A lot of doubt was in the boy's mind. And a lot of questions were running through his head when he turned around to face the cold stare of the listener. A thousand words were on his lips but they evaporated like a breath in the snow.
The tall vampire wasn't one to take lightly. He hadn't received his power as a gift like the Dragonborn; he had murdered people for it. He wasn't the type that murdered for enjoyment, no, it was a business for him. His glowing amber eyes tried to hide many things by intimidation, but deep down Tarthas saw wonder and joy in the vampire's glare. It is hard to suppress your true emotion and for most people a cold glare was easy to put them off balance. Tarthas gained confidence in the slight sign of wonder.
"A couple weeks ago, my mother was murdered." faster than the blink of an eye his expression changed to surprise or shock. But turned to disinterest immediately. "She left a note before her death. I found it four days ago. It talks about you–”
"People are murdered everyday, kid, many of them don't involve the Brotherhood. My name is feared when people smell their own death. They know the Night Mother is watching." He was about to turn around when Tarthas forced the crumpled letter into his hand. Resigned by curiosity, the vampire Karsa read the note. He inhaled slowly through his nose. And looked at the boy with a new face. Not the cold uninterested and sinister expression, but confusion and remorse. Tarthas' first question was answered, Karsa knew his mother Vyctorya.
"Did you love her?" He asked.
"I loved her more than that sick man Marcurio. He saw her no more than an affair with a student. True love isn't shattered by temptation from a Prince. I can't deny that Vyc saw something in that man and she still did to her death. Last we met... she told me... She told me she couldn't choose between us, she loved us both. I know the Nine detest a vampire. It is why she could love two men equally. Mara had forsaken her so she was free from Her influence and ideals of monogamous love. It tore her apart." Anger seeped into his voice and he paced the basement. "Of course Marcurio couldn't love her truly, Mara wouldn't allow it. Thus Boethiah could brainwash him. How long has Boethiah planned this? And why?” His questions were aimed at the wall.
Tarthas was scared; he was learning truths about his mother that he hadn't known. "She was a vampire?"
"Yes. Not for long, Marcurio hunted her down like a fox hunting a rabbit. He tortured her, made her go mad by locking her up. He cured her, which brought back most of her sanity, but she was scarred. It also wasn't a full proof cure. If only I had killed him then!" He hissed like a snake, fangs bare. "You would have been safe from this situation."
"I am your son? My father didn't kill mum!"
"I didn't know you were born from my blood. Until now… your blood smells like both Vyc and me. I would never kill her. No Prince could change that. Not Molag, Boethiah nor even the Prince of temptation himself Sanguine. I would forsake Sithis and the Nightmother if that contract came from them!"
The torches in the basement went out with a hiss and then relit with a violet blue flame. With a crack like the breaking of a bone all the stone representing the flesh of Nocturnal broke off bearing real flesh, and the stone dress gained colour and true texture. What was once a statue of Nocturnal now was the Mistress herself. The crows on her shoulders disappeared in smoke.
“Never doubt the power of a Prince, child. Watch what you say, you never know who is listening and who will hold your word for it… test that resolve. Many beings are watching this boy in front of you.”
It was hard for Tarthas not to look in awe at the Daedric Prince that stood in front of him. Looking at her made Tarthas wonder why they would refer to her as a Prince. He remembered what a drinker at the bar in the Bannered Mare of Whiterun had said; his name was Sam Guevenne. He had told him that most Princes are seen as evil and demonic, their worship is hated and a taboo. But the Daedra are as divine as the Nine Divines themselves. And he definitely saw something divine in the woman that was bestowed before him. Her figure was what Lorkhan must have envisioned when he designed a woman for the race of Man. The heavily draping dress she wore shadowed her curves wantonly, though her eyes weren’t shown because of the shadow of her hood.
“What is your business here Nocturnal.” Karsa snarled. He did not like the idea of a Daedric Prince disturbing them.
The Prince turned her head towards Karsa.
“My business is my own. Why I came here must be your question. Some call me the Saint of Suspicion, and you are full of it at this moment. You wonder what the other Princes are plotting. Most of us are uninterested and go about our own business, but the Princes of devastation want to turn around the closing of an era. Their ideals do not fit mine, nor those of the Aedra.
“According to a Blind Moth Monk, the Elder Scroll that foretold the events that closed the last era is changing every time he reads it, what was solid history and definite in that scroll now is indefinite. From what We know, you, Tarthas, are the one that determines these events. Time is shattered and fragmented; many realities exist at once. Akatosh can’t handle it, and you are going to be his repair hammer. Tonight. My time is up and you are dull company.” She walked back to the pedestal of her statue, slowly turning back to stone, “Remember Tarthas, my luck is in your hands, make good use of it.” The flames turned back to their original colour.
Karsa muttered things under his breath “I’m sorry kid- son- Tarthas. I have a family to keep in tact, I do not know what is going to happen and I have little time to figure out or help you, especially if it is tonight. Whatever you do, do not lose the Gods’ favours. Their wrath is insufferable. I will hunt for Marcurio… kill him. This was the contract the Night Mother sent me here for I assume. Fare well.”
With that note Karsa disappeared into thin air, an innate ability of a vampire. Tarthas was left alone in the basement and he found it quite unpleasant to be there. The corpse was starting to reek, combined with the silky fragrance of the petals it was sickening, he wanted to leave the room.
A lot went through his head and his slow reacting thoughts and muscles were urging him to sleep. He slumped up the stairs to the ground floor when outside the world turned as bright as day, lighting up the house. An unknown force urged him to go outside. The force was benign so his sleep heavy mind didn’t see a reason not to step outside. What the light source was, was the huge flaming dragon from his dreams. Or was it a dream? The benign force urged him to mount the neck of the fiery dragon and he did.
People walking on the street late at night seemed to go through the dragon and take no note of it. No one was stepping out of their houses out of fear or running. It must be a dream if people didn’t care this much.
The dragon took flight. Soaring into the air, slowly turning Helgen to the size of a bowl. Behind him he could see that even the Throat of the World, the tallest mountain range in Tamriel was small. The dragon flew south over the Jerall Mountains bordering Skyrim and Cyrodiil. As they flew the landscape that was Cyrodiil was flashing and changing, one moment there was huge war another moment it was desolate and barren then it settled on a lush dark green forest known as the Great Forest.
Finally the dragon circled round the wheel-like Imperial City with the tall White-Gold Tower in the centre, it changed from how modern accounts had portrayed it to crumbled and burning to pristine. The dragon flew to one of the circular expansions of the city, and flew into a barred window. This was the last he remembered before falling unconscious.
I hope you enjoyed, comments would be appreciated.
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