Through Her Eyes
"Sybille, the procession will begin soon."
The weary voice of Ahtar, the court headsman and dungeon master called to her.
"I will be out in but a minute…," her words trailed off as Ahtar nodded and took his exit.
The dungeons were empty and smelled of putrid mold and various bodily fluids and blood. She was done feeding for the day, Sybille needed more this day to sustain her to help hold her calm at the funeral of their very own High King Torygg. That vile Ulfric Stormcloak, that rebel had slain her King in a duel, a silly Nordic challenge; something she as a Breton vampire had never understood in their customs.
"Torygg…," her voice was truly lost to her on this day, the energy to talk was too much.
He was her boy, Torygg was her boy. A young King in his own right but a fair and true king, traits he had inherited from his father; a man she surely admired and loved dearly. So dearly that she overstayed her time at court and that was something she never did.
She could remember the conversation like it was yesterday.
"Sybille my boy is motherless, a baby, not even a boy yet he is still a babe in his crib!"
"And what do you expect me to do, Istlod!?" Sybille pleaded with her High King.
She would do anything for this man, truly he was her nearest and dearest friend in all her years on Nirn as both human and vampire. She'd watched his ancestors come and go, rulers rise and fall but Istlod was her weakness and his new baby boy.
"Stay, stay for me and my wee Torygg and I will find a way to explain anything the court might have questions about."
Sybille sighed, defeated oh so quickly by the frantic voice of her best friend.
"I will trust you, Istlod."
The relieved smile on the man's face was enough to help the worry rising in her chest. She looked over to the crib in the corner of the King's chambers, a man not wanting to be far from his now motherless baby boy and certainly not a traditional sight among Nordic men.
She unconsciously walked over and took hold of the four month hold, wiggling and squirming with his head of auburn hair snuggling closer into her arms.
"My sweet Torygg, my sweet sweet boy; I am doing this for you."
And so she did.
Everything since the day she decided not to leave court as planned, her usual escape out of Solitude society as to not arouse suspicions of her affliction, was all done for her sweet boy.
The memories came to her once more and she did not fight them, she welcomed them.
"Wee shadow" she had called him as a child since he was never far from the court mages legs, following closely behind her billowing robes giggling and laughing as he tried to grab them.
"Saber cub" she had called him at the tender age of ten, a boy almost nearing the height of a man who had proven himself more than a capable warrior.
"My King" she had called him at his coronation, after the Jarls of Skyrim's holds had convened their moot and chosen her boy as their new High King. Young by most standards he was the worthy man for the role, just and true in his ways.
"My son" she called him, whispering it to herself as she watched the funeral procession bring her boy to the temple of the divines to be blessed and mourned by all who loved him.
She did not enter the temple, she simply stood outside and watched as the rest of the court's members followed solemnly behind ornate coffin that held the body of the man she so dearly loved as her own child.
The death of Istlod was one hard thing for her to handle, the death of her son was another.
Sybille felt the strong hand of Ahtar on her shoulder,
"I'll make sure there's new meat in the dungeons for you, boss."
Her cold hand gently patted his own, "thank you, dear."
The Redguard man left without a word, gone to forage for any new prisoners she could feed on to handle the rest of the day.
With a breath she did not need to take Sybille Stentor made her way back to the Blue Palace, the place she had called home for far too many years now. She would wallow in her self pity for today, to mourn the son life gave her, but she swore by the eight Ulfric Stormcloak would meet his end.