(Update) January 2013, after 5 months of inactivity- Still alive. =)
(Update) July 2012, after 4 months of inactivity- Yes, I'm alive. Yes, I'm continuing my story. Yes, I intend to finish it all the way.
(Update) March 2012- Exams month coming up, disappearing for a bit.
My not-so-little take on the major Skyrim quest lines. This is my attempt to squeeze in as many main and side quests that I can think of into one very plausible and interconnecting story. I'm also trying to make it as original as possible so it'd probably be quite a departure, although not in a wacky way, from the official storyline.
I quite like having a whole cast of characters so please prepare to be bombarded by a lot of names, at least in the beginning. Although rest assured the majority are actual lore characters (Some may have slightly altered background histories to better fit my story but, for the most part, they'll hold true to whatever they're known for in the game).
After weighing in on how the story's going to be like, I decided to add 'Romance' on the category tag instead of 'Adventure' since it seemed a better fit. But please keep in mind that this is being written by one whose sex organs dangle and is paranoid of losing them if he starts writing too much sappy wappy stuff. (Don't roll your eyes at me, Claire.)
I'm an amateur writer; I don't know or care for any of that 'deep evolving characters' shtick, 'perfect' grammar, or fancy words that make sentences poetic sounding. I'm a fan who just wants to write cool fantasy stuffs with swords and dragons and lotsa' headbangin'!
Still here? Not repulsed yet? Well, the story... starts... now!
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PROLOGUE
Actor Introductions Part One of Two: Hunter, Hunted, Dragon, God
The trouble with settling down is that you never get a day's rest. As Selvia would oft remind him, a retired man is simply his wife's full-time job. And thus, whenever Selvia caught him sitting contentedly on their house's porch, she would quickly find some menial task around the farm that needed his immediate attention.
Not that his wife was a complete nag, but she certainly wasn't lacking in criticisms. And to be fair, Orgnar wasn't the most vibrant man in the world. Even back during his years of service—a life he'd long buried—he was as sprightly as a mudcrab sunbathing lazily on the beach.
It came as no great surprise then that he remained as solid and emotionless as a rock when his visitor finished speaking. They were at the den, each sitting and facing one another while Selvia and their five rambunctious kids looked on in curiosity by the kitchen's doorway.
"Five beautiful children," the visiting woman spoke up when it became clear that Orgnar was not going to. "You have a lovely family. And a wonderful farm. It's quite an achievement."
You mean for me it is, Orgnar added quietly. Admittedly, after the Great War ended, the veteran warrior spent a couple years or so in the company of less than savoury men. And only after a stint in prison did he finally decide to clean his act up.
Of course, ever the follower, his way of fixing up his life was by letting it be dictated completely by a farmer's homely daughter. Fortunately for him, the old farmer saw the union as a practical one. His daughter had the farm as a dowry, and Orgnar had the submissiveness of a gentle husband and also the martial means to protect Selvia and the family.
And now here he was, caught between the scrutinizing gazes of the two women in the whole of Nirn that held power over him.
Easier for him had he died during the war.
But there might be another way out of this mess, albeit a mad one. His eyes travelled above the fireplace where a simple yet serviceable one-edged blade was on display.
No one would know. The woman was a stranger to his neighbours, newly arrived to the area as she was. Just one swing of his sword and he could dump her body in the forest. He'd then pretend this meeting never happened and go on living his dull but danger-free life.
The woman however, after following Orgnar's gaze, smiled sweetly at him, clearly having read his thoughts.
"There are better uses for your swordarm."
"It's seeing enough use plowing farm soil."
"It's the end of the harvest season, Orgnar. And I'm sure the farm can live without you for a short while."
"A short while? You make it sound like I'll be coming back here."
The woman simply shrugged, unfazed by his glare.
It seems, for the life of him, Orgnar just couldn't ever get away from this woman. Or rather, from his past.
"Why me? Why not go haunt Marcus? Or Seven-Swords? Or any of the others?"
"Because all the others are dead and Marcus won't leave his beloved Hammerfell behind. At least not while the Thalmor remain a threat to his home. As for Sev… well who knows which Oblivion plane that warlock's cavorting in. I've sent out the call, he'll come to us when he's ready."
"You still haven't answered my question. You've been doing well enough on your own pissing off the Thalmor since we disbanded. Why are you asking for my help now?"
The woman smiled and pulled back her coif to reveal an aging and weather-beaten face. "If I'm right, if St. Alessia's blood flows once more, then we have purpose once again. What that purpose is, I don't know but I intend to find out. And all indications point to the north. Your homeland."
"Well you don't need a guide for that. Skyrim's that way." Orgnar jerked his thumb northwards.
"I need someone I can trust, Orgnar. And someone who knows the land and its people. I'm not getting any younger. If I fall, I need you to—"
"If you fall, I'll leave your carcass where it lies and come running back home."
"That's fine," said the woman immediately. And she smiled. "We leave at first light."
"Now, hold on."
"From what I hear the rebellion leader, the Jarl of Windhelm, has been captured. So we should have little trouble sneaking past Skyrim's borders now that their civil war's just about ended."
"I said hold on."
"There's a passage through the Jerall Mountains—"
"Damn it, Delphine. I didn't agree to your mad scheme yet."
The visitor's smile grew nasty. "I never asked for your agreement. I'll remind you what I told everyone when we all separated. You're still Blades. The Emperor himself may turn his back on us but we won't do the same to his people. But whatever else, I don't intend to die without making the Thalmor pay for what they've done to us."
The den's atmosphere rose a few degrees in warmth. At the back, one of the children started crying. Orgnar sighed and stretched back on his chair.
"You're going to be the death of me, woman."
"That's what you'd say every time I sent you off on a mission." The smile softened.
"And it remains true each and every time I say it."
"So you are with me?"
"Tell me what your plan is first. Who or what are you looking for?"
"Hope. A leader. A hero. The Divines have cast the die and, for better or worse, the Dovah Sos flows once more in some unlucky soul's body. We're going to meet this 'chosen one' and then we're going to see what he's made of."
"And then what? Have him declare a rebellion against the Empire? On a land already ravaged by one?"
"There's no such thing as coincidence. There's a purpose for him being there and if it means bad news for the Thalmor then I'm with him."
Orgnar furrowed his brows and fell silent.
He looked over his shoulder to see Selvia staring right back at him. You're going to go aren't you, asked that solemn gaze.
The former farmer closed his eyes and looked away.
No, the real trouble with settling down is with the peaceful quiet.
It just never lasts.
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A Thalmor, a dragon, and a God walk into an inn…
Or so the joke goes, the hooded woman mused. Of course, the Justicar did not enter alone, and the 'dragon' was in mortal form, oblivious and innocent to glorious powers hidden within him. As for the God…
The inn had a typical Nordic design. Spacious and rectangular, its open kitchen was separated only by a lengthy table which served as the bar. The rest of the inside opened up to the commons where tables and chairs of varying lengths and shape surrounded the massive hearth that took up most of the commons' central floor.
The fireplace was lit up bright. It amused the woman a little, as she watched the flickering flames cast shadows on the faces of the two groups glaring at each other in front of the hearth. It was symbolic in a way: Defiance on one side, Conviction on the other. A clash of nerves, emotions, and unyielding beliefs. She already knew that blood would be spilled this night. And it amused her how she had done naught a thing and yet playing out in front of her, and acted by mortals, was a quickly deteriorating situation rife with fear and tension. It was a delicious play indeed.
"If you hold dear to your filial ties so much then you should understand why you and your siblings are wanted," the Justicar was speaking, "They are citizens of your empire and are therefore subject to its laws. They are criminals, traitors to Skyrim. As per the stipulations of the White-Gold Concordat—"
"—damn your stipulations! And damn your laws! Turn tail the way you came, elf. You will not take me, my brother, or my sister away. The only thing we are guilty of is that of being true Nords!"
Huh.
So there's a sister.
The Concordat, an agreement that ended the war between the Aldmeri and the Empire, was the reason why everyone was now standing (or sitting, in the spectating woman's case) inside that inn. The Concordat was a masterful stroke, she was forced to admit. Though it was the Emperor Titus II who had initiated the treaty, it was the Aldmeri who got the better side of the deal. And it allowed them to continue to hurt the Empire in more ways than they could do in the battlefield. Not bad for mortals.
The peace agreement banned the worship of Talos, the ninth of the Divines and the only one to have been a mortal prior to ascending to godhood. Not including Sheogarath of course. And maybe Arkay.
The fact that Talos was once mortal was not what drew the ire of the elves. What angered them was the fact that he was a product of Man and not Mer.
As such, the Thalmor, Aldmeri's ruling body, were given free rein to roam all over the Empire's lands, stamping out the heresy of Talos worship. In effect, just as the Aldmeri had hoped, the ban drew widespread fury in the province of Skyrim, home of the Nords.
Talos was a Nord after all. More than that, he was a hero. The hero of heroes, as any young Nord would proudly say before thumping a fist to his or her chest. Talos was revered and loved. And with the banning of his worship, the civil war between the Stormcloaks and the Imperials was born.
The woman—the only patron that didn't go scrambling out when the Justicar and his elven guards entered the inn—crossed her arms and scrutinized the two young men. They were weathered; both bore battle marks all round their muscled bodies. They were warriors in every which way you looked at them and that obvious fact did their claim of innocence no good. The calmer of the two was trying to restrain his brother, the one who had lashed back at the elf.
The furious man was Avulstein. His brother, Thorald. They had both escaped the siege of Whiterun. Now, they were pretending to be merchants trying to make their way to Cyrodiil via the sleepy village of Riverwood where the current debacle was being played out. But their true intentions were obvious to the woman, and clearly so to the Justicar.
With the capture of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and Pretender to the Nordic throne, the border guards had considerably slackened and the brothers had likely decided to take advantage of this fact. Unfortunate for them that their family name doomed them to a life as fugitives forever on the run.
The Justicar crossed his arms. "Your glorious rebel leader lies captured and awaiting execution and you, sons of Gray-Mane, his unrepentant allies, conveniently appear at the province's border? Shameful of you to try and escape the aftermath of your leader's defeat. I smell the cowardly stink of Talos on you."
"You are not fit to utter the Hero-God's name," Avulstein said coldly. He batted away his brother's restricting hands to stand defiantly in front of the Justicar who remained unimpressed. "As you so claim we are indeed Gray-Mane. The last of them, I might add. All hunted down mercilessly by you murderers and assassins!"
"You will stand down, Nord. And you will tell me the whereabouts of your sister."
Avulstein sneered. "I don't know where my wily sister is. Even if I did, I would never tell you. And the only way you're taking us into custody is by dragging our dead corpses out of those doors."
"That can be—"
"Tell me… what use is a mage without his mouth?"
And before anyone could react, Avulstein's giant fist came flying towards the Justicar's face. There was a sickening sound of crunching bones as the Nord's knuckles smashed into the elf's mouth, shattering teeth and sending spatters of red everywhere.
The Nord then grabbed a handful of the stunned elf's clothes before flinging him effortlessly towards the surprised guards who could do little but raise their arms.
The hooded woman watched with interest as the elves brandished their swords in unison and surrounded their injured leader. But her attention was not on them but on the two brothers now cornered on the other side of the inn.
Such defiance. Typical for mortals to mistake folly for spirit.
But one of them is no mere mortal, is he?
Though the real question is… which of the two holds the soul of a dragon? Which of the two holds the key to her freedom?
"What say we let fate decide," she spoke up suddenly in her sultry voice, much to the others' surprise. She stood up from her stool and, with seeming derision, walked casually between the two opposing groups who could only stare at her. She shrugged off their looks with disdain before stepping out of the inn.
Outside, the village of Riverwood was quiet save for the chirping of crickets and the gentle flow of the river. Masser and Secunda were out in full force, shining their moonlight down on the village and the hooded woman could see well into the distance because of it.
Nirn. The dead god Lorkhan's Daedra plane. So beautiful and so… malleable. It's no wonder that the Daedric princes consider it their playground. There's just so much material to work with. Even in this small village alone… she closed her eyes and opened up her true ears.
They came as whispers at first, and then as torrential screams. The dreams and nightmares of the village's sleeping denizens. Each one different from the other, each one just as interesting.
She stood giddy and aroused as the dreams swirled all around her, exciting her fully. Her moment of ecstasy would be disrupted however as the clash of steel on steel reverberated from behind. She sighed as she stepped out of the inn's porch, ignoring the furniture that came flying out of the windows.
She walked onwards, towards the outskirts of the village. The journey was but a few steps and she soon found herself entering a more forested area, though the river still flowed on nearby. She stopped at a small clearing beside the road, a place where a simplistic shrine stood, strategically placed so as to be seen by travellers coming from both ends.
The statue was made of Travertine rock, a form of limestone likely having been mined from one of the many caverns under the city of Markarth far to the west. Though the body and pedestal were weather-worn, the statue's face appeared clear and unblemished.
"Mara," the woman muttered venomously. She pulled back her hood, allowing the moonlight to reflect on her bright grey eyes. Combined with her alabaster skin and chiseled cheekbones, the moonlight gave her a near-ethereal appearance.
"Your pathetic curse is soon to be lifted. You should have killed me when you had the chance."
She stood still, maintaining her glare on the statue of a beautiful woman looking kindly down at her. Kindly. Bah. Mortals are so easily deceived.
"Wake up, old hag."
There was no response at first and the croaking of insects was all that could be heard. Eventually, there came a rustling of leaves as a slight wind blew through the clearing. The pale-skinned woman showed no surprise when a soft and matronly voice echoed all around her.
"Leave such thoughts of murder to your kin Boethiah for he is far more suited to them than you are. And I have never intended to kill you, not before and not now."
"Your compassion is your weakness, Goddess of Love. Once I have the Dragonborn free me of your curse, you will rue the day you showed pity on me."
"Curse? It is a gift. A lesson if you will, but never a curse. You sought to see the dreams of a God and you are being disciplined because of your folly."
"Discipline me? Hah! For what lesson have I learned? Nothing, save the fact that the dreams of the Divines are as boring as my kin's."
"Was it truly boredom that made you assault my temple and attempt to intrude in my dream-sleep? No, you sought something that the Aedra or the Daedra cannot provide for you. But I have given you this gift. This moment of mortality if you will, for you are seeing this world in a way few other immortals have. You see it at its most terrible beauty. And from it, you will answer what has long been bothering you."
"You ramble, old woman. I will soon be returned to my true self. You may be impervious to my designs but your followers are easy prey for my vengeance."
"I wonder if your task will be as simple as you think…" said the fading voice, "And I wonder if you will still be the same when you reach the end of your journey…"
"I am what I always have been. I acknowledge your power but it is presumptuous of you to think that you can bend me to your will. Truly, your arrogance shows how little difference there is between your kind and mine."
"I have never thought for there to have ever been a difference between us. We are one and the same. I have always acknowledged that fact. Thus I seek not to change an adversary but simply to guide a long-lost sister. What you sought in my dreams, what you sought in all the dreams of mortals which you've swam in, you will not find through your usual means. Instead, I can only set you on the right path, albeit an unusual one. The rest of the journey, lies on you…"
With the dying voice came the calming of the wind as the leaves stopped rustling and the branches above grew still. And only when the sound of the flowing river could be heard again, did the woman realize for certainty that she was alone once more.
She gritted her teeth and stared up at Mara's statue. "You will pay… Sanguine's tits, you will pay!"
Her anger shaped a thought: an image of destruction compacted into a tight sphere. When the sphere grew difficult to contain, she let loose her anger and the sphere exploded outwards within her mind. At the same time, and by her will, the statue burst into a spray of shattered stone and dust.
It was the simplest of incantations, but it annoyed her to feel a slight strain at the back of her head. She felt weak. Here she was but a dream-thought, a shadow of her true self which was bound, quite ironically in her case, in eternal slumber thanks to Mara's shackles.
She needed to break the curse. And she will.
As if agreeing with her thoughts, the conflict back at the inn spilled out into the streets. She watched from afar as one of the brothers, hand against a growing red stain on his side, stumbled down the street towards her.
She met him halfway, right by the village gates where he finally gave in and collapsed. From the inn, the enraged Justicar came running out with his men. It was worth noting that, of the elves who had entered the inn, less than half had come out.
"Color me surprised. I thought the Divines would have chosen your brother. He had… grit. Although the Divines always do go the fool route when it comes to making important choices."
"What…?" Thorald looked up at her with glazed eyes. "My brother… he's dead. They killed him."
"So they have. And they come for you next. It seems Sovngarde beckons," the woman replied, causing Thorald's eyes to water as he was filled with thoughts of the Nordic heaven. Sovngarde was his people's own little realm in Aetherius, the Immortal Plane. The latter was the home of the Divines and, to less-knowing mortals, the opposite of Oblivion, the plane of the Daedra.
As if sensing what he was thinking, the woman frowned and continued speaking. "Yes you could indeed surrender to death right at this moment, allowing you to join your dead ancestors in eternal drink and song. But are you yet that deserving of such a reward? It seems to me that you still have many matters in Nirn left unfinished. So what will you do, son of Ysmir? Will you keel over and die now?"
"No, not yet. I must find my sister. And get her out of Skyrim." The Nord struggled to get up only to collapse once more right on the woman's feet. His face had gone white, his blood drained.
"You'll not find her around my toes, warrior." She bent down to cup Thorald's face by the chin. "And you needst first avenge your dead brother."
"Avenge…?"
"Yes, your brother. The dead one. Sovngarde and all that. Killed by your friends about to come upon us."
"Friends..?"
The woman hissed. "What are you, an echo?"
She roughly twisted Thorald's head around. The Thalmor were now cautiously advancing towards them in a crescent formation. The Justicar, having apparently recovered from his wounds, was in the middle, flanked by two sword-wielding guards on each side. The Justicar wore traditional robes but his guards had on their armor made seemingly of burnished gold.
The wounded Nord immediately scrambled up to his feet. He wavered uneasily for a moment before regaining his balance. He then pulled the woman behind him in a gruff but protective manner.
The latter raised a brow at this. "You mean to protect me while unarmed and so close to death? Your little manly act borders more on the pathetic than chivalrous."
"Don't flatter yourself. I was actually thinking of throwing you at them before diving into the river."
The woman smirked. "You Nords and your mentality of throwing things at any problem that comes at you… If you will recall, it did your dear brother no good."
Thorvald stiffened and did not reply.
"Oh don't pout," the woman said after glancing at Thorald's face, "I never could understand a mortal's need for 'family'. Now stand aside and I will do you the grand favor of saving your life. Then after, we will talk about how you can repay it."
And before he could ask what this stranger of a woman meant, the muscle-bound Nord, easily twice the woman's size, found himself flying in the air before landing on his back, several feet behind. The woman then smiled before returning her attention to the bloodied Justicar now cautiously stepping forward.
"You must be a witch," the Justicar's words came rasping out of devastated lips, "For you to be able to throw him with those thin and delicate wrists."
"Strength does not come from the body, Inquisitor. It comes from an unconquerable will."
"Then from your words, I would boldly demand that you stand aside, citizen. We have no quarrel with you and this is an Imperial-sanctioned hunt. The Nord belongs to us."
"Have him. Kill him for all I care. But don't you think it contradicts with the grand designs of your Thalmor overlords? A divided Skyrim is of benefit to your Aldmeri homeland after all. The further continuation of resistance, no matter how minor, would surely aid in your people's eventual conquest of these lands; It wouldn't do to be killing off one side completely."
"You know too much, woman. Who are you?"
"Does it matter who I am?" She casually raised both her hands in a shrug before pointing at the Justicar. The latter's eyes fell on her finger, fascinated by her clear translucent nail.
"I am no one, merely an admirer of your work. But we are talking about you here. The clever Inquisitor who snares the land with his masterful web of cunning and deceit. The people are but puppets, playing to your every whim."
"They are… but puppets."
"Indeed. By your manipulative designs, wars are fought and lives are lost. You are the first among the Thalmor, a master of manipulation, and a rival of the Webspinner herself. You are the true God of Lies."
"A true God…" whispered the Justicar. The pretty nail sparkled under the moonlight.
His men looked at each other uncertainly. One cleared his throat and stepped forward.
"Lord Justicar, the Nord fugitive—"
"What is this?" the woman withdrew her hand in mock horror as she rounded on the guard. She then looked angrily at the Justicar. "Someone would dare defy your authority? Someone would dare impede your plans?"
The Justicar's eyes blazed with fury and he turned to face the guard who froze in uncertainty. The guard thought to raise his sword, hesitated, then looked at his companions who were just as bewildered as he was.
"Lord Justicar—"
"Silence!" the Justicar and the woman roared at the same time. The elven mage then flicked a hand and a burst of flame travelled from his wrist to his fingers. The fire gathered into a spherical mass an inch away from his palm. And when all the fire had collected, the sphere went flying straight towards the stunned guard's face.
The guard snapped back and fell to the ground as the flames rapidly ate through the fat of his face. The reddish flames then travelled along the inner contours of his helmet, engulfing his whole head. His comrades could only watch in shock as he rolled and struggled wordlessly on the ground.
Before long, the spasms stopped and the body remained motionless though the flames burned on. The sight of their companion's now-blackened helmet and charred head caused the remaining three guards to skitter away from the Justicar with their swords raised.
"And the rest of the traitors reveal themselves!" the Justicar and the woman shouted angrily in unison, "You would mutiny against me? Me?"
"The witch!" one of the guards shouted at his companions, "Kill her! She's—"
Another ball of fire erupted out of the Justicar's sleeve to engulf the one who had spoken up. Almost immediately, the two remaining guards rushed forward with swords raised, and the battle was on.
The sound of swords clashing and the screams of pain echoed throughout the valley and Thorald could only wonder how none of the villagers had been awoken by the noise or by the bursts of fiery light that illuminated every window of every house. Perhaps they did awaken, preferring simply to cower in their basements until the mischievous demons above have passed on.
Eventually, everything quieted down. The Justicar, now missing the whole of his right arm, remained standing in laboured breath around four dead bodies roasted beyond recognition. With a muffled whimper, he fell to his knees. Tears flowed freely from his eyes.
The pale-skinned woman must have been a terrible sight then, as she strode, like an angel of judgement, to the distraught elf's side. She bent down until her face was right beside the Justicar's. "With the eagerness of how you'd dispatched your friends, I'm almost tempted to think you an agent of Mephala."
The Justicar turned to face her, anguish written all over his face. "But… but I didn't— You did—"
The woman pulled away, as if taken aback. "Well obviously I didn't kill them. I was just standing here, helpless and unarmed." She clucked her tongue, showing her disappointment. "Would you shame yourself and the spirits of your friends by denying their murder? By your hand?"
"No! I didn't! It wasn't… I wasn't—"
"They are dead, you are alive. And now you must pay for your crime." She gently took hold of his remaining hand and placed it on the side of his face. "It is the only honorable thing for you to do," she said gravely.
The Justicar burst into heaving sobs as he felt the familiar tingling of magical power gathering from his wrist. His hand, placed firmly on his cheek, grew rapidly in warmth.
"Please… Please!" he shrieked as the sphere of fire began forming around and inside his flesh. He tried to force himself to stop, to cancel the incantation, or even to just jerk his hand away. But that sweet, soft voice said no. He must do the honorable thing.
There was a sizzling sound as his tears came into contact with the licking flames on the left of his face. His vision flashed white, then black, and then white again as that voice inside his head willed him to stay awake, to stay lucid and aware of every agonizing moment of pain.
And it was through that sickening transition of consciousness, and through the blurry fog cast by his tears, that he saw the pair of terror-stricken eyes staring right at him. With a resolve that surprised even that dominating voice in his head, he called out to those eyes, not in desperation but in determination.
His words were nothing more than several croaks of empty air as most of his mouth was already charred to cinder and ash, but Thorald understood full well the Justicar's request.
Ignoring the sharp pain from his side, he jumped up to his feet all the while appropriating a sword from one of the slain guards. He rushed forward and roughly pulled the woman away before ramming the sword right into the Justicar's chest.
Thorald watched as gratitude so genuine flashed in the Justicar's eyes right before they closed in finality. And just like that, he felt the anger, the anguish from his brother's death, slip and melt away from him in waves. Instead of hate, he felt pity for the dead elf he now cradled in his arms.
"Sanguine's tits!" exclaimed the woman in anger as she picked herself up and dusted off her robes, though the cloth, like her skin, appeared clean and fresh as if magically enchanted to resist dirt and wear. "You Nords are but barbarians! I am tempted to shrivel your Ox-like arms before you throw—"
"Enough of your witchcraft, woman." Thorald looked back at her coldly.
The woman sneered. "This is the gratitude I get for—"
"The fact that I haven't rammed this sword into you is gratitude enough. You cloud men's minds and delight in their torture and suffering. The agent of the Webspinner here is you. Either that or you are Mephala herself in flesh-form."
The woman cackled in laughter. "You are not as stupid as I thought, mortal. But I am not Mephala. In any case, you will repay the favor you owe me."
Thorald rose with the sword gripped firmly in his hand. "I'll not do your bidding—"
"Oh?" The woman smiled and Thorald became acutely aware of the dead bodies around them. The woman laughed again. "Very well, your mind I will endeavour to keep cloudless and free of anyone's grasp. But you will pay me back. And if you agree, perhaps I could help in your little search for your sister."
Thorald said nothing for a while though his grip on his sword had considerably slackened. The wound on his side was getting worse and he wavered from where he stood. "What could a powerful witch like you possibly want from me? If you seek play-toys to torture, I'll gladly point you to the nearest Imperial camp."
The woman smiled again before stepping forward to stand a few inches away from Thorald's face. Her eyes were a bright grey, almost dreamy, but Thorald thought he saw a hint of something alien behind them. "What do you want?" he demanded once more.
"Your help." The woman looked away. "It pains me to admit it but I have need of your expertise."
"There are plenty of swords for hire in Whiterun. All of them healthy and not dying from blood loss—"
"I care not for your brutish sword arm," the woman cut in sharply, "All I need is your mouth, your lips that can voice out my freedom. It is amusing really. With your Voice, you are able to dispel magic cast by the very same gods that gave you the ability to do so."
"My what? You—"
"Your Voice! Your Thu'um! Your gift bestowed upon you by the damnable Divines!"
"Have you mistaken me for Jarl Ulfric or one of the Greybeards? Barring perhaps a few, only they have the gift of the Voice. Unless you think me the Dragonborn—"
"I don't think it, I know it." The woman stepped closer and placed a hand on Thorald's chest. The latter flinched from her light touch but did not move. "And now I am certain."
The woman smiled widely in what seemed like genuine happiness. Her face softened and Thorald saw, for a short moment, a delicate woman smiling pleasantly at him.
"You are mad," Thorald finally said before moving away. He gingerly kneeled down beside the Justicar and began checking the dead elf's pockets for whatever valuables or necessities he could find. Forget trying to cross the border and escaping Skyrim. With Avulstein dead, their sister was the only one he had left. The last of the Gray-Manes.
Behind him, the woman crossed her arms. "I am not as stubborn to demand that you believe me right at this moment. I will coax your Dragon power out of you if I must. And in return you will grant me my freedom."
Thorald sighed and went back to work. Aside from a few coin pouches and the sword, the Justicar and his men carried no medicines, bandages, or anything else of use. He struggled to get up, couldn't, and was finally forced to use the sword for leverage.
He managed to stay straight for a couple of seconds before finding himself falling back down on the ground. The night sky spun up above him. He could not feel the pain from his wound anymore, his whole body having seemingly gone numb. At least he had a nice starry view on his way to Sovngarde… if only the damnable woman would stop blocking it.
"I'd conjure up some harrowing scenario that your sister could be in right now but I don't think you'll be able to get back up this time with willpower alone. It's unfortunate, but healing really never was one of my strong suits. Meddling with the School of Restoration seemed rather counter-intuitive for someone like me, you see."
"Wh… Wha—"
"Yes?" the woman kneeled down close to his face, her expression blank and innocent.
"What do you… want?"
"Why, nothing large. I just want my freedom. Surely you, soldier of Stormcloak, would understand such a want. I am simply one among many oppressed by the Divines. In fact—"
"—just... Just leave me be, woman. I've a hard time hearing Sovngarde beckon amidst your mad rambling…"
The woman smiled a happy smile again. She was amused. There was definitely something wrong with her sense of humor.
"My rambling is the only thing that's keeping you alive, Thorald Gray-Mane. And since your misguided Nordic pride prevents you from asking my help directly, I shall just give it to you outright. In return I will only demand that you allow me to awaken your Dovah Sos. And once you have granted my boon, you will have done away with me and you will have a power so strong added to your arsenal that you could outright end this war just as easily as it had been started."
Thorald looked past her and at the sky. Though the resentment had been long in brewing, the civil war officially began when Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of of Windhelm, tore High King Torygg into pieces with the use of his Voice. It was powerful indeed, but its true strength came from what it symbolized. Defiance. From a roaring lion.
"If that does not impress you," the woman continued, "Then think of what's left of your kin. You can restore glory to your outlawed family if you wish. If nothing else, it will aid you well in protecting your sister."
"My sister is a first among warriors. Swords and magic, she can easily wield and defeat. No, what she needs is protection from herself…"
The woman raised a brow questioningly.
"Her heart. For a Nord, her heart is too… mellow. She has fought many battles and yet she is weak to kindness and forgiveness… she has strange morals." Thorald chuckled briefly, if somewhat labouredly, as he recalled some past moment from a happier time.
"Compassion is it? Weakness indeed! Now that is something we can finally agree on! Very well, enough talk," the woman placed one hand over Thorald's eyes and the other on his wound, "If you wish to protect your sister from such serious danger, you should then go to her side. I'll admit to having understood a little bit of a mortal's concept of 'family', thus I would think the only one who could protect her from herself is you, her last remaining brother."
Thorald gasped as a sharp pain erupted from his abdomen and shot through to his head. He felt the pain stab through his skull and to his gums. It was as if his teeth threatened to uproot on their own. He tried to struggle but found that he was unable; either he was too weak to do so or the woman had cast something on him.
"Be still. As I have said, healing is not my calling. In fact, I revel in the opposite. As you rightly assumed, I relish in the cries of those under torture. But in your case, I do not cause pain for my own pleasure."
"What…are you—"
"Blood is blood, mortal. And pain begets pain. In the cycle of a mortal's life, after pain comes mending." She pulled back and stood up. She looked down at her hands for a moment, as if perplexed, before violently shaking her head, chasing away the strange thoughts that briefly invaded her mind.
"Must be Mara's curse getting to me," she muttered.
"Mara?" Thorald asked weakly as he forced his head up to look at his wound. Blood was still everywhere but the wound itself had closed up into an angry red welt.
"Mara. The goddess of compassion. Goddess of weakness, more like."
"So… when you said something about dispelling some god's magic, you were talking about Mara…? By the Divines, what did you do to have earned their curse? From peace-loving Mara of all—"
"Enough. I only healed your flesh; you are still weak everywhere else. You should rest."
"But—"
"You'll know soon enough." The woman suddenly found herself irritated. She knelt down once more and placed a hand on Thorald's forehead. "Sleep, Thorald Gray-Mane. We have a long journey ahead of us."
Thorald tried to protest but a heavy drowsiness suddenly overcame him. He forced his eyes to blink a few times and concentrated on the woman.
"Who… are you?"
"You'll not believe me if I tell you. And so, like with that power hidden within you, I will show you instead of telling you. Now sleep… and dream."
Thorald felt like he was being battered by sleep-demons and the only way to escape them was to give in to slumber. But even as he slept, he found no rest as he found himself still being chased. Only this time the demons had turned into dragons, massive wicked monsters with black wings and demonic eyes. They raged with fire and mocked him, calling him a pretender, a fake, and a liar.
Eventually, the dragons turned into the Thalmor inquisitors, with the Justicar alive and well leading the chase. That's when Thorald realized that there were three others running beside him. The first to fall was their mother, Fralia, who urged them to go on even as she was trampled by the uncaring elves. The next to fall was his brother, Avulstein, and he too shouted that they go on as he tried to slow down the Justicar by tugging at his leg.
Thorald stumbled as a sword silenced his brother for good. He found arms quickly pulling him up, and his sister, beautiful and strong, running beside him and urging him to keep moving. He nodded and they held hands as they ran onwards towards the murky gray in front of them, mysterious and perilous though it may have been.
But just as he feared, his sister too was taken, yanked away from his grasp. He turned back frantically to see her in the arms of someone clad from head to foot in Imperial armor. As he ran back to reach for her, a whole swarm of Imperial soldiers came running towards him, calling him an outlaw, pushing him away, further into the gray.
Eventually, he succumbed and fell to the ground. He was stepped and prodded on by the faceless soldiers who ignored his cries of pain. A feet away from him he noticed a torn banner suffering the same fate. It was the banner of House Gray-Mane.
He felt tears sting at his eyes as he surrendered to misery. Oh, how he wished to have stopped the woman from healing him, to let him journey on to Sovngarde. The woman... why was he thinking of her?
Suddenly, he saw a face behind all the marching Imperial boots. It was the woman, sitting back and watching, much as she had been doing back then at the inn. Although instead of being amused, her face looked serious, questioning even, as if trying to understand the Imperials' marching order. She did not seem to have noticed him.
Thorald frowned at her, wondering what she was doing here. Then suddenly it hit him. Of course, she'd be here; it's her realm after all. Her realm… Of Dreams and Nightmares.
He looked deeply into the Daedra's eyes, inquisitive and curious as they were, and there he understood what she was looking for, what she wanted. His heart lightened, perhaps out of pity, and he felt a presence behind the woman who shared his sentiment.
He glanced past the woman to see the chains, her 'curse', that was holding her back. He looked further beyond them to identify the presence, the one who held onto the restraints, and was surprised to find another woman smiling warmly back at him. It was Mara. He was certain of it yet he knew not why. And he also realized that the goddess was not holding on to the chains. In fact, there were no chains at all. Mara laughed heartily before waving at him.
All these, the pale-skinned woman had not noticed. And much to her surprise, the nightmare abruptly ended. The Gifter of Dreams looked wildly about as everything around her faded into black. She muttered a curse before turning around and tugging futilely at the chains that only she could see. Eventually she gave up, and Thorald collapsed his sub-consciousness, allowing himself to fall into a dreamless sleep.
Back in Mundus, the Daedric Lord, Vaermina, snapped open her eyes, blazing with fury as they were. Mara's curse affecting even her ability to walk on dreams was the last straw. Oh, when she gets her revenge... she looked down at the sleeping Thorald and her eyes gleamed.
But first things first.
How, in Sanguine's tits, was she supposed to carry this giant lummox out of here?