were free… or so they thought. So she thought.

She saw them bursting once more, filling the air with their life force. Glowing clouds of pale blue rose aloft, turning into a thousand ghostly blades, aiming right back at Yrith and her companions. The Demon had finally realized what was happening. Yrith could recognize the shape of the deadly weapons. She had seen one before, in Erinor’s hand. The one that had aimed to devour her.

“The shield!” she yelled as she turned to the others. “Now!”

Without thinking, she and every mage in their group raised their hands again. Their magic connected and hardened again, the protective shell swirled around them just in time to deflect the first assault. Yrith gritted her teeth as she fueled the barrier, forcing it to move. The bridge was just one puddle of blood away. They were just one puddle away from finally breathing freely…

She walked heavily under the brunt of the shield, as though she was pushing a boulder. Then, somehow, with the last of her strength, she convinced her legs to run. Still, she nearly felt the next person’s breath on the nape of her neck. When she reached the three Winterhold masters, they gave a quick nod and broke into a run themselves.

Yrith was the first to enter the bridge gate after them. Everyone else followed. As the magical blades, or what remained of them, clashed with the College magic, they burst into a myriad of sparks, dissolving into thin air.

Still, the group ran, letting the shield drop. They ran across the ragged bridge whose tiling crumbled under their feet and nearly made Yrith slip a few times. They ran along the pleasantly familiar fountain of blue light shooting up to the skies, feeling the soft, humming touch of its magic. They ran on, pressing against the force of the air, mindless of whatever was behind. Yrith’s eyes were set on the great gate, measuring the distance with every step. They ran so fast, yet it took so long to reach it, as though it kept backing away. The last few steps, Yrith closed her eyes, letting her feet carry her on, through and beyond.

Until, finally, she stood in the courtyard, encompassed by the three College towers connected by its massive fortification.

Everyone stopped. *** Yrith could hear her own heartbeat over every other sound, if there even were any. Everything was so… still here. There was no blood and no guards, no enemies and no missiles, no tunnels or insurmountable mountains, no caves, no trolls, no horses… this was… the College of Winterhold. Not looming high above Yrith, but… surrounding her, just at it had used to such a long time ago.

Was she dreaming?

She looked around, and then again, and again. By her side, several other people were doing the same. Then, her knees buckled under her. She fell into the snow, dying it red and brown, propping herself on her arms. The ground quivered under her as she trembled, fighting for every breath. Slowly, she looked up, gazing at the three elderly College masters, then at her friends, Singird, Kharjo, and, finally, Keneel-La. Still, they remained silent.

Yrith could not believe it. After all this time…

“Tell me we’re in…” she whispered into the quiet.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, a lone voice hummed, more like a hurricane in the sudden stillness.

“We’re in,” Keneel-La replied, his words sounding more like a question, rather than a statement.

Yrith let out a breath.

“We’re in…”

She looked at Leyna. Her Altmeri friend was shaking, barely keeping up on her feet, her eyes bulging. Her still hands sparkled with remnants of magic, but Leyna seemed to care little for it. Yrith gathered herself with difficulty, putting a shaky hand on Leyna’s shoulder.

“We’re in,” Yrith repeated to her.

Leyna nodded, her face twisting, perhaps struggling for a smile. Then, without warning, she threw herself around Yrith’s neck, squeezing tight.

“We are!” she cried. Yrith felt Leyna’s tears on her own cheek. “After all that… we’re… in.”

Yrith returned the gesture wordlessly. No matter how much she repeated it to herself, reality seemed to be slipping away from her. They were in. In…

Somehow, this whole place seemed alien to her. It was the same as she remembered, with its three towers and glowing fountains, quiet and serene, and still…

She stepped away as Leyna let her go, watching her companions. No one was smiling. They must have all shared the same image before their eyes, of blood baths and frantic stampede. Cain’s distant gaze landed on Yrith, then Leyna. He approached them slowly, wrapping his arms around them and pressing them back together.

“We’re in,” he repeated after them as though they were chanting.

Qassir exchanged a few looks with Leyna, joining their collective embrace a few moments later. By their shallow breathing, Yrith could almost swear the others were crying. She was not too far from it herself.

They kept holding each other for a good while. Yrith could hear a quiet conversation happening between the three masters and the rest of her group, but she cared little for the words. They were in and that was what mattered. Everything else was marginal.

At last, the four of them disentangled their hands, letting in some fresh air. Yrith felt almost dizzy, standing now on her own, but her worries were soon replaced with another one.

Before her stood Faralda, her face somber, her eyes piercing. Yrith resisted the urge to turn away. She waited for her to speak, feeling a chill on her back that had nothing to do with the winter. Her foster mother took a deep breath that seemed to travel in forever. Then, she opened her mouth.

“Fool of a girl,” she said. “Godsdamned, trollheaded, reckless, half-witted, unrivaled fool! What were you thinking? Half of the province was up on their feet for you! After all the protection we give you, you just… take off and leave? Right into the daedroth pit? What were you thinking?!”

Faralda’s words seemed to have been spilled on a single breath. Once again, Yrith felt incredibly small in front of the fuming destruction master. And yet, something was different this time.

“I…”

Faralda pointed a finger at Yrith, silencing her with immediate effect.

“You learn that magic well, Yrith Ravencroft,” she growled. “You master it, feed on it and outlive me. Don't you dare die before me!”

Yrith stared at her. For the first time, she saw her foster mother shaking, out of control. For the first time, she heard her voice crack. Not because she felt bothered, but because she… cared? How much did it take for her to express herself so openly?

She opened her mouth to say something again, but found herself at a loss for words. And so, instead, she closed the distance between Faralda and herself, extending her hands gingerly to offer a hug.

She knew she was bloody and filthy. She looked as though she had traveled to Oblivion and back, taking a detour through a kraken’s digestive system on the way. She must have smelled horribly too, even in the cold. Faralda would have every reason to back away.

She didn’t. With no hesitation whatsoever, she pulled Yrith close. No tears fell on Yrith’s grimy coat, yet she felt them nonetheless. After so much time on the run, she was finally home.


“I almost stopped hoping this day would come,” Faralda said quietly.

“So did we. How long has it been like this here?” Keneel-La asked, glancing back at the now tightly sealed gate. Faralda shrugged.

“You mean the guards? Not too long. There have been reports of various movements in the province though. Battles, witch hunts… not sure how much of it was true, but the Thalmor sure didn’t put any of you in good light. ‘You help our enemies and the consequences will be severe.’ They didn’t let us speak to the citizens either, so I hardly know what went on down there. Ri’saad only brought some scarce rumors from the province. But this,” she gestured toward the gate and the city outside, “went beyond my wildest imagination. What in Oblivion… how did it become like this?”

“I’m afraid none of us can give you a clear answer,” the lizard sighed. He brushed his forehead with the back of his hand, wiping away a bit of sweat and smearing the drying blood. “The only thing I can say for certain is that the person hunting Yrith is a complete lunatic and will stop at nothing.”

“I can see that,” Faralda uttered darkly. “But how are we to protect this place? A few guards won’t put us in danger, but there are things not even the College can withstand.”

“Indeed. I’m afraid we might have to strike first this time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pardon me, Faralda, for asking so directly, but do you have any idea who our enemy could be? We know it should be someone connected to Yrith’s parents who might have a connection to General Toddvar of the Stormcloaks. We’re looking for… well, we don’t know exactly, in fact. Names, information, anything that could take us closer.”

Faralda gave the lizard a long, scrutinizing look. She was back to her typical unreadable expression, her posture tall and unmoving. Even so, Keneel-La looked hardly disconcerted at all. Faralda’s Altmeri hardness seemed to have no effect on him at all. Or, perhaps, it was simply his lizard visage that concealed his reaction.

“So, I take it you are looking for the last piece of a puzzle, yet you can’t name its shape or color?”

“You could put it like that, yes,” the lizard nodded.

“I spoke about this to Singird already… and no, I don’t know. I hardly know anything, Yrith’s parents did not share the details of… well, of anything concerning them, really. They only gave me instruction on how to take care of Yrith in case something would happen, which makes me assume they were expecting trouble already.” She gave a quick, pensive glance to Yrith. “But if none of you knows any details, then you’re just as much in the dark as I am. In which case I suggest you all wash the grime off and take a good rest and then we can continue the discussion. Would that sound acceptable?”

Yrith let out a breath she had been holding. So Faralda knew nothing… or did not want to speak about it openly. It made little difference. Keneel-La had addressed what she had been thinking of ever since that morning in the Frozen Hearth. Now, she felt an even stronger wish to find out. If more people were going to die out there, if the Demon was preparing to strip more people of their dignity, then she had no time to spare. They relied on her. At least she had the power to put an end to it. Or so she hoped.

“… was about to suggest the same,” she heard Tolfdir say when she roused from her thoughts. “We can offer some spare robes.”

“I’m hardly one for robes,” Keneel-La smiled, “but perhaps the others will appreciate that. I do yearn for a bath and refreshment though. That would be nice.”

Faralda gave a nod. “Then let’s not waste any more time.”


Yrith looked at the basin full of murky water and the pile of clothes that were only good for burning anymore. Washing away all the grime took her the better half of the afternoon. And yet, she could not shake off the feeling of filthiness that would not go away just by washing. This was her room she was standing in, but she could not feel the comfort, the peace of finally being her own master, the triumph from ending the strenuous journey. No, the journey was not over. It wouldn’t be until she herself put an end to it.

She sighed. If Faralda knew nothing of the Demon, then there was one other person she put her hopes in. A person she was eager to meet, just as he must have been eager to meet her.

She stared through the window into the courtyard that was slowly cloaking itself in darkness. The College was unusually quiet, but the ever-glowing focal points still hummed their quiet melody. Just past the one in the center of the courtyard stood the statue of Arch-Mage Shalidor with spheres of ice and fire flaring in his hands. Behind it loomed the Hall of the Elements with its upper windows flickering merrily like tiny beacons in the falling night. It was time.

She raised the basin with magic, opening the door to send it through. Leading it across the blue-lit corridor and into the courtyard, she dumped its contents into a drain, imagining that this was the Demon’s soul. If only it was that easy.

Leaving the basin just by the entrance to the Hall of Attainment, she finally set off. A memory flicked through her mind, one of the same scenery and nearly the same darkness, the only difference being that back then, the murk had been brought by a storm that threatened to sweep Yrith away. That day she had been especially unkempt and her inherited shoes had been too big. That day, she had made the worst kind of impression on her conjuration master. This was where everything had started. And this would lead to where everything would end.

She spent her journey reminiscing, barely nodding to the three advanced class students practicing their magic in the Hall of the Elements. They stared at her incredulously, but she did not wish to engage in a conversation. And so she smiled to them politely, proceeding up, to the higher levels.

The Arcanaeum had not changed at all. It still had the same, dusty smell. The light from the handful of candles here and there still cast a kaleidoscope of quivering shadows. And its old, green-skinned balding caretaker still sat at his place behind the desk, eyes following the lines in an open book.

Yrith stopped in her tracks, observing him in silence, inhaling the dry air. She truly was home. A stranger in her own house.

She took a timid step forward, taking a closer look around. To her surprise, the library was empty save for herself and the orc. Well, it was after dusk, but…

She took in the heavy scent of the innumerable tomes, prodding herself on.

“Urag,” she said quietly.

The orc flinched.

“How many times do I have to…”

The words died on his tongue as he raised his head, his eyes widening at the sight of Yrith. He stared at her for a good while before slowly standing up, tossing a bookmark into his book before closing it.

“Yrith,” he rasped. “You’re… back.”

“I am.”

She walked to the desk, stopping inches from it. He still wore the same stitched robes. He still kept his beard mid-length, enough to give him a wise look, not enough to make him seem like a hermit. His hands were still the same, big, wrinkled mitts with firm, yet gentle clutch. Yrith could hardly suppress the need to hug him. She did not need to. He circled the desk and locked her in a bear hug so tight she found it hard to breathe.

“Come here and let me crush you before anyone else manages,” he grumbled. “Gods know they’ve been trying hard.”

“I’m sorry, Urag… I really am.”

He stepped an arm’s length back, shaking his head.

“That’s the last thing I heard from you before you left,” he commented, “and now you’re repeating yourself. Don’t say that again.”

She looked up at him. He was not angry. One could say he was smiling, even if that smile was hidden under layers of glowering concern.

“Then what should I say?”

“Oh, I don’t know, something about being happy to see me or whatnot, unless, of course, you aren’t.”

Yrith felt herself redden. “I am. More than anything!”

Urag gave a low, rumbling chuckle as he stepped further back to gain a full view of her. The sound filled Yrith with an unwavering feeling of comfort.

“See? So am I. Even if I am seeing a different person now. You have changed so much.”

Instinctively, Yrith touched the skin on her face, but he shook his head.

“Not that, no, even if that worries me too. But that light in your eyes… and you seem somewhat taller… there are stories to be written from just looking at you.”

“If you decide to write my story one day, I will be happy to read it.”

Urag’s face grew dark. He took a moment to observe Yrith thoughtfully, then slowly shook his head. “I’d… rather not.”

“Suppose it wouldn’t exactly be a happy story, eh?”

“That, and…” he looked away, visibly tormented by something. Yrith fought the urge to ask, but before she could, he spoke again. “I hear you’ve been through a lot and it wasn’t at all nice.”

“Word travels fast,” Yrith uttered quietly.

“Some of it does. No one bothered to tell me you’ve entered the College.”

“It’s only been a short while. And they must have known I would come here myself. I’ve missed you. And this place.”

Her eyes slid over the many shelves lining the walls and the rows of books stored on them. At the first glance, she spotted some that she had not seen before. She smiled at the prospect of exploring them and touching their soft, rustling pages.

“Skyrim sceneries and Dwemer tunnels are nice, but I find them rather lacking when it comes to literature,” she added wistfully.

“Oh, they are rich, but only if you’re not running away from some power-hungry maniac and have the time to look at the right places.”

“Well, unfortunately…”

“I know. I know, Yrith…”

She looked deep into his eyes. “Urag, that power-hungry maniac needs to be stopped.”

“And by that look in your eyes, I’m guessing you’ve decided to be the one to do it.”

“It’s more of a consequence, rather than a decision, really. But… yes. That man… thing… whatever… he is in control of the whole Skyrim. The things he does to people…” She shook her head. “I can’t even describe them in words.”

“I can imagine… or maybe I can’t and that’s quite fine by me. But what is your plan?”

“That’s the thing. Have you ever heard about The Name Lost in Time?”

Urag’s eyes narrowed and sent a shiver down Yrith’s spine. He took a moment to ponder her question, but then gave a shrug.

“No, not really. What is it?”

Yrith stared at him. That look a moment before… was he lying? Was it something so bad he didn’t want to speak about it despite all the circumstances? No, Urag was not of the sort to make excuses. Then why?

“I’m not sure myself,” she said slowly, “except that it should be the name of the so-called Lone Demon, as Cain calls him, or the Nameless God. My parents might have known. Sin… Master Larkwing says you have a lot of books by the Association of Wizards and Alchemists. Since my parents worked for the AWA and the AWA itself was interested in the Demon, I thought you might have a clue.”

“Nameless God?” Urag’s bushy brows joined in a deep frown. “That’s not the sick deity that is worshipped in some distinct parts of Tamriel, is it?”

“Cain’s family seems to worship him, but he’s full of mystery. Do you know anything about him?”

“No… not really. I daresay the AWA confiscated anything that had to do with him, that’s about how interested they were. Why do you need his name?”

“Because,” Yrith said, taking a deep breath to prepare herself mentally for his reaction, “he is my enemy.”

“Oh Malacath preserve us…”

Urag fell silent. Yrith waited for him to speak, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, his eyes roving with an empty look over the surrounding bookshelves. Silently, Yrith counted seconds, watching a nearby candle ebb away until its light flickered and died out. But the old librarian kept to himself.

“Urag?” she asked gently. He flinched, looking at her as though he had just woken up from a bad dream.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Yrith. This is hard for me to take the first thing after your return. He is considered a god… in many societies. That’s enough to think that he’s… very powerful.”

“Nothing I can do about it,” she uttered dryly. “I can only prepare myself.”

“I know… and sadly, I can’t help you. But if it ever comes to you facing that thing… well, know that it will be the moment I leave this library to stand by your side.”

Yrith smiled. “Leave the library? Thank you. That means a lot.”

“Oh come now! I go out to eat too!”

She chuckled. “So that you have enough strength to look after the books?”

A grumpy, toothy smile flicked from behind the orc’s murky face. “So that I don’t stain them, you trollhead.”

“So if you didn’t have to worry about staining, you’d just stay up here forever?” Yrith teased.

“Unbelievable as it sounds, orcs wash too, so what do you think?”

Yrith raised her hands. “Just asking. Well, if you ever find yourself in the area, come for a visit. I might cook you a meal too.”

“Oh? I’d like that. Something with no poison, if you will?”

“Hey!”

Urag gave her a pat on the back. “I’ll come.”

As he gave a wide yawn, he glanced back at a shelf where sand was happily filling the lower half of an hourglass.

“Is it this time already?” he wondered aloud. “No wonder I am tired. And you look like you’ve been dragged through the very bowels of Oblivion and spit back head first. I think it’s high time we go to bed, wouldn’t you say?”

Yrith nodded. “I’ll come back for some books soon enough.”

“Feel free. I’ll have some recommendations ready.”

Yrith gave the library one last long look. It sure smelled good here. She could lie down and sleep in this place with pleasure.

“I can’t wait,” she said dreamily. “Good night, Urag.”

“Good night. Take care. And Yrith?”

“Yes?”

“I really am happy to see you.”

She grinned at him, albeit wearily. “So am I.”


The night air was cold and fresh. Yrith felt its gusts moments before she stepped out into it, through the gaps between the door and its frame. She decided to take the upper route this time, not aiming for her room. After so much time spent in the company of Keneel-La and her friends, strangely, she hated the quiet of being on her own. She did not wish to be left alone with the image of countless bloodied bodies and severed limbs imprinted in her mind. She did all that she could to avoid reliving that moment. And so, she would seek company.

The door snapped shut behind her. This place brought back memories. The night was not so bright as it had been back then, but still, the sweet taste of her first kiss remained the same. With no hurry, she approached the wall, standing at the very place Singird had held her. She had almost fallen over the last time. And now…

“Well well. You leave the library empty-handed. How unprecedented.”

She nearly fell over again. With a gasp, she turned around, squinting at a lizard silhouette standing just by the door to the Hall of the Elements. By the coil of chains and feathers hanging from one of her horns, Yrith recognized the Arch-Mage. Shakily, she exhaled, sending all the feelings from the unexpected encounter along.

“I just… came to speak with Urag,” she breathed.

“Of course. Pardon my sudden appearance. It seems I have a habit of startling you.”

Yrith flashed a sheepish smile. She could not agree more.

“‘Neel came asking me about a certain name. I’m afraid to say that I know nothing of it. But as it happens, perhaps I ought to return this. I take it you won’t be leaving the College again and I can rest assured that you will protect it?”

Yrith’s eyes fell on the object the Arch-Mage was holding out for her. It was a book. The book. That thick, dark-covered tome that had become Yrith’s silent, inconspicuous guide through her journey. Riding the Currents of Time by Septimus Signus.

Septimus Signus… of course. Yrith had nearly forgotten. He had shown her the way to an Elder Scroll. In the end, if no one knew the Demon’s name, Yrith would have to find it on her own. After all, as much as she had ignored it, she had all the means. She had the power. The thing that would guide her. And now, she had the method again. Even if the book was unfinished, she had seen the conjuration circle the Dwemer used to call the Elder Scroll to them. If they could do that, then she could use it to connect to some other time. The only question was what time.

She extended both her hands to take the book. It felt heavier than before.

“Thank you,” she nodded.

“You’re welcome,” the Arch-Mage said dreamily. “I really wouldn’t want you to leave the Arcanaeum with no books.”

Yrith smiled.

“Arch-Mage?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know where the book is supposed to lead me?”

The lizard’s jaws widened, for a moment reminiscent of her brother.

“Why, wherever, or whenever, rather, you choose, of course.” With that, she dropped a curtsy, turning back to the door. “Good evening.” And she was gone.

Yrith stared after her for a while, feeling none the wiser. Someone had to give her the answer. If no one here knew, perhaps her parents would. Perhaps that would be a good starting point. Perhaps she could even stick to her original plan. If only it would work…

She gripped the book tighter. A plan began forming in her head.


Three quiet knocks came on Singird’s door. He turned to it, feeling his heart pick up its pace. He would recognize this sound at any time. Even after all those months, Yrith’s knock had still not changed. He smiled, pushing his empty plate away.

“Come in!” he called.

The door opened. She stood there, now clean, all her fresh scars standing out on her otherwise pale skin, even in the light of the candles. She was hugging a thick, dark book, her silver eyes scanning the room. Singird wondered if this place felt as alien to her as it did to him. Their enemy had managed to take the last place he could call home from him. But it mattered little. She was standing here, right before him. His true home.

“You wanted to see me, Master Larkwing?” she asked a little theatrically. He raised his brows, but decided to play along.

“Yes, Miss Ravencroft. Come in, and shut the door, please.”

She did as he said, then turned to him, her eyes bright, her face wearing a soft, uncertain smile. Even after all that carnage, she could still smile. He felt a touch of relief at that. Standing up, he tilted his head in question.

“What is it?” he asked. “I assumed you wanted to enjoy the solitude after so much time on the road with constant company.”

She swung a little on her feet, as though preparing to bolt out. Her eyes were still drifting around the room, barely stopping.

“I thought I would, but…” she looked away completely, “I don’t want to be alone. I keep… seeing things before my eyes. Are you enjoying the solitude?”

He took a moment to ponder her question, then shook his head. “No, I suppose not.”

Yrith looked at him helplessly, still not moving away from the door. He closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her. She was still so small, more than a head shorter than him, but knowing what sort of power rested within her, having felt it himself, the touch felt different. He pulled her close and buried his fingers in her hair. The book she was holding pressed into his belly, but he ignored it. She smelled nice. She was tempting. Beautiful. No matter the look in her eyes, no matter the infinite scars, she was beautiful. He wanted to claim her right then and there. But that would hurt her and he could not bear that.

There was talk among the Collegium that they would offer Yrith the position of a master. That a student who had nothing to learn from her masters was no good. Once the proposal was placed, once she made a decision… then they would be seen as equal. Then Singird would make her an offer of his own.

“What’s entertaining you so?”

He looked down at her, realizing he was smiling like the biggest fool. He shook his head.

“Just… fantasizing,” he replied truthfully. He caressed her cheek and placed a kiss on her lips as he stepped back, pointing to the book she was holding. “Been to the library already?”

She held the tome up to him.

“You might be interested. There are a lot of things we talked about before this all happened.”

“And whichever things might you mean?” he asked, his lips still curled up. She responded in kind, waving the book before him.

“Take a look.”

He took the book from her. It was even heavier than he had expected. For comfort’s sake and the book’s safety, he placed it on his desk. There was an ornament on the cover, but at a closer look, it wasn’t just an ornament. This was a miniature of a very elaborate conjuration circle. With a tug of immediate interest, Singird opened the book, setting his eyes on its jagged script. A bit like daedric, he realized. Perhaps a bit too much for his liking. Just what kind of literature had Yrith brought to him?

“Go ahead and take a seat,” he muttered to her as his eyes followed the introduction.

Have you heard of the Elder Scrolls?

Just what in Oblivion…

He read on, and his eyes grew wide. No. No, this could not be true…

The second time he read the introduction, his brows furrowed more and more with each line. This was simply impossible. Or was it not…?

With his breath held, he sifted through the pages, taking note of random formulas and diagrams. Star charts. Calculations that took pages to complete. And the theory part… still spoke about Elder Scrolls. They permeated the whole book, somewhat, becoming the guide, the means, the purpose… Still, how could it be so similar to what he had been researching? Conjuration of things from another time… after all, wasn’t that just reverse time travel?

But Elder Scrolls

“Yrith… this…”

“I have an Elder Scroll,” she stated matter-of-factly.

Slowly, he turned to her. She was sitting on a chair just next to his desk, rapping her fingers over her knee. And her eyes shone brighter than ever.

“You… what?

How many things were there yet that she had not told him? An Elder Scroll? Wasn’t it a bit too convenient?

“Say, Singird,” she said, now fidgeting a little in her seat, “do you still plan to perform that ritual to call the soul of your great-grandfather?”

Did she know? Did she know that his cause was related to hers? Or was she just guessing? After all, he had suggested it more than once before. But this… she had brought him so close all of a sudden. He had all but given up hope, not wishing to harm her. But she really had… an Elder Scroll?

“I… maybe… how? An Elder Scroll? What do you mean?” Words eluded him, but he needed to know more. If he had been exhausted before, now, all of it had been washed off. “Yrith,” he said as he took in a flood of air almost too great to handle, “tell me what happened. Please.”

She nodded and smiled. “I will. It’s going to be a long night.”

Notes:

As always, many, many thanks to the amazing RealityGlitch for being my beta. <3

Chapter 37: The Beginning

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Blood… blood everywhere. Yrith felt it pour over her, drip into her eyes. It was nigh impossible to see through the curtain of red. She wanted to move, but something held her pinned to the ground. She had to move! Her friends were in danger. They would die any moment. They would burst, just like the guards had, their souls would be violated, made into weapons to kill her. She breathed deeply and the blood entered her lungs. She coughed and choked on it, still unable to lift even a finger.

Help… someone…

But there was no one. No one would come and pull her up, no one would put a stop to it. This was her task and she had just failed. This was her responsibility and she had let everyone die. This was her fault, her sin and her regret.

She could not breathe. She turned her head and looked to her side. There were bodies all around, broken, torn… enemies and friends alike, all lay motionless, and those who still had faces stared emptily into the open space.

Then at least finish it, she begged. Finish it… let me die with them…

“Oh yes, Yrith Ravencroft… you will die. You’ll be the last, and your death will be most painful.”

Someone laughed, and the sound was cold as a jagged blade of ice. Yrith wanted to clench her fists, but her hands were numb, as if they did not even belong to her. Why did her body not listen?

Please… anyone!

Across the ocean of vermillion, another bloodied head turned to her.

Singird…

“Singird…”

The word was muffled by the blood in her mouth. It tasted salty and bitter. She wanted to take a breath, but instead, she rattled.

“Singird!”

“Yrith…”

“Singird!”

“I’m here. Yrith!”

Someone was shaking her gently. Amid the infinite coughing, she opened her gummed up eyes. Her vision was blurred, but slowly, she could make out the silhouette leaning above her against the surrounding murk. He smelled… so fresh.

Shakily, she moved her fingers, then lifted her hand, then her whole arm, touching his chest. He was warm too.

“Singird…”

“It’s all right, Yrith. It was just a dream.”

A dream… the same one again, just like the previous three nights. She touched her cheek and lips. Her whole face was wet with sweat and tears. She forced herself up, pressing her body against Singird’s, laying her head on his shoulder. Her hands wrapped around him tightly in fear he would go away.

“When will it end?” she whispered into his neck. He stroked her back softly, pressing her even tighter against himself.

“Perhaps when he’s gone…”

Yrith closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of Singird’s shirt. Underneath the soapwort, she could smell a bit of sweat. Perhaps a bit more than usual. She rubbed his spine, mixing the smells together.

Perhaps when he’s gone…

It was always the same answer. She had spent every free moment in the library, studying. It kept her from nasty thoughts and brought her closer to finishing the great task. Or at least she hoped for it.

“I’m… working on it,” she breathed.

“Don’t rush it, Yrith. It’s only been a few days. You can take a rest.”

A few days that had felt like weeks. Or months. Or a year…

“I can’t rest…”

He buried his hand in her hair, his fingers drawing circles on her head. Somehow, it made her feel lightheaded. She placed a kiss on Singird’s neck. Then his cheek. Then lips. He returned it greedily, sending a wave of hot through her whole body. But then, he pulled away, cupping her cheeks.

“Don’t tempt me, Yrith. You’re not being fair,” he scolded her quietly.

“Your whole existence is not fair,” she returned, finally smiling. He gave a soft chuckle.

“One day, someone is bound to look for you in your room.”

She shrugged. “I’ll tell them I couldn’t sleep so I went out. Won’t be far from the truth anyway. Soon, I won’t even be a student here anymore…”

“You sound like you regret it.”

“I…”

She gazed over his shoulder, into the dark space of Singird’s room. Her eyes rested upon his desk with the stack of maps and charts they had been working on and his favorite moon-shaped paperweight glowing on its top. She now worked as Singird’s equal, not a student anymore. It would be no difference if she ceased to be one officially. Did she regret it then?

She tried to understand that lonely feeling that crept into her heart every time the topic was brought up, but she could not place it. When her parents had died, the College became her home and she hated it. Now, everything would change once again and she hated it just as much. She could be a master, yet she did not feel like one. She could not stay a student, yet she still felt like a child, not ready to face the world. Yes, she could be open about her love to Singird. But…

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to feel.”

Her mind strayed back to her parents, as it often did these days. Not only had the Demon’s name perished with them. Yrith’s life had as well. Her childhood… She wondered if she could have it back. She would have her parents back after all. When this was all over, perhaps she would not feel as lost anymore.

She felt Singird’s hand on her arm as he pulled back a little. He squeezed her lightly, touching her forehead with his.

“You can take your time,” he said. “They will wait. I will wait.”

Yrith knew how much it took him to say that. He would wait and still wish in secret he could finally stop keeping secrets. He would want more.

She grabbed his hand, putting it against her cheek and feeling its warmth.

“Thank you, Singird. It means a lot.”


The Arcanaeum was rather deserted this time of the day. Yrith was grateful for that. She did not want to have to answer to Cain and Leyna for the umpteenth time why she kept her head buried deep in books. She did not want to speak to the masters about her journey and the extraordinary shield they could see glistening from the College towers just before her arrival, and she definitely did not want to listen to Ha’risha’s scathing remarks. In fact, she would have preferred if no one bothered her at all. Books were good enough companions. They had plenty of words she could fill her head with instead of the ever-forceful memories of blood and pain. Especially when she had to concentrate on the numerous charts and formulas that would ultimately lead her back to her parents and the name of the Demon who so craved her soul.

She sat at her usual place where she could see both the entrance and Urag’s desk. It was a strategic point. She would know when anyone tried to walk up to her. Although it made her raise her head frequently and lose her focus ever so often.

She bit her lip, half as punishment, half to force herself to concentrate on the book again, when she registered a figure she had not seen ever since they had arrived. She lay the book on her knees, straightening up. This time, it was someone she was happy to see.

She had to admit that the image of a lizard armed from head to toe and wearing a sturdy set of armor was rather striking among all the books and upholstered chairs and footrests. Keneel-La stopped just a few steps from Urag’s desk, nodding a greeting, then looking around. When he found Yrith, his jaws parted in a smile and he made his way to her across several isles.

“So, this is the true form of Yrith Ravencroft, eh?” he commented upon his arrival, his eyes resting on the numerous books stacked on the table by Yrith’s side. “What a strange sight.”

“You’re one to talk,” Yrith grinned. Then, she pointed to the chair opposite herself. “Sit down?”

“If I may,” he nodded, taking the offered seat. There, he stretched all his limbs, letting out a long, deep sigh. “Well, this feels nice.”

Yrith raised her brows. “Haven’t had time to rest? I figured you would. Haven’t seen much of you these past few days.”

“Not much, unfortunately. Meena is not well. I’ve been trying to barter with Enthir and Master Marence for medicine but the herbs I need for her are rare and the College suffers an acute shortage. Enthir arranged for a message to Ri’saad, but it’ll be days before it reaches him and much longer before he obtains what we need and delivers it.”

“The Arch-Mage is unwell? What happened? I saw her the evening we arrived and…”

“Let’s say she’s rather sensitive to her surroundings. Things that happen near her, the people around her, everything affects her greatly. Ever since we arrived, she’s been having visions and they get worse with each passing moment. Apparently, she already invested quite a lot in helping us get in, lending some of her power to Faralda, Drevis and Tolfdir. Now, our presence, yours and mine especially, I’m guessing, is draining her. She feels our connection to the Demon and the powers outside. And the Demon is raging. A lot of people are dying out there.”

Yrith felt her chest tighten. She could not agree with Singird. There was no time to waste, no time to take a rest. She had to hurry. She was just a few answers away from finding what she needed. And then…

She let out a breath as she shut the book sitting in her lap.

“Can we go somewhere private?” she asked. “Sorry to take away that comfort, though.”

“Never mind that. Yes, let’s go. Suppose you have things to talk about too. I hear you’ve been looking for me?”

“I have,” she nodded, draping the coat that had been resting on her chair’s backrest over her shoulders and grabbing half of her book pile with a heave. Keneel-La took the other half, gaining himself a grateful look. “Have you even been out of the Arch-Mage’s tower aside from those errands you ran?”

“Only to grab something to eat for myself and Meena,” he said, following Yrith’s example and depositing the books on Urag’s desk.

“Well, you’re worse than Urag here,” Yrith chuckled. A green finger flicked her in the forehead.

“You have some nerve to slander me under my very nose, young lady,” the orc grumbled.

Yrith flashed him a smile. “I wouldn’t dare, sir. Thank you for the reading.”

She dropped a curtsy to the sound of Keneel-La’s laughter and excused herself. The two of them proceeded up, to the top of the College walls. As they stepped outside, the cold wind in her face made Yrith shiver. She wrapped her coat tightly around herself, walking to her favorite wall where she propped herself against it.

“I always enjoy the sight,” Keneel-La breathed dreamily as he joined her.

She smiled. The sea was vast from up here, and the road from Winterhold to the southern regions winded its way merrily along the mountains. If the College gate was open, Yrith would have almost believed she was a part of that world.

“I do too,” she said.

“So you wanted to talk?”

“I did. I wanted to ask you about the Elder Scrolls.”

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d bring that one up. What do you need to know?”

Yrith stared at the mountain ridge hiding Windhelm from her sight, trying to think of the right question. She wasn't even sure what exactly it was she needed to know. She rapped her fingers on the wall, taking a moment before speaking.

“How do they work? They are linked to certain time, as I understand it?”

Keneel-La too gazed into the distance, his beady eyes filled with thought.

“Time, event, thing, person, feeling, concept… it can be anything. If you ask me how they work, I can't give you a clear answer. Mine gave me visions so strong that a new power manifested in me. They can give profound understanding of something, but they can also simply point the way. They can give power, but they can also take it. And they are fickle. Many people go blind when they read them. Suppose that's not really your problem though, given that scroll is inside you. How about you start by telling me what you want to do?”

“Hmm…”

Yrith hesitated. She had not even told Singird. She had told no one out of fear they would try to stop her. Perhaps the Arch-Mage knew though. She had been guiding her silently, setting the path for her. She might have very well told her brother herself. But if he was asking Yrith now, perhaps the Arch-Mage honored Yrith’s secret. She inhaled deeply, feeling the air spread cold in her lungs.

“I think… it’s… complicated. There’s this book… about traveling in time. Written by Septimus Signus…”

Keneel-La’s eyes sparked with sudden realization.

“The one you told me about back in that Dwemer tunnel?”

She nodded. “That’s the one. According to him, Elder Scrolls are present at all times at all places, and if one can replicate that power, they can travel to any place and any point in time. Paarthurnax suggested something similar. When I asked him about the name lost in time, he said I could do the same thing you did when you searched for a way to defeat Alduin. That I need a kel and a rift in time that will take me to the place where I can find the name.”

“Well, you certainly have a kel,” the lizard mused, “but the rift might be a problem. The Tiid-Ahraan, as the dragons call it, the one at the Throat of the world, is something that was left after the Tongues of the old cast Alduin out of time. They made it very simple for me, that rift leads directly to that moment. But for you…”

“I can create a rift,” Yrith said. “That part is described in the book, except one last detail, but the Dwemer answered that for me. There was a conjuration circle in their oculory. Seeing how it worked, I think I could follow the same mechanism. It just requires a lot of power to open it and then I have to enter it somehow. Use the scroll?”

“For me, it was as simple as reading it. The tricky part is to hold your mind together when it rips you away from your time. I don’t think that should be a problem for you though, given you were able to travel through two realms of Oblivion consecutively.”

“I suppose…”

He gave her a long, scrutinizing look, stopping at her still rapping fingers.

“Are you afraid?”

“I’m… not sure… Say, Keneel-La… do you think you could keep our conversation a secret?”

He frowned. “Even from Cain, Leyna and Master Larkwing?”

“Especially from Singird.”

She could not tell them. She couldn't share that she was going to perform not one, but two rituals at once. Singird was expecting her to become a medium. But if she was to bring her parents back, she had to go back to their time, not rely on simple visions. Singird would have to interrogate his great-grandfather in flesh, figuratively speaking. While she would be gone… until she would come back to him, almost a year older, with the Demon’s name. The circle would close…

“Yrith?”

She flinched, raising her head to look at Keneel-La. He must have been talking to her the whole time. She had no idea what about.

“Yes?”

He took a moment, gazing into her eyes as though making sure he had her attention. She shifted her weight, feeling the burden of his hard look.

“What are you up to?”

She waited, but he did not elaborate. No more questions to make it easier for her. Yrith looked away, far to the horizon lined by the Sea of Ghosts and an occasional reef.

“I need to find the Demon’s name,” she said simply. Keneel-La gave a deep sigh.

“That’s not the answer to my question.”

“Then what do you want to know?”

He shook his head.

“Sorry, Yrith. I don’t mean to pry. But there are gaps in what you tell me and I’m not used to you leaving things out. And then you ask me to stay silent about it. It’s making me worried.”

She gripped the wall until her fingers went numb with cold and tension. Keneel-La was a dear friend, full of understanding. But not even he would approve this time, she was sure of it. He would not allow her to risk it. He would tell her to let her parents rest in peace… but she had come so far. She would not change her mind now.

“It’s all going to be fine,” she said, half trying to convince herself.

He put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it lightly. It was big and warm.

“If you ever decide to open up, I’ll be here. Master Ervine has access to the Arch-Mage’s tower. Tell her any time you want to speak to me. For now, let me at least share how I managed to hold up when the scroll took me.”

Yrith resisted the urge to hug him. Instead, she gave him the warmest look she could produce.

“Thank you,” she wheezed. “You really are the best friend I could wish for.”

His reptilian jaws widened.

“I try, Yrith. I try.”


When Yrith entered Singird’s room exactly a week later, it was unusually cluttered. She could see a number of papers lying around, pendants and paperweights of various shapes, a box divided in two sections with one full of charcoal and the other with chalk… but her eyes fell on the open sack sitting at the feet of Singird’s bed. It was filled with elongated angular glittering stones of various sizes, emanating a soft glow. Yrith raised her brows.

“Soul gems?” she asked.

Singird nodded as he withdrew two pouches from one of his drawers and filled them with the chalk and charcoal. “We will need them for channeling. That should decrease the strain on you. I’m still not too comfortable with this, but it’s the only way I can think of.”

Yrith crossed the room, extending her hand to touch his cheek. It was he who usually reserved this gesture for himself, but now, she felt strangely on top.

“I will be fine. I’ve seen this work before. It was not a soul, but if one can summon an Elder Scroll, one can surely summon a soul.”

Singird quickly washed off the black and white powder from his fingers with magic and took her hand, placing a kiss on its back.

“I suppose. By all accounts, summoning a soul should be easier. But I wonder.”

“Say, Singird. Why your great-grandfather of all people? You’ve never met him, have you?”

He shook his head as he let go.

“Ulfar? No. He died just before the Great Collapse, or at least that’s what my parents thought. The stories don’t match here. Some think that he died in the Great Collapse, some even that he shielded the College from it. According to Drevis, he was the College Protector, so I suppose his death and the Great Collapse might have something in common. But if we are to go through this, I will have to rely on what my parents left behind. As I said before, they were immensely interested in him. All the events that led to their death just make me think that their obsession had something to do with it. Maybe it was the power that my great-grandfather had and someone else desired. I don’t know.”

“College Protector? What is that?”

“Apparently someone who is closely tied to the College and her magic. Someone who shares her power and protects her in times of need, and in return, they are protected by the College. My parents always believed that was a myth. Drevis says otherwise.”

“And what do you think?”

Singird took a moment to ponder her question, closing the sack of soul gems and stuffing it into a backpack. After a short moment of contemplation, he added the two pouches he had filled earlier. Then, he started sorting out the papers, handing a small stack to Yrith.

“After what you told me about your journey through Oblivion, I start reconsidering many things that I used to think were myth,” he said with a deep exhale. Yrith laughed.

“Fair answer. Is this what I think it is?” she asked as she lifted the papers.

“These are the charts we should use. It feels strange to ask this of my former student, but… could you check them after me? I’ve incorporated what was in that book you gave me and your notes from the library, but you can never check too many times. Oh, and here are some notes of mine. I wonder to this day how my parents even managed to pinpoint the exact time of Ulfar’s death, but I am grateful. They left behind some charts too, but those seem to be faulty in the light of your recent discoveries.”

Yrith nodded, taking the papers and spreading them over Singird’s desk. If only he knew that not all her discoveries were so recent.

She looked over the papers. They were full of Singird’s calculations and partial charts he had scribbled just under them. Instinctively, she pulled out the celestial calendar the two of them put together which he kept on his desk. Over the days that she had spent here, she had learned its position among other books so well she did not even need to look to see where she was putting her hand. The notebook landed safely before her. She opened it on the page marking the time of the supposed death of Ulfar Larkwing, comparing the charts.

As always, they were flawless. The path from the time of Ulfar Larkwing’s death to the present was marked with utmost accuracy, every line running exactly where it should, every star marking the appropriate junction, every angle reflecting the precalculated positions. Yrith imagined Singird must have redrawn the charts a few times to achieve this level of precision. She would have expected no less from him.

“Have you even slept these past few days?” she asked as she grabbed the rule at the edge of the desk and put it along a line to measure the distance between two of the stars.

“A little,” he replied and through the rustle of the backpack he kept filling with more tools, she could hear the smile in his voice.

“I’ll take it as a no,” she chuckled.

“One can’t ever lie to you, eh?”

“One can, perhaps. Not you.” She measured another line. “This scale is problematic. Suppose it will be greater when we draw it on the ground, but there might still be places that are not quite accurate.”

“I was thinking about that. Look at the papers marked as DV. What do you think?”

Yrith leafed through the papers until she found a small stack with a red mark in the upper right corner. She scanned them superficially, then grabbed one and studied it carefully. She could see the same patterns as she had seen in the Dwemer conjuration circle in Mzark. Detailed constellations embedded in systems, systems embedded in the related segment of Mundus, scales marked with tiny signs telling how much energy needed to be sent through each connecting line. Singird was good. She had hardly described to him how the Dwemer mechanism worked, but he had managed to reconstruct it perfectly, and at such speed too. No wonder other masters called him a prodigy.

She turned to him, almost feeling the spark in her own eyes.

“This will work,” she nodded. “The destination looks crystal clear. Though controlling all this with magic will be quite something.”

Singird frowned, freezing in the middle of placing the box with chalk and charcoal back on its shelf.

“Will you be all right? If you have any doubts, we should…”

She raised her hands, shaking her head.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, Singird. If I can’t control everything, we won’t even be able to perform the spell.”

Singird sighed, finally putting the box in its rightful place.

“I hope you’re right,” he said. She sensed something in his voice. A doubt, a fear of sorts. But he did not say any more.

She rose, extending her hands to him as she walked to his side. He took them with a warm look in his eyes, pulling her close.

“We’ve gone over the mechanism a thousand times. We even tested it on that familiar you conjured. It will work, Singird,” she told him softly.

It would. Yrith had tested her own part too. She had even tried to call upon the Elder Scroll, feeling its power inside her. Now, it was only a matter of execution. And from Singird’s perspective, she would only be gone for seconds. He would hardly notice a difference.

“I know… but it will be different when it's not five minutes but eighty-two years, a completely different time and season too. When you have to use that Elder Scroll…”

“Just more complex,” Yrith smiled. “Isn’t all we do risky? Wasn’t my whole journey risky?”

“It was. To the point I did not like it one bit.”

He kissed her lightly in her hair. Yrith closed her eyes, squeezing his hands and letting the feeling of comfort spread.

“There will be just a few more risks before we both know our answers. Let’s keep going.”

She felt his head rub against her. A nod.

“I know. We have to… Just please, Yrith… promise me to survive.”

Yrith opened her eyes again, finding his face inches from her. She held her breath.

“I’d like to, Singird,” she whispered. “But not even I can see the future.”

He pressed her against himself, until she felt the heat of his embrace. For just a moment, Yrith opened her mouth. For just a moment, she felt like spilling everything out. It would be fair to him. But he wouldn’t approve. He would never let her do it.

She wrapped her hands around him, keeping the secret safe. Now, the only thing left was to add one more path and one more destination to the conjuration circle once they put it down. A path that would lead her to her parents.


The falling night was still and silent. Singird looked out from his window. The aurora was bright, reflecting in the almost unnaturally peaceful Sea of Ghosts, veiling the stars in a multitude of colors as if it was ready to amplify the spell they were about to perform. Singird sighed. Yrith had been so confident these past two weeks. Sure, she had spent most of her time almost literally buried in books, researching, going over all possible options, considering all potential obstacles and risks, discussing everything with him, sketching, calculating… and sure, she had proven on many occasions she was an exceptionally gifted mage. Still…

Every time he thought about what they were going to do, shivers ran down his spine. They had tried moving a whole familiar in time. It had worked. So why? Why was he getting this strange feeling? Because it was Yrith who would become the medium through which Ulfar Larkwing would speak? No. There was something else… something he was missing. Even though they had gone through everything so many times. Their plan was perfect. Their calculations accurate. No roundings, no approximations. Any number too long or complex to put down was presented in the form of a formula, broken down into fractions, depicted in the charts with absolute precision. Their schematics could almost be called a code. There was meaning hidden inside. A path that would guide Yrith’s magic eighty-two years back, through the history written in her Elder Scroll. An Elder Scroll that she harbored inside her after a rather unbelievable journey through Oblivion.

Perhaps this was all a dream and he would soon wake up to find out none of it was true.

But then again, he did want to know what his parents had been after. After all, if his fathers’ legacy had helped him save Yrith, then it might have been connected. Somehow…

He nodded to himself. He could not keep making excuses. Yrith was right. They had to act.

He checked the contents of his backpack once more. Everything was there. The chalk and charcoal, a few pegs, a thread, the commented charts and calculations, spare soul gems, a rule, a protractor, a compass, some potions just in case. In an ideal situation, they would not need any of this anymore. The whole conjuration circle was already drawn and fixated with magic down at the Atronach Forge. Everything was ready.

With a heave, he slung the backpack over his shoulder, walking to the door. Then he turned to look back, scanning the room. Its state was pristine, as it used to be a long time ago. Somehow, all that order and cleanliness failed to bring the same effect on him as all those months before. Where was his comfort now? It seemed to him it would only come once all of this was over.

Well. Time to make that reality.

With one last glance, he stepped out, shutting the door behind himself and locking it with magic. A quick detection spell revealed that miraculously, the few people who remained in the Hall of Countenance were inside their own rooms. Good. Then it was time to go.

Silently, he snuck down the stairs and out, watching over the darkened courtyard. It was nearly deserted too. Everyone seemed to be up in the Hall of Attainment, dining. That was, everyone save for Qassir Tahlrah who was making his way across in a speedy tempo. As the Redguard passed him, he gave Singird a curt nod, scurrying away. To the Hall of Attainment, Singird realized. He would likely meet Yrith there, who would be right on her way out. But then again, Qassir knew of their relationship. He would likely think that Singird was only meeting with Yrith for the pleasure of it. Soon, he perhaps would.

When the door to the Hall of Attainment snapped shut behind the Redguard, Singird hurried to the trapdoor to the Midden. One more detection spell later, he was climbing down, already feeling the chill of the place. For some reason, the Midden was always much colder than the rest of Winterhold. His cloak suddenly seemed to lack its usual protective qualities. Still, he pulled it closer, setting for the Atronach Forge.

He treaded carefully, stopping every now and then to check for potential threats. One could never be too careful with a place like the Midden. Fortunately, there was no one. No crackling of the ice wraiths, no staggering undead, no troll roars either. The Collegium members must have kept the complex clear of threats when they went to pick up the supplies from Ri’saad. Now, however, not even they should be present. Singird had double-checked Ri’saad’s schedule. He and Yrith had even protected their conjuration circle with a concealing spell.

As the warmth of the Atronach Forge finally embraced Singird, he let out a breath of relief. The diagram on the surface of the forge was intact, still glittering faintly with the power of the powdered soul gems and Yrith’s magic. He looked around, casting the detection spell once more, but Yrith was nowhere to be seen yet. Singird’s eyes found the edge of the forge, but he felt too restless to sit down. Instead, he let his backpack slide on the floor, pulling out the charts and comparing them to the conjuration circle for the umpteenth time.

He found the focus soothing. He could not blame Yrith that she chose books in order to escape from the dread of her dreams. His eyes followed the lines, taking his mind away from all the fear and anxiety he felt. But then, something forced him to stop.

A discrepancy. How could this be possible? Several constellations placed at a different angle. No, this couldn’t be… no one had touched the circle. He would have known. They must have made a mistake. But that was impossible. They had checked it so many times, against these very charts.

He measured again, and again, with the rule and protractor, then with magic, then just with his eyes. The destination was wrong. No, in fact…

There were two sets of constellations in this particular sector instead of one. Singird shook his head in disbelief. Perhaps Yrith had somehow slipped when drawing this part. Now matter how improbable this was… perhaps she had been distracted. If she used the circle in this state, it would lead her to two destinations at once. Two different times to connect to…

This had to be corrected.

He took a breath, grabbing a chalk and readying his magic.


At last, it was time. Singird must have infected Yrith with his uneasiness. She could not even concentrate on eating. Up until now, she had spent her time calling to the Elder Scroll, making sure it was still there as though it should disappear at any moment. It had a calming effect on her, to feel that power inside her. At times, a glimpse of the universe flashed before her eyes, swirling, letting her soar, as though she was connecting to the time itself. She found the feeling immensely liberating, wondering what it would feel like when she directed that power to a certain point in time. For sure it would be different. She was about to find out.

Now, she was peeking into the corridor through a tiny gap between her door and its frame that must have been invisible from the outside, watching as students were shuffling toward the stairs and up, their faces unnaturally pale in the blue light of the College focal point. Every now and then, she shifted her weight, not feeling quite comfortable on either of her feet. The itch in her toes was unbearable.

Finally, the last of her former classmates had disappeared to the upper levels of the Hall of Attainment. She was free to go. She checked her surroundings again with magic. Then, she slipped out, locking the door behind herself. But the moment she turned to the entrance door, it opened and in it appeared Qassir. He stopped when he spotted her with his usual smile playing on his lips.

“Well well,” he purred. “Going out to meet our young master, urchin?”

She felt her lips twitch. So he had met Singird. Oh, if only he knew…

“You still call me that?” she sputtered.

“Well, true, you don’t look much like an urchin anymore,” he laughed. “But for me, you’ll be one for the rest of your days, I’m afraid. Force of habit.” He gave her a wink.

“Glad to know at least some things stay the same,” she snorted. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Oh, before you go… Master Marence wanted to see you. She wants to give you some potions.”

Yrith felt her fingers fidget. Master Marence was currently the least of her concerns. She wondered if she would even remember in a year that her restoration master was waiting for her.

“It’s been almost two weeks,” she muttered. “I don’t need potions.”

“Well, I relayed the message,” Qassir shrugged. “Maybe she just needs an excuse to talk to you. You seem strangely popular with the masters lately. I’m almost jealous.”

“Well, you certainly should. Thank you for the message. I’ll visit her when I find the time. Hopefully her potions will taste like snowberry juice again.”

“Hopefully,” Qassir chuckled. He stepped aside to let Yrith pass. But as she entered the door, his arm shot up, nearly causing her to fall. Yrith glared at him, almost ready to push him aside, but instead, she took a step back. His face was suddenly somber, as though the previous discussion had happened in some different reality.

“What?”

He gazed at her thoughtfully, his brows knitting slowly together.

“Did you say snowberry juice potion?”

Yrith shrugged.

“It tasted like that.”

“When?”

“Well… it’s been a long time. Before I left the College.”

“When exactly?” Qassir pressed. His eyes were fierce, diamond-hard, almost as those times she had seen him fight his enemies. She looked away, finding the first crevice in her sight to fix upon.

“I think… after the avalanche. I hurt my leg and… the first day I went back to the classes…”

He gave a slow, heavy nod, pointing a finger at her.

“Yrith, don’t drink any potions from Master Marence. Or better… don’t drink any potions from anyone. No matter what.”

With that, he stormed past her, to the stairs where the rest of the students had disappeared. Yrith stared at his bouncing back, taking a moment too long to snap out of her surprise.

“Qassir!” she called after him. He glanced at her over his shoulder.

“Don’t do anything!” he called to her. “I will tell you as soon as I confirm something. I promise!”

And he was gone.

Yrith gaped at the stairs with her mouth open. Avalanche. It had been so long ago. She had been so weak back then. So helpless, a subject to so many threats…

Of course. Why hadn’t she realized before? Health potions were not sweet. They were never sweet. How could she have been so ignorant?

But Master Marence? Master Marence of all people? No. It was impossible…

She clenched her fists, almost ready to bolt out after Qassir. But Singird was waiting for her. She could not ignore him. Not this time. Not when everything was ready for that one final touch.

Her fingers dug into the skin on her hands. She darted out into the courtyard, unable to stay calm anymore. No sooner did she look around than she reached the trapdoor to the Midden. From her position, she could clearly see the doors to the Hall of the Elements open. J’zargo and Brelyna, the advanced class students, were just leaving after their evening training. As Yrith watched them, J’zargo noticed her, nodding to her, his whiskers twitching. Yrith cursed her luck.

She waved at the Khajiit politely, then bent down as if she was looking for something. For a while, she wandered around, staring at the ground blindly, watching the image of Qassir’s dark face replay before her over and over again. Waiting for the couple to pass was excruciating. Yrith invested every effort not to grit her teeth painfully, not to run, not to kick something just to cast all the surplus energy away.

One eternity later, they were finally gone. Yrith felt numb in both mind and body, unable to think straight anymore. She took in the cold air, checking her surroundings once more before, at last, she dove underground.

Her detection spells were cast absentmindedly, she was barely looking at the path ahead. Master Marence. It couldn’t be. She of all people would not try to kill her, would she? Someone could have planted the fake potion in her room. But who? How? Did it mean that all her potions were fake? Impossible. Someone would have noticed. Was it really Master Marence? What was it that Qassir needed to confirm?

No… she couldn’t think about this now. Singird was waiting for her with an entirely different task. Just how had Qassir managed to steal her concentration like that? And she had thought it impossible.

She paced through the frozen corridors of the Midden, taking one deep breath after another. Calm, calm…

She knew she was nearing the Atronach Forge when the air became warmer. The ice slowly receded, leaving dirt and stone, rubbed smooth by the tooth of time. For a moment, Yrith could smell mildew and fungi. Then, the warmth gripped her fully, forcing her to take off her coat. Singird was sitting on the edge of the forge platform, just enough to avoid the circle they had so meticulously drawn. When she approached, he jumped to his feet, sizing her up.

“Yrith,” he breathed. “What held you back?”

“Qassir. He…”

The words died on Yrith’s lips. She could see a shadow spreading in Singird’s face when she mentioned the Redguard. Perhaps she should hold her tongue for now. Perhaps she should only worry him when their task was complete. A year after… the list of the things to remember was starting to grow. She drew in the heavy air. Despite the warmth, she could feel her focus returning.

“He was relaying a message from Master Marence,” she said with a shrug. “And then I had to wait until J’zargo and Brelyna cleared the courtyard.”

“Ah. You had it tougher than me.”

“I managed.”

“I have no doubt about that. You were always good at sneaking around.”

Yrith smiled. “Is that a compliment?”

He poked her in the chest. “That is a scolding, Miss Ravencroft.”

“Ah. Pardon me, Master Larkwing. No sneaking from now on.”

“Glad we straightened that out.”

They looked at each other for a moment, then both laughed at once. Yrith could not believe that a moment earlier, she had been so preoccupied with Qassir and his sudden discovery. A single smile from Singird had managed to wipe all her doubts away. A smile just for her. She could not even recall Singird smiling like this ever before. The thought made her feel hot in the cheeks. And now, she would not see that smile for a year.

“So,” she said, inhaling deeply, “shall we begin?”

“Yes. There’s just…”

He hesitated, falling silent. Yrith waited for him to go on, but he said nothing.

“Yes?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. Everything should be ready. Now it’s up to us. Are you… are you sure about this?”

Yrith wondered if this was the thousandth time Singird had asked her this question. As though her answer was never enough. She sighed.

“I’m sure. Don’t worry, Singird. We can do this.”

“I know. I just…” he paused, then shook his head again. “Never mind.”

Yrith looked at him in question, waiting for several moments, but he would not elaborate. She knew it was no use trying to extort it from him. If Singird Larkwing chose to keep his thoughts to himself, there was no way of making him talk. Instead, she walked closer to him, raising herself on her toes to kiss him. He returned it instantly.

“I’m going then,” Yrith said as she pulled back. She climbed onto the platform, treading carefully despite knowing that she could not damage the circle by merely stepping on it. Still, she could not trample what felt sacred to her. She would only touch the two markings at its center denoting the exact place where she was supposed to stand to direct her magic correctly. She stepped on them carefully, measuring the distance between her feet. Adjusting them ever so slightly, she turned to Singird.

“I’m ready,” she informed.

Singird gave her a long, pensive look. She could almost feel the tension in him rising, his silence only emphasizing the impression. Yrith resisted the urge to walk back to him.

“Singird?”

He blinked, shaking his head.

“Yrith… stay safe, please. If anything should go wrong, break off the spell.”

She nodded.

“I’ll try. Though there will come a moment when breaking it off will be impossible.”

“I know… let’s begin.” He moved until he stood just before the tiny casket at the head of the forge, exactly in front of Yrith. Then, he extended his arms and gave a nod.

Yrith returned it, raising her hands and calling forth her magic. As she connected with Singird, she closed her eyes.

She felt his touch, strong and steady. He held her magic well, anchored to this place and time. Now, she needed to expand it through the circle to create a link to the other side. She took a deep breath. She had never performed a spell demanding this amount of control. She had to be aware of every inch of the diagram, send different amounts of energy into its various lines and junctions. She scanned both pathways she had drawn there. The one leading from the time of Ulfar Larkwing’s death to the present. And the one she had added, leading back to the time her parents had been alive. She had chosen the date and time carefully, so that the position of the stars would only seem slightly different from the one marking Ulfar’s death. So that Singird would not notice. Now, when she connected to them, the two destinations felt quite the same.

She suppressed the urge to walk restlessly away from her spot and opened her eyes. Singird stood firmly in his place, looking almost divine in all the bright golden glow coming from the circle. This would be the last time she would see him for a long time. At least for him it would be no more than a moment. At least he would not be the one to miss her.

She smiled at him. Then, she sent her magic in fully, activating both paths at once. Once again, she closed her eyes, reaching deeper inside, searching for the power of the Elder Scroll. It hummed quietly in her, as though breathing, sound asleep.

Guide me, she whispered to it as though she was praying. Guide me to his name.

The scroll awakened. Yrith could feel its power wrap around her, tearing her away from reality. The world spun with her, sent her tumbling through a tunnel of indistinguishable shapes and colors. Yrith felt all her insides turn. She wanted to scream and cough and vomit, but her voice was gone, her chest tight, her whole person squeezed in a tenth of the size it would need to stay alive. She was falling, falling deep into an endless pit. She had no control over her magic anymore. It was now controlling her, her hands numb and helpless.

What was it that Keneel-La had said?

“You have to let the flow take you. No matter how dreadful it feels, do not struggle… it will make it worse.”

She would have liked to take a breath, but she couldn’t. She had to relax, but she couldn’t do that either. The magic was ripping her apart from the inside, yet somehow, she knew she was still whole. Did it keep disassembling her and putting her back together? As though there was no Yrith, but a myriad of particles that made her person. They, and all the energy that bound them together. She did not exist in reality. Nothing existed.

Oblivion… her journey between its planes had been similar. Only back then, there had been nothing. Now, it felt like Yrith was stuck in between everything. The whole existence, every part of Mundus, pressed on her, took her apart. It did not matter if she kept her eyes closed. Either way, the shapes and colors would not disappear, the pressure would not go away, her spirit would not rise.

Let go. Let go…

She couldn’t. She did not know how. The current had taken away all the means. She could only let it dismantle her, only to recreate her again. She could only let the shapes and colors wash over her, crash into her, penetrate her.

As she flew, she heard a voice. A powerful, strong voice, like Keneel-La’s…

She focused on it, letting it take her mind away from everything. It was not Keneel-La. It sounded more like…

“Singird?” she tried speak, but there was only an unintelligible gurgle.

A person materialized before her, made of pale blue light. It was really Singird… yet it wasn’t. This man was unkempt and shabby, as though he had no home to come back to. His eyes were pale, and they were the only thing alive in his face. He pierced Yrith with them, and then he opened his mouth. A single word came out of it, a word in a language Yrith had never heard, yet she knew its meaning.

“Strife.”

Then, just as he had appeared, he was gone. The torrent of colors took her away, washing off the scent of his presence.

And then, Yrith hit the ground.

She screamed the moment her lungs allowed her to. A trickle of blood came down her forehead, and a myriad of minuscule cuts were opening all over her body. Her magic glowed brightly on her skin, pouring through the wounds, only to enter back a moment later, as if it had a hard time deciding where it was supposed to be. Yrith breathed deeply. She was still alive.

“And who in Oblivion are you?” a voice growled just above her.

She flinched in surprise, looking up. She had not anticipated someone would be here to witness her arrival.

The man, standing with his legs in a wide stance just inches from her, was an unexpectedly sturdy Altmer with a master’s robe. Yrith stared at him numbly, her gaze sliding from the muscular shins up to the wide shoulders and then his face. When it reached his eyes, she froze.

She knew this man. Or, she had thought she knew him. These eyes, as impossible as it seemed, belonged to Toddvar.

She gasped, backing away. Was it so easy for him to change appearance? How could he be here, in the Midden? How had he known this would be where she would appear? No, he hadn’t. He clearly didn’t recognize her. What was happening?

“Oh,” he drawled, his lips stretching in a wicked smile. “So this is how it works, eh? One Protector dies, another one appears… Simply killing you won’t do, obviously. Seems I will have to change my methods.”

In the wink of an eye, he raised a hand and fired. Yrith rolled away before the green flash of light from his fingertips could hit her. Her head felt heavy, sending her to the ground. With a groan, she raised a ward just in time to block another spell. She had to do something. Get away, hide…

She crawled to the side, blocking one spell after another, feeling sluggish. Her head hurt. She could barely see what was around. It was only a matter of time before one of his spells would hit her. And she was on her own now. There was no Qassir or Dragonborn to save her, no Leyna to heal her, no Singird or Cain to help her back on her feet. They were not even aware of her existence at this moment.

But there were her parents.

She gritted her teeth, feeling new strength awakening in her. Yes, that’s why she had come here. She had to see her task through. For her parents. For Singird.

She looked up at the man before her, her head sending waves of pain, her eyes watering. He was blocking the way out. She would need to get past him somehow.

She had gotten through worse. She could make it.

Biting her tongue, she forced herself to stand. The world turned upside down for a moment. She held up her shield, closing her eyes to feel everything around her. To her astonishment, she found a tunnel that had not been in the Midden that she remembered. Caved in, likely. But now, she could use it.

Her magic flared deep violet as she called to Oblivion and summoned two atronachs. A storm one to cast missiles, a frost one for close combat. Hopefully, they would keep the man busy. She tried to break into a run, but it was impossible. Even with her eyes closed, the ground quaked with her on every step. She resisted the urge to hold onto the wall, investing everything in her ward. The man laughed.

“Oh, you’ll have to do better than that!”

With that, he sent his magic toward the atronachs, enveloping them, then crushing them as though a giant fist had closed around their frames. As they burst into a myriad of sparks and particles of ice, he grabbed every single one of them, directing them at Yrith. She opened her eyes, strengthening her ward and watching him in horror. Yes, it was the same person as Toddvar, with the same old tricks as before. No doubt.

“Well, you don’t look so well,” he jeered, opening his arms. She could see the magic flow through them, spreading, entering the ground, ceiling and walls. A moment later, it came at her from all sides. She gasped, not quick enough to block all of it. She felt her body harden before it fell, sending in more pain. But she couldn’t cry out now. Her muscles, bones, everything was paralyzed, barely letting her breathe. She watched as he approached, kneeling beside her, still with that nasty smile on his lips.

“Now, what do we do with you?” he whispered. “I’d like to at least know your name before I devour you. You’re not half bad for a toddler your size, I’ll give you that.”

He stretched out his hand. Yrith chased away the million of questions bursting out in her head. Now was not the time. She needed to do something. Quick…

Help…

She felt his finger on her chest. It jabbed into it painfully, sending just a thread of magic inside. She felt it slither in her, finding its way to her head. There, it spread like a cobweb, infesting her, entering her thoughts.

Help, please…

“No one will help you,” he laughed. “It’s just you and me, little child.”

Images flashed before her eyes without control. Daggerfall. Her friends. Erethis of the AWA. Her parents.

“N-no…” she rattled. She had to move. Do something! But her fingers would only move a single inch…

“Oh, you still have the strength to fight back? Why, you’re way more entertaining than old Larkwing!”

Old Larkwing? What was he talking about? No, not now… she needed to escape first.

“Yrith, is it? Yrith Ravencroft. The One Who Speaks True. Good. Very good.”

HELP!

He raised his hand once more. Yrith clenched her fists, fighting the paralysis. This could not be the end. After everything she had gone through…

She grunted, calling the magic from the depths of herself. But it was not the only magic she now had at her command. Something else entered her, cleansing her, freeing her of her pain. As though the whole place was now alive and ready to assist her, its power enveloped her in a bright blue glow, repelling his magic, clearing her head. Suddenly, she felt so light, her mind back at its full power. She jumped to her feet, firing without hesitation. The man only had a split moment to raise a ward. Yrith’s magic washed over him, hitting the walls around him. With a deafening rumble, the ceiling sank down upon him, hiding him from Yrith’s sight. So that was how the tunnel had caved in, she thought sardonically.

Without waiting for a response, she bolted out, letting the magic lead her. The alien power still surrounded her, shielding her from all potential threats. Impossible. What was it that the man had said about the Protector? What was it that Singird had said? No… that was simply impossible. She couldn’t be… could she?

It felt like moments until she reached the trapdoor and eternity until she climbed through it. She did not waste her time checking whether he followed. Eventually, he would. She needed to escape somehow.

With a grunt, she lifted the wooden panel covering the Midden entrance. Daylight hit her, blinding her momentarily. She crawled through the door, letting it close by itself and locking it with magic. At least she would not make it easy for him.

As she finally stood on the College ground, she stared at the courtyard. The focal point at its center swirled wildly, squirting and sputtering like an angry cat. But the thing that caught her attention was not the blue fountain, but rather the crowd of people gathered around it. Even with all her classmates and the Collegium gathered together, Yrith had never seen so many people at the College. And this was not the Collegium. Most of them wore novice or adept robes, a few of them had expert ones. There was a single master among them. The others must have been elsewhere. And no one seemed to be bothered with the lone girl wrapped in magic who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. This was definitely not the College she remembered. There was something off about it all.

She looked toward the entrance gate. It gaped open, as if inviting everyone in and out. Yrith hurried to it, making her way through the crowd. Several people turned after her as she passed them, but she paid them no heed. She had to find her parents. To make everything right.

Wading through the crowd almost felt like working her way through all the people in the Daggerfall market. Only now, there was no Khajiit with exotic wares waiting for her. Instead…

Finally, she was at the gate. Her protective magic was slowly waning away. Her head throbbed again, sending painful signals. She needed to rest and heal. But she couldn't. Not now. She had been here for just a few moments and already managed to make an enemy. The same one she had to face in the future. What irony.

Or was it?

No, it wasn't. Meeting him had been no coincidence. Yrith knew the moment the view of the city outside opened before her.

This was not the Winterhold she knew. Before her, wide and far, spread a mighty city like none she had ever seen. The port bells rang merrily to welcome new ships. Even from here, Yrith could hear the calls of the criers, shouting over the din of the market traders trying to sell their goods. The buildings were tall and their roofs colorful, the streets winding their way through them like a web of snakes. The Winterhold strait did not look so menacing now that there was a rather gentle slope descending toward it, littered with houses of all kinds. And the College bridge was pristine, lined with sturdy banisters made of stone on both sides.

Yrith stared at the image before her, forgetting her breath. She had not imagined this scenario in her wildest dreams. Her parents were not alive at this time. They were yet to be born into this world. For this was the time of Ulfar Larkwing’s death. She had traveled to the time before the Great Collapse.

Notes:

If you can imagine the conjuration circle and understand how the whole process of time travel and conjuring a soul from another time works, it is thanks to RealityGlitch who, with her totally spot-on remarks, managed to turn a totally ambiguous chapter into something tangible and concrete. I am so lucky to have her as my beta! This story would be nowhere near this quality if not for her.

Thank you, RG! <3

P.S. No, I'm not gonna stop thanking you anytime soon. ;)

Chapter 38: The Name Lost in Time

Chapter Text

The flood of sharp light blinded him. Singird stared at Yrith as she stood on the platform, her whole person wrapped in a golden halo. She was more magnificent than ever. The thought made him smile momentarily, until she sent her magic to him. He accepted it, gripping tight. He was the anchor now. Soon, he would be the one to steer the whole mechanism. Until Yrith would come to again.

He took a breath, waiting. The magic swirled ferociously through the links between the stars, blazing and flashing. Singird resisted the urge to run to Yrith or attempt to shield her in any way he could. The spell was working. He felt it through their connection. He felt as Yrith struggled against the chaos that had broken out in her mind. He saw her gasp for breath, blink frantically as if trying to clear her eyes, clench her fists. But the magic still flared and she was somewhat in control yet. Despite herself, she looked so determined, as if her life depended on it. He held the spell active, watching over her, praying in silence.

And then, she disappeared.

Singird gaped at the place where she had stood just a moment before, almost dropping the spell. No, no, he had to hold on. She would come back… she would come back…

But she did not come back. A few moments passed. Nothing happened. She was gone.

“Yrith!” Singird yelled after her, the sound of his voice muffled by the coarse forge walls. No, no, no…

Calm down, calm down, Singird. The spell was still working. He could still feel her on the other side. The conjuration circle shone bright, pulsing like a heartbeat. Why couldn’t he see her? Where was she?

He felt panic spreading through him. He needed to understand what was happening. Was she invisible? No, that wasn’t it. It was as if she had been swallowed by the space itself.

And now, she was moving away from him. Slowly, he felt the link weaken. Instinctively, he extended his hand, still enveloped in the golden glow. But he could not reach her anymore. She was too far, detached already. He felt himself pale, afraid to break the link now. She would come back, wouldn’t she? She would reappear with his great-grandfather’s soul in her, with his words coming through her mouth.

She was still not coming. Soon, she was gone entirely.

No… why?

He had imagined so many scenarios. So many ways things could go wrong. He had gone over each of them, devising emergency plans, thinking up solutions to potential problems. But no amount of imagination had prepared him for this. She was gone. There was nothing to fix. She had simply disappeared.

He was almost ready to pull away and let the despair claim him. But then, he felt something new. With a sliver of hope, he held onto the magic, keeping it linked to the other side. The new entity drew closer with every passing moment. But it was not Yrith. Singird felt nothing of her magical signature. Instead, a completely new person was approaching, with a lot less chaos in their mind than Singird had felt in Yrith’s, as though the current of time, streaming through the pathway opened by the Elder Scroll, could not affect them. With apprehension, Singird cast a quick seal upon the circle to hold whoever would appear inside. Then, with his body tense and his mind numb, he waited.

The time he spent just standing and staring into the golden vortex slowly forming before him felt like forever. His arms hurt already from staying up in the air for so long. He tried to ignore them, breathing deeply to regain composure.

Gradually, taking their time, a person materialized before him. A man in a shabby robe and an equally shabby coat, with wild, pale eyes and tousled beard, and a mop of hair through which a few strands of silver shone like rivers crossing a twilight landscape. His figure was translucent, glowing in pale blue light.

Singird stared at his feet. The man stood over a body. The same person in that same shabby attire, it seemed, lifeless, with his face down and hair spread around his head like a rich tiara.

Singird let his hands finally sink to his sides. If the man washed and shaved and changed his robes, he would perhaps look almost exactly like him. There was little doubt who he was. And it appeared Singird had managed to summon more than just his spirit.

“Oh, brilliant,” the man spoke, and Singird could hear the heavy Falkreath accent in his voice. The one he had fought so hard in the past to get rid of. “That’s a failure among failures. Not only do I get killed when I finally find my target, but now I can’t even pass on? You there!” he pointed a bony finger at Singird. “Release me, will you? What right do you have to keep my spirit trapped in this world?”

Singird opened his mouth and closed it again, searching for the words that eluded him. What was the point in summoning Ulfar Larkwing when Yrith was gone?

“This…” he stuttered, eyes wide, “was not supposed to happen.”

“Oh really?” Ulfar drawled. “Well, it obviously happened, didn’t it? This here,” he gestured to the chain of glowing constellations around him, “what is it? A conjuration circle?” He took a moment to inspect the intricate drawing, his features twisting more and more into something halfway between a scowl and a frown. “Oh… how precise. That would explain all that swirling chaos I went through. And you mean to tell me you drew this without the intention to summon me? What were you trying to do then? Send away that girl I met on my way here? Why then do you have two paths here, eh?”

“Girl…?” Singird’s heart skipped a beat. He must have meant… “Yrith? Where is she?”

“Where, where… Talos Almighty, you can’t be that daft, can you?” The man’s eyes left the circle, giving Singird a careful scrutiny. Then, he raised a hand, pointing a finger at Singird. “You look like me ten years ago, or ten years before my death, that is… you’re my blood, no? Since when has my kin been so ignorant? What are you? My ancestor? Descendant? What date is it anyway?”

“12th Evening Star, year 204 of the Fourth Era…” Singird uttered monotonously.

“Eighty-two years in the future? Well, that’s some life… I mean afterlife. Who are you then?”

“Singird… your great-grandson.”

Singird stared at his great-grandfather with empty eyes, hating this whole conversation. It should have been Yrith’s voice that spoke those words. Why…

“Well then, Singird. Where do you think your… Yrith, you called her? Interesting name… very interesting…”

“Where is she?” Singird pressed.

“You drew this circle and you really don’t know?” Ulfar snorted.

A feeling of uneasiness spread through Singird like a flood. No…

“I didn’t…” he breathed. “Yrith did…”

“Oh. So she managed to sneak in another path, did she? She wanted to get to my time so badly?”

Singird stared at him numbly. What was he talking about? Another path? His time? Why would Yrith…

No… she couldn’t have…

But she had acted so strange…

Why would she want to switch with Ulfar Larkwing?

No… that wasn’t it. She wouldn’t want to switch. She must have aimed for some other time… the destination Singird had so proactively removed, thinking it was a mistake. But he had missed the path. His eyes wandered to the circle, studying the golden lines which now only served to keep Ulfar in place, then gazing deeper, beyond the glow, to a smoldering sequence of powdered soul gems. It was almost invisible, lining the other path so closely he could barely see it. Why? Why?

“Yrith…” he whispered. “What have you done?”

He should have spoken to her. He should have known, he should have stopped her. She had kept secrets from him before. He had been so naïve, thinking it would change so easily when all she ever expressed was uncertainty. Why couldn’t he have been more perceptive?

“Well, she obviously went back,” Ulfar snickered, seeming royally entertained by Singird’s inner torment.

Singird clenched his fists, wishing to punch the obnoxious spirit. But ultimately, he was right. She had gone to his time. Now she was stuck there, with no way back, in a world that was unaware of her existence.

He raised his head, turning to his ancestor sharply.

“How do I get her back?” he asked. “There is a way, isn’t there?”

Ulfar laughed. “Is that why you called me? To get back the little lamb that literally made you cast her away?”

Singird glared at him, drawing the air in deeply to calm himself.

“The plan has changed.”

“Oh. So now you want to recover your stray. Can you even do it? She was the one to power this circle, wasn’t she? Your power can’t compare to hers. Especially when she so conveniently used an Elder Scroll.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Foolish lad. What do you think spirits are made of? For us, magic, in any form, is like heat for the living. And I studied all kinds of magical sources in my life. I can recognize the power of an Elder Scroll when I feel it.”

Singird’s lip twitched. If not for Yrith, the only thing he would now dream of would be sending the spirit on his way.

“If you say so. But then, you know how to get her back, don’t you?”

“Oh, she could perhaps get herself back on her own, if she has an anchor, which she doesn’t, and if that Elder Scroll permits it.”

“Permits it? What do you mean?”

“You really don’t know anything, do you? Even I know that the events written in the Elder Scrolls cannot be so easily changed. One Elder Scroll is a spectrum of possibilities, but within certain constraints. From the moment that girl found it, it guided her steps. It whispered silently in her ears. Of course she could have chosen to not listen. Perhaps she would be able to cast that scroll out then. But she listened. She made that choice and traveled to the past, as it was most likely written in the Scroll. Now we can wonder whether her journey back is written there as well.”

“So I’m supposed to just wait and see? I refuse.”

“Well, finally a trait I recognize,” Ulfar smirked. “Then I suppose you better…”

Singird could not hear the rest of the spirit’s answer. A sudden blow knocked him off his feet. He landed on the hard floor, feeling the impact reverberate through his body. A thundering rumble resounded all around him, shaking the very foundation of the place. He looked around, searching for a possible cause, but there was nothing he could see within the confines of the Atronach Forge. He stared at his great-grandfather again. To Singird’s utter disbelief, the spirit began laughing maniacally.

“Is this your doing?” Singird growled. He was regretting ever wanting to summon him. As if this person could ever help him anyway.

“My doing?” Ulfar chortled. “Oh, this is brilliant. You really think a spirit could manipulate anything in this world?”

Singird took a breath to calm himself. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to think anymore. Your quite unfathomable amusement doesn’t help it.”

“Oh I am amused, indeed! Your all-powerful girl disappears and suddenly, the College is under attack. Can it get any better?”

Singird felt all the blood retreat from his face.

“Under attack? What do you mean?”

“Oh, you really can’t feel it? The power swirling around, thirsty for more? I have experienced it before. Just before my death, as a matter of fact. Someone has been waiting for this moment, haven’t they? The College has lost its Protector.”

“What? The Protector… I thought you were the last one.”

“Last one? Oh, no, I couldn’t be, could I? Without its Protector, the College will not stand. There had to be one… It looks like the College did the only logical thing when the last Protector was suddenly replaced by another person.”

Singird shook his head. “No… it… can’t be…”

“But it would only make sense, wouldn’t it? The power I felt from her on the way through the time rift… one isn’t born with such a thing, wouldn’t you say?”

“But… she was…”

Ulfar’s laughter almost shook the walls, drowning the rumble from the outside.

“What? You don’t really believe that, do you? No one is born with this much magic.”

Singird frowned. It just couldn’t be true. Yrith had been born with her magic. Qassir had said it himself. She was… genuine. The whole AWA had been fighting over her.

He looked deeply into Ulfar’s ghostly eyes, his face hardening.

“You’re mistaken. That power is hers. Besides, she was born in Daggerfall. How could the College reach her there?”

The spirit tapped his forehead in a haughty gesture. Singird gritted his teeth.

“Think, my dear great-grandson. Read our history, contemplate the subtleties… why do you think the Septims did not have to travel all over Tamriel to light the Dragonfires?”

“What does that have to do with Yrith?”

“Everything!” Ulfar threw up his arms, gesturing to his whole surroundings. “It is magic. Ever-present magic… every place with a strong magical presence extends its tendrils far into the world. The Dragonfires were placed in the center of the Imperial City, and yet, they could protect the whole Tamriel. Because their power was simply that strong. When I became the Protector, I had… dreams. Especially after using my magic, and the more I used, the wilder the dreams. I had visions… of remote places. I could feel other people. Their pains and joys. Everything. There were times I thought I would go insane. All because I was linked with the College and she… she watched over the world. Felt with it. She made me see.”

Singird opened his mouth and closed it again. He wanted to argue, to deny everything… but Ulfar had managed to disarm him. Dreams… Yrith had described the same to him. Long time ago… Drevis had even explained the process. Why had Singird not connected the dots?

Because… he could never accept that Yrith’s power was not hers.

Because he had not known back then that she would travel back in time.

Because there had been so many variables and so few confirmed facts.

Oh, if Qassir knew. If Yrith knew…

Singird blinked slowly, gazing at the spirit’s translucent body as though time had stopped. Another impact almost sent him to the ground. If someone was attacking the College, then a battle was taking place outside. While Yrith was gone. Yrith, born to be the Protector by her own choice…

It did not make any sense. It was a loop.

“So, you mean to tell me that when Yrith was born… she was already…?”

“Surprised? That’s the past she created for herself. We are living the consequences. The College must have been aware of her from the first moment she appeared. Before she was born.”

“We are living the consequences…”

The rumbling gained on strength. A shower of dust sank down on the floor. Singird scrambled up to his feet, feeling as though he was floating above the surface instead of standing. He must have been dreaming, there was no other way. But no matter how many times he tried to wake up, the dream would not go away. It clouded his mind like a thick haze, preventing him from thinking clearly. Living the consequences… what did that even mean?

“But if it is as you say,” he pronounced slowly, struggling to piece reality together, “then there must be some signs of what happened in the past… somewhere…”

“Indeed, there must be. Yet this world is still turning and you did not learn the future before it happened. What does it tell you?”

“That…” Singird rubbed his head. His mind refused to work. At such a crucial moment, he had to turn the cogs by force. “That I didn’t see them. Or didn’t understand them. Or they weren’t clear enough… everything together perhaps…”

“Perhaps.”

Singird propped his back against the wall and lay his head in the palms of his hands. This was all so wrong. If Ulfar spoke the truth, nothing he would have done could have stopped Yrith from going back in time. It had already been given. He was entirely powerless. But then, was the College destined to perish? Would he die here, together with everyone else?

No… he had been powerless before. But no more. He would not let the past steer his fate any longer. Yrith had gone, yet he was still here, making the future. There had to be something he could do. A way to make things right…

“What were you saying about bringing Yrith back?” he asked, letting his hands sink.

The spirit gave a snort. “Why do you keep interrogating me? As if you didn’t know it yourself already. You have summoned me here, have you not?”

“And there’s no other way? I need a lot of power and an Elder Scroll?”

“Oh, thinking of easy ways, eh? No, there are no easy ways, boy, in anything. You can choose between hard and impossible. No other options. Not to mention you have listed the simpler of the three conditions.”

“The simpler…”

Of course. There was the circle. The conjuration circle he and Yrith had been working on for nearly two weeks. The one that his parents had helped him sketch previously. They had done most of the work. But now, he knew nothing of Yrith’s influence on the present. He did not know what time and place he was supposed to target. There was so much he did not know. And books would not help him this time. Unless Urag gro-Shub could offer an Elder Scroll…

Gro-Shub…

That was the one person he could not face. He would kill him if he knew what happened to Yrith. He had almost tried already, back when Singird and Yrith fought. When she blamed Singird for telling the orc the secret of her parents’ death. While the orc had known already…

Wait.

No. That was impossible…

Or was it?

Gro-Shub was an orc. How long do orcs live? They are mer, after all…

Singird slapped himself with both hands. How could he have missed it?

“The fool I’ve been!” he called into the empty air. He gave one last glance to Ulfar Larkwing, then turned to the exit and bolted out.

“Where are you going?!” the spirit yelled after him. “You can’t leave me here!”

Singird could and he would. The spirit was not alive. He would wait for him and provide all the answers Singird needed. That was, almost all. But now, there were other things to do.

Singird ran, trying to ignore the constant rumbling and impacts. With a quick gesture, he lit the way with magic, not stopping for a moment. Several times, he almost fell, but somehow always found a wall, a sconce or whatever was in his way to hold onto. Dust rained on his head, back and shoulders. It smelled of fungi, but Singird did not waste his time with cleaning himself. It was late already. Hopefully not too late.

He found himself breathless all too soon, but forced himself to run on. His chest felt tight, his throat hurt. Two turns later, he tripped over a fallen wall stone. He raised himself on his elbows, gazing forward. The rumbling had stopped. Instinctively, Singird looked up, to where the College courtyard supposedly spread, wondering what went on up there. He was still alive. That must have meant the College had not fallen yet. Of course it wouldn’t. The Collegium would not make it so easy for the invader, would they?

With a grunt, he compelled himself to stand. He took a deep breath, breaking into a run once more. The trapdoor was just one turn away.

When he reached the ladder leading up to the courtyard, he was wheezing like an old man. Still, he did not stop to catch a breath. Instead, he gripped the bars firmly, climbing up and slipping out of the Midden.

The courtyard was full of people. Students and masters alike stood around the central focal point. Some people watched as its light sputtered, sending a bright flash to the skies every now and then. Others ran around frantically, like a pack of mindless skeevers. Several people stood by the gate, their hands flaring with magic. It was almost impossible to discern them in the dark, although Singird could have sworn he recognized Faralda by her graceful moves and Colette Marence by her intricate hairstyle that shaped her head into a tangled mass.

Gritting his teeth, he turned away, running toward the Hall of the Elements. But before he could touch the gate, it opened before him. In it stood the very person he was looking for.

“Gro-Shub!” Singird shouted over the din.

“Nice to see you, Larkwing, but if you’ll excuse me, I have to…”

“No! I need you!”

The orc gave an exasperated grunt. “What now?”

“You knew! You knew this would happen!”

“Larkwing…”

“You knew Yrith would go back in time, didn’t you? You said it yourself. When she blamed me for revealing her secret to you… you said that she told you herself! That was eighty-two years ago, wasn’t it? You knew this whole time!”

Urag stopped in his tracks, slowly turning to look Singird in the eye. He sighed.

“And? What should I have done?”

Singird stared at him, almost forgetting to breathe. Never had he seen so much helplessness in the librarian’s eyes. Never had he heard so much despair in his voice. He sized the orc up, stopping at his bent back, at the stooped head, at the lifeless face.

Singird bit into his lip, feeling blood surface on it. He could not blame Urag. Not this time.

“It’s not what you should have done,” he said quietly, “but rather what we will do. We need to get her back, gro-Shub. Help me.”

“You can’t get her back, Larkwing.”

“I can. I already summoned one soul. I will summon Yrith as well.”

“But you won’t.”

Singird clenched his fists, itching to shake the orc. “Gro-Shub, you’re not making it easy.”

“I’m not trying to make it easy. I’m stating the facts.”

“You can’t state the facts when you don’t know.”

The orc shook his head, looking away. Singird could have sworn the librarian’s hands were trembling.

“No, you don’t understand. She died there, Larkwing. She’s dead. Gone!”

Singird froze. The shouts of the crowd behind him, the hisses of the magical fountain, the humming of the barrier slowly forming above the College… everything was suddenly muted. He gaped at the orc, wide-eyed, unable to move or utter a sound. Yrith had died? No. He had heard wrong. He must have heard wrong. Urag gro-Shub had not said that. Singird's mind had made that up.

But he had clearly seen the orc's mouth move… if this was not what he had said, then…

“... what?”

“Please… don’t make me repeat it.”

He had said it, hadn’t he?

“But… she can’t be…”

“Larkwing… we're on our own. She’s not here anymore. Now if you'll excuse me…”

No. It could not be true… no matter what, Singird could not let Yrith die. Ever.

With his brows knit together, he stepped into the orc’s path, pointing a finger at him.

“No. I will not. There must be something we can do, gro-Shub. Tear her out of there just before she dies… anything.”

“There is nothing! Understand? Trust me, Larkwing, there is nothing I would like more than to go and rescue her. I’ve lived eighty-two years knowing that one day, I would have to say goodbye to her, that I can do absolutely nothing to change it. Because no matter what, I can’t change the past. She tried and failed. If you try, you will fail too.”

“Oh, really? But you did something, didn’t you? You tried to stop her. Back when we fought…”

“Well then… now you at least see what real despair looks like,” the librarian snapped. “Out of my way. There’s a College to protect.”

Singird loosened his hands, only to clench them again, fighting the urge to hit something. The wall, the orc, anything… she couldn’t be… the College needed her… he needed her…

He glanced over his shoulder, to the few mages keeping the gate sealed. To the flickering barrier arching over the whole academy. It would not last. It could only take so much. Just how much difference had Yrith made? And now, she had just disappeared, without a successor.

But there had to be a successor… if Yrith was dead… but then, if there was one, this would not be happening…

With an overwhelming wave rising in his chest, Singird turned back to the librarian, grabbing his arm before the orc could circle him.

“She’s not dead,” he said firmly.

“I told you…”

“She’s not dead. If she was, there would be another Protector. But she is stuck in time, detached, but alive. There’s no one else. Gro-Shub, speak. What do you know? What happened? We can still save her.”

The orc stared at him. For a moment, Singird could see wild sparks flare in his eyes.

“I saw her die, Larkwing. With my own eyes. How could she not be dead?”

Still, Urag’s tone was not so sure anymore.

Singird put his hands on his hips, standing even wider. “I can only think about that when you tell me the story. Gro-Shub, please. There is no time to waste.”

“Fine,” the orc breathed shakily. “If you so insist. Follow me. But you better have a good solution to offer in return.”

He turned back to the Hall of the Elements, beckoning to Singird. At last.

Singird walked in with his fists still clenched. He had a solution to offer. Not a good solution. It was the worst possible solution and he hated it. But he would save her. No matter what the cost.


Yrith watched as people streamed past her, into the College and out again. So many people… out of which no one knew her. Her head throbbed with their steps. She needed to rest for a while, find a quiet place… but the moment she would, the power-crazy elf would come hunting her. Here, at least, she felt somewhat safe. He would hardly dare assault her out in the open. Hopefully.

But solutions did not usually present themselves in crowds of strangers.

Where would she go? She had to find a way back to her time. But how? She would need a skilled conjurer to assist her. Who? Could she even risk asking a stranger?

No… she was on her own. She had to find another way. Perhaps the library was open. After all, there were so many books on conjuration, Elder Scrolls and whatever else might help her that she had not yet read. And she had time. Plenty of time.

She let the crowd steer her back to the courtyard, her eyes wandering to the Hall of the Elements. It would be different this time. Not the safe haven she was used to, but a new place with new management. Then again, nothing was the same. She walked through the place that was supposed to be familiar, not feeling even that sliver of homeliness she had felt upon her return from High Hrothgar. The College had been… would be… broken and nearly deserted, the great city ruined and forlorn, and yet, she found more solace in that quiet world than she could ever find here. It did not help to know that she did not belong here.

When she entered the Hall of the Elements, the many voices echoing from wall to wall made the pulsing in her head even worse. She excused herself as quickly as possible, fighting the stairwell to the Arcanaeum. At least there, it seemed quiet enough.

The door to the library gave an unpleasant creak when she slipped through it. The Arcanaeum was surely lighter than she remembered it, and it seemed vaster. Thin white curtains were draped along its tall windows, caressing the bookshelves that were somewhat taller. Others, in turn, were missing, replaced by statues, busts and images capturing the Battle of Sancre Tor, Mannimarco’s fall, Martin Septim’s transformation into the dragon form and other historical events. In a way, this library seemed more like a museum to Yrith, grander and less cozy. Still, the apparent lack of people told her that this remained a sacred place. Thank the Divines.

She walked further inside. The front desk was occupied by a stern-looking Breton lady, scribbling something into a thick book, occasionally looking sideways into another open tome. Yrith paused for a short moment, wondering whether she should bother her. The less people knew about her the better. But before she could make a decision, a voice from the sidelines made her nearly jump in surprise.

“You there! I haven’t seen your face before. You clearly don’t belong here! What’s your business?”

Yrith turned after the voice, spotting a robed orc hurrying toward her. As he paced across the aisles, he shut the book he was holding, tucking it under his arm. He could not be much older than Yrith, but he had already managed to grow a slight hump on his back, likely from the constant reading. She smiled inwardly, remembering Urag who always told her to straighten up. Now this one…

She stared at him. That familiar frown, those bushy eyebrows, the hair pulled up in a bun not to hinder his sight…

No, that couldn’t be…

“Urag?” she tried.

To her surprise, he stopped, raising his brows. She took the chance to study him closer. His nose too was this hook-like snout, sticking out from his now strangely beardless face.

“Do we… know each other?” he asked, his frown now dissolving into confusion.

There was no doubt. Even his voice was the typical low grumble Urag always had, albeit slightly sharper than before. Or, rather, after.

“Well…”

And now what? Yrith had no idea what she would tell him. Was she even allowed to talk to him? But she already was talking to him. And unlike the rest, he was a familiar face. She could trust him.

“We… don’t. But we will. In the future.”

The orc raised his brows even higher, letting out an amused snort.

“An admirer?” he laughed. “Aren’t you talking to the wrong person? I thought Savos was the one to attract ladies. Although,” he paused to study Yrith from top to bottom, “given your condition, I suppose I understand you want someone more in your league.”

Yrith felt herself redden, touching her face instinctively.

“Condition?” she uttered in disbelief. “This is… what do you mean in my league?”

“Well, pardon me,” he gave a wide shrug, “I just don’t suppose a handsome elf in his prime would bother with a blotted human with blood on her face, covered in dirt from head to toe. An orc might perhaps give it a thought.”

Yrith’s mouth twitched. “Ah, pardon me for being blotted. I never knew Urag gro-Shub was such a troll’s skull. For someone who likes to sleep with a cat-shaped bookmark under his pillow, you sure talk like a sod.”

“What does my way of sleeping have to do with… wait. How do you know that? I’ve never… who are you?”

Finally.

“Definitely not an admirer,” Yrith exhaled. “You are an order-loving orc with a weakness for new inventions, your favorite series is The Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, your dream is to collect all of Shalidor’s work and your script is neater than that of most high elves. Sorry if that makes me sound even more like an admirer… I’m Yrith. Just a person who has found herself at an entirely wrong time and needs to go back.”

“I have no idea what in the name of Malacath you’re talking about,” Urag shook his head, “but you are almost uncomfortably knowledgeable about me. If you’re so keen on talking to me, let’s go outside the library before someone comes to complain.”

Yrith cast a yearning look at one of the remote bookshelves, but nodded nonetheless.

“Very well. Lead the way.”

The orc nodded, taking off to the entrance.


“So… let me sum it up,” Urag said slowly, his fingers sliding gently across the surface of his book. “You come from year 204. You wanted to go one year back, but the spell went wrong and you traveled all the way here, because… your partner wanted to summon… Ulfar Larkwing? That old codger? And he’s… dead?”

Yrith sighed. “I know it’s hard to believe, but…”

“Hard to believe? It’s insane! And hard to believe, yes. Who in their right mind would believe you?”

“Well… you?” she asked innocently.

“And why would I do that? Where’s your proof?”

“Do you want me to name more of your secrets?”

Urag let out a long breath, pressing his back into the wall they sat by. Up here on top of the Hall of the Elements, sitting like this, they could only see the unusually blue sky in all its vastness. The orc stared up for a good moment before turning back to Yrith.

“Say, how did old Larkwing die?”

“Good question,” Yrith said. “I didn’t see him die. But when I got here, there was a man standing above me. An Altmer with wide shoulders and eyes that looked more human than elf. He wasn’t exactly friendly.”

“Orthis? Him? Oh no, no way. I mean, he was never really friendly with anyone, but he wouldn’t… kill one of his fellow masters.”

“He definitely tried to kill me. He also said this… what was it? One Protector dies, another one appears…

“Protector?” Urag burst out laughing, his book slipping from his lap as he slapped his thighs. “Oh, that’s good. That’s godsdamn brilliant! And you think you are the Protector now?”

“Don’t laugh! How would I even know? It’s what he said.”

Yrith wondered how this young Urag would react if she had told him about the power helping her escape her new enemy. She wasn’t sure she wanted to speak about it anymore. He seemed far too entertained at her expense. She sighed, laying her head on her arms that she had propped against her knees. It felt soothing to shift the weight of all her worries elsewhere for a while.

“What does a Protector do anyway?”

“Well, what… I never really studied that. Apparently, they are capable of communing with the College, shielding her while she protects them.”

“So in practice, that would mean that no one can harm the College as long as the Protector lives?”

“I’d say so, yes. What, you think that Orthis wants to harm the College?”

“It’s… a possibility.”

“And why would he do that?”

“To gain power? I mean, it does feel like a lot of power…”

Urag sat up, his book safely back in his lap. He gave Yrith a long, scrutinizing look, stopping first at her hands, then her eyes.

“Feel? You mean to tell me that you do have that power?”

Yrith shrugged.

“Give me your hand.”

She could very well make Urag feel whatever she wanted without touching. But perhaps holding hands would have a more convincing effect.

He gave a snort, but still held out his hand. Yrith took it. It was rather smaller than she remembered it.

Closing her eyes, she took a breath merely out of habit, connecting with Urag and spreading her magic over the College. If she was to commune with her, it would take more than just feeling the walls of the building. The building must have been a mere vessel. Then there had to be magic.

Instinctively, Yrith targeted the closest focal point. The one shooting through the Hall of the Elements. As she delved inside, an overwhelming power washed over her, making her gasp for air. Yrith could feel the blue fountain still sputtering, but underneath all the wild hisses and movement, there was a quiet voice. It called to her in a language so primal that instead of words, she felt it deep in the core of her bones. A cry for help. A warning before a present threat. He ran free again, outside the Midden, through the courtyard, ruthlessly fighting his way through the many people. Hurt and angry. Searching for Yrith. Lustful for the power that she carried within. Thirsty for vengeance.

Yrith opened her eyes again, letting the magic recede. Urag was yelling at her, pulling away. She let go, blinking, trying to chase away the echo of the College’s voice.

“What in Oblivion…?!” he gasped, sliding good three paces away from Yrith. “How… you… that was…”

“I’m sorry,” she raised her hands, palms in, hoping Urag did not realize she could harm him no matter which direction her hands faced. “I… this was my first time… I never realized she would be this… intense.”

“N-no…” he shook his head, breathing deeply in apparent effort to calm himself. “I should be the one to say sorry… you have to be telling the truth. You just… I’m grateful she did not choose me as her Protector. This is too much… way too much…”

“It is,” Yrith concurred quietly.

“Orthis… I could feel him too.”

Yrith nodded. “I know.”

“You know that sooner or later, he will find us here.”

“I suppose he will. But I need to go back to the library.”

“Ah, right. You were on the way there when I first spotted you, weren’t you? What did you want there? Can’t it wait?”

“Wait for what? I have to get back to my time, Urag. And I don’t know how to do it without Singird.”

“Get back? But you’re the Protector! What’s going to happen to the College?”

“The College will survive.”

“With Orthis around?”

Yrith gave a heavy sigh. “Yes. Somehow… the same man with a different face and different name will be after me in the future, and the College will still be standing. I always wondered why he wanted to kill me so much… now I think I know.”

She buried her face in the palms of her hands, trying to suppress the stinging in her eyes. In the end, everything she did was futile. Her future was already shaped by her past. She had not realized that even her journey back in time was already on the record, affecting her future, guiding her every step. She was walking in a loop, just as Septimus Signus had told her. Now she understood the reason for his anger. And it was too late.

“Oh Singird…” she breathed, pressing her fingers against her temples until it almost hurt. “Why do I always make all the wrong choices?”

“Like you are about to make right now?” Urag uttered dryly at her side. She shook her head.

“You don’t understand. I lied to Singird for this. I came here… I mean, I wanted to come to year 203… to save my parents. To literally give their life back to them before they would be killed. I was worried that he would try to stop me… and he would have been right to do so. How could I have ever thought it would work? It won’t. I can’t ever work… and now I am here, having already faced the consequences of what I’m doing right now. It doesn’t make sense!”

She heard a rustle beside her. Urag must have been shifting in his place.

“No, it doesn’t,” he said. “But then, if you really lived through the consequences, it must have worked out somehow, no? The world will not crumble in the future.”

“No, it won’t… but then, I still need to find the name.”

“The name? What name?”

Without raising it, Yrith turned her head a little to look at the orc, gaining a skewed view of his person, now sitting with his knees up, pressing his book against his chest.

“The second reason I wanted to go back to my parents…” she muttered, “to find the true name of my enemy. Now I’m almost sure it’s this Orthis… in my time, he calls himself Toddvar.”

“And your parents knew it?”

“I’m assuming so.”

“Maybe someone here would know it too. We could ask people who are close to Orthis…”

“No, it’s not that simple. It’s not just a name. It has… a meaning. In the Tongue of the Old. It’s supposed to be some kind of divine language… and if you name a thing or a person in that language and have enough power, you should be able to control them. Not just anyone can speak that name, I assume.”

“And here I thought your well of surprises was almost depleted…” Urag shook his head in disbelief. “Do you realize that if you told this to anyone else, that person would have found you completely insane?”

“I… suppose they could.”

“Ironically, this sounds like something old Larkwing would have been interested in. He always muttered all these strange incantations to himself. One of the many reasons few people ever found the courage to speak with him.”

“Well, but he’s… wait.” Yrith straightened her back, staring emptily into the wall on the opposite side of the tower. Fate must have been toying with her. There was no other explanation. “Ulfar Larkwing… knew… It was him all along! Damn it to Oblivion, how could I be so blind?! Singird’s parents kept looking for a way to revive him, Singird’s parents found Toddvar’s secret army…”

And Selas Travi, who had been killed by Toddvar, or his men, had told Yrith to look for the name lost in time with his last breath. Selas Travi who had been, according to Leyna, very much interested in linguistics and dictionaries. Why did it only make sense to her now? She’d had it in plain sight all along, so clear, and yet she had failed to notice. And Orthis was after more than just power. He had wanted to rid the world of his name. And he had managed it…

“Damn… damn… I’ve been such a fool…”

“But… you can’t be sure,” Urag uttered quietly, laying a hand on her shoulder. “For all I know, Larkwing was a crazy old codger…”

“He wasn’t crazy. Just… single-minded… damn… this really is a loop…”

She blinked to clear her eyes, regaling Urag with a long, solemn look.

“Urag… can you promise me something?”

The orc flinched, as though something slapped his face.

“W-what is it?”

“I am going back to the future. For sure. So… no matter what happens… can you keep my presence here a secret? Once I disappear, can you keep it to yourself? Especially from me… we are going to know each other in some eight decades, you know.”

Urag let out a breath. “You know that climbing the Red Mountain would be easier than this, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry, Urag. I know this is a heavy burden… but I also know you will manage. You already have.”

He clutched her shoulder, giving a small nod. “Very well. But you’ll owe it to me once you return.”

“Fair enough,” she smiled.


“‘You’ll owe it to me once you return…’ I really said that to her.”

Urag gro-Shub was clutching his head so tight that the wrinkles on his skin turned into folds, making him look like a green-skinned horker. Singird did not laugh at the sight. The orc looked outright miserable, and if Singird did not know better, he would have sworn the librarian was on the verge of crying.

Singird kept silent. He stared at the orc, half feeling his despair, half reflecting on what he had just heard. The Demon’s name… so this was what it was for. How could he not see it? He had received that AWA book from gro-Shub, after all. He had been given cues… but he’d had little time to follow up on them. And of course the orc would not talk to him. He had been bound by an oath of silence. But not anymore…

“So… we have the name… but not Yrith…” he uttered numbly.

The library door opened. Singird raised his head to find the Dragonborn, his sharp, beady eyes scanning the Arcanaeum until they found its only two occupants, sitting across each other in armchairs with their faces grave and their shoulders stooped. Singird studied the lizard. The Dragonborn too seemed to have lost his good humor.

“Excuse me… what did you just say?” he breathed.

So he had heard them. Singird sighed. He did not feel like explaining everything all over to Keneel-La. There was no time for it either. Even if right now, Singird’s whole body felt paralyzed, pushed down by the weight of the situation.

“It’s… complicated…”

The lizard paced in a speedy tempo toward the two of them. “I’ve been looking for Yrith… Where is she? What happened?”

“Some eighty-two years in the past,” Singird muttered.

There was a moment of silence. Keneel-La stared at him, his jagged brows slowly furrowing into a deep frown.

“Eighty-two years? I thought she was going to… where is she, Master Larkwing?”

Singird shot the lizard a withering look.

“I just told you… I know it sounds unbelievable but…”

The Dragonborn shook his head. “No, I mean her physical vessel, not her mind. Where is her body?”

Singird waited for further explanation, but none came. He raised a brow.

“What do you mean, her body? She's not here. She leapt through time, using an Elder Scroll.”

The Dragonborn inspected Singird’s face, perhaps looking for a sign of amusement. When he did not find any, he propped himself against the backrest of an empty chair, letting out a long breath.

“You mean to tell me that… she went there physically?”

“Is there any other way?”

“What…”

The lizard froze, for a moment looking like a mere statue. Petrified… which, as Singird realized, would not be far from the truth.

“Oh Talos preserve us…” he spoke at last. “I never thought… when she said she could create a rift…”

“Wait.” Singird raised a hand to silence him, pulling himself on his feet. He could not stay in one place any longer. Instead, he circled his armchair, pulling on his fingers just to occupy his hands, trying to shake off at least a sliver of the sudden tension he felt. “You knew? You knew what she was going to do?”

The lizard sighed. “She asked me about the Elder Scroll. How to use it. I told her what I could. I never assumed she would try traveling to the past physically. When I searched for a way to defeat Alduin, I used an Elder Scroll which brought me into a distant memory. It was just my mind. I never even imagined there was a way to…” He shook his head helplessly. “I’m sorry, Master Larkwing. I was too limited by my own experience to imagine the consequences.”

“It… it doesn’t matter,” Singird muttered, pacing to a bookshelf and back. It did matter. But he had to be reasonable. This was no time for meaningless squabbles. No time for blame, excessive talks…

No time for excessive thinking either. Dammit…

“We need to get her back,” he breathed, feeling the tremble in his voice. “Gro-Shub says… he says that she died. I refuse to accept that option.”

Keneel-La’s knuckles cracked as he gripped the edge of the backrest tighter.

“She… what?”

“She died,” Urag repeated darkly. Singird turned to him. He had almost forgotten the orc was still with them. “Before my very eyes. Now, Larkwing claims she can’t be dead. And that’s why we’re here.”

“No, she can’t.” Singird tried to persuade his voice to sound firm. It was an assumption from his part. But she had to be alive. There was no other way. “Will you join us, Keneel-La? We need to get her back. If you know about Elder Scrolls, then your input will be very valuable. Since I don’t have one, I need to find a way to simulate their mechanism to connect to the past again.”

“Well, we do have an Elder Scroll,” Urag said.

Singird stared at him, freezing in place. “We do?”

“Three of them, in fact,” Keneel-La added.

“How…”

“The ones I have gathered on my adventures and donated to this library,” the lizard continued. “Well, to Urag, I suppose. The question is whether it will work as intended. Yrith’s Elder Scroll was tailored for her, quite obviously. And she is powerful. I believe there has to be some power investment in the process?”

“Quite a big one,” Singird nodded. “And two people are required to perform the whole ritual. One as an anchor to keep the magic in place, the other one to guide the magic and power the whole spell. The problematic part is that they should both be able to understand how it works, which limits our potential candidates to myself and Master Gestor. Or, potentially, Qassir Tahlrah.”

“Still, with that amount of power… can you do it, Master Larkwing?”

“A good question,” Urag mumbled. “Larkwing, do you even realize what you’re saying?”

Making another round to the bookshelf and back, Singird turned to the orc. “What exactly do you mean?”

“You must have realized by now. You have neither as much power, nor a compatible Elder Scroll. On top, you can’t just summon Yrith back. I saw her die, do you understand? Unless you simulate her death in a very convincing way, you can’t just pull her out of the past. You will have to go there yourself and deceive my eyes. How do you think you can achieve that? They call you a prodigy, but not even you are that good.”

Singird paused, leaning against his armchair and closing his eyes. The thought had been gnawing at him for a while, even if he tried his best to repel it. But now, Urag gro-Shub was forcing him to pronounce it. Make it a statement.

He clenched his fists. He did not feel ready for this. But he felt even less ready to let Yrith die.

“I am that good,” he said quietly.

“Larkwing. You know there will be a price to pay.”

“Which I will. I swore to myself to get her back. No matter what.

“Larkwing, you can’t be serious.”

“I can. And I am. She means that much to me.” Singird’s gaze wandered to one of the tall windows. Through its numerous panes, he could see a flicker of magic. The protective barrier was still holding up. “And she’s our only hope if we want to defend the College.”

“Dammit, Larkwing,” the orc growled. “You’re almost making me like you.”

For a reason he did not quite understand, Singird laughed. “Don’t tell me you suddenly care about me.”

“Well… she does.”

Singird looked away.

“I know…”

He could not think about it. If he did, his knees would buckle under him. If he did, he would end up regretting every choice he had made in his life. Every choice that had led him to this moment. He had sworn to save her. He had to fill his mind with that single thought. He had to keep going.

“I know, but there is no other way. Speak, gro-Shub. You have not told me yet how she died. Give me every detail.”

As Urag opened his mouth, Singird forced himself to sit back in the armchair. No matter how cruel he would find the image of Yrith’s death, he would have to imprint it in his mind with all it entailed.


“I don’t think staying in the library is wise,” Urag said as they delved back into the Hall of the Elements. “Orthis will find you there. He is quite fond of the place.”

“Then we just need to borrow some books and be on our way,” Yrith shrugged. She raised a hand, releasing an orb of magical light as the door snapped shut behind them and the tower stairwell shrouded them in its shade. She wished there was a banister to hold onto, but the surrounding walls were empty, offering only the shallow joints between the stones. She gave a quiet sigh, treading carefully over each step. The sudden movement made her dizzy again, painfully reminding her of the blow she had received upon her arrival.

“You think old Justia will let you borrow any books?” Urag laughed. “Well, dream on. She’s as meticulous as those Bretons come. Even more. And she doesn’t allow a single tome out of her sight.”

“Well, thank you for the recognition,” Yrith snorted.

“Oh, well…”

“In any case, the library is essential. Do you think Orthis will dare attack me there?”

“If I can judge by what I felt through your connection, he’s very much eager to attack you just about anywhere.”

“Then I suppose it’s only a matter of time anyway.”

Urag glanced at her over his shoulder, his brows nearly touching his hair.

“For someone who might have to fight for her life, you don’t look so worried.”

“Don’t I?”

Perhaps Urag was right. For some reason, the prospect of another battle did not scare her. She wondered whether she was so used to being in danger that she did not care anymore, or if there was simply so much on her mind that she had no capacity to be afraid. Or maybe it was because there was no one else she had to worry about except Urag… and she knew he would live safely till year 204. Or maybe a bit of everything… If anything, the situation made her feel uncomfortable. She wished she could sleep until the throbbing in her head would recede. But there was no bed waiting for her in this time. She could only follow Urag’s footsteps, hoping they would find a solution before something else went wrong.

They took a turn around the central wall and the door to the Arcanaeum appeared before them. One step later, it flew open. In it stood the sturdy elf called Orthis, a sneer playing on his face. Urag froze and gasped. Yrith raised her hands just in time to deflect the first missile. This man sure did not waste his time.

“Run!” Yrith called to Urag, turning back to where they had come from. Just why in Oblivion had she not checked the path with magic? Now it was too late for regrets. They had to get away.

Yrith spread her magic, casting a ward to protect both herself and Urag. The throbbing in her head increased, as if it was occupied by a gnome with a large hammer pounding on her skull. It was hard to ignore it when a myriad of stars danced before her eyes. Still, she focused on her magical sight, casting everything else away. Urag was probably shouting something at her. She could not spare a moment to listen.

She climbed the stairs with all her might, forcing the door open with magic before she even reached it. As she stormed back outside, she circled the Hall of the Elements and ran across the fortification wall, aiming to the Hall of Attainment. Urag split from her, setting for opposite wall leading to the Hall of Countenance. Yrith's heart stopped for a moment. If Orthis went after Urag…

But no, the sturdy elf was not fooled. He followed Yrith, now gaining on her as there were no more stairs to pose an obstacle for him. Yrith felt the exhaustion wash over her body. Sweat rose on her forehead as her own weight tried to drag her down. She forced her feet to work. The Hall of Attainment was close. Now to reach the door…

A clump of magic reached it before her, spreading over it in thin layer upon impact. A seal… Yrith cursed, turning her attention to the Hall of Countenance. She would have to stop him from blocking her passage somehow. Urag… he was now reaching the tower from the other side. If she could somehow instruct him remotely to open the door…

She never got the chance. Orthis cast a ward… not before him to protect himself, but in Yrith's way. She crashed into it with full force, bouncing back and landing on her face, with more stars pivoting before her eyes, more pain spreading through her head. She mustered the strength to shield herself, but he did not attack. Instead, he simply stood there, waiting for her to get up. She lifted herself on her elbows, turning to him sluggishly. As she hoisted up her heavy head, she saw a smile playing on his lips.

“I never liked to play tag. But this one was quite entertaining,” he said. There was sly amusement in every syllable he pronounced.

Yrith twisted her face, raising a hand to shoot a thunderbolt at him, but he deflected it with a simple wave of his hand, laughing at her effort. Yrith’s stomach knotted. She could not believe that just a few moments before, she had talked to Urag about not being afraid. Why, when she looked into the man’s sneering face, was she terrified? She could die here, couldn’t she? There was no record of her making it back to her time yet. But then, the burden Urag would have to bear…

She glared at the elf, almost forcing her sight to clear. Once again, she spread her magic, now assaulting him from behind. He thwarted the attack just as easily, not even bothering to turn as his ward swallowed the magic. Instead, he fired back, his missile fast and direct. Yrith blocked it with a ward of her own, summoning a pair of dremoras to her aid. He laughed again.

“Didn’t I teach you that these tricks don’t work on me?”

He sent his magic toward the dremoras. Yrith smirked, cloaking them in protective barriers. The dremoras charged at Orthis with their blades raised to strike, but all they slashed through was empty air. The elf’s form dissolved into nothingness. Yrith was too late to notice he was behind her back. He did not even need to use magic to send her back to the ground. Once again, she felt the clutches of his paralysis spell bind her in place. She gasped for air as her lungs squeezed under the grip of his magic. This time, he did not leave her the room to fight back.

He leaned over her, his lips touching her ear. A wave of cold shook her to the core.

“Illusion is my forte, Yrith,” he whispered to her. She shivered as his breath blew away a strand of her hair. “You cannot kill me. And even if you break my vessel, I will just come back. I will always come back.”

He raised his head again, sending a wave of frost toward her dremoras. They froze in an instant, breaking into a thousand tiny pieces of ice before vanishing back to their home plane.

Yrith gritted her teeth, trying to force her magic through the spell, but it would not listen, its current reduced to the minimum that allowed her to live and breathe. Orthis turned her around. Now, she could hardly make out his silhouette against the sun.

“Now…”

His speech was interrupted by an incoming missile of fire. With a snort, he cast a ward, then flicked his hand in the direction of the attack to fire back. Yrith could hear a thud and a cry of pain.

“Urag,” Orthis said quietly. He waved his hand again, but Yrith could not see what spell he was casting this time. “Let me give you a friendly piece of advice. Be a good boy. Don’t meddle and you will live.”

Another wave of his hand, another spell… and another scream. Yrith wanted to jump up, to hit the elf, kick him, to send all her magic at him… but she couldn’t. She could only lie motionlessly, feel her muscles ache already from being frozen in that one position, listen and stare into whatever direction the twisted elf would pick for her. Vaguely, she remembered her time in Erinor’s camp. There, at least, she had found a way to break free. But now, there were no glowing bracelets to be dispelled. Her whole body was entirely at Orthis’s mercy.

He turned back to her, laying his hand on her chest. Yrith squinted, focusing on his face to make out his expression. He was still smiling. Wider than before.

“Oh Yrith… Protector of the College. I am sorry to inform you that the following procedure might be a little painful.”

Yrith blanched. She closed her eyes. She did not want to look at his face. If only she could look at something else. At Urag. But that was not an option anymore. She kept her eyelids closed tight, the only part of her body she was still in control of. Orthis’s hand pressed into her chest, making it hard to breathe. Then, his magic entered her, filling her with cold so dreadful she wanted to scream. She knew this kind of cold. She had experienced it before. The cold of nothing.

He was taking from her. Sipping her magic, her life, but not just that. Like an isle of beacons, the College’s power flared in Yrith’s mind. She could feel the College’s cry match her own, silent one, as the force that kept the ancient structure standing was slowly being drained from her. The College wailed, her foundation shook. She held onto her cliff with all her might, then the tendrils of her power reached to the mainland, gripping the city of Winterhold. She pulled… and the city tore.

Yrith wanted to gasp. The city was falling. The air filled with a cacophony of sounds. The sea opened and hummed, sending a great wave to seize the shore. The land rumbled and thrummed as entire houses slid down. Yrith could not hear the cries of the people it took down with them, but she could feel them in her bones. They tried to climb up, but the earth sent them tumbling back, fumbling helplessly for any kind of support. Buildings crumbled, burying them alive, smothering their voices. They cried and cried, and prayed and begged… but when the earth was done, water came, washing over the city, cleansing it of the pervasive death.

This was the Great Collapse. And Yrith had become the instrument for its execution.

She tried to struggle, fight back… but the paralysis gripped her too strong. Power flowed through her, right into Orthis. He was laughing, pressing even harder.

“That’s it, Yrith… give it to me… give it all to me… channel more…”

His magical grip strengthened. More power entered Yrith, more streamed out… until it ripped her skin.

Yrith shrieked, her voice tearing through the paralysis. There was no illusion this time to shield her from the pain of magical overcharge. She was on fire. Blood streaked over her body like rivers of hot lava. Then, the pain was inside, ripping through her limbs, her stomach, her lungs, her head… it mixed with the pain of the College and that of the people still clinging to their lives down there. Yrith’s voice was not enough to express it all, to scream all the feelings out of her lungs. She rattled and gurgled, suffocating on her own blood. And then, images flew through her mind one after another. A crying baby being lulled to sleep with a song. A deer just barely escaping a fired arrow, promising another hungry night. Running around and playing The Evil Witch with the other children. Mourning the deceased grandmother whose soft voice had been the sweetest in the land. Then, a primal thought… sitting peacefully on her cliff, embracing all the people who had come to visit, harboring power and knowledge that was millennia old, simply existing through the passage of time, providing refuge and sanctuary… until now.

Memories… Yrith was floating among them, sharing the last moments of all those passing to Aetherius, and of the College… a caring mother, a guardian of secrets.

No…

How could this be? This was not the history Yrith knew. The College had survived. The College still stood. And Urag lived…

The pain had almost receded. Only her head kept sending signals, too full, too heavy… then, her own memories replaced the others, as if some higher power pushed everyone else aside. The College… she was giving Yrith a moment with herself. Perhaps the last moment of her life, before all their power would be exhausted and Orthis could rip Yrith’s soul apart.

Yrith’s life flashed before her in a quick sequence of visions and feelings. A view of the Daggerfall rooftops in the twilight. Sitting in her mother’s lap, listening to her gentle voice as she read her a book. A starry night and a lone figure of a flame atronach at her side. Singird’s kiss… Cain’s warm embrace, the tender touch of Leyna’s healing magic, Keneel-La’s soft chuckle. The impish face of Sheogorath as he sent her to talk to an old oak. Then, the words of Septimus Signus when she asked him whether she knew the Demon’s name, so clear as if he was standing right before her.

“Do you? That is a wrong question. Did you? Yes. Will you? Yes. Or perhaps. Depends on how you look at it. Do you now? Take a guess.”

The name…

The name!

If this was what Septimus had told her…

She already knew it? When? When had she learned it? But she had not spoken to Ulfar Larkwing. She had only caught a glimpse of him on her way here. When…

When he had spoken in that strange, alien language…

But she had understood him. Somehow… what was it that he had said? Remember, remember!

One word… it was familiar… she had heard it before. No… not heard. Read. In the message her parents had left her.

Strife…

Strife.

“Strife!” she tried to yell. She could hardly see Orthis anymore. Her sight was dark and blurry, her eyelids nearly glued together. Her ears felt clogged, everything was muffled and distorted…

“Strife!”

Nothing happened. She knew she was barely whispering the word, perhaps not even that. No, that was not it. Physical manifestation did not matter. Execution did. She knew the meaning. Not the word itself. This was not the Demon’s name. What was? She had heard it.

Remember…

Something hit her. Her senses returned to her, filling her with a jumble of painful, invading perceptions. She tried to tell where up and down was, but it was impossible. As if she was rolling on the floor, as if someone was shaking her…

Someone was shaking her.

“What did you just say?!”

She stared at Orthis, her vision obscured by a veil of blue glow. Magic… the College was mending her while she could. It hurt… but not too much. It was almost pleasant.

“Who else knows? Speak!”

Orthis was not smiling anymore. His face was contorted, angry. But he had made a mistake. She felt sensation return to her limbs and fingers, moving them ever so slightly, touching the ground underneath her. His paralysis spell was no longer in effect.

Slowly, her lips stretched into a manic smile.

“Sod off, you bloody piece of daedroth dung!” she spat, sending forth a wave of raw magicka. Orthis flew good five paces away before he managed to gain back control over his body. He tumbled upon landing, quickly standing back on his feet.

Yrith too stood. Magic supported her body, holding it together. She would not last long. She was too broken, too torn. But she would make sure to make those few moments count.

Swiftly, she slid toward Urag who was lying propped against a wall, his legs in odd angles and his hands bloody, but otherwise breathing and present. Before Orthis’s next ice storm reached them, the two of them were wrapped in an orb of magic, not unlike the one she and her companions had used to protect themselves from the mindless guards. Now, Yrith just needed to hold it up for as long as necessary.

“Yrith,” Urag breathed, his eyes wide. “I… I thought you were done for…”

“Not yet,” Yrith cut him off, kneeling down while keeping her hands up and glowing. “Urag, how many languages do you know?”

“W-what?”

A missile hit the shield and spilled over it in the form of sparks. Yrith hissed softly, holding tight.

“You’re a scholar! How many languages do you know? Can you translate the word Strife? Into as many as you can…”

He stared at her, his jaw trembling. Then, his gaze turned to Orthis and the next missile he fired. This time, it was fire and lightning combined.

“W-why now, Yrith…”

“Because it’s important! Urag, please!”

“Strife, you say…”

Urag shuddered as a whole volley of missiles shook the barrier. Yrith gritted her teeth.

“Yes. Do you know any equivalent?”

“Khai… that’s Aldmeris, although it’s rather the word for war…”

Yrith nodded. Khai… similar, but no, that was not what Ulfar Larkwing had said.

“Go on.”

“Molagh, of course…”

“Dunmeris,” she whispered, sending more magic in the barrier as the ground shook upon another impact. The orb lit up. It seemed even the College herself had come to their aid.

“Yes… then… thurn… that’s Dwemeris.”

“Anything else?”

Urag kept staring up, over Yrith’s shoulder, to where Orthis stood. She moved to the side, blocking his view.

“Urag… do you know any others?”

“N-no…” he shook his head helplessly, clutching his ears. “I… it’s the end…”

“No, it’s not!” Yrith yelled. “Not if I have a say in it!”

“Yrith, he’s…”

She closed her eyes, scanning every inch of the shield. It still held up strong, protecting them from all sides. Small, but impeccable. Yrith breathed deeply. If not for the magic of the College, she would have been long dead. She protected her well. Now, Yrith had to return the favor.

“He can’t harm us… yet… I just have to say his name…”

“His name? But you said… i-is that it? But… I don’t know that Tongue of the Old… Dovahzul would be the closest if it’s as divine as you say…”

“The Dragon Language…” Yrith whispered. “Do you know it?”

“Just a few words,” Urag uttered shakily. “Strife… it could be the same as conflict or war…”

“Yes?”

“If my understanding is right, then it should be… kein…”

“Kein?” That was more like it. Almost. Almost! The sound was a little different. But…

“Yes. I may be wrong but…”

His next words were drowned by a deluge of magic pouring over the barrier. Yrith groaned, fighting the tremor in her body. She was nearing her limit. She had to let go.

Kein, kein…

Keine? Kheine? What had the old man said?

Kayen… it had to be Kayen…

“Urag…”

Yrith stood, now turning her back to the orc. She looked into the eyes of Orthis, shining blue and crimson with the reflection of his own magic. They were hungry. Hungry for power. Hungry for vengeance.

“Yrith… what are you…”

She moved her fingers ever so slightly to gain better control over her magic.

“It’s been a pleasure.”

With that, she broke the shield, sending Urag a distance away, to safety. She managed a quick ward before Orthis fired again with the ferocity of a rabid sabre cat.

“Kayen!” Yrith cried as she fired back. Nothing happened. Not even a spark of magic left her mouth. Orthis still ran around, shooting one missile of magic after another, unaffected by Yrith’s voice. He gave her a look of wild amusement and let out a laugh.

“You can’t use it, can you, Yrith?” he sneered. “You can’t speak the Tongue of the Old…”

She could not. Just like she could not speak Dovahzul, even if she could understand its magic. Still, if there was magic, there had to be a way. She had understood it. Why could she not reproduce it?

Three missiles aimed at her. Two from behind. Orthis was testing her reactions. Yrith shielded herself from all sides, moving from one edge of the wall to the other to make it harder for him to aim. If she could not figure out how to use the name against him, it would be a battle of endurance which she was sure to lose in her state. But it was so damn hard to think when she constantly needed to anticipate where the next assault would come from. She had hardly managed to dodge any. Her shields were what saved her. Sooner or later, her opponent was sure to hit.

She raised a ward to protect herself from yet another ice storm. Then another from the left. Then another from the right. How could he be so fast? No… he wasn’t fast. Just skilled…

Swiftly, Yrith turned around just in time to avoid getting slashed in half by a blade. So magic was not his only weapon.

The moment she jumped away from his range, he struck from the other side again. A gash appeared on Yrith’s back, ripping through her already soaked robes. She could hardly catch her breath anymore. It seemed Orthis was everywhere at once. Where was the real one? Was the pain she felt now only an illusion? Was it real? She could not tell anymore.

She cloaked herself in every protection she knew, her fingers trembling as she charged so many spells at once. She could not allow him to hurt her any further. She had lost so much blood already. Her time was almost up. She had to end it.

“Kayen…” she whispered, but again, with no effect. Orthis smirked and laughed. But the laugh did not come from the outside… it rang within Yrith’s mind. She groaned, struggling to not clutch her head.

“Keep trying, little one…” he thundered inside her. “Think of that name…”

Her vision blurred for the umpteenth time. She staggered, barely blocking a combined assault of fire and steel. Her head threatened to explode with the strain. He was more than present inside her. He was doing something…

Again, a memory flashed before her eyes. Selas Travi, lying before her with a blue-feathered arrow in his back, whispering his last words. The image disappeared as soon as it emerged, as if pushed aside, replaced by another. Cain, engaged in a heated conversation with Leyna. Then, Paarthurnax…

Yrith sank to her knees, raising a shield around herself once more, feeling it quiver as it battled his magic. Defending her mind and body at once seemed an impossible task. How could he fight when she could not? She had to expel him. He was searching for her memories of the name. Somehow, he did not have to touch her anymore. How was it such a child’s play for him?

Yrith winced as an invisible force clutched her head. The image of Paarthurnax lingered before her eyes, persistent, clouding everything else. Why had Orthis stopped there? What had Paarthurnax said to Yrith that was so essential?

Ah, right… it wasn’t what he had said. There were no dragons around at this time. They would only appear when the Last Dragonborn would emerge. All… except Paarthurnax whose existence had been kept secret for millennia.

Yrith froze inside. She could not allow Orthis to keep this memory. The things he could do if he knew…

Think, think, think! The answer has to be somewhere!

She stopped resisting, letting the elf in fully. Perhaps she could take advantage of Orthis’s greed. She would turn his own weapon against him.

Paarthurnax’s draconic face kept floating before her, voiceless, yet every line he had spoken to her resounded in her mind as if she had gone back to that moment.

“What is it, Zulvahzen?”

That was what he had called her. He had used her name back then. But there was magic in the words. Meaning that she had felt deep in her bones, reverberating through her, nearly devouring her. Magic that carried meaning…  something akin to spellbrewing? Understanding the essence of things… changing them from within… Of course. There was magic involved. How could she hope to achieve anything without magic?

The name was Kayen. Strife. It had a meaning… it was a recipe. A method.

Yrith almost laughed.

She closed her eyes, pushing the image of Paarthurnax aside. Her surroundings were what mattered now. The man standing before her, only separated by the thin layer of her own magic that barely held together anymore. He had ceased his fire, content with invading her mind. She still did not try to repel him, maintaining the illusion of being controlled. He could watch all he wanted.

Yrith opened her mouth and prayed to the College.

Help me…

And then, she spoke the name, letting the power stream through.

A wild rush of magic lifted her from the ground. The sound that escaped her lips was not a word, not a sequence of syllables that could be written down in the form of letters. It was thunder. It was earthquake. It was a cry and a wail. It was everything she knew, every primal sound and expression she could imagine. She felt his presence retreat from her mind as waves upon waves of magic washed over her. As if she herself was made of magic instead of bone and muscle. She opened her eyes, watching Orthis kneel before her, tied by tendrils of raw magicka. She extended a hand, ready to crush him…

But the moment she did, a web of fresh cracks spread from her fingertips up to her shoulder, spewing blood and flashes of blue light. Yrith cried out, sending in more magic, holding her body together by sheer will. Her body could hardly take channeling more. She could not take him down. Perhaps she was not even meant to. But if he stayed alive, then the College would fall…

“And even if you break my vessel, I will just come back. I will always come back.”

She gritted her teeth, feeling them screech against each other. With the other hand, she gripped the link of magic as if it was a puppet string, reaching out to his mind, then pulling, slowly, little by little. A finger, a hand, an arm, the other arm, his legs and torso… slowly, his body disintegrated, leaving only its core, an orb of soul energy, still tied in place. Then came his thoughts. His memories… her memories. Paarthurnax and Cain and Leyna, Selas Travi… her own face…

Yrith gasped for air. She felt blood in her throat. Her other hand cracked. She was falling apart. No amount of magic would hold her together anymore. Nothing would keep the pain away. The blue of her magic blinded her. Soon, it would swallow her whole, and then she would disperse. There was nothing she could do anymore. She reached out once more in one final attempt… but she had no control anymore. One last memory remained in him. She knew that one day, it would lead him to her. Her name alone would remain with the Demon’s wandering soul. Her name alone would be remembered and feared, until he would find a new vessel to strike back.

She let go, her sight clearing for one last time. Only enough to register the lone figure staring at her from the distance.

Yrith could not move her lips anymore. She could not speak Urag’s name.

She closed her eyes and let herself fall to nothingness.