“But nothing like the Aetherium Forge described in the inscriptions has ever been found within the borders of Skyrim. It may have been destroyed long ago, by the Nord invaders or the Dwemer themselves. Or perhaps it, like the secrets of Aetherium itself, still remains to be discovered.”
2nd of Morning Star 4E, 203
They had trudged along the road for several hours, staying close by its snow-encrusted edge, now moving cautiously across the bridge, lest Dreth pass by. Katria said half a day, but that was hours ago and Serana didn’t know if they would venture traveling by night.
Based on what Decimus and Grulmar knew about Dreth, he would, which only compounded an already risky undertaking. They could be seen by Dreth coming from any direction and it was a frightening gamble on Beron’s part. And Dreth wasn’t the only danger from traveling at night. Vampires were far more wary since the Tyranny of the Sun was prevented; preferring to keep to the wilds, targeting smaller, less well-armed parties. Eight mercenaries plus Dreth wouldn’t be something a vampire would target. A struggling party of three with a horse, on the other hand, was at far higher risk; and Serana, despite her aching bones and screaming muscles, the no longer distant pain in her arm and side, willed herself faster across the bridge. Allie responded to her guidance immediately, quickening her pace, her feathers heavily caked in old snow. The bridge left them exposed, vulnerable. They needed the cover of the tree line, just ahead.
Already Beron’s tough love for Erik was abandoned in favor of supporting the weakening Nord on his good side, keeping the young man engaged and talking. Their footsteps were heavy, plodding, unsteady, exhausted. Both were now hurting, Serana could tell, the bitter cold affecting them, despite being a hardy Nord and a Mer who could claim Snow Elf and Dovah in his blood. The shackle that was mortality just had its limits. Even Allie was beginning to fret, her spit freezing at the bit. She wiped the horse’s tender mouth and cursed to herself, not especially loving her cruel advantage over the living right now. The others would fare better, heading south towards the volcanic springs. If they had stayed together and continued through the Pale, most of them would be dead by now. On that, Beron had been correct. She paused, motioning Allie to hold still when the sounds of their footfalls suddenly stopped. Turn around, there are no other sounds. No falling, no groaning, just quiet. Serana brought the horse to a stop and whirled around.
A relieved gust of air escaped from her lips when she saw that he still stood, supporting Erik. Their eyes met in the starlight. His lips were nearly blue from the chill, his beard crusting with ice where the moisture of his breath met the frosty air, his skin nearly matching the white already upon the ground. His eyes were narrowed, the silver lashes trying to shield against the wind.
“I am alright.” He gasped through chattering teeth, though Serana wasn’t convinced. “Just needed to stop to adjust me’old on ‘im. He can barely walk.” Beron shifted position and nudged the Nord, giving his shoulder as gentle a squeeze as he dared. Boy wasn’t even feeling the pain on his left side and arm anymore. Something else was killing him now. “Erik?”
Serana saw the Nord blink, lifting his head a little at the sound. By the Blood, he looked worse than Beron did. “We need to keep moving, can you keep him moving?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Erik?” Another shake.
“Hmm?” The boy grunted.
“We’re crossing tha bridge. We’re almost at the mill.”
“Huh?” Erik blinked again.
“Serana, keep goin’, we’ll catch up.” Äelberon ordered, flicking his head to continue.
“No, not until I see you walk.” She answered.
Beron shook the Nord again. “Sleepy…” Erik mumbled. “Let me sleep…”
A chuckle from the Altmer. “No, lad, no…sleepin’…here. Bad idea.” She saw him suppress a shiver. “The bridge’sa silly place for sleep. C’mon.” Beron took one step forward, practically dragging Erik with him, only to stumble, nearly falling over. No, he could barely go on and Serana began to turn Allie to head back.
“I’m coming to put you two on Allie.” She warned, walking forward.
“No!” Beron’s voice, stronger than she expected. “If we stop walkin’, we die, Serana. We need ta walk.” His right hand glowed faintly with the soothing warmth of healing magicks, like a candle in darkness and he pressed it against Erik’s forehead. The lad moaned and she saw Beron speak against the Nord’s hooded head. “That’s right, wake up, feel that, eh?”
“Uh huh…good.” Erik mumbled. “Good…fuck…feeling.”
“That’s right, boy, that’s right.” Beron smirked. “I’ll get you to the mill. And then more of that good fuck feeling, I promise.”
“Knight’s Honor?” Erik whispered.
“Aye…” The Elf replied and Serana saw him bite his lip, the emotion building in his tired eyes again. “Knight’s honor.”
“Shout, Beron.” Serana urged, still walking towards them. “Use your fire.” The Altmer’s eyes widened and he shook his head, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“No, ya daft, woman? Attract Dreth? Attract a dragon? Or worse?” Serana frowned, her brow creasing. They were face to face now, his features softening at their proximity. “Ya’re beautiful ‘n tha night...”
“I look like shit and I have more holes in me than Tilma’s pincushion.” She retorted, gently shoving his chest and stopping to wipe his beard of ice crystals. “You’re crazy with cold.”
He chuckled, making more fall and she moved on to those that caked his eyebrows, her thumb lingering on that bald patch, the eyes closing at her touch, moving his head to press against her hand, heavy with fatigue. “Maybe.” Beron murmured, his eyes still closed. Open your eyes, Beron, please. Allie snorted and his eyes fluttered open, making a sidelong glance at his long-suffering animal. “Aye, Queen Alfsigr, I know what ya think of me already.”
“I’m crazy too.” Chortled Erik. “Only Companions this crazy, eh Harbinger?”
“Can ya keep movin’, Erik?” Beron asked.
“Yeah. Only if you buy me a drink. A beeeeeeg one. I need drink.” Erik slurred, turning his head slightly to look up at Beron. “You look terbul, Harbenronnie…very ugly.”
“I’ll help.” Volunteered Serana, beginning to switch the reins to her other hand. “You take one side, I’ll take the other—“
“No, ‘is left side canna be ‘eld.” Beron refused and she noticed how more of his thick southern Dusken accent was creeping in. “I got ‘im, but I’m already ‘urting ‘im too much. Just keep goin’. Tell me when ya see tha lights o’ the mill, Love.” She then saw a weak smile play on his features. “But first…first…give me a kiss.”
“Me too.” Chimed in Erik, sporting his own tiny smile. The two were losing it in the cold.
“Get yer own, boy, this one belongs ta me. Just because we’re Shield-Brothers doesna mean we share. Mine. Now where’s ma kiss, woman?”
His slurring was beginning to grow nearly as bad as Erik’s and that worried her. Think fast or he dies too. Serana flashed her prettiest smile, taking a step backwards. “You gotta earn it, Star-Knight.” She replied, backing up some more. “You’ll get your kiss if you make it to the mill.”
“See, plays ‘ard ta get.” Grumbled the Old Mer, dragging Erik with him another step. It was working! Beron was moving again, and Serana backed up some more, luring them farther along. “But I’ll chase her.” Serana saw the Old Mer wink at her. “Chase ‘er down and claim ma kiss.”
“It working. Keep moving, horny Mer.” Erik snorted, making the big Atlmer laugh a throaty laugh. “But no kiss for me. She stingy.”
“That she is.” Beron grinned, newly formed ice crystals falling from his beard. He then nodded and mouthed “go” to her and Serana managed a smile, turning around with Allie to continue their trek towards the mill, relieved to hear both their plodding footfalls again. Stumbling about like two blazed horkers, but walking.
Serana gave Beron credit, he was now talking to the boy in a steady stream, his accent making his words barely understandable, but talking. He kept the conversation light-hearted with jokes and stories of Valenwood and Elsweyr. Hot locations, she noticed with a tender smirk. She didn’t know how Erik mustered the will to walk, but he did, and despite being a vampire and not usually prone to such things, she found herself proud of the lad. It took great strength of will to overcome his severe injuries, to keep pace. This, more than likely, had saved his life. If he had given in to the pity the others had shown him, he would have been dead.
“What are ya going ta do with yer share o’ the treasure?” asked Beron. Serana found herself suppressing a chuckle while she walked Allie. The accent had a sweetness to it. It was rare he broke out in it, usually sporting his more elegant speech, the refined accent that betrayed a strong classical Altmer education. That accent was beautiful too, the speech having a command of poetry and songs, but sometimes bits of the poor fishermer from Dusk came out. Humble yet proud. When he was either blazed beyond measure or…and Serana frowned, when he was hurt beyond measure. Suffering. In pain. They were at the tree line now, the lights of the mill growing brighter and Serana caught herself hoping.
“Oh, I dunno…” Erik sighed, nodding off.
“Keep awake, lad.” Urged Beron. “Serana, ya see the mill yet?” He couldn’t see the lights? His eyes must be watering badly. Just following Allie’s huge bulk at this point.
“I see lights faintly, Old Mer, up the road. Just keep walking, the two of you. Keep walking. Keep moving.” She encouraged.
“See, just a wee bit further.” Beron spurred, giving Erik another squeeze. “Now, what will ya do with yer share?”
“My da…”
“Yer Da? In Rorikstead?”
“Aye. With war and dragons, hard to sell crops. Make a livin…” Erik explained. “You?”
“Jorrvaskr.” She heard Beron say softly. “Tha poor…”
“Need to sharpen my swo—“Erik stopped, and Serana swallowed hard. She saw in the distance forms coming towards them bearing torches, bundled up against the elements. “Won’t need to do that now.” Erik whispered sadly. “Never again.”
“Ya will, says I.” Beron argued back. Four figures now approached, covered in furs, bringing extra furs, and Serana felt the heat of their torch fire. Heard them shouting to each other. Smelled the strong odor of Nord, Dunmer, and…werewolf. And Serana let a tired smile find her lips. The towering, bulk that was Farkas stood before her, his black beard crusted in ice, but those light grey eyes merry as always.
“Happy fucking New Life. Welcome to the celebration.” The Giant Nord rumbled in his raspy tone. I love you, you sly old fox of a Mer. You had sent for them, your pack. “Glad you could make it.” He grinned his toothy grin while he gave her a “Farkas” hug and she wrinkled her nose at his stink, a heady mix of mead and sweat, but at the same time was relieved.
“Happy New Life, Farkas.” She sighed, knowing that her voice broke. Enough that he had heard.
“Shh… It’s alright. He’ll bounce back, always does.” The oaf comforted softly, holding her, his hand finding the top of her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lydia and Athis rush past Farkas towards Beron and Erik, while Sinding lurked behind Farkas. A smaller presence physically, clad in only simple fur trousers and shirt, a thinning hooded wolfskin cloak covering his shoulders, but intimidating in a completely different way. Hircine’s mark keeping him far warmer in the night. Dammit, wipe your eyes, you stupid woman. Don’t let them see you cry.
“Where’s Aela?” Beron croaked, letting Athis and Lydia ease a barely conscious Erik onto their supporting shoulders. Farkas broke from his hold of Serena and she saw the Dunmer and Housecarl exchange troubled glances. It was clear that they had seen Erik’s hand, but they said nothing. They will want to take him back home, Beron. You may have to face that.
“You look like ass, Ronnie.” The burly Nord quipped, not noticing Erik’s hand yet. “What the fuck happened?”
“Dragon.” Serana explained, resuming her control of Allie. The mare was quivering with excitement, her nostrils flaring at seeing her Shield-Siblings again. “A dragon happened.”
“Fuck, at Windhelm? Ysmir’s Beard! We didn’t see it.”
“Bastard came from the south. Caught us by surprise.” Serana continued, watching Farkas bristle with the news. They didn’t like it when dragons attacked Beron when he was alone. They were protective of him, preferring the organized dragon hunts that they did together. The bounties. Dangerous work, but planned work, Beron’s secure leadership and tactics quickly earning Jorrvaskr a formidable reputation for dragon slaying.
“Fucker.” Spat Farkas. “Bad?”
“A bad one.” Serana sighed, glancing at Beron. She expected him to scowl, to protest, but his eyes were on Erik and she could hear the gears already turning in her Mer’s head.
“Get ‘im in a bed.” He ordered Athis and Lydia. “I will be there shortly.” He growled. “It was like the one in Winterhold.”
“Ah, fuck.” Farkas shook his head.
Beron closed his eyes wearily before opening them again. “Aye, and not what we needed. Plans ‘ave changed. I’ll explain once we’re indoors.”
“Shit, no wonder you look like a mammoth tossed you around, Ronnie.”
“Aela?” The Elf pressed, the tone growing emphatic. He never liked it when a Shield-Sibling was missing. “Where is Aela?”
“Don’t fret, Teva. She’s only back-tracking.” Replied Athis while he and Lydia carried Erik towards the mill. Serana saw lights at the common house. Smelled the faint odors of cooking apple and cabbage.
“Yeah, they’re still well behind us, around Fort Amol, maybe a bit closer, but we wanted to see what those mercs were up to. Ain’t every day you see eight mercs riding with a bloody Dunmer in tow. They made a ruckus in Whiterun, drinking whatnot. Honthjolf was dealing with complaints of noise and mess. We remembered what you said before you left and then your letter came. She should be back soon. We’ve been tracking them for a while now.” Explained Farkas, ignoring the Altmer’s feeble protests to support the Mer on his shoulder. “You’re about frozen stiff, so less talkin’, more movin’.” Farkas began to usher the Mer towards the common house of Anga’s mill. “Dammit, gone since mid-Evening Star and you’re still fat as Oblivion. You eat every honey nut treat from Whiterun to Windhelm?”
“I can smell her, Harbinger, Aela’s on the winds.” assured Sinding, his light grey eyes glinting in the starlight. “Safe. They move like a herd of mammoths, that pack does. Makes for easy tracking. Play for our sister.” The Nord sniffed the air. “A few minutes away.” Sinding turned to Serana. “I will help you tend to the horse and then we’ll wait for Aela.” A worried glance at his Harbinger. “He can’t stay outdoors.”
“Aye, that’s for sure. C’mon, Fat Arse.” Farkas prodded, practically dragging a drowsy Beron now. “Let’s get you warmed up. Aeri’s made stew… she’s lookin’ forward to seeing her gentle knight again, carrying on about you delivering love letters to Old Skald at Dawnstar. You tell Serana yet that you’re sweet on that old coot?”
“Fuck ya, Farkas.” The Elf mumbled, finally relaxing against the Nord.
“Don’t swing that way.”
“Blah! Ya stink and that one owes me a kiss.” Beron glared at Serana, but she saw his lips twist into a broad grin. “Made it to tha mill.”
Erik remembered the brutal cold, Lydia and Athis carrying him, and the blast of a warm hearth fire before he lost consciousness. He then felt the same soothing light against his skin, especially near his chest. Saw it through his closed eyelids. The same murmuring in another language—prayers—interspersed with his other Shield-Siblings, arguing about him.
“Let us take him home, Harbinger. Back to Jorrvaskr…” They pleaded. “He can’t…”
“It is not your decision.” His answer.
His Harbinger’s voice, bringing him back again and then sleep. Deep and numbing. Erik felt his eyes open and wasn’t immediately greeted by pain. He felt sleepy and thirsty, but no pain and for a moment he felt his excitement build. Could it be? Erik willed his eyes open, looking down upon his hand.
The hand was no different, curled like an eagle’s claws. His heart sank and Erik released a cough, curious that he didn’t feel the searing pain in his chest he felt before at the Temple. Only soreness.
“Good, you are awake. You know, you are a tough bastard, Shield-Brother.”
His Harbinger. Softly spoken, the admiration clear in his tone. Erik slowly followed the direction of the voice, noting that he was lying in a sturdy bed of greying wood, covered in soft, fresh straw and furs. The room—really the entire house—was a mixture of worn timber and dull rounded stones, smelling of candles, straw, fur, sweat, and—Erik wrinkled his nose—pipe smoke. To his right was a dresser, chipped and scratched, abused. To his left was a beat-up nightstand and then sitting at a rickety chair next to his beside was his Harbinger, puffing his pipe, an open book resting upon his thigh. He often sat with his ankle resting on one knee, sprawling, taking up space. If he had room. Sometimes the poor Mer didn’t know what to do with his long legs, his broad shoulders.
The Elf set the book on the nightstand and regarded Erik, holding the bowl of his pipe. He looked better to Erik and he noticed the left arm was no longer in a sling, the color had returned to his face somewhat, though Erik could still make out the cuts and bruises from the dragon attack. All his armor was off save his boots, brown woolen tunic, and trousers, and he looked at least like he had done some washing to remove the blood and soot from the dragon, the hair crudely bound in a simple braid. Tilma would say his hair was “misbehaving” and Erik smirked at the notion, picturing the old woman brushing away tendrils from his face, the Harbinger squirming, whining something about not being a youngling of five anymore. Erik’s smirk turned into a chortle, which got the Elf’s attention.
“See, as I promised, your good fuck feeling.” He smiled kindly, like a grandfather, the eyes finding Erik’s.
“Yeah.” Erik murmured, still trying to wake up a little.
“Water?” The Elf reached for an earthenware pitcher and a tankard only to stop himself, “No, wait, that is not right.” He then lightly shoved Erik’s left shoulder. At first, Erik flinched, but then realized the action caused no pain. He was reacting without reason. “I owe you a drink. A beeeeeeg one.” He clarified, imitating Erik’s accent.
“Huh?”
“You do not remember much, do you?”
“I remember being cold, my arm feeling like it was on fire though my body felt like ice, and you talking an awful lot.”
The Altmer’s expression became almost bashful. “Aye, and I bet half of what I said did not make any bloody sense. That accent is very thick. I was feeling the cold too, Shield-Brother.”
“A kiss…” Erik mumbled, the images of their arduous walk through the Pale starting to play in his mind. “You ever get your kiss?”
“Ha! You remembered that of all things!? No, the woman has not given me my kiss yet.” Those red-orange eyes twinkled. “Perhaps later, if I am a good Mer. She is hunting now with Aela and Sinding. I keep telling her to feed and she forgets. Ha! Like me.” He adjusted his position in the chair and took another puff of his pipe, the expression becoming sincere. “We need to talk, son, if you are up for some words.” The tone was serious, but not sad. He actually sounded matter-of-fact to Erik, like he was going to explain how things were. “You may not remember much of our walk to the mill, but I remember it. One thing you said especially stood out for me—“
“I don’t want to have words lying down.” Erik interrupted. It was funny, but Erik couldn’t help but notice that his Harbinger was seated at almost the same distance from him that Jarl Ulfric was, but their stances were completely different. The Jarl’s back had been straight, while his Harbinger’s shoulders had the characteristic light stoop they always had when he was relaxed. Ulfric was in his full armor, his Harbinger was in clothes. Ulfric’s face was dignified, noble, distant, while his Harbinger’s face was somewhere between funning Erik and proud, as if he was straddling the two; those red-orange eyes twinkling like fire fairies.
“Oh, I am no one to sit up for, lad.” The Elf laughed, dismissing Erik with a casual wave of his hand. “You can take this one lying down.” A low chuckle to himself, the Altmer quite pleased with his stab at Nord humor.
“I want to sit up.” Erik insisted. You’re my Harbinger; I should be sitting up to speak with you.
The Old Mer smiled, his laugh lines creasing, as if sensing exactly what he was thinking. “Then sit up.”
“My hand.” Erik questioned, looking away sadly. “I can’t.” The Altmer exploded in a sudden peal of robust laughter, his hand slamming on his thigh. When he calmed down, he faced Erik, sporting the silliest smirk on his face and Erik felt his face go red, his eyes stinging. “You are mocking me!”
“Auri-El’s Bow! We had this very conversation just outside the stables and your pride made you walk through weather that would kill a lesser man and you are telling me now that you cannot lift yourself off the bed? Erik the Slayer, you make me laugh sometimes!” The Altmer then tilted his head to the side and his expression was now curious. “You want to sit up to talk to me, then sit up.”
Erik huffed, furrowing his brow and then turned towards his right, using his right arm for leverage and support. With some effort, he pushed himself upwards and was seated upright. He turned to face the Elf again.
“See, now was that so hard?” Smiled the Elf. “Amazing what the body can do, when the mind is in control.” He then released a gust of air and regarded Erik, the eyes mildly probing.
“They want me to go Jorrvaskr. Home.” Erik said. “Is that what you want? Is that why you sent for them?’
The Elf blew a gust of smoke. “Is that what you want?’
Erik moved, resting his left hand on his lap and tried to open the fingers, but to no avail. He faced the Altmer and—dammit—he hated that he could feel the sting of his own tears. “Can you fix this?” He felt his voice break at the question and shame mixed with sorrow. His Harbinger leaned back against the chair, in deep thought for a few moments and Erik was on pins and needles. “Well?”
“There are no guarantees in a warrior’s life, Erik.” The Harbinger began. “I can attempt to fix your hand, if that is your wish—“
“Of course it’s my wish!” Erik exploded. “I don’t want to be like this! Broken! Useless!” The cuff across the face was a huge surprise and Erik’s eyes watered from the blow.
“Never. NEVER!” The Altmer growled and then quickly composed himself. “Say you are useless. That is why you got the cuff from me, boy. You wanted to sharpen your sword again, eh? Well, you will not with that attitude. You have two options.” The Altmer turned in his chair and grabbed Erik’s left arm by the wrist, extending it slowly. Erik felt the extreme stiffness as it moved. “To attempt to fix your hand, to fix what these idiots did to you at the temple because they could not stand to heed an Old Mary’s advice—bloody Oblivion, a year here and still this.” He shook his head, suppressing anger. “It does not matter anymore.”
“What did they do to me?”
“Erik, I told them not to touch you until I returned. They did not listen and attempted to heal you. You can see the result. That is why I spoke with Lareyne before we left.”
“Why didn’t they listen?” he could feel his eyes widen. Nords did this to me? Talos’ priests did this to me?
“Look at my slanted eyes, son. Look at my pointed ears, and still tell me you do not know why they did not listen.”
The weariness of the Elf’s tone was enough to silence Erik and he let the Altmer continue.
“To attempt a fix, I need to break your arm again. Here and there.” He pointed to two locations, one just above the elbow and the other above the wrist. “That is usually done with a surgical hammer and the breaks need to be precise or it will not work and I will have to reset the bone, heal it, and then try again until I get the breaks just right. Next, I will need to take a blade and cut every tendon in your hand and wrist, use magic to lengthen them and then fuse them back together.” Erik swallowed hard and the Altmer met his stare. “You look about two shades paler, boy.”
“I think I’m going to be sick.” Erik gasped.
“Some water?” The Harbinger asked, gesturing to the pitcher. Erik nodded and the Elf poured a tankard, handing it to him. He took several slow sips and let out a gust of air. “Healing is not for the faint of stomach.” The Old Mer observed. “That is why so few really practice.”
“Would it hurt?” Erik asked.
“Terribly, the process taking weeks of repeated treatments and, Erik, no guarantees that the hand would regain its full function.”
“Then it’s hopeless.” Erik groaned, pushing the Harbinger away from his hand and throwing himself back into the bed in despair. Why? Why was this done to me?
The Altmer narrowed his eyes, setting his pipe down upon the nightstand in exasperation. “Scamp’s Blood! For all your battle prowess, boy, you really are quite dense sometimes. Throwing yourself onto the bed like a girl who has received the wrong dress from the dress shop. I fucking said you had two options.” He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “But I am not telling it to a girl who is crying in bed. Bloody Oblivion, cry when it is important, not for this.”
“It’s my hand.” Erik replied, sniffing, pulling himself up again.
“Last time I checked, boy, you had another. In excellent working order too.”
“But I can’t wield my weapon anymore.”
“No, on that I agree.” He then smiled and Erik couldn’t believe it, he was fucking smiling. “Bah! Sometimes, you Nords and your stubbornness. What I love and despise about your people. I have changed my weapons countless times, finding what makes me the best fighter. A bastard now could be a greatsword a year from now. No, you cannot wield your greatsword, Erik the Slayer, but that does not mean you cannot wield a weapon.” Erik felt the Altmer’s hand rest on his shoulder. “And I present to you option two. It will require more work, and perhaps just as much pain, though pain of a different sort, but it comes with a guarantee, Erik. Which leads me back to the first question I asked you. Is that what you want? To go home? Because Option one means just that. Going home. We end this, here and now, you, Serana, and me. We go back. Do you want this? Do you want me to listen to our Shield-Siblings? Or do you want to carve your own path, even if the path is a rocky one.”
The Altmer smiled an old, knowing smile and Erik could see behind his eyes so many years of struggle and pride. His pride. Growing up poor, the trials of becoming a priest, becoming a Knight of the Crystal Tower, the Oblivion crisis, his exile, his survival in Cyrodiil, new trials in Skyrim, being Dragonborn. His face was a patchwork of all of his experiences, both by the lines and the scars of his face. The scars upon his body. Ulfric didn’t have scars like that. He grew up privileged, a nobleman of Skyrim, a son of Skyrim. People sacrificed for him, died for him, for his cause. And he realized then and there that Äelberon of Dusk was the opposite of Ulfric Stormcloak. He sacrificed himself for people, not the other way around. He realized it because Ulfric had asked him to join him, the conversation ultimately all about Ulfric, not about Erik. But the Elf before him, asked him, asked Erik what he wanted to do. He gave him the choice.
“I want to carve my own path, Harbinger.” Erik said, not looking away from those luminous eyes. Like dragon fire they seemed to Erik in the candlelight of the tiny room where he was deciding his own fate. “I want to wield a weapon again. I don’t care if it’s a bloody fork at this point.” Both warriors chuckled.
“Well for that training, go find Tilma.” The Harbinger flashed a grin, but then his tone became serious again, again like a grandfather. “Do you want to go home, Erik?”
Erik shook his head. “Harbinger, I want to go to Raldbthar and… I want to finish what I started here with Gru, Dec, and you. For my da, and for me. I don’t back down on what I agreed to do. Decimus and you don’t, so why should I?”
“Well, lad. That is a fair answer and I will tell your Shield-Siblings to respect your wishes and fuck off.” He grinned, as if accepting a challenge. “Aela will be mad, of course, but I can handle her.” The expression then turned thoughtful as the Altmer continued. “No, the Old Blade and I do not back down. A good thing and a bad thing, as we are bound by our oaths, to the very end of all things. A hard path, but in my eyes, a rewarding one. Different than the rewards that come with being privileged and wealthy. Wealth can be as fickle as the flying air, titles can be taken, but the oaths you keep are yours forever.”
“I can’t wield my two-handed sword anymore, though.” Erik said softly. “Eorlund gave it to me.”
“No, you cannot, but you let me work with you and Auri-El’s witness, you will be a better warrior with one hand than you ever were with two.” He lifted Erik’s clawed hand and clasped it in his powerful archer’s hand. “And they will now know you for this. They will see this hand, this broken hand, and not pity you.” The red-orange eyes intensified and Erik met them. “They will respect you, and the weak will fear you, because they will know who you are when that Taloned hand comes. They will know what will happen, Erik.” The Altmer smirked and nodded. “Oaths will be fulfilled. You bear the mark of the Eagle now, boy. New born, it seems to me. You will learn to fight like this old fart of one facing you. Eagles soar upon the changing winds, Erik, riding thermals high in the sky. We dance over that fucking fickle air. Constantly changing direction, changing paths to stay afloat. And stay afloat we do…” He set Erik’s hand down and gave him another rough pat on the shoulder, the smile encouraging. “Now, I think, we both need some sleep. We will leave early on the morrow. So be geared up, ready to go, and prepared for some training while we travel.”
“You still owe me a beeeeeeg drink.” Erik joked.
“That I do. If you survive your training. Which I think you will.”
“Go get your kiss, Ronnie.” Erik grinned. The Altmer’s chuckle was deep.
“Oh, I will. Go to sleep, boy. You will need your strength tomorrow. Remember, geared up and ready to go. I wait for no one.” He then straightened up before Erik and the look on his face was one of great pride. “This is Altmeri training now. Not Thalmor, not Northern Alinor finery, but Altmeri. The old Southern ways I will show you as they were shown to me. As they were once shown to Jorrvaskr long ago. I will teach you the way of Honor.”
Erik settled back into bed and sleepily watched the Harbinger stand tall and retrieve his pipe from the nightstand, pinching the candles out with his fingertips, before donning his cloak to head out into the night to think or to wait for her, Erik didn’t know. He lay in bed thinking for a spell, letting the desire to sleep slowly over take him. Rest up because he’s going to clobber your arse come morning and Erik grinned. I am grinning again.
When Ulfric left me in the temple, the house of Talos, I felt useless, broken. Like a thrown away toy. When the Harbinger left me just now, in a common house smelling of sweat and labor, I didn’t feel hopeless. I didn’t feel broken. Ulfric didn’t strike me and I felt ashamed, my Harbinger struck me and I felt my pride return. Ulfric didn’t make me pack my gear and walk hours in the snow to survive, my Harbinger did.
An Old Mary knows how to treat me more like a Nord than a Nord does.
“Hmm, they’re asleep.” Aela observed while Serana silently opened the door to the common house.
“I know, I think Farkas’ snores can be heard from Windhelm.” Quipped Serana. The auburn-haired Nord flashed a wicked grin and for a second Serana thought Aela was going to scare the crap out all of them by making noise. Yell “Thalmor” or some crazy shit like that. I’m tempted, because watching Farkas jump out of his bedroll and shit himself would be funny as Oblivion, but Beron is exhausted.
“Damn, I’d normally mess with them now, but…” Aela sighed, her brow creasing. “I think Ronnie needs sleep pretty badly. He didn’t look so good when we left him to hunt.”
“He always bounces back.” Serana interjected, placing a hand on the Huntress’ shoulder before the two quietly entered the common house. “I will wake Athis, it’s his watch now, right?”
“Aye.” Aela nodded.
“Go get some sleep then. When I’m done with Athis, I’ll head to the basement. Bastard’s there.” Serana grumbled. “He should be up here. It was freezing there, but he wanted Erik warm. Bet he’s awake and reading, too. Fool.”
“He’s a stubborn mule. And he’s waiting for something” Aela pointed out, teasing.
“I know, I know.” Serana rolled her eyes.
“He did make it to the mill.” Aela grinned. She then gritted her teeth when she stealthily passed a snoring Farkas on her way to her bedroll. The massive Nord let out a belch, scratched his belly, mumbling something about how he was gonna “give it to you, woman”, a beam wider than the horizon on his face, a noticeable bulge where his crotch was under his blanket. The Huntress stopped, reaching for an empty tankard on the floor. Her intent was to chuck it at Farkas, and Serana covered her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. Aela set the tankard down and growled, making a sour face. “Fucker wouldn’t feel it anyway and I’d wake up Athis, Erik, Lydia, and the old Mer. Hircine’s Spear! Sounds like a troll. I won’t sleep a wink with this in the same room.” She shook her head and shrugged. “Dunno how Greir puts up with it. And the Old Mer would have to be dead downstairs not to hear this shit.”
Serana smiled at Aela’s words and knelt in front of Athis’ sleeping form. “Athis. Wake up.”
A deep red eye opened, awake, the pupil expanding in the dim candlelight of the common room. “You think that with all this racket I’d actually be asleep? It’s like a bloody dragon is sleeping with me and it’s not the one downstairs.” The Dunmer sneered, pushing himself up from his bedroll with an annoyed grunt, making both women shake their shoulders to control their laughter. “Time for my watch, I assume?” Serana felt his eyes probe her more closely and then move towards Aela while he fastened his wolf cuirass, gauntlets, and boots. A sly smile formed. The Dunmer’s keen nose was picking up the freshly chewed frost mirriam, knowing full well that’s what both women used to clean their teeth and mask the smell of blood when they finished hunting. He could probably see the flush in Serana’s cheeks as well. “Fed well too, from what I can see of the two of you. Sinding off, then?”
“Aye, towards Kynesgrove.” Explained the Huntress, pulling off her own boots while she sat on her bedroll. “Tracking Ulundil and his wife. Making sure they arrive at Riften safely. Knowing him, he’ll overtake them in a day, Ronnie’s instructions already memorized.”
“Azura guide them.” Replied Athis, donning his cloak to head out. He gestured with his head towards the stairs leading to the basement. “He’s terribly worried about them. Wish he’d say why. It’s eating at him, whatever it is.”
“Never seen him plan like this before and that bloody Mer plans everything.” Aela agreed, stashing her boots next to her pack, stretching and yawning to get the night’s hunt out of her body. “Jeek looks terrible; Hircine only knows what the old Mer wants with the horse’s hair, but it’s there on the table. My poor Jeek. Give him a good smack when you head down there, eh Serana? For Jeek’s sake?”
“Sure.” Serana chuckled.
“And try to talk him out of Erik.” Aela asked, flicking her chin towards the sleeping Nord.
The vampire sighed. “It wasn’t Äelberon’s decision. It was Erik’s. He’s coming with us. You would deny him that?”
“No.” Aela shook her head and shrugged. “I guess not.”
“It is his right, Sister.” Chimed in Athis, buckling his belt for his blades. “And if Teva thinks Erik can handle it, then he more than likely can.”
Serana headed towards the basement steps, passing a quietly listening Lydia—none of them were really asleep—and being careful around an actually sleeping Erik. The only one able to withstand Farkas’ noise, still drunk from the Mer’s healing magicks. The lad stirred, but resumed his slumber, his color looking far better. Bal’s Balls, that Mer worked miracles. Did you work them on yourself, Beron?
“I’m sure the Mer will explain himself when he feels like it. Probably going over the final points of the plan right now instead of sleeping. Obsessive Altmer.” Serana shook her head. You don’t do anything until it’s perfect, Beron, I bet steam is blowing through those pointy ears from all that extra thought. “Goodnight, Athis. Safe watch ‘til the morning.”
“Night, or rather very early morning, Serana. I’ll keep watch. They should arrive at Windhelm by early morning at their rate of travel and you’ll be long gone from here by then. Restful sleep, for you and Teva.” The Dunmer nodded and then he smirked, like a naughty joke had just been told. “Or not, if he’s still waiting.” Infernal kiss, they all bloody knew about it now. Athis opened the door and disappeared into the frozen night, his blades ready.
“It was a good hunt tonight, Moon sister.” Nodded Aela, only to frown slightly, her eyes suddenly on the basement steps. “He was missed, but he needed sleep more. They drain him more and more every time, Serana. I wish it over already. Give him his kiss, will you?”
“I will, Aela. Dreams of the Hunt, sister.” Serana smiled, beginning her descent.
“Always.” The Huntress whispered, a tiny smile playing on her normally hard features as she pounded a fur on her bedroll to mold it more to her liking.
It had been a good hunt, Serana easily matching the werewolves. Running through the snow-covered forests of the Pale, smelling the fear in their prey, their bodies pulsing with life-giving liquid. Sinding and Aela understood her, her need to hunt, and Beron understood too, sometimes even joining them. He was the one who bloody surprised all three of them sometimes. A mortal who could keep pace with them on the hunt, using Allie, but once in a while on foot, fleet as a deer for short bursts, tracking, following, letting them feed. He had started by accompanying Aela. “So she would never feel all alone.” He had explained when she grew angry when he disappeared once with his Shield-Sister, her jealousy kicking in. A jealousy that was unwarranted. He protected Aela and Sinding, the same way that he protected her when she fed. This was a land that would never bear any sort of love for vampires and werewolves. Understandably so when schemes were made to block the very sun. When feral werewolves slaughtered entire farms. His Shield-Siblings and her were the exceptions to the rules and so many of both went feral, the bloodlust too strong in them. To risk losing them to those whose blind anger and hatred couldn’t distinguish between beasts that had done them wrong and creatures who only lived off the wilds, or were being tortured by unseen forces and needed help not death, was something Beron did not want to fathom, so he kept vigil while they hunted.
Serana quietly descended the steps, carefully avoiding creaking the old wood. She didn’t know why she was being quiet now, bastard was probably only reading. The still-warm blood in her body made her keenly perceive the sudden temperature drop in the darkness of the basement. Only several ventilation shafts between floor levels, cleared of building snow, illuminated the room in beams of star and moonlight, casting a cool, faint glow over the many piles of chopped wood, storage barrels, and hanging foodstuffs that filled up the space.
Beron was not awake and Serana was shocked, feeling her jaw drop. She slowly set her pack down at the basement’s entrance; her sword, her cloak, her armor, a pile on the floor. She then smiled at the Mer before her. Never, never in all their days together had she ever see him sleep. She had seen him unconscious, yes, but never asleep. Always asleep after her, always awake before her. He was tangled in a pile of pelts, the whites and silvers of his skin and hair against the blacks and greys of wolf and bear. He lay on his right side, the front of his body facing her, facing the entrance, guarding, though she couldn’t see most of his face, only part of his nose, mouth, and jaw, the steam coming from his nostrils much more prominently than she would like. He was freezing and then she caught herself suppressing a chuckle when she walked closer to him. Beron had wrapped a pelt around his head and his left arm was bent at the elbow.
He was bloody covering his ear. Farkas was driving you insane, eh? Serana listened briefly. Aye, you can hear the Nord from here. Just enough that the Mer would be nuts if he was trying to sleep.
She held her position when the left hand lowered suddenly and he groaned, the brow creasing. Dreaming. Beron’s back was pressed tightly against the wall, both to conserve heat and for defense. And aye, Serana now saw it when she drew closer. His ebony bastard was laid in front of him, the last line of defense emphatically drawn with the deep black blade, parallel with his body, the long fingers of his uncomfortably extended right hand just touching the hilt. Old Mer, what has you so spooked that you’re sleeping with your back against the wall and your hand touching your weapon. All you have to do is push up with that left hand, grab the hilt, swing, and death would come to whomever threatened the ones you love. It would be so fast.
And at the same time he was exhausted, because she was now standing right over him and nothing. Unless he somehow knew it was her. Perhaps smelling her. She dropped to her knees silently and bit her lip when she saw part of his bare flank in between the furs. Black and blue against his pale skin, the image of him crashing to the ground after that beast struck him with its head playing in her mind. More bruising on his left forearm and again on a piece of exposed leg. His whole left side. He had hit the ground far harder than he let on. Dammit.
“You don’t sleep with your sword, you dumbarse. You sleep with me.” She whispered, slowly moving his bastard to the side. A low moan, the fingers of his right hand instinctively twitching, no longer feeling the cold of ebony and leather. Complaining, eh? You’ll like this better, I think, she smirked. When the sword was out of the way, she relaxed her position, letting her legs slide a little from underneath her, almost curling up against him. I want to see your whole face, you bastard. You do this, you know. Make me all pissed at you and then you pull this and all I want to do is see that ugly handsome face of yours. She moved the pelt covering his face as carefully as she dared to expose more of it to the muted starlight.
And there they were, a pair of closed eyes under a furrowed silver brow, sleeping eyes half obscured by his hair, long, silver lashes against his permanently dark shadows, the beard untrimmed since they left Whiterun. She let herself touch his bruised cheek, feeling his skin against her fingertips. Warm, impossibly warm despite the chill of the basement. Serana watched the steam escape while he breathed, framing his face like smoke, and she caught herself smiling at the image as she continued to caress his face. She had seen enough dragons smoke in her day and he was no different. She traced his scars, careful not to rouse him by tickling him, moving next to the lined forehead, and the smooth softness of his hair. All the while he continued to sleep deeply and the furrow that had plagued that brow before slowly receded, his burdens temporarily easing, the dark dreams of Alduin’s black fury brightening. The dreams of his death.
I am touching a sleeping dragon, she thought to herself, losing any semblance of passing time. How many can claim this? How many would a Dovah trust enough to let them in like this? How many ever see a Dovah at his most vulnerable? How many Dovah…love? He let you move his sword. He knows you are here.
She felt a tender warmth and out of the corner of her eye, his large white hand closed over her left wrist and hand that had been resting palm down upon the cold stone, touching too. And the greys, silvers, and whites that were his face in the star-night became punctuated with two flashes of pure dragon fire. Open eyes, now seeing her, his lips smiling back.
“You are warm…Ana.” He murmured, the voice like the caress of silk against her skin, as if speaking any louder would shatter their moment. His body shifted position so the white hand could easily slide up the sleeve of her blood-stained silken shirt, exploring lazily, already massaging stiff muscles. Serana blinked, relaxing, knowing full well what he was doing. He was feeling for the holes from the splinters and she saw underneath the sleeve of her shirt begin to glow with the purple light of his healing magicks for her while his fingers moved tenderly over her skin. His eyes never leaving hers. She felt the holes begin to seal, the tissue filling, the pain and soreness leaving. His left hand did its own exploring, finding her back, snaking under her shirt. More warmth, his skin against hers. That hand was searching too, for the puncture holes on her side. More magicks and she tilted her head back for a moment, just enjoying the flood of intense sensations, her eyes blinking away tears. Gods, this is why you never learned that bloody spell, she gasped, her thoughts reduced to an inarticulate moan of ecstatic pleasure. She didn’t realize until their faces were less than a pertan apart that he had brought her closer to him, and that the bastard had already deftly removed her shirt, her chest tight against his, feeling his wild heart.
You are a sneak thief at heart, Beron, she told him with her eyes, her hands beginning to do their own exploring under the pelts he was still tangled in, her excitement mounting, his too. He only smirked sleepily, still stubbornly healing her body, the light from his magicks mixing with the starlight.
“You should be saving your magicks for your—“She began, only to be interrupted by a searing kiss, finally claiming his reward for reaching the mill, his arms securely around her, drawing her deeper into his makeshift lair of piled furs. And she kissed him back, now hungry in a different way. He always stops the argument before it begins…
And you let him.
You are putting on weight again, Beron, Serana chuckled to herself as she lay pinned under a pile of furs and a massive sleeping Altmer, their limbs intertwined. Good, you stuffing your face means you’re happy.
“Well, as happy as you can be with the shit storm that is your life.” She sighed aloud, her free hand roaming down his scarred back as far as her position on the floor allowed her to. She wanted at that arse of his again, but no, she could only reach the small of his back and she gave up, her body unable to move anymore under his bulk. He groaned against her neck in response and stirred, beginning to wake. She could tell by the faint grey cast to the light in the basement that they perhaps slept more than they should have, but he had needed it badly, she thought, her hand lingering on his back, still feeling knots in the muscles. Beron slowly—in a way that clearly showed it was hurting him—turned his head to face her and she giggled at the indentations the furs and his own hair left on half of his face. He was a mess today.
“What?” He groggily asked, only just managing to open his eyes.
“You have extra wrinkles.” She explained, unable to restrain her laughter, “All over your face, and… your left eyebrow is all…” She furrowed her own brow and managed to squeeze a hand between their pressed bodies—noticing now that she was in just as bad shape as he was in—to bring her thumb up to try to smooth out the twisted hairs. The world could be in chaos around them and here she was fixing his eyebrow. It is really the only thing you can do right now. Moving is going to be painful as Oblivion today. “I really don’t know how to describe what it’s doing. You slept wrong on the furs.”
“As if I need any more wrinkles.” Beron grumbled. He noted his position on top of her, almost smothering, before facing her again. “I am squashing you.”
“I’ll survive.” Truth be told, it felt like there was a cow sitting on her breasts right now, but she wasn’t minding too much, saving the cramping on her right thigh where his left leg was pressing up against her. Right on another one of his bruises. That had to be hurting him. She also really couldn’t feel her arse that was only buffered from the hard stone of the basement floor by a thin layer of fur.
“You know what?” He blinked, the film of sleep leaving his eyes.
“What?” She asked, licking her thumb to continue working on his eyebrow.
“I do not think I can move off of you even if I wanted to.” He sighed. “I am bloody stiff.” A husky laugh quickly escaped his lips and Serana braced herself for one of his terrible jokes. “One part was stiff last night and that is about the only part of me that is not stiff this morning.” His eyes glinted naughtily, willing his hand to touch her face despite the soreness. Here it comes. “And that is precisely the part I would like to be stiff right now, even if it killed me.” They both knew that it would not happen, but wishing was still allowed in their private world.
“It was worth the pain today, though.”
“Aye.” He smiled languidly, kissing her several time before he continued. “It was. We needed it. That dragon was...” he let his voice trail off, unable to finish, turning away and she felt the tension creep into his neck.
“Do you want to talk about it? About what it said, what you saw?” She asked. Ah dammit, she’d hurt for it, but the back of his neck really needed her other hand.
The Altmer slowly shook his head and Serana saw a profound pain flash before his eyes before he gave her a reassuring smile. I am alright, the eyes then said. “I still need to sort it out myself.” He replied, kissing her intimately. “Later. I promise.”
“You sure?” Still playing with his eyebrow, her thumb on the bald patch.
“Aye, I’m sure. And Ana, that eyebrow is not going to be fixed anytime soon.”
“It gives me something to do while you figure out how you’re going to get off me, Beron.” She smirked. He kissed her one more time, lingering, and Serana watched the expression change yet again, the eyes carrying the full weight of responsibility, duty. Her smirk became a frustrated sigh and he understood.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered.
“Don’t be. We can’t stay like this forever. We have to…” We have to, our life is one big ‘have to’. She bit her lip, fighting hard to quell the sudden sting of tears. And it hit her that he was feeling guilty about what he was, about that what he had to do was what made their life one big ‘have to’. “We have to go to Raldbthar, we have to help, my tits will be flat and my arse will fall off...” she began to list, swallowing when her voice broke. I will not cry. It is not his fault. You’re just tired, bloody relieved the dragon didn’t kill him, and you both enjoyed last night a bit too much.
“We cannot have that!” He exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting upwards. “I’d have to do penance for centuries if such horrible crimes befell such a fine pair of tits and arse.” He grinned. She burst out laughing at the stupid choice of words. Only he says such idiotic things. She laughed, her boisterous laugh that she knew full-well could be heard upstairs. You always know how to make me smile, don’t you? “You sound like a hyena, woman. Verily, those upstairs will think I am killing something.”
Bastard completed his ridiculousness by saying ‘verily’ and she beamed, choosing to forget her tears. Joy for now, little moments of joy. “One more?”
“Huh?’
Without warning, she brought his head down and kissed him. Their aches and pains were put aside for a few moments until she slapped his back, making him grunt. “Alright, it’s time to get off.” She looked down at her smothered breasts. “They’ll be flat as pancakes if you don’t move.”
“Aye,” He agreed. “Flat means harder to grab and I cannot have that either. And we need to be long gone before Dreth even thinks of looking here. Aeri’s done enough for me already. Too much.” He nodded, shifting his hand upwards to push up. “I am going to give it a shot. Ready?”
“Mhm.”
Working together, grunting, huffing, laughing, whimpering, and puffing—sounding an awful lot like they were bloody at it again—they managed to get Beron lying on his side, and Serana smiled, finally able to turn, choosing to curl up against him, the feeling slowly returning to her arse.
“I’m so tired, Ana.” He yawned while he started to painfully stretch out the kinks in his muscles, ignoring that her hand finally found his arse.
“I know. Me too.” She replied, her face pressed against his chest, the sparse hairs threatening to tickle her nose. “You think your plan will work?” she mumbled.
He furrowed his brow in thought, but took the time to stop his stretching and gather her in his arms. “I do not know Dreth, so I cannot predict his reaction with any certainty. If it buys us time to get the shard without running into him, I am satisfied. Raldbthar will be dangerous enough without Dreth and his men.”
“They want to go with you. They are worried.”
“I know, but they do not know what being pursued entails. It is better to keep our group compact. Just you, me, and the boy. On foot. Horses are easy to spot and I am counting on that.” He changed his expression to one of steely determination and gave her a sound smack to the arse. “Alright woman, we rise, gear up, put the plan in motion, and may it bring us what it brings us.” He gazed at her, giving her a final kiss. “We will get through this.” His eyes then turned to the steps leading up to the main level of the common room and she watched him inhale deeply and smile. “The son of a bitch, he didn’t. Smell that?”
Serana dropped her jaw when she caught the distinct scent floating down the stairs and already she felt more awake. “I have permission to love Farkas, right?”
Beron flashed one of those charming smiles of his, still eyeing the stairs, “For this, I’d even marry the man.”
“What are you bloody doing to me?” Farkas whined like a mistreated puppy, sneezing to get the flour out of his nose.
“Stop sneezing, you will get snot on it.” Ordered the Altmer, adjusting the position of something on Farkas’ head while the Nord sat with his back against the table. “And you will get snot on me. I will not like that.”
By Talos, he sounded a bit like Galar there, thought Erik while he handed his cloak to Aela. The Huntress put it on and handed Erik her cloak. It was a bit short and she almost stepped forward to help him, but he beat her to it. She nodded when he secured the clasp with his right hand, using his left elbow to hold his pack. He woke up earlier than the others, earlier even than the Harbinger, to gear up, remembering his words. “I wait for no one.”
“Fits you perfect.” Aela joked, but Erik saw the respect in her eyes too. I’m going to be alright, sister, you’ll see.
“Dunno what is worse, you playing a boy, or a girl pretending to be me.” Erik shrugged.
“I could think of a lot worse people to be, Erik the Slayer.” Aela smiled.
“Likewise, sister.”
Lydia was seated on the other side of the bench, Serana putting the finishing touches on her hair. Done in the exact same style as the vampire’s and Erik hoped the Harbinger’s dangerous gamble would pay off. The two women were continuing to laugh at the Harbinger looming over a seated Farkas, the Nord still in the dark as to what exactly the Elf was doing to him.
“They are laughing at me, what in Oblivion?” The proud member of the Circle continued. “That’s Jeek’s hair. From his tail! Near his constantly shitting arse! Ronnie, you better explain yourself!”
“All in good time, Farkas, and time is something we do not have much of, so I care you to… be… still while I make a final adjustment. Athis should be back from his watch at any moment. There.” Erik watched the Harbinger take a sip of coffee and inspect his work on the Nord. “What do all of you think?”
Their laughter echoed in the small common house and the Elf crossed his arms over his chest, downing more coffee while he scrutinized the Nord. “Oh bloody Oblivion, stop laughing.” His own lips morphing into a silly smirk. “I only need him to pass for me from a distance!”
“He’s way too pretty.” Grinned Erik. More laughter and even the Harbinger chuckled deeply, giving Erik a sly wink.
“Aye, you got that right, lad. Just hoping Serana does not confuse the two of us.”
Lydia’s comb flew through the air and struck the Harbinger square in the shoulder, almost making him spill his coffee. The Altmer glared at Serana, but Erik quickly saw it turn into something dirty and he could feel his own face go red, remembering his Harbinger’s underbreeches hanging from the stairs in the ‘stead. He was pretty sure he’d have to take first watch tonight. He didn’t mind, he was still sore, all three of them were, but they were rested and in good spirits. Ready for the rugged wilds of the Pale. Partly because of the very Nord they were all funning now.
Farkas brought coffee with him. Well, it was the Harbinger’s coffee, a gift from the Guildmaster on his birthday, when she was still just Nerussa, but Farkas stole it right from the ‘stead, brought it with him and now they were all enjoying tankards of the revitalizing liquid. The bitterness of the steaming hot brew welcome in the morning chill of the common house. A contrast to mead, which made everyone sleepy, coffee kept everyone up and alert. No wonder it was an Altmer drink, Erik thought, his grin broadening. His Harbinger once described the coffee plantations that dotting the lower slopes of Eton Nir, the highest mountain in Summerset. The fruits a bright berry red when ripe. They didn’t look like red berries to Erik, more like weird dark brown, almost black hard little nuts. Burned. But when they were ground and hot water poured over them, it… well, it sure woke him up. The Harbinger took his sweetened with honey, or even mixed with hot milk, which was the way he was drinking it today, milk and honey. The most non-milkdrinker milkdrinker you’ve ever known.
“Ysmir’s beard! The lot of you are never going to let me live this down.” blustered Farkas suddenly, his face growing blotchy under his flour-encrusted beard, wisps of Jeek’s white tail framing his face. “This is what I get for bringing the coffee?”
“Maybe it will be better if you cover him already with your cloak.” Offered Serana, sporting a mocking half smile. “Cover as much of that face as possible. Lest I get confused.”
“I do not think that will happen, woman.” The Elf winked at her and she licked her lips before she cleared her throat and looked away, absently fiddling with Lydia’s hair. Aye, definitely first watch.
“Serana, you shut up.” Farkas warned, pointing his finger at her.
The Altmer scratched his beard and nodded. “Upon further inspection, you are right. It could only help.”
“Fuck you, Ronnie.”
“Don’t swing that way, Farkas.” He then wrinkled his nose. “Just do not go stinking it up. I love that cloak.”
“Got if off some Orc’s fat green arse. I remember. I’ll make sure then to use it to wipe mine.” Farkas growled, but the light grey eyes were twinkling. “Tilma’s gonna have to spend a week cleaning all the shit—“
The door to the common house swung open and Athis stepped inside, at first tired from his watch, but then his eyes found Farkas. The red eyes widened, the hooded head tilting to the side. Erik then saw the shoulders begin to shake violently with silent laughter, erupting into a full-blown laughing fit that left the Dunmer wiping the tears from his eyes.
“By the Reclamations, that is the best fucking laugh I’ve had in a long time.” He bowed to the Harbinger. “Ronnie, I salute you. Your creation, it’s fantastic. Why don’t you send that to Alduin?”
It was the Harbinger’s turn to laugh heartily, “’twould scare the dragon to death. Not a bad idea. Or better, the Thalmor Embassy! Collect the bounty on me myself! We would make a fortune for Jorrvaskr and give that Old Mary Emissary a heart attack!”
“Stop!” whimpered Farkas, only to give up by slumping against the table, defeated. “Fine, fine, laugh at me, get it all out of your systems. Maybe Dreth will laugh so hard that the Shards will fall out of his arse.”
“Speaking of our favorite cutthroat,” The Altmer continued, sitting down to finish his coffee. “So you saw him at Whiterun, eh? What can we expect?”
“Well, they are mostly manageable, Teva, though Jenassa’s with them—the dark bitch.”
“You still got a thing for her?” Quipped Farkas.
“Fuck no, she’s crazy!” Athis scowled, making a sour face. “Too much death, even for a depressing Dunmer such as myself. Ex Morag Tong for sure. But she’s not the only one in Dreth’s group we know. There’s also Vorstag, Benor from Morthal, and old Belrand.”
“Belrand? Fuck!” Growled Farkas. “Shithead owes me money.”
“Well, looks like you can collect, if you two run into each other.” Teased Lydia, putting on Serana’s cloak as Serana put on hers.
Erik watched the Altmer processing Athis’ information. He seemed to be calmly sipping his coffee, but the eyes were focused on the door and Erik saw that the legs were tense. Like he wanted to go already. “Anybody else?”
“Orcs.” Aela said, fetching her pack. “Stronghold types—“
“Stronghold? Which one.” The Altmer pressed.
“Not sure, Teva. But definitely not city Orcs.”
The Harbinger cocked his eyebrow. “That could work to our advantage. If they hail from a stronghold, they will not attack Bloodkin.” He looked up from his coffee to see the Dunmer shift position uncomfortably. “Spill it, Athis.”
“Well, there’s one I’m not sure on. Saw him buying drinks at the Bannered Mare while I was having drinks with Jon. Stayed close to Dreth, guarding him, I think, but Teva, when he entered the tavern, everyone became very quiet. A Redguard, a big one, rather pale.”
“Probably just another Alik’r.” Aela scoffed, sitting on the edge of the table. “Can they even move in this weather?”
The Dunmer shook his head. “You only saw him from faraway when we were already on the road, sister. I got a closer look. If it was only Alik’r, I wouldn’t be bloody opening my mouth. Big bald, scarred bastard wielding an ebony and gold sword, twin daggers forming an ‘x’ on his belly. Even had metal spikes on his gauntlets.”
Erik saw the Harbinger look up from his coffee when Athis mentioned the weapon, and the look on his face was suddenly like ice, brooding, the eyes beginning to crackle. “Black ebony? With red and gold in the hilt?”
“That’s exactly right, Teva. How—how did you know? Aye, that very sword. You know him?”
“I do not know him, but I know what he represents.”
“And what is that?” Asked Farkas.
The Harbinger grunted, biting the inside of his lip, thinking, it seemed to Erik. He stood up quickly and reached for his pack that lay at the foot of the table. Erik noticed that Serana’s eyes never left him. She could see that his mood had changed too.
“A ghost, Farkas, a ghost from my moonless past. A bleak, walking darkness that nearly drove me over the edge of the abyss.” He muttered sadly, the voice almost frail, but his eyes found Serana’s and Erik saw how hope flashed through them. “Only I did not fall.”
The Altmer could silence a room with his mystery sometimes. No one ever knew what to say when he spoke like that. It made Erik feel very young. Like a baby. They were all babies to the Mer, except Serana. She was even older than he was, though the Altmer often joked that he didn’t count her “tomb years”.
“Alright, enough fun and games.” The Harbinger broke the silence, finishing his coffee before turning to address them. “We will head out. I will not waste more time here. It puts Aeri, Kodrir, and Leifur at risk and I will not have innocents at risk. When we are gone, ready the horses and when you have them in your line of sight, begin the decoy. From what Decimus told me of the party, they like to let us do all the dirty work, so they will linger behind until they know the task has been completed. Farkas last, let them see him. Take the road until you near Nightgate, then up through Wayward until you see a small fork in the mountain pass to your right. May be difficult to spot if it snows.” He let out a gust of air and cursed under his breath. “A heavy snow would actually help us a great deal and I will keep it in my prayers. There should be a Dwemer lift to the right of the trail and perhaps a frost troll or two, as it is an ideal place for them to ambush. A bit obscured, but such things are always play for Aela. Lead them there and then wait in the rocks nearby.”
“An Ambush, my Thane?”
Erik saw the Harbinger nod, the face turning grim and Erik didn’t understand. “Aye, Lydia, an ambush. If that Redguard is what I think he is, they will be a deadly group, and when my family is in danger, I am now a brother, father, lover first, priest second.” He bent his head. “May Auri-El forgive me. Besides.” He looked up at them again. “If he is what I think he is, he is not bound by honor. The opposite of Goldpact in every way. The opposite of us.”
“But aren’t we going to Raldbthar, Harbinger?” Asked Erik. “That’s nowhere near Wayward Pass. What you’re talking about is closer to Alftand where you went with that crazy Master Calcelmo and Serana last year.”
“We are indeed going to Raldbthar, lad. Our plans have not changed.”
“By the blood, Old Mer. You brought it with you, didn’t you?” Asked Serana, setting her coffee down.
The Harbinger glanced at her and nodded. “I did.”
“And you didn’t tell Lareyne or Galar?” pressed Serana, she crossed her hands over her chest. “Or me?”
“No. I did not tell them. When Grulmar showed me the half of Katria’s map, I suspected Raldbthar immediately as Nerussa had already been to Irkngthand. Process of elimination. You do not think I did not study these ruins in the Tower? Read sources on them far superior that what we had at that Telvanni’s basement? Aye, so I brought it. That heavy hunk of metal has been stashed on Allie since we left Whiterun. And it is in my pack now.”
“Shor’s Bones! What the Oblivion are you talking about, Ronnie?” Barked Farkas. Farkas was only saying what everybody else was thinking, their head scratching and puzzled faces matching Erik’s expression. Except Serana. She looked different, and the look on her face was an interesting mix of excitement and admiration. Like the Harbinger had just done something really smart.
“You sly old fox.” Murmured Serana. “That’s what you’ve been planning. You knew all along. Raldbthar can access—“
“Blackreach.” The Altmer completed. “It is my hope we will lose them in the darkness.”
4th of Morning Star 4E, 203
I have survived two days traveling in the Pale in the dead of one of the worst winters I’ve ever seen in Skyrim, Erik thought to himself proudly. There was suddenly crazy cursing in another language and a lightning fast flash of silver steel. Erik snapped to attention, bringing up his weapon quickly, but Erik knew.
Prepare yourself, arse, you’re gonna hit the snow again. Hard.
His legs forgot their function, unable to resist the blow and his arse hugged the snow-covered ground like it was his best friend. Another blow, the ebony blade flying from his hand like a child’s toy and Sos kiin, the weapon that slew dragons, now lay upon the snow in a most undignified position. The elegant tip of Feyn do Diil was now pointed square at his chest. A bastard of a silver alloy, the lines simple and clean, and when in the right hands...
“You are dead.” The Elf said with a chuckle, “again.”
“I got distracted.” Erik replied, catching his breath. “Again.”
“I know.” The sword was quickly sheathed and replaced by his extended hand. “And I am starved.” Erik grabbed the Harbinger’s hand and the Elf hoisted him up. The expression on his face then became sheepish. “Hurry.” He whispered, picking up Sos kiin to hand back to Erik and the two warriors began the short trek back to camp, their steps quick, like naughty children not wanting to get caught. “We need to be back at the camp before she returns from gathering more firewood. Hopefully the venison has not burned.” He gritted his teeth. “We were not supposed to be out here. We were supposed to be watching the meat, but even a little training goes a long way.” The Altmer wrinkled his nose. “And I hate just sitting on my arse watching food cook, a bloody waste of time.”
“I sat on my arse plenty of times.” Erik joked, feeling the soreness with every step. You still can’t believe you’re even fighting. Well, falling was more accurate, but Erik learned, even through his many mistakes. Watching those feet move, understanding what Decimus had meant when he recommended that he train with the Harbinger. Both moved with the grace of dancers and it was not the typical Nord way of fighting, but Erik was seeing the value of it, even if his leg muscles were on fire.
The Elf brushed off Erik’s comment with a wave of his hand. “You are too slow still. Better, but too slow. You will learn. Already your right hand is compensating very nicely and I am pleased with your progress. The more advanced things, however, we simply cannot learn here.”
“What things?” Erik asked, his curiosity building while they walked up the steps to Raldbthar. The Elf only smiled one of his knowing smiles and they continued towards their camp.
It was very different training with the Harbinger. Vilkas usually explained everything step by step, making Erik mirror his moves. Decimus yelled at him while they fought, making him think about the moves he was making, but his first training session with the Elf involved playing a silly child’s game. Done at the sleepy, flickering campfire while they were at the mine, their bodies still sore from travel after a meal of stewed rabbit. They sat facing each other and the Elf made Erik hold his right hand out while the Elf slapped it. Repeatedly. Erik was supposed to keep his hand away, dodge the Altmer’s slap, while holding it directly under the Elf’s, but fuck, fuck, fuck the Elf was fast! Serana was practically rolling on the floor laughing and Erik was ready to pull his hair out by the end of that session, still a bit unsure as to why the Elf had called it a “training session” in the first place. It was only a child’s game and he had been laughing too.
Today’s impromptu one was more traditional, but still strange to Erik, because the Elf gave him no warning, simply handed him Sos kiin and said “I am bored.” Altmer were crazy. What was next? Making him knead dough or dance? Bucket duty at Jorrvaskr? To become a master swordsman, you have to learn how to properly scoop up shit... Erik could picture the Elf saying it too, with a bloody grin on his face. It was like all of a sudden, the most random actions would improve skill. It was unpredictable. Well, Erik thought, he is the most unpredictable fighter in Jorrvaskr.
“Boy, what are you waiting for, me to carry you up the steps?” The Elf smirked, the laugh lines creasing.
“Sorry.” Replied Erik, not realizing that he had stopped moving.
They had traveled for two days, spending the first night in an abandoned mine. Tonight, they were at the entrance of Raldbthar after hours of practically climbing to reach it, knee-deep in snow. And that was not counting the hard-packed snow that didn’t let their bodies through, despite their weight. Early this morning, when they emerged from the mine, the Harbinger’s prayers were answered and a steady snowfall blanketed the Pale with a fresh layer of whiteness, clean and beautiful. Covering their tracks from Anga’s mill, their scent. After the snow happened, the Altmer took the time to hunt a small stag that had caught his eye while they traveled, bringing it down with a sure shot from his bow, muttering what sounded like a prayer to Erik.
“An offering of thanks.” He said softly as he skinned the deer, removing the choicest cuts of meat and the antlers to make a small burnt offering to the god of his order, the connection of space and time, Kyne’s grace, and something about the “bones of the earth, spirit of the now” before they salvaged some more meat from the beast and continued their hike. The Mer prayed a lot, it seemed to Erik, the morning and evening tenets said more fervently than normal. They reached the white and gold stone steps leading to the massiveness that was Raldbthar some time before sunset, only to find the old corpses of several people, burned to the point where even the beasts could not make a meal of them. Erik blinked and wrinkled his nose, an acrid odor suddenly filling his nostrils. Wait, those corpses didn’t really smell anymore…Oh shit!
“She is going to kill us.” Muttered the Altmer, facing the now completely black venison still roasting above the campfire.
“What do we do?” Erik asked, gazing sidelong at his Harbinger.
“I refuse to believe that that much time passed.” The Elf shook his head in disbelief, scratching his beard. “How?”
“My arse believes it.” Replied Erik, attempting to rub the soreness away. They both cringed when a pile of wood hit the stone steps.
“You idiots!” She bellowed. An ice spike then suddenly struck the charred meat, slicing right through it, sending half of it to the ground. That thing was completely solid, black. They must have been gone for hours. “Can’t even leave you alone to gather firewood. Bet that Mer got bored and wandered off! Lazy! While I’m working my arse to the bone to keep you two warm!”
“Gathering firewood all this time?” The Mer shot back. “Well call me a Thalmor Justiciar!” Erik started to laugh, “She lies!” The Harbinger sneered, pointing his finger at the bristling vampire. The red-orange eyes widened. “Oh! You have hunted!” The eyebrows then furrowed, accusing and he was almost jumping up and down in vindication. “There! There it is right there! Blood! On her pretty chin! Pot callin’ the kettle black, says I!”
Her jaw dropped, surprised that the Mer had caught her at her own game, but then her hands charged with frost magicks.
“Run, Erik!” The Altmer laughed, dodging another ice spike. “Run like we’ve got Oblivion at our heels, boy! You do not want to be hit by one of her snowballs!”
She sometimes thought that he was crazy. Well, not crazy, but prone to whimsy, prone to distraction. It was that mind of his, infernally curious, infernally brilliant. Erik shrugged, doing his best to scoop more snow in his right hand and Serana let her last snowball fly. It struck Beron square on his back, but other than recoiling slightly from its impact, he wasn’t moving.
“Old Mer.” She called, “Don’t tell me you didn’t feel that.”
A grunt, ignoring her.
Her tossed ice spikes had turned into a snow ball fight proper, releasing pent-up tension from two days of grueling travel, the dragon, circumstances beyond their control, and she knew deep down, more disguised training for Erik. Dodge a vampire and your feet become faster. The Nord moved as well as he could, though she agreed with Beron’s assessment of him their first night at the mine, chatting softly after they had eased their own tension, while the Nord kept first watch. The lad was slow, a product of his training, his time with the Old Blade too late in coming.
“But I will help him.” The Elf smiled, as he held her close to his body. “It is not too late.” In a surprising moment, he then opened up about the dragon, what he saw when its soul became his. Serana listened to the rumble of his voice while he spoke, struggling to understand the imagery. Especially the garden, the eyes, the connection to Grulmar and the appearance of Malacath in that little worm of an Orc. “I will help him.” He repeated before dozing off with a final “I love you, Ana” and Serana didn’t know if he meant Erik or Grulmar, or both. That Orc doesn’t deserve your kindness, you stupid fool of a Knight.
They were poised to camp tonight right in front of the entrance, an imposing set of carved Dwemer doors, but Beron now stood in front of them, his head leaning to the side, his back covered with numerous bits of snow.
“These doors are not locked.” He said quietly, as if speaking any louder was going to disturb something. “I bet if I pushed…”
“What?” she replied, joining him in front of the doors. He walked right up to one of them and gave it push. It yielded a little and Erik dropped his snowball. You’re crazy; you don’t know what is beyond those doors! “Don’t!” She exclaimed.
The Altmer turned to face her, sporting his famous ‘What I’m doing makes complete sense even though you do not understand, Nord’ look, “why not?”
“You gone in the head?” Serana argued. “I thought we were going to venture inside in the morning?”
“Serana, this door is unlocked. I want to see what is inside. Are you not the least bit curious why there are charred corpses outside that are months old? The door is open. I want to go in. Somebody had the intelligence to pick the lock on this door and we know very well how the Dwemer built doors.”
She did want to go inside, just as curious as he was. “Alright.” She drew her weapon. “But wait for Erik first. Erik, go grab a sword and this Old Shit’s bow.” The boy sped towards camp, but Beron was not waiting, already slipping inside. “Shit”, Serana cursed under her breath. You either don’t wait for anything or you take months to plan something. Somewhere in the middle would be ideal, Old Mer.
Serana saw the faint glow of Sun Fire emanate from Beron’s hand, lighting his path down a corridor. “It smells of old death in here, Serana. Burning, but old, like it happened a while ago, similar to the corpses outside.” He grunted, stifling several coughs. “And it is warm. Hmm, maybe...” He quickly sheathed his spell, however, when ahead of them continuously spewed a flame trap, lighting the room with gouts of flame, flaring, and then dying. The trigger mechanism probably broken. The residual light was enough to see by, revealing a chamber of Dwemer stone, equipment strewn about, and she noticed Beron veer left before the main path leading down, towards some bed rolls.
“Another body.” He pointed out. “Scamp’s Blood, charred in his sleep.”
“Who did this?” Erik asked, reaching them, Sos kiin drawn, Okriim wedged between his left arm and chest.
Beron knelt before the corpse to inspect it. “I have no idea. This is mage’s fire. Pretty strong magicks too for this amount of damage. I can barely tell the race.”
“Do you think this person is still around? One of Dreth’s men?” Erik asked, handing the Mer his bow.
“If it were one of Dreth’s, this would smell a lot stronger than it does. Unless they tried to get in here before…” Beron shook his head. “No, that does not make sense.” He rose, taking seconds to string his bow and strap the quiver to his side, “Let us proceed.”
Serana crouched and ventured ahead, stopping just short of the fire before the faint glimmer of a Dwemer lamp to her left caught her eye. It illuminated a partially collapsed pathway. Thousands of years and they still bloody worked. It was unfathomable. She smirked as a memory played in her mind. Beron had tried to take one apart at Alftand with Calcelmo’s help. Wanting to see how it worked, the two Elves stopping everything to see if they could do it. Both Mer emerged singed from their failed “experiment”, but grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear, vowing to try again later. It always struck her how Altmer so old could still view the world with such wonderment. Many at that age were already weary from so many years. She turned around and gestured to her left. He silently nodded, nocking an arrow, and Erik followed, ready.
The path led to what looked like in its day housed living quarters for the Dwemer denizens of Raldbthar and recently it housed people looking to make it a base of operations for an exploration of the ruin. Only burned bodies and spoiled food remained; some in their makeshift stone beds, some sitting at tables, some stooped over workstations and an extinguished cooking fire.
“By the Blood, what happened here?” Serana murmured.
Erik nudged a body with his sword. “Burned. Magicks, Harbinger?”
“Aye, from the same hand too.” He replied, passing by a table while Erik cautiously went on ahead into another room. He then gestured with his head towards a book with a distinctive whitish cover. “Serana, Aetherium Wars. Seems Dreth’s party was not the only one interested in finding the forge.”
“Harbinger! Ysmir’s Beard!” Erik cried out.
They both ran towards the sound, weapons drawn.
She reclined against him while he was writing, listening to the steady pulsing drone of Dwemer piping and ancient machinery, watching the smoke from his pipe drift to the ceiling, his body warm from the campfire.
The indoor campfire.
Bastard had been right and both he and Erik were much better for it. It still vaguely smelled of burning flesh to her sensitive nose—probably his too—but the damage done by the mysterious mage was long enough ago that it was worth the risk to spend the night in the safety and warmth of one of the small rooms in the living area of Raldbthar. The room containing five stone beds, isolated from the rest of the hallway by several walls. Quiet, dry, and warm enough that the two mortals were not wrapped in furs. Beron had even shrugged off his armor, claiming he was feeling stuffy. “And if an army of constructs come?” She had argued. Another flash of his ‘What I’m doing makes complete sense’ face and she abandoned the argument while he stripped. Not that she minded, feeling his actual body against her and not hardened leather and steel was never a bad thing. Using the stone beds for sleeping was not something any of them wanted, so they set up their bedrolls towards the center of the room. Beron’s back was propped against one, however, busy scribbling away, a knee raised to provide him with a makeshift work surface.
“Taking notes, Harbinger?” Erik asked sleepily. He was lying down, Aela’s cloak supporting his head.
“Confounded, boy, Civil War will be over before you call me Ronnie.” He muttered. “No, not taking notes at the moment, working on the Jorrvaskr jobs for Sun’s Dawn.” Old Mer was in the middle of a Dwemer ruin and he brought extra work with him. You are used to this already. Altmers, she rolled her eyes. Stop rolling your eyes. You are exactly the same. He glanced from his work to study the lad. “I have a way to go yet, why don’t you sleep and I’ll take first watch tonight.” The eyes lowered.
Erik looked around. “Not quite tired. Been thinking about what we saw today. What was that large room for, with all the metal grilling and the ballistas?”
The eyes went back to the boy.
You are enjoying watching those eyes dart back and forth. He was an incredibly patient person, especially for an Altmer. Beron paused from his writing. Erik, you are lucky you didn’t get the ‘Do not interrupt me’ grunt. “Well, according to the sources from the Tower and Katria, Raldbthar was an actual source of Aetherium.” Beron explained. “My theory is that they mined it in Blackreach and the barrier, the grilling as you call it, was built so that they could either deal safely with the Dwemer from other cities that wished to purchase the material—they were extremely argumentative with each other—or it was a way to safely pay workers.” He made a funny smirk. “Either way, safety, especially with those ballistas aimed at the entrance.”
You do not argue with a ballista.
Beron’s eyes went back down to his journal.
“Why do you think the people here were killed?”
She stifled a giggle when those red-orange eyes went right back to the boy after his question.
Beron was not going to get any work done, Serana thought, taking the opportunity to slide her hand under his woolen shirt, resting it on his warm flank. He shifted a bit closer, allowing her hand better access to his muscled abdomen. Her hand there comforting while he worked, her hand cool compared to his skin. He liked her hand there and they could spend hours like this. The boy wasn’t seeing what she was doing and she knew Beron, he wanted sleep more than sex tonight. Truth be told, so did she. A more typical night for them, she smiled to herself. The past few days of turmoil and stress, of running, had left her rather sluggish and she was welcoming rest. No sign from Dreth’s men, the decoy had worked. The plan was to venture beyond the locked doors that lay beyond the grill work after a good night’s sleep. When they settled into the ruin for the night, they took the time to recheck their gear. He was already prepared, his armor oiled, all their blades sharpened, his bow prepped, his knapsack packed and repacked. Obsessive as always.
“H-Ronnie?” Erik repeated.
“Oh, sorry, damn.” He looked from his work again to face Erik. “I have forgotten myself. You want to know who I think killed the people here?”
“I’m curious too.” Serana smirked.
“You sure? It is a crazy theory.” The Altmer began.
“Not surprising coming from you.” Serana interrupted, giving his stomach an affectionate squeeze. The Altmer gave her a sidelong glance before returning to his numbers and she moved her hand a little lower, below the waist of his trousers, not low enough that it was inappropriate—they were a private people—but she was teasing him. She peeked at the open journal while he worked. Aye, listed jobs, their descriptions, and who would be best for them. Erik’s name was on a few. He’s not treating him any different, she smiled, resting her head on her pillow—his shoulder.
“Very funny, woman.” He quipped, ignoring and liking her teasing at the same time. “Well, let us see if you can guess my theory, Erik.” Beron chuckled. “And if you guess right, you have the honorable distinction of being just as crazy as I am. What do we know?” Training the boy yet again, Serana noticed. The young Nord thought for a moment while he lay down, his red brow furrowing in concentration.
“Well, we know he used fire magicks. That everybody’s dead, and you think that two different people were picking at the locks. One was much better at it. The one who picked the lock to the door leading to the ballistas.”
The Altmer nodded, urging the boy. “Go on.”
Erik took a breath, eyeing one of the corpses just outside their room. “Whoever attacked was damn good enough at sneaking around that he could catch them by surprise by the fact that they were practically doing their everyday stuff when they died. Or his fire was so fast they didn’t have time to react. And then he took the path towards the ballistas and fired them into the group of bandits below, killing everyone there.” He paused and faced Beron. “But what makes everything really strange to me is why nothing was taken. Aye, chests were broken into, but that was done by the others, not the one you said picked the locks leading to the ballistas. Nothing was taken and there’s enough gold in just these rooms to pay for a full set of armor, Ronnie. It doesn’t make sense…” Erik let his voice trail off and he rubbed his beard. I hope you embrace this, Erik, Beron is making you think. “Who kills without taking?” The Nord mumbled to himself. “Guild don’t kill, especially now with Nerussa running things. Bandits would just pillage and they don’t usually have mages like this. Not this strong. Who could be this brutal? The person who did this liked killing, Ronnie.”
“That he or she does.” The Altmer replied.
“Ysmir’s beard! Dark Brotherhood.” Erik suddenly exclaimed, rising from his bedroll, his eyes widening. The Altmer cocked his eyebrow and set down his journal, giving Erik a nod of respect.
“That was exactly my guess, lad. You are observant. That is good. A cloak and dagger type is not always needed to fulfill your contract efficiently and many assassins, the really strong ones, actually play up their own skills,” Beron chortled, picking up his journal again to continue the assignments for Jorrvaskr. “Though the ballistas were a bit overkill. That one certainly liked explosions.” Serana saw the lad smile.
“So I am as crazy as you are.” Erik joked, settling back to his bedroll with a satisfied expression on his face. “Night, Old Mer.”
“’Twould seem so. You are in good company. She is no saner.” Beron pretended to whimper when she slapped his belly. He turned to face her. “I’ll take the first watch. I feel like a smoke anyway and I need to get these jobs done. Sleep well, Erik.” The boy turned away from them, pulling furs around him.
“Want me to move to my bedroll?” She asked, sleepily lifting her head. He regarded her tenderly for a moment before kissing her softly on the lips several times. That had been unexpected and their faces remained very close for a spell, with her trying to figure out what were behind his eyes. Blackreach had caught her off-guard, sending for his Shield-Siblings, his secretive planning, sending Ulundil and Arivanya away. She wasn’t sure what to make of his behavior, only that something was in the back of his mind. The Fist, Dreth, who knew?
“No.” He finally answered, still close to her. “Stay with me. It is not the first time you have slept at my shoulder.” His laugh lines creased. “Besides, I like it and you have told me that I make a fine pillow.” A kiss on her forehead and her head lowered to his shoulder. She felt his hand move hers back to his stomach before he resumed his work. “I’ll wake you for second watch when I am finished. Let the boy sleep.”
The rhythmic clopping of their horses’ hooves was causing his mind to wander. It was better than paying attention to the cold, which had been bone-chilling since they left Windhelm, and secretly Kahleron wished he had packed the snow bear cloak instead of the fox fur he was currently wearing.
You are numb with cold, you fool, the fox fur is far more fetching with this armor, Kahleron thought with a smirk, his gloved hand finding the top of Jo’Naar’s head. The Alfiq purred in response, wrapped heavily in Kahleron’s cloak. Casting soothe spells helped. It allowed him to wear what he was wearing instead of the furs and hunks of metal that passed for clothing in this frozen cesspool of a province. He noticed how Dreth had eyed his gauntlets; the intricate carvings in the soft leather. Only the Isles had anything of such finery now.
After a heated discussion, they decided not to take a chance with Greenskin’s information, opting to split into two groups. Dreth headed south towards the Forge with Jagaark, the Dunmer woman, Stenvar, the Imperial mage, the balding sellsword—with awful taste in armor, Kahleron shrugged—the two Orcs, and a Canah on an Aican tree! Kahleron chuckled, garnering strange looks from his own party. He knew Dreth was testing him with this group.
“What?” He asked innocently, giving Jo’Naar an ear rub.
“You’re laughing again. I don’t know why the fuck you keep laughing.” Snapped that Nord, clearly annoyed. It was amusing to watch his face go all red, the snot oozing from his nose just so. What was his bloody name? Smelled of alcohol—Oh, who are you fooling, most Nords smell of mead, infernal drink. To taste a glass of vintage Shimmerene again, Kahleron sighed. Vintage 431 would fend off this dreadful cold. Vintage 431… The smirk turned into a frown, last time you savored that vintage, bad things happened to you, Kahleron. He furrowed his brow under his hood. The name, the bloody name, what is your name, you ugly Nord, and why am I riding downwind of you?
Auri-El’s bow, as if on cue, Kahleron heard the sound of approaching hooves and Archer pulled up alongside him. He eyed the Bosmer, the question on the tip of his tongue and leaned forward. “What is his name again?” Kahleron asked. Archer shrugged, pulling his cloak around his shoulders, sniffing to clear his pointed nose.
“Fist.” The Bosmer snorted. More stares when Kahleron threw back his head in laughter.
“Oh, you still do not forgive me for that?” Kahleron shot back, narrowing his eyes, daring the Wood Elf to continue his banter.
“It is not a matter of forgiveness, my Lord. My name is not literally Fist. You almost made me laugh at Niranye’s house.” The Bosmer straightened up in his saddle. “And such a display would have dishonored you. We cannot have that, my Lord.” It was hard to find fault with his thinking, and Kahleron nodded in approval.
“Verily, you are a gem among servants, Fist.” Kahleron chuckled. “Not insolent like this little beast here.” He playfully tugged at Jo’Naar’s ear, feeling the Alfiq tense against him.
“You are a gem among Masters, my Lord.” The Bosmer acknowledged with a small bow.
Archer had been with him for decades now; silent and calm, as any good servant should be, quiet unless spoken to. A formidable tracker, a credit to his race with a bow and twin knives, a brewer of poisons, a carrier of his luggage, a valet, the one who dressed him in the morning, and a fine cook. He was Kahleron’s eyes and ears where ever he was, except in places where he, despite his small size, did not fit. That is where Jo’Naar slinked in, able to squeeze into Dwemer piping, eavesdrop on conversations. They were both small, but one did not need to be giant or strong in order to be successful.
“The name then?” Kahleron pressed.
“Hmm, let me think, My Lord.” Archer pondered, his red eyes beginning to twinkle. “Belog, Bonog, Boner—“
All three of them stifled their laughter, making the Nord and the Alik’r once again look back from their animals; or rather Kahleron thought it may have been the Alik’r. They were so swaddled in furs that they looked like little black bears riding horses. At least he could see the Nord’s face. He didn’t look pleased, making Kahleron’s smirk broaden. Ah, you heard “Boner”, eh? Then I take it you’ve managed to clean the years’ worth of wax buildup out of your ears this morning. Now you just need to finish the rest of the job, you filthy Nord, reeking like an Imga’s backside. Xarxes’ arse, camping with this group had been a disaster. Think of the prize, Kahleron, think of the prize. His head is worth this suffering.
Yes, so while Dreth took the strongest fighters towards the Forge to wait for the Old Blade, or whatever that Goldpact Knight was called, he gave Kahleron a drunk Nord and the two desert blossoms. In all fairness, the Dunmer didn’t know any better. He didn’t know that the creature on that black charger that they were now tracking was the true prize. Kahleron would get the shard, of course, but it wasn’t about the shard. The shard could remain stuck up some Dwemer ruin’s arse for all he cared. The Mongrel needed to die.
“You are not helping.” He chided Archer with a sly grin.
“My Lord, they all look alike to me.” The Bosmer explained. Something on the road caught his eye and Kahleron saw the red eyes narrow, scrutinizing. That was the third time he had looked at the road like that since they caught sight of the Altmer’s party traveling west along the path. The Bosmer shook his head in dismissal and faced Kahleron. “I remembered, my Lord. Benor. His name is Benor.”
“Well that you did. Can’t make a fool of myself, now can I?” He shot Archer a look and then turned towards the Nord riding ahead of him. “I am chuckling, Benor, because I found something funny.”
“There is nothing funny about this weather.” Volunteered one of the Alik’r. None of them had bothered to learn their names. “Stinking, desert filth”, Kahleron cursed under his breath. That received a look of warning from the Khajiit and Kahleron gave the black ear a tiny pinch, drawing blood with his fingernail. It flinched and was silent, the slender shoulders stooping. Don’t ever chide me, beast, his light green eyes blazed in warning. The amber eyes looked away. That is better, the proper dynamic restored.
“They still in sight?” Kahleron asked Benor.
“Aye, they are.” Grumbled Benor. “Don’t see why we can’t just ride up to them. There’s four of them and six of us, though I dunno, maybe we only got five.” He looked back. “How’s the muff holding up? He freeze to death yet?”
Jo’Naar hissed at the insult and Kahleron saw the sparks materialize from his front paws. “He’s fine.” He squeezed the ear again, in warning. Jo’Naar was new and in retrospect, he was not properly broken in before Kahleron left for Windhelm. He would have Archer teach the cat some manners when they returned. “Alfiq are far hardier than their size may imply.”
“I agree with Benor, why don’t we just ride up to them?” Asked the second Alik’r.
Kahleron grinned. “And disobey Dreth?” Gods, they were infernally stupid. If only you knew who you were up against. He’d kill you in a second, my desert flower.
“Fuck it, we catch up to them, we can kill them faster.” Explained Benor.
“And where would we be? With no shard?” questioned Kahleron.
“15,000 septims is a lot of money. Dreth wants half. Letting us three keep 5,000, will get you 10,000 and us more money than Dreth was paying.” Benor looked ahead and spit. “And that horse alone is worth at least 6,000.”
Archer’s eyes fell upon the ground again, the brows furrowing, and Kahleron let his eyes travel to where Archer was staring. His own eyes narrowed. What was that? A feather? He leaned forward on his saddle and the object rustled in the icy wind. Hair, he mouthed to himself. A lock of white hair. He exchanged looks with Archer and the Bosmer nodded when he mouthed “hair” again. Since when do old dogs shed? He cocked an eyebrow and brought his animal to a halt.
“Wait.” He called out to his party.
“What the fuck now?” Snarled Benor, stopping his horse. “First you had to change gloves, then you had to take a piss, then you had to adjust your sword, then you had to go grab a cloak for the muff, then you had to stop to get a sweetroll, and now? What now?”
“I dropped something?” Kahleron replied while he placed Jo’Naar on his shoulder to dismount. He gave Archer a warning look to stop laughing and the Bosmer bit his lip, resuming his statue-like façade, also dismounting. Quick as a cat, Archer stooped to pick up the clump of hair. Their backs were turned to the Nord and Alik’r that were waiting impatiently. Kahleron could hear the whispers, his pointed ears twitching instinctively to hone in on their words.
“Bet they’re fucking.” Mumbled one of the desert pigs.
“I’m sure of it.” Whispered the other.
“Bet it’s the tall one that takes it too.” The Nord laughed, afterwards muttering “pussies” under his breath. Both Elves stiffened at the insult, but ignored it. How stupid Men were, Kahleron thought. You still do not know how well Elves hear? Why not have some fun, he nodded silently to Archer. He put his arm around Archer’s shoulder and the Bosmer reached behind to give his arse a squeeze. My little toy. The grizzled Bosmer gave him a smart look and a playful wink before bringing the hair towards his nose to sniff. To the Men, it looked like they were just taking a private moment for themselves. Two Elven lovebirds comforting each other in Skyrim’s brutal cold. Kahleron watched the Bosmer suddenly tense for real, the thin lips turning downwards in a scowl.
“What?” Kahleron whispered, his lips half a pertan from the Bosmer’s ear. Bet they think I’m kissing you. What we go through for the prize, eh?
“Horse hair.” Archer said under his breath. “White horse hair.”
“Quelne!” He hissed and for a split second he could tell from the Bosmer’s expression that Kahleron had let his anger take control. He closed his eyes to compose himself and swallowed. “Well, seems the dog still has some tricks up his sleeve.” Kahleron marveled. All these years had not diminished his cleverness. “Extraordinary.” He gasped, still not quite believing he had allowed himself to be duped, yet again. “You sure?”
A slow nod from Archer. “The Mer’s not on that horse.”
“Clever, clever bastard.” Kahleron mumbled into the winds, his eyes searching the road they just traveled. “Where the fuck are you, old Mongrel?”
“Will you two either fucking get a room or get back on yer horses?” Bellowed Benor. “We’ll lose sight of them, and that means no money, of any kind!”
“How do you want to play this, my Lord.” Archer asked, giving Kahleron’s buttocks another affectionate grab. The Altmer responded by squeezing the Bosmer’s shoulder.
“You done yet?” The Nord growled. “Ysmir’s beard! Nightgate’s not fucking far. Get a room and leave this job to real men, you bunch of prisses.” Both Elves heard the Nord throw his reins in frustration. “Fucking Elves and their housecat…” Kahleron released a slow exhale and closed his eyes again to center himself while he heard Archer’s neck crack from his building anger.
Ignore them. We will make them pay later.
“Where do you think the Mongrel is?” Kahleron questioned.
The Bosmer subtly turned to face south. “Remember the mountain to the left when we passed the mill?”
“Aye.”
“If he is true to who he was, a creature of ice and snow, and if we follow the map that is ingrained in my mind, he will be where he was when last you tracked him. I suggest we backtrack from the mill and head towards the mountain. The mountains.” The Bosmer nodded and Kahleron could tell he was admiring the skill it took to elude a master tracker from Valenwood. “No scent is impossible to find, my Lord.”
“Shit, we lost a damn day, though.” Cursed Kahleron. “And it snowed.”
“A fox leaves a trail, my Lord. Even in the heavy snow…”
So this is how you want to play, eh dirty Mongrel? Kahleron fingered the hilt of his saber. The day this blade shears your hair is the day I reclaim my pride. Years lost, position and station lost, reduced to a shit job in a backward province all for a hidden trap door...
“I think…” Kahleron began, his eyes now on the mountain. “It is time we went our separate ways.”
“You mean take down the Eagle on our own?” The Bosmer asked. Kahleron rested his arm on Archer’s shoulder and he knew his servant could see the faint reddish glimmer emanating from his hand.
“We won’t be on our own, my faithful Fist. He travels with three others. It will be six against one.” Kahleron grinned, letting the light lazily swirl.
“They’ll want to follow us, my Lord.” The Bosmer interjected.
“Leave that to me. Jo’Naar, join Archer please and wait here.” Kahleron whispered softly, removing his hand from the Bosmer’s shoulder. The Khajiit nimbly jumped from shoulder to shoulder, while Kahleron began his walk towards Benor, his hands behind his back, both glowing a pale green. “Mount your horse, Archer. We will continue shortly.” Kahleron stated aloud, knowing full-well he would be heard. He listened to the Bosmer move, the sounds of a horse shifting position, the tightening of reins. Riding out of range. Without question, without hesitation, the proper dynamic.
I don’t even need to check to see if my servants have followed my orders. My back is turned to them, I am vulnerable, and still they obey. This is control. Can you claim that loyalty, Dreth? Just now, they were willing to screw you over for more money. My servants would never think such things. Kahleron smiled to himself, all the while closing in on the Nord and the Alik’r, his steps confident, like a snake slithering in the grass.
“About fucking time.” Muttered Benor, glaring down on Kahleron, who was now standing next to him. “You gonna get on your horse or what?”
“Of course.” Kahleron smiled, resting a hand on top of the Nord’s boot. Oh, look at those eyes go blank now, by the eight, you’re weaker than I thought. This is what a steady diet of mead does to you. Kahleron rolled his eyes. I’ve seen Goblins with more willpower. “But I think we should split up, don’t you?” he asked innocently.
“Elf’s right, we should split up.” The Nord nodded, dumb as fuck now and Kahleron grinned. It was delicious.
“Hey!” Shouted one of the Alik’r, and he heard them ride their horses towards Kahleron, drawing those pretty curved swords of theirs. Just a bit closer, my desert flowers, he thought, the left hand that was covered by Benor’s horse twitching and glowing with another spell. “That’s not what Dreth ordered. What are you trying to pull, Witch Elf?” The warrior continued, the blade poised to strike. He felt a bead of sweat form on his brow, dripping, trickling downwards. He watched his breath in the frosty air. Time slowed.
The hooves were closer. Close enough?
Archer nodded his head ever so slightly.
“You’re right.” He smiled when the Alik’r were in range. “It’s not what Dreth wants, but…” He brought his hand down quickly and the three were briefly bathed in a pale green light. “It’s what I want.”
“What you want…” mumbled the Alik’r, the black eyes now as blank as a painter’s fresh canvas.
“That’s right. It’s all about what I want.” Kahleron purred. “Yes, I think we should split up, but I’m not going to tell you where I’m going, because I don’t need to. You’re going to think that I’ve gone to Nightgate with my Bosmer friend to fuck like wild rabbits. While you three continue to follow the party heading North, right?”
“Right.” All three in unison.
Auri-El’s bow, how I love Illusion magicks!
“Perfect. And when you run into their party. I want you to attack them, yes? Kill them.”
“Kill them…” intoned with nearly the precision of an Altmeri temple chorus on high Sundas Mass. Well, not really, but Kahleron was still enjoying himself. He slapped Benor’s horse on the rump and the Nord urged her forward, his expression focused yet blank at the same time. The Alik’r were behind them, their faces the same.
The cold prevented him from taking the time to savor the moment and watch them resume their tracking of whomever it was that was now riding the Mongrel’s animal. Kahleron had his suspicions. Some in Skyrim called him friend. Others called him Harbinger.
“My Lord, your horse.” Good old Archer, all ready to begin the hunt proper.
“Remember our many fox hunts along the forested foothills of Eton Nir, my loyal Archer?” Kahleron asked, mounting his animal.
“Aye, my Lord.” The Bosmer nodded. “I remember them fondly.”
“And then the grand fox hunts in Cyrod?”
“We were as hounds, my Lord.” The Bosmer replied, his eyes again on the mountain. “We called him a wolf then. An old, grizzled wolf.”
“Wolf, fox, it matters not. They are both dogs. And we hunt again. A Dusken dog with fur of silver-snow.” He slapped the reins eagerly, narrowing his eyes at the prospect of his quarry. “As old and cunning as the Doom Drum himself.”
“For the glory of Alinor, my Lord.”
“For the glory of the Aldmeri Dominion!” Kahleron cried, drawing his saber.
Table of Contents
Chapter 7 Chapter 9
Comments
Interesting, the DB questline happens really late in the story. It'll either be Festus or another, destruction savvy assassin. Probably Festus as he does love his explosions.
Interesting, the DB questline happens really late in the story. It'll either be Festus or another, destruction savvy assassin. Probably Festus as he does love his explosions.
I liked seeing the companions a bit, And their arrival was a nice haven in the storm that is the shit... more