The Chorus of Fire, Part 5 - Survivors

• Posted by Karver the Lorc August 17, 2018 - Filed in TSC: Short Story - #Straag Rod  #Karver  #Tales for the Hearth Fire  #Hammerfell  - 1,545 views

  

  Part 5

  25th of Frostfall, 4E 204, Hammerfell, Southern Bangkorai

   

  It was quite a nice evening, all things considering, not too hot - especially after all that business on the edge of Alik’r - and not too cold. But really, could anything be as cold as Skyrim?

   

  Grulmar glanced at the people he was passing on the street and came to the conclusion that no, definitely not the weather. But people? Oh, yes. And here I thought Thalmor had poles up their arses, he thought when he looked over his shoulder, noticing the people murmuring between themselves, looking in his direction.

   

  Nope, not happy ‘bout yer green arse strollin’ through their shit town. The militia was giving him frowned looks, their hands always going to their sides, towards the handles of their swords, and Grulmar made sure to hurry. Initially, he was considering staying the night, but with such heartwarming welcome it didn’t seem a very good idea anymore.

   

  Better to move on. The crater didn’t reveal anything to him, just as the town, and it seemed like a very stupid idea now. What was he expecting? A connection that would allow him to understand the texts he was carrying in his sack better? Stupid idea.

   

  He made sure he quickly bought all his supplies he needed and with that done, he was just about to leave this town and find himself a nice spot under some overhang or something like that - basically anything that would make a good camp, that would protect him from the elements. Well, not much rain ‘round here, so maybe ya could sleep right under the stars.

   

  As he walked down the street he noticed some kind of gathering ahead of him and he paused. The people were shouting something, their voice sounding angry and he quickly started thinking what he could have done to piss them all off. It took him a moment to realize they actually weren’t there because of him.

   

  No, they were standing in front of a simple house and as he closed the distance he could see the pitchforks and torches in their hands.

   

  His eyes grew wide as he quickly reconsidered the direction he was walking. Pitchforks and torches never were a good sign.

   

  Grulmar decided it would be better to avoid them and before he could reach the mob he turned sharp left, into a narrow path between two houses. He then quickly retreated when some damn mutt became barking at him and that got him the attention of one of the militia men.

   

  “You!” the Redguard raised his voice, walking towards him. There was nothing telling about that man, simple farmer’s clothing, but Grulmar guessed that the swords around were carried only by the militia, so the man had be part of the militia. “Why are you skulking around, bharakasha?”

   

  “Skulkin’?” Grulmar raised his eyebrows, a reply on his tongue, but he quickly bit it, swallowing the response. Not a good time to be clever, matey, he reminded himself, considering he was standing just a dozen steps away from the mob. “Not skulkin’, sir, not me. Definitely. Just leavin’, got my supplies, ya know, and I’m on my way outta here. Not want to get in yer hair or anythin’-”

   

  “Come out!” someone from the mob shouted from the top of his lungs and more voices joined them. The militia man glanced that way and even Grulmar couldn’t help but take a peek.

   

  “Stop hiding and come out!”

   

  The door to the house opened and a tall woman stepped on the threshold, the mob suddenly growing silent. A woman? Well, first thing Grulmar noticed that she wasn’t just any woman. She was a damn High Elf. What’s a bloody Altmer doin’ out here? he wondered, glancing at her gold skin, long blonde hair and her gold eyes. Every bit an Altmer. Except for the clothing, a simple countrywoman’s dress, dirty from what seemed like flour. Grulmar probably never seen an Altmer with flour on her dress.

   

  “Just get out of my sight,” the militia man growled at Grulmar. “Get out of our town before you end up like them.” With those words he turned around and walked back to the edge of the crowd.

   

  The Altmer hasn’t said a single word, just measured them all, and even from the distance Grulmar could see - or maybe even sense - a certain resignation in her gaze, almost as if she came to the conclusion that nothing she did would change the outcome of this situation.

   

  “Go home, Thalmor bitch!” someone shouted, again stirring the pot of the emotions in the crowd, because the people quickly added their own voices.

   

  “Witch!”

   

  “Elf scum!”

   

  “We’ve had enough of your kind! Leave!”

   

  The militia men were standing around, but it seemed they weren’t inclined to stop this and this only told Grulmar to get the tusk out as fast as he could.

   

  “We have done nothing to you,” the Altmer then raised her voice and the crowd grew strangely quiet after that, as if stunned by the anger in her song-like voice. Or maybe it was the statement itself, because if she had done nothing why were they all there? Doesn’t matter, I guess, Grulmar thought as he began slowly backing away, trying not to attract anyone’s attention. They’ll always find a damn reason to lynch someone. Always…

   

  “Nothing?!” one of the Redguard women shouted, a rather large matron with a kid clinging to her skirt. Clinging? Well, that was a strange word to use, considering that the boy - couldn’t be more than eight - was holding her skirt with one hand while he kept jumping on one leg, the other lifted.

   

  Grulmar paused, frowning. What the tusk is wrong with that kid? The tusking curiosity, that would be his damn doom, he always knew that, he kept frowning as he began drawing closer.

   

  “Nothing?!” the matron repeated, her voice rather high pitched, very unpleasant. She pointed at the boy to next to her. “Look what that brat of yours did to my son! Look at him!”

   

  The crowd grew silent, and Grulmar could now hear that the boy was actually murmuring something. “Come play, play, play, with me. One, two, three, play with me. Four, five, six, play with me, Imanwe says. One, two, three.” During all that the boy soiled his pants and the people stepped a bit away from him, but the boy just kept jumping on his leg.

   

  Grulmar shook his head. Two options. Either that boy is the best damn actor I’ve ever seen or he’s lost his tuskin’ mind or somethin’, he thought. This was all beginning to stink, and not just with the piss and shit the boy had just soiled his pants with.

   

  Get the tusk out of here! Grulmar’s mind screamed at him, and he was about to when at the door came a little Altmeri girl with black hair, tears in her eyes. Her mother immediately hugged her and urged her to go back into the house, but she didn’t listen.

   

  “I just wanted him to play with me,” she sobbed, shaking, and under all the gazes she began to hyperventilate, her fear coming out in little moans. Rhythmic and melodic.

   

  The whole crowd suddenly reeled away from the girl, retreating like a wave from the shore, and Grulmar realized he took one step back too, her words hitting his chest like a tidal wave. But not physically. Inside, it pushed against his soul. Tears rolled out of his eyes, overwhelmed by the guilt of hurting the boy, even though it was just an accident-

   

  He shook his head. What the tusk? he rubbed his eyes, looking around in confusion. Where did that come from? He noticed everyone else had the same stupid confused look on their faces, just like him, but they were starting to shake it off.

   

  “Wicked witch! She’s using her magic on us!” the same matron shouted and Grulmar slowly began to comprehend. But then it all went quiet, like a calm before a storm, the air heavy and unbreathable, the heat around the people rising. A stone flew from the matron’s hand and Grulmar watched it fly through the air.

   

  Shit.

   

  The stone hit the girl’s mother, merely grazing her temple and she took a step back. Grulmar never saw a face of such pure terror as the Altmer reached for the wound, looking at the blood on her hands, just when a torch flew through the window of their house.

   

  But the horror on her face...she was now looking at her daughter, who was staring with mouth wide open, her eyes watering and wide in shock. He could see the mother open her mouth, her lips forming into a silent: “No,” just when the girl drew in her breath.

   

  The air itself felt as if it was holding its breath, even as people threw more stones and more torches.

   

  And the girl screamed.

   

  “MONSTERS! STOP HURTING US!”

   

  A scream of fear colored by rage ripped from her mouth and cut through the mob like a scythe through grain.

   

  They all fell on their knees, Grulmar along with them and he could feel his body, his soul, that thing that made him the person he was, filling with that fear, paralyzing his muscles and then again powering them with the rage that followed right behind. He could feel his breathing quickening and he began rocking, putting his hands to his ears and screaming himself.

   

  Monstersmonstersmonstersmonstersmonsters!

   

  He raked at his cheeks, over and over again, tearing gashes across them, blood pouring down his face. He kept shaking his head, hitting the sides of his skull with his fists, as if he was trying to beat those emotions out of his head.

   

  Hurtinghurtingusstophurtingmonstersstophurtingus! STOPHURTINGUS!

   

  And then with a start, he lifted his head, seeing all the monsters all around him.

   

  He was in pain.

   

  And there was only one way to stop the pain.

   

  He reached for the flail, just as the villagers began killing each other.

   

  And the whole world turned red.

  

  He then woke up, blinking into the blinding light. His mind was hazy, his thoughts incoherent, as if they were trying to connect on a direct path, but everytime they tried, there was a crossroad that scattered them to all directions.

   

  There were flashes behind his eyes. Smoke and fire, he could see those, even feel them. He remembered pain. Also blood. Lots of it.

   

  He blinked several times and tried to move only for a wave of agony assaulting his body forcing him to stop trying and he suppressed a painful groan. His eyes then began darting around.

   

  A forest, pine trees. A shore, most likely lake. Setting sun colouring the water surface a crimson color. A fire was burning to his right, rabbit roasting above the flames, but something about it filled his mouth with the taste of ash.

   

  He began remembering the details. The town. The mob. The… girl.

   

  His gaze darted towards his hands at his sides and he lifted them a little, part of him expecting them to be covered with blood. They weren’t, they were clean, but he felt the need to scrub them, scrub away the skin, scrub away the figurative blood on them. Because it was there, it was there in his eyes.

   

  He could feel tears welling in his eyes. So many people...dead. By his hands. There was a part of him that explained it wasn’t his doing, that he wasn’t in control, but there was another that kept repeating it were his hands that did that.

   

  Grulmar looked up and just now he noticed three figures among the trees - no, four. The closest to him was the so called High Priestess, tall Orc female. Then there was the Orc with that stupid name, that wasn’t a name but a number. And bit further was that ogre of an Orc. They were all looking to the same direction, away from Grulmar, and he shifted his head.

   

  There was a Redguard standing at the edge of the clearing, his dreadlocks covered with needles from the pine trees, his clothes soaked with sweat and covered with ash.

   

  “You can’t have him,” the Orc in armor rumbled, sword in his hands and Grulmar realized he was talking about him. What were they on about? His mind was still hazy, he knew he should be able to figure that out, but it was as if some kind of mist was clouding his mind.

   

  The Redguard looked to his right and a grimace of agony mixed with relief flashed over his face as he said: “I’m not here for him. I’m here for my daughter.”

   

  In that moment a small girl stepped into the light and Grulmar’s heart was gripped by the cold hand of terror. She stared at the Redguard, tears appearing in her eyes and then she ran towards him, without a single word.

   

  Not yet.

   

  Grulmar groaned, trying to get up and that got the High Priestess’ attention. She turned around and glared down at him and she crouched next to him, slowly pushing him back. “The wound is not completely healed-”

   

  Grulmar grasped her hand with a growl, pulling her closer. “The girl,” he said with a hoarse throat, just now realizing how dry his mouth was. “She did it. She destroyed the town.”

  
  High Priestess narrowed her eyes, but she didn’t say anything. Instead she looked at him as if he had gone crazy.

   

  “Her voice!” he growled. “She’ll kill us all. She’ll make us kill each other! Don’t let her scream. Don’t…”

   

  His voice trailed off as the girl sobbed again and this time, this tiny little sob of supressed emotions, cut through Grulmar’s soul and he could feel tears running down his cheeks and he looked up, into the High Priestess face. She was crying too.

   

  The guilt… it was unbearable. It couldn’t be held any longer.

   

  “The voice,” Grulmar groaned while his mind was still his own and the High Priestess now understood. She rose to her feet, a gold light flickering in her hands for a moment.

   

  The guilt…

  

  She threw herself into Rhavhyn’s arms and he wrapped them around her fragile form, tears running down his cheeks. He was crying and there was no shame in that, even though it was for different reasons than the observers would think. Yes, he had found his child, but at the same time he found his confirmation his wife was truly gone and lost to him. Forever.

   

  Imanwe tightly gripped his clothes and he pulled her closer, his mind going back to the curse. What kind of father that made him when he was thinking about that while he just found out his daughter was well and alive? But there was this tiny bit of him, dark bit that was angry and spiteful, that kept blaming his own daughter for what happened. For the death of his wife. For the death of all the people, even though they deserved it.

   

  What did that make him?

   

  He adjusted his hands around her back, holding her tighter as if he was clinging to a long forgotten memory. She was his daughter. His last memory of his wife.

   

  How could he not forgive her?

   

  But what if she lost control again? And again? How many times would it have to happen for him to finally say enough? How many burned out villages and towns?

   

  No, these thoughts were wrong. She was his daughter. Damn the gods, damn the people, damn the curse. She was his daughter. They would find a quiet place, somewhere away from people, where she couldn’t hurt anyone. And she would learn to control it.

   

  A sob rattled her little form and it rattled through his own body as the magic in that voice suddenly burst out. It was a tiny drop of magic, nothing more than that, but that was enough for his soul to be torn by the guilt Imanwe was feeling.

   

  “Father,” she said, her voice breaking with anguish and if he wasn’t already kneeling he would drop on his knees, unable to carry his own weight anymore.

   

  “Imanwe,” he groaned, struggling to keep his voice calm. Soft. “You have to… control it.”

   

  The Orcs were on their knees too, their faces twisted in an anguish that wasn’t theirs, that they couldn’t understand, Imanwe filling their minds with her own emotions. But it wasn’t so simple. She wasn’t merely transmitting her emotions. She was amplifying them.

   

  Her power was leaking out, drop by drop, and once the flood gates opened… It couldn’t be stopped.

   

  “I can’t… They hurt mommy. They… I can’t…” she cried, her face twisted by the pain of the soul and each word leaving her mouth was a hot knife piercing Rhavhyn’s heart. It was beating faster and faster and it felt as if it was about to burst any second, trying to fill the hole of losing a mother, losing a wife.

   

  The Orc female walked towards them, seemingly unaffected, and the injured Orc crawled on the ground, bleeding from his nose, eyes and ears, for some reason suffering the most.

   

  The female was walking towards them with purpose in her steps, her intent written all over her face, in her bared tusks and deep frown.

   

  Rhavhyn’s fingers twitched, and even though he was exhausted and overwhelmed by her daughter’s inner pain, a part of him managed to separate itself from all that and plunge into the cold, soothing sea of magicka.

   

  And wind started picking up, gaining speed as it whirled around him and his daughter, lifting the dry needles from the ground and ripping then off the branches, slowly creating an impenetrable whirlwind around them.

   

  Imanwe’s eyes were red, her breathing ragged as she cried and at the same time tried not to, and her eyes grew wide as the whirlwind kept growing up around then.

   

  And Rhavhyn then started sucking air, pushing it upwards-

  

  Atuul didn’t understand Grulmar’s words, not at first, but after that sob, after she felt hot tears on her own cheeks, after the guilt and grief consumed her thoughts even when she had no reason to feel that way…

   

  She understood.

   

  There was an anger inside her and she used it to push against the grief, clearing her mind and with a silent prayer to Trinimac she had drawn on the magicka. It was as if someone snapped their fingers, there was a loud pop and then suddenly everything went quiet. Silent.

   

  Grulmar was opening his mouth, but she couldn’t hear him. She couldn’t hear anything. It was a strange, even slightly disorienting, sensation, but if the girl’s power came from her voice… Then being deaf took away that power.

   

  Atuul could feel a grim frown settling on her own face as she rose on her feet, her steps carrying her towards the Redguard and the little girl.

   

  The Third and Yaman were on their knees, clutching their chests at some imaginable pain, their faces covered with tears and they looked at her, desperation reflecting in their eyes. Or maybe she was just imagining that, believing they were looking up to her, to save them.

   

  She looked at the girl in the Redguard’s arms and her frown deepened. Such power… If the roles were reversed, if Yaman or the Third were the ones immune to that power, they wouldn’t be capable of doing what needed to be done.

   

  But she was. Someone had to make the hard choices for them.

   

  For a moment her and the Redguard’s gazes locked and he knew. He knew.

   

  Magicka stirred around him and wind picked up and her eyes grew wide. A mage, a damn desert sorcerer! She shielded her eyes as the whirlwind picked up the needles from the ground and ripped them off the branches, creating a wall of wind around the Redguard and his daughter that was nearly impossible to see through. All she could see were their forms.

   

  Was he really expecting a little breeze and few tiny needles to stop her? A Daughter of the Shielded Blade?

   

  Atuul’s vision was suddenly blocked by a huge Orsimer, a she looked up, into Yaman’s face. He was barely standing, anguish that wasn’t his written all over his face and he was opening his mouth, saying something to her. Trying to stop her.

   

  She drew the magicka into her body, feeling it crackling through her body, through her muscles. He extended his arm, trying to stop her and even though he weighed twice as much as her she simply shoved him aside, as the nuisance that he really was. He hit a nearby tree and she could see the bark cracking under that blow.

   

  Another step towards the whirlwind-

  

  As soon as the High Bitch turned around, Grulmar shifted, growling in pain, and something about it, about the physical pain, helped him fight through the mental one that was being burned into his soul by the girl’s voice.

   

  She was losing control, words started flowing from her mouth, filling him with so much inner pain he thought he would go mad from it. But as he began crawling, the burning agony from his side was what kept him sane. In pain, but sane. Pressure inside his head was increasing, as the clearing in the forest was literally being flooded with magicka. Not just from the girl, but from others too.

   

  The Redguard. The High Bitch.

   

  Power draws power.

   

  First drop of blood hit the ground under Grulmar’s face and he could feel it running from his nose, the pressure now doubling as both the Redguard and the Orc priestess started manipulating magicka around them. Soon he bled from his eyes and his ears too, and the pressure in his head, the ringing in his ears, started overcoming the girl’s powers.

   

  The blood in his eyes clouded his vision and he blindly groped around himself, looking for his sack. He screamed when he put his hand into the fire, but then he finally felt something between his fingers. He grasped the leather strap of his sack and pulled it towards him.

   

  The whooshing sound of the wind was increasing in intensity and he heard a heavy thud, as if a stone shot from catapult just hit a tree.

   

  He wiped his eyes, trying to get the blood away from them, but he only managed to smear it all over his face, which meant he had to rely on his memory. If the High Bitch was somewhere in front of him and the fire was to his right…

   

  The shore was to his left.

   

  He rolled, growling as pain shot from his side, and then there was a loud splash as he hit the water’s surface. He fell on his back and that surprised him so much that he swallowed some water, spewing around before he managed to get his hands under him, realizing the water wasn’t even a quarter of step deep.

   

  Grulmar rolled again, getting his knees under him and straightening a bit, the water now up to his waist as he rested with his knees in the mud. One good thing about all that water was that it washed the blood away from his eyes and he kept blinking, trying to adjust his eyes to being able to see clearly again.

   

  First thing he noticed was that the water around him was coloured red and he looked at his side, noticing a white bandage around his belly - well, it wasn’t white anymore, it was leaking blood. Just now he realized he wasn’t wearing his leather vest instead of it he had some ugly black cloak wrapped around him as a blanket or something.

   

  The wind suddenly grew still, the sound disappearing and he quickly buried his hands into the mud under him, bringing up handfuls of disgusting, awfully smelling, mud and without hesitation he slapped his ears shut with it. It was a strange sensation as it began filling his ears, cold and slimy, and he resisted the urge to wash it away.

   

  Because now everything was silent. No sound could reach him anymore.

   

  He needed that. To concentrate.

   

  To get the tusk out of here.

  

  Rhavhyn was holding his breath and stared into the eyes of his daughter. She was shocked, feeling betrayed, as he was sucking the air around them and she realized she couldn’t breathe. Imanwe looked at him, hurt, question in her eyes and all he wanted to do was to comfort her, to tell her everything was going to be alright. He didn’t want to hurt her, he just needed to… pacify her.

   

  It sounded awful, even in his mind. Pacify, his own daughter.

   

  But she was dangerous.

   

  She was opening and closing her mouth as fish on dry land, gasping for breath, and it was tearing him apart, to see her in pain. Her face was turning purple and he himself felt his head going dizzy from holding his breath for so long. But he needed only few more seconds-

   

  A hand suddenly breached the whirlwind of air and needles and his eyes widened in shock. It shouldn’t be possible-

   

  The hand was then followed by the Orc female’s body and she then grasped him by his tunic, tugging.

   

  He lost the concentration and the whirlwind crumbled, along with everything it sucked. Needles and branches were falling down from the sky and he could see Imanwe dropping on her knees, taking a sharp breath.

   

  The Orc pulled him closer and raised her fist-

   

  The air around him filled with static energy and sparks of lightning lashed out of his body, surging through the female. She screamed in pain and shock, stumbling back, the left side of her body and face charred, her clothes catching on fire.

   

  Imanwe then looked at him, the pain of betrayal all over her face and he shook his head, begging her. For forgiveness. For restraint.

   

  But she would give none.

   

  “I HATE YOU!” she screamed into his face and he stumbled back, the words cutting right through him, filling him with her own rage.

   

  He could feel his own mind slipping, replaced by this insatiable fury. Foam was forming around his mouth and he looked around with bloodshot eyes.

   

  He felt betrayed. He felt anguish. He felt rage.

   

  He felt the need to let it out.

   

  And the wind started howling again, crackling with lightning.

  

  Atuul growled in pain, feeling the stench of burned flesh and the static energy in the air. She immediately began weaving a net of healing magicks around her body, killing the pain and mending the skin, but the last part wasn’t that important. Not right now.

   

  She still couldn’t hear a thing, but she saw that the girl screamed and something in the Redguard’s stance changed. He was baring his teeth, foam around his mouth, his eyes bloodshot.

   

  The High Priestess clasped her hands, and began weaving a complicated pattern of magicka around herself. She was growling during that, because the strain was almost too much, even for her. Too many things at the same time.

   

  She was renewing her protection spells, adding a protection against shock magicks on top of that, but she was also adding more fortifying spells. She heightened her senses, all but the hearing and everything around her suddenly became too bright, too sharp. She almost heightened her sense of touch too, but then quickly rejected that. The spell could contradict the pain-reducing one and that could have undesirable side effects. And she also filled her muscles with more magicka again.

   

  She took a step towards the Redguard and them something hit her, lifting her off the ground and sending her flying through the air. She hit a tree, feeling pain in her side, but the Shield spell held strong. She landed gracefully on the ground only to see Yaman charging her with his massive mace and she noticed the same symptoms of the rage the Redguard was showing.

   

  The mace came at her head and not even her Shield spell could protect her from that. She ducked under it and it hit the tree behind her, sending a shower of bark and splinters into the air. But Yaman’s body closely followed behind the mace and he rammed her with his shoulder, pinning her against the tree, but this time the protections saved her too.

   

  But she didn’t have time. She couldn’t keep this up, keeping so many protection spell for so long.

   

  She bared her tusks at him and her fist landed on his jaw, sending him on the ground as if he was hit by a battering ram. He was lucky she didn’t break his neck, but he was too dumb for that. What mattered was that he was out.

   

  It was only because of her heightened sight she managed to catch the reflection of sunlight on the golden blade out of the corner of her eye that saved her. She dodged, staring into the Third’s furious face as he hacked at her with his single-edged sword.

   

  She didn’t have time for that. The wind in the clearing was becoming too powerful, like a hurricane, filled with lightnings striking everywhere. She didn’t have time.

   

  He swung the blade at her waist and she took a step back, her palm slapping the flat of the blade in a portrayal of incredible speed and reflexes, and then she swung her fist. The Third raised his shield, the fist creating a deep dent in the metal and she grabbed the sides of the shield and pulled, while at the same time spinning in her waist.

   

  But the Third’s arm slipped from the straps and his sword hacked at her again and she the shield in defense. The first swing ripped it off her hands and she raised her arms to protect her body. The protection held, but the magicka began cracking, and so did her bone in her forearm. Even through the pain reducing spell she could feel the agony, but as something distant, allowing her to remain calm. The protections most likely saved her from getting her arm hacked off, so broken bone was most likely better than-

   

  Strong wind then hit her back like a god’s fist and send her right at the Third. He raised his hands, but the force was still enough to send them both rolling on the ground and she growled in anger and frustration, golden light spinning around her forearm, solidifying the broken bone.

   

  She needed to end this!

   

  Before the Third could get back on his feet she grabbed him by the pauldron of his armor, the metal bending under her fingers. She pulled him closer, his open mouth indicating a howl of pain and he tried to swing his sword at her. She managed to grab him by his wrist, stopping the blade, and then he headbutted her.

   

  She didn’t even feel it, but his eyes rolled as if he had just headbutted a wall. And then she returned him the favor - with a bit of restraint - and he landed on his back, out cold.

   

  Atuul clawed back on her feet, looking around.

   

  The Redguard was two steps in the air, his arms spread, lightnings lashing out from his body and the wind was picking up, creating dozens of whirlwinds in the area. When two of them collided they exploded in lightnings and shower of needles, splinters and branches from nearby trees.

   

  Atuul shielded her face, her eyes looking for the girl.

   

  A negligible movement to her left, near the shore, drew her attention and she could see the girl running towards the water.

   

  And in the water was Grulmar, on his knees, face covered with mud and blood, his arms spread and she noticed that shadows were bleeding from his body like a liquid smoke.

  

  Grulmar focused, trying to recall the words. He didn’t have time to go through the pages again, he needed to get out of here. As far as possible. And since he already used up his Mark and Recall spells to get here...

   

  He needed to remember.

   

  Peer sideways. Peer sideways. Perceive the shadows cast by each entity and object in Aurbis. That was part of it, yes. He focused, trying to feel the objects around him, trying to get his mind as far as possible. There were the trees, each and individual but together they made forest. And forest threw a lather large shadow. He kept pushing his mind from one tree to another, looking for the edge, as far away from here as possible.

   

  Not real shadows, no. Emanations of the limen each object possesses. Spread out your hyperagonal sense… feel the transliminal deformation-

   

  Got it!

   

  At the edge of the forest, his will managed to rip it open. He could feel it now. It felt like a gaping wound to him, bleeding towards him, and he just needed to follow the blood, right into the wound.

   

  When he attempted to make the transliminal saltation he felt something pushing against him. His mind was straining against the pressure and he growled, drawing on his reserves, impressing his will on the path ahead of him. His invisible hands grasped the edges of the wound and began pulling apart, opening the wound bit by bit so that he could push himself through.

   

  It resisted him, but he wasn’t giving up. His life depended on it after all. His will shot forward like a thrown spear, piercing the wound-

   

  And suddenly he could feel himself falling through.

  

  The world drew a sharp breath and everything seemed to still itself, frozen in motion. Atuul watched the light being drained away, towards the shore, and something inside her mind recoiled away from that thing in the water. She saw the sunrays in between the branches, she could see the lightnings lashing out from the Redguard, she could see the flames of the campfire still burning and she could see the setting sun itself.

   

  But everything was dim, reduced.

   

  The whole world turned grey, suddenly devoid of colour.

   

  And then the world exhaled.

   

  It came out as a wave of ink-like black smoke, exploding in a violent burst with the shore being the epicentre. It was like a flash of light, only this time it was flash of… darkness, that engulfed a five steps wide radius around the shore and then disappeared-

   

  The shockwave that came after was so unexpected that Atuul released a surprised scream when it lifted her off her feet and then all the trees around her were breaking and falling down.

   

  She landed on the ground, air flying out of her lungs, but she still tried to sit up, to see-

   

  A huge branch obscured her vision and hit her face with such force she immediately lost her consciousness.

  

  Yaman woke up with a start, his mind still being in the fight, still remembering the rage. The pain.

   

  He tried to move and the pain was more than real. Everything was dark, and his vision was obscured by fallen branches and trees. One of such branches fell on him and it pinned his leg under it. He groaned when he tried to move it, groaned in pain as his ribs reminded him that the High Priestess had punched him, probably breaking a few.

   

  Daughter of the Shielded Blade. It was one thing to hear it, but other was to actually feel it. He was stronger and bigger than her, yet he couldn’t stop her.

   

  “Yaman?” Third’s voice carried over the fallen trees and Yaman raised his hand.

   

  “Here!” he answered.

   

  The Third survived. That was a relief.

   

  But what happened to the others? Yaman couldn’t hear anything but his own breathing, and he couldn’t see over the fallen trees. The fact that sun seemed to set hours ago, with only the light of the moons shining down, gave the scene around him an eerie sensation. It was almost like a dream.

   

  Except for the pain.

   

  A furious roar then cut through the night and Yaman grew still, his breathing stopped.

   

  Cracking of wood behind him startled him and he turned around, looking at the Third cutting a way towards him with his sword. His armor made him easy to spot, even in the night, as it reflected the moons’ light with surprising ease.

   

  His left arm was hanging limp and Yaman noticed he was missing his shield and one of his pauldrons.

   

  He dropped on his knees next to Yaman, dropping the sword and sighed. “Did you hear the shout?”

   

  Yaman nodded. “The High Priestess.”

   

  “So she lives,” the Third murmured and looked at Yaman with a sneer. “She did a number on us, didn’t she? Maybe she should be our protector, instead of us being hers.”

   

  Yaman grimaced. He didn’t share the Third’s sense of humor, not in this situation. Not in the centre of such destruction.

   

  “Alright, let’s see if we can get you out of here,” the Vosh Rakh murmured and looked at the branch. “Can you push?”

   

  “Broken ribs,” Yaman shrugged. “But I can try.”

   

  The Third nodded and pushed the smaller branches with needles aside, sticking his sword under the branch and then his right hand. Yaman leaned against it with his hands and nodded.

   

  “On three. One. Two. Three!”

   

  The Third lifted the branch a bit and Yaman pushed, rolling it a bit away from his leg and then he quickly pulled himself away from it. The Third let it fall again, breathing heavily and seeing Yaman’s leg he immediately began removing his belt while Yaman groped around himself, looking for the right sticks to make a splint.

   

  Maybe the leg wasn’t broken, but better be sure.

   

  “I do hope the High Priestess is going to fix us, since she has done most of the damage,” Third continued, his tone light, as if he was trying to steer his thoughts from the painful topic of what really happened.

   

  I have seen the face of sorrow.

   

  The girl. She had destroyed the town. Her voice… So much power. And High Priestess wanted to end it, finish it, and she only made it worse.

   

  She looks away in the distance.

   

  When the splint was done the Third helped Yaman on his feet, and supported him. Now that he was standing he could finally properly looked around.

   

  Across all these bridges.

   

  There were trees lying everywhere, broken branches tossed around like shattered limbs, and-

   

  “Where is he?!” they heard a furious yell, and they exchanged looks when they both recognized the High Priestess.

   

  From whence I came.

   

  They started walking towards the shore, supporting each other, while Third hacked at the branches with his sword, clearing a path. It took them some time, all the while they heard High Priestess growl and shout followed by splashing of a water.

   

  When they could finally see her, they stopped in their tracks.

   

  And those spans, trussed and arched.

   

  She was standing waist deep in the water, illuminated by silver and red light of the moons, her clothes in tatters, and she kept diving under the water, only to emerge seconds later, cursing and spitting. “He has to be here! Where is he?!” she screamed her frustration into the water.

   

  Hold up our lives as we go back.

   

  The prophet. He was gone. Again.

   

  To how we thought then.

   

  Suddenly Yaman realized something. Who caused this destruction? The girl? The Redguard? High Priestess? Or was it the prophet?

   

  To how we thought we thought then.

   

  Or maybe all of them combined. Power called to power after all, and very often clashed in a violent burst of destruction.

   

  I have seen sorrow's face.

   

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a motionless shadow close to the shore and he narrowed his eyes. He let go off the Third, limping towards the shadow, with every shaking step his heart sinking.

   

  But she is ever turned away.

   

  “High Priestess,” he heard the Third say, followed by the sounds of water as he began wading towards her.

   

  And her words leave me blind.

   

  Yaman drew closer and started recognizing the Redguard. He was on his knees, silent as death and he was holding something in his arms.

   

  Her eyes make me mute.

   

  Someone…

   

  I do not understand what she says to me.

   

  Yaman fell on his knees, tears now flowing from his eyes once more. But this time it was real, it was his own grief. His own pain.

   

  I do not know if to obey.

   

  The girl laid in the Redguard’s arms, her eyes closed, her skin pale. No wounds. But there was no life inside her, not anymore. As if someone or something had drained it away.

   

  Or attempt a flood of tears.

   

  The Redguard was bleeding, Yaman could see splinters protruding from his leg and from his side, but there were no tears glistening on his cheeks. He seemed to run out of tears.

   

  I have seen her face.

   

  “She was too close,” the Redguard murmured. “Too close to the… burst of magick that came from the shore.”

   

  She does not speak.

   

  Yaman remembered her voice, her humming. So soothing. And he would never heard it again. “I am… sorry,” he rasped, his voice breaking.

   

  She does not weep.

   

  The Redguard looked at him with his dark eyes which glistened in the night. “Sorry? You understand nothing,” he growled through his teeth. “It was inevitable. The curse did it. The curse did it,” he repeated weakly. “There is nothing left but the curse. Should I end it? Should I unleash it?” He then shook his head, clawing on his feet with a groan of pain. “I don’t want your sorry. Leave me. I need to deliver my daughter to Tu’whacca.”

   

  She does not know me.

   

  He began walking away and looked over his shoulder one last time. “Pray to your god I never see you or your kind ever again.”

   

  For I am but a stone fitted in place.

   

  “High Priestess,” he heard the Third's broken voice on the shore, trying to calm the Penitent.

   

  On the bridge where she walks.

  
  
  “I can't sense him,” she said desperately. “His magick. I can't sense him. There is no body. He… where is he? He can’t be gone! Where is he?!”

   

  I have seen the face of sorrow…

  

  Something had gone wrong, that much was clear. The world folded onto itself and everything was swallowed by darkness, every fiber of his being being filled with it and then absorbed.

   

  He should have read the manual properly...

   

  His body became lost to him, the sensation of feeling his limbs or even his skin became lost to him too. He lost his sight and his hearing too, and yet… He could see, though not with his eyes but… Feel. Or maybe not even that. Sense? Yes, that could be it.

   

  He could sense his surroundings, made of grey darkness, and he traveled through it until he stumbled across light. He reached for it, looking for an escape from the shadows filling his mind, but no matter how he tried the light was out of his reach, blocked.

   

  Then his world suddenly shifted and dragged him along, confused and shaken. He wasn’t able to move and yet he moved. Everything seemed to lose its meaning, reason and content in wherever he was, replaced by irrational possibilities. Where was he?

   

  "Keep your hands steady, runt,” a voice suddenly boomed above him, impossibly loud, reverberating through his being - it was as if a god had spoken from the skies.

   

  But the voice didn’t belong to a god. It belonged to the past, his past, and he would never forget that voice. Yet it sounded different. There was no spite in it, no bubbling anger. Only honor and pride.  

   

  Something was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, the voice shouldn’t be like this.

   

  A sound of a drawn bowstring echoed and he could hear a young and tired voice saying: "Yes, chieftain.”

   

  No, no, no, no. That voice shouldn’t be like that. The words had been murmured with respect and care, not a single trace of hatred or fear in it.

   

  Wrong! Wrongwrongwrong!

   

  "Wait. Wait. Now!”

   

  The bowstring loudly slapped the wristguard and an arrow whistled through the air. A surprised scream of a deer sounded in the distance.

   

  "Well done, runt!” An approving grunt with an enthusiasm that was true and sound. "Now come on, or your mother will skin us both if we don’t drag this back to the stronghold before sundown.”

   

  "Can I be the one to drag the deer to the stronghold? I want mother to see it was me who felled it, to see my strength.”

   

  "Of course, boy. It is your kill.”

   

  Mother. There never was a mother, a hole missing in his heart. Yet she was here even though she wasn’t meant to be. Everything was different.

   

  "You think she will be proud?”

   

  "Yes. We are both proud of you, Grulmar.”

   

  Grulmar. But not him. Everything was wrong...

   

  His world suddenly moved again, dragging him, and he kicked and screamed without legs and a throat, unable to control anything. This world of darkness has become his prison.

   

  He was trapped.

   

  In his - but not his - own shadow.

   

  

  

   

   

  Final Words: Thank you all for reading, guys. I hope you enjoyed this story and that I managed to pull off the twist I've been trying to pull off, heh. So, now you see that this story wasn't really about Grulmar, but about Imanwe, even though indirectly. Sometimes you are just at the wrong place in the wrong time. And this story also marks the first door to completely new possibilities where I can take Grulmar, so we'll see how that goes. 

   

  Thank you again for reading. 

   

  Also huge thanks to Harrow for being my sounding board and for checking my grammar.