"4387...4388...4389..."
Our feet crunched thickly in the snow as we ascended the mountain. Over the last hour the path had become less steep. There were even places where the walk was completely level and the steps stretched out in rough-hewn flagstones.
At this height, breathing became increasingly difficult and each step resulted in a slow rocking of the world. Peering behind me, I saw Derkeethus squeeze his eyes closed and grow briefly pale. Then he realized I was watching and his expression hardened, and he strode on determinedly.
There was no way to know what time it was in this empty space of ice and snow. The only sounds about us were the constant wailing of the wind and the soft hish of landing snowflakes. Even the trees were too stiffly frozen to waver.
As if in testament to the conditions, we reached the top of the path, which was marked by a cairn of stones sporting a blood-red banner of cloth. The banner stuck out in the breeze, coated so thickly with frost it no longer moved. Below the ominously colored cloth lay a goat carcass. It was thus far untouched and seemed to have fallen where it stood. I attempted to flay its preserved flesh for our stores, but even my elven knives could not pierce the hardened skin.
Ahead of us the path stretched onward in a series of rolling hill-like slopes, wrapping around the mountain and out of sight.
"4403...4404...4405..." Derkeethus continued to count.
To our left, the edge of the path dropped into a series of sheer cliffs. We were crossing the great range of mountains that cleaved Skyrim in two, and looking down, I saw a pass connecting the Rift to where I suspected Falkreath lay. On the other side of the pass, the Jerall Mountains sawed at the sky with their toothy peaks. I wondered what was happening in the land of Cyrodiil. If the Nords in Bruma were happy in their log homes, or if many of them returned to Skyrim. Were the borders to this land still watched by the Imperials?
"4786...4787...4788..."
Frowning, I remembered how my father was left in a pass just like the one below: carelessly tossed aside to lie unattended to in the snow. I wished I had been able to give him a proper funeral, but I knew that at least, the animals had done the job for me.
As the afternoon waned, the gradually building feeling of grief finally overwhelmed me when I spotted a snowberry bush lit in just the right way. I was so tempted to pluck a sprig of berries and carry them with me in remembrance that I reached out and was caressing a branch, my fingers pinching around the stem.
Oh, I knew it would be wrong, but it would also be right, in a way. Yffre would not be pleased and might curse me with some further dissolution in my already fragile hold on my sanity, but I would be remembering my father. My hand began to twist, and I could feel the plant's pain under my fingertips.
"Henny? What's wrong?" Derkeethus asked, placing a hand on my shoulder. I jumped, startled, and the branch flipped back the way it was. Relief flooded me as I stood.
"Nothing. Just thinking of my father," I said, feeling his hand tighten briefly before letting go.
"Come on. He's dead. And breaking your pact won't bring him back. He'd be very disappointed in you," Derk mock frowned and managed to pull off a vaguely fatherly expression.
"You're right," I replied with a sigh. Inwardly, I apologized to Yffre and the plant, and we pressed on.
"4798...4799...4800..." the Argonian continued brightly.
At last the day's light began to fade and we found a large overhang protected from most of the wind and snow. Around us the world was a silent pause in time. Other than the light changing, the world itself seemed suspended. My breath came ragged now, and my stomach rolled uncomfortably. The now-healed break in my leg felt bruised and sensitive. Derkeethus helped me sit down while he scrounged for wood.
I felt so tired and so cold. Drifting in and out of a daze, I tried to count the time passing, but found I could not. Eventually, my face felt warmth for the first time since the snow started falling. I scrambled towards the source almost blindly until I sat so close to the fire, I might as well have been sitting in it.
"I was worried there for a while. I almost couldn't find any wood," Derk smiled and looked out at the gathering night. When he let out a satisfied sigh, he sat down across the fire from me. The wavering air made him look distant and dreamlike. "Do you remember back in the cave with the Phial? When I made the Legate drop this?" he asked, taking the Phial itself out and turning it slowly in his hands.
"Not really. All I remember is feeling like I was in a nightmare," I mumbled. Closing my eyes, I thought back to the Legate walking over and grabbing the Phial. Just recalling that moment was enough to make my mind reel and lurch uncomfortably. "I remember the Legate dropped it like it was hot. After we screamed at him."
"Hm. Did you feel anything weird when we did that?" Derkeethus shifted uncomfortably, a frown building at the edges of his mouth.
"Just that my throat burned. I'm sure I was about the throw up. Too bad I didn't. I'm sure I could have ruined that bastard's boots," I said, grinning, but feeling apprehensive about where this conversation was headed.
"Oh." was all he said before staring pensively out into the darkness.
He said nothing more, and eventually I curled up in the bedroll before the fire, still shivering and feeling light-headed. At some point, I felt my friend curl up behind me, undoubtedly trying to keep warm. Too tired to think about it, I drifted off into strange and shifting dreams.
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