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Divine Trinkets
././.\.\.
He who does not know how to write imagines it to be no labour, but although these fingers only hold the pen, the whole body grows weary.
-A Monk of St. Gall
White
It had been so long ago now: she had boarded the boat to Skyrim with her small trunk amid other hopefuls of her brethren. Unlike her, they traveled to distinguish themselves in the frozen wasteland of the savage heretics. Shivering and cursing they had disappeared below deck as soon as possible.
She had excitedly braved the wind at the ships prow and pressed her slender fingers tightly against the necklace that hung, heavy between her breasts under her well-worn burgundy tunic that denoted her status as a scribe. The outer robes, stiff charcoal grey leather with three buckles at the throat, that showed that she was a part of the Aldmeri Dominion, were less familiar.
Her passion had soon been tempered as they went north and the winds bit and tore at her face and thinly lined cloths. Still she persisted, drinking in the days and nights of sea travel.
"You have a heart that sings to the cold," a deep voice came from behind her and the warmth of an oilskin settled around her shoulder.
She looked up to see the dark face of a Redguard sailor, creased in a smile.
"Roshan Nasir," he introduced himself.
"Teitha," she had no family name, as there had been no other Teitha's in the scriptorium. "Scribe Teitha."
././.\.\.
But her heart did not sing to the cold now, as she stumbled up the wild Skyrim mountainside in the wet, knee-deep snow.
She dared not look back down towards the valley of Falkreath Hold for fear that she might actually see the Justicars that she knew pursued her as a dark shape against the pristine ivory of the fresh snow.
She stumbled and went down, bracing with numb hands despite the gloves laced up to her forearm. Her necklace spilled out of the collar of her summer weight tunic, the sigil of Leki wrought in silver, a halo around a sword pommel glinting in the sunlight.
././.\.\.
The first time Roshan saw the sturdy silver chain that Teitha hid under her tunic was a bright moment in an otherwise grey journey. She explained the trinkets. The eight-pointed golden sun, symbolizing the God-King Auri-El, and the small matching 'X' formed from two quills that represented Xarxes, his scribe, the God of Ancestry and Secret Knowledge.
"So you are interested in the affairs of the gods?"
"More than anything!" she enthused.
With a furtive look over the empty deck he leaned in to ask, "Do you know anything about the Yokudan gods?"
"No," she had said slowly. "Will you teach me?"
././.\.\.
She seized up the charm and stuffed it back into her soaked inner tunic. Their tentative first exchanges had blossomed into a friendship, and when she had disembarked in the great shadow of the natural arch of Solitude, Roshan had pressed the symbol of his favorite deity into her palm with a sly wink. She treasured it, especially after all of their hushed conversations about the daughter goddess of aberrant swordsmanship. Arms training was never a skill that Teitha aspired to—but at times she suspected that the pen and ink of her training could make cuts just as deep.
Too tired to stand once she was down, she began crawling through the drifts. It seemed as though the snow clung wetly to her, as hands to drag her down. Perhaps she could rest a moment—but no. She knew such a pause would seal her fate. What little energy she had left was rapidly being sapped away by the sodden coldness and bitter wind. Finally cornered, there was no escape from her fate.
Such would be the fate of every heretic that the Aldmeri Dominion could track down and eradicate like the infectious vermin that they were compared to. She would not make it, that death on the side of the mountain from exposure or trial and execution at the hands of her brethren were unavoidable.
"Please," she whispered, unsure which god she made supplication to. It was that moment, when she lifted her eyes in a prayer, that she saw him. He crouched above her on a rocky ledge, a dark shape against the sky. There was a great dog next to him, its face white but surrounded by a great ruff of dark fur.
She blinked as he came into focus. "Malacath."
She reached up, arms parted and palms facing herself; a posture more suited to Auri-el in his chantry than the Daedric Prince of the Orsimer.
The orc blinked slowly down at her, a look of surprise passing so quickly through his golden eyes she thought she might have imagined it.
But if hallucinations were all she had now she would choose them over the crippling fear that pressed so close and choked her in its overwhelming tide.
"Malacath, please—mercy on an unworthy elf," she whispered, finally reaching the outcropping and reaching one hand up to tentatively press two slender fingers to the curve of his boot.
His skin was darker than she expected, the deep earthy tone of peat moss rather than the waning autumn green of her orcish friend Shargam who tended the docks of Solitude.
././.\.\.
Shargam gro-Largash made the thick chains and fittings for the ships that sailed from Skyrim's capital port. He was always ready with his deep rolling laugh and tales of Orcish triumphs and later the Code of Malacath, who was the patron of the spurned and ostracized.
How fitting that Teitha should now stand at Malacath's feet and beg for a boon as her own brethren closed in.
The god-orc who stared down at her seemed unmoved by her icy tears and shivering body.
"Little elf—" his voice was deep but soft, like the slip of silk around her shoulders.
The horn of Rulindil, the Third Emissary and leader of the pursuit, echoed off of the climbing mountains.
His eyes flicked over the snowy slope and back down to where she still touched his boot. He seemed poised with indication for but a moment before he reached down, hooking her under her arms and lifting her up to his ledge as though she weighed no more than a bundle of cloth. Perhaps to him she did.
"Diagna—sweep," he addressed the great dog. She cocked her head for an instant before bounding down to run passes over Taitha's unsteady trail.
He stood, Taitha lying limp in his arms. She gazed up at him, unfocused with exhaustion. His face was smooth and devoid of expression but fascinating to her nonetheless. His brow was prominent and his golden eyes were bright with intelligence. He had no beard adorning his strong jaw, and his left cheek had the look of melted wax that came from an improperly treated burn spell wound. Under his hood she could see his sharply pointed ears, adorned with golden rings. His mouth was what drew her lingering gaze however, and the tusks that stretched his full bottom lip.
They passed under a Nordic stone arch, mounting up towards the peak of Ancient's Ascent. A thick snow had begun to fall like a curtain around them, seeming to muffle the world. Taitha closed her eyes and let lethargy roll over her.
She woke again to the sound of fabric tearing. The god-orc was crouched over her, ripping her thin tunic down the front. She raised one hand feebly to push him back but he gently brushed it aside.
"No—please," she whimpered.
"Peace, little elf," he murmured soothingly, easing the fabric off of her shoulders, leaving her undergarments unharmed.
She raised her head slightly, realizing that they were in an open roofed cave. There was a skull grinning down at her from a pile of bones. She looked to the left to see the body of another Altmer woman, dressed in the torn uniform of a scout.
The orc was stripping her of her tattered robe, revealing that she had been disemboweled. When she shifted it was clear that her head was also not fully attached.
Taitha rolled weakly away, dry heaving, and realized that she lay on the orc's own fur-lined cloak, the icy air pressing close.
"Your necklace, little elf?" He crouched next to her again and pointed at her neck. She clutched at the charms weakly, their familiar edges biting into her palm.
"No, anything but this," she begged.
He watched her for a long moment before nodding sharply once and pulling his cloak around her. Standing, he lifted her again, a bag in his other hand. It contained the other woman's clothes and—head, she realized, feeling ill all over again.
"Sleep now," his voice rumbled against her cheek, deep and gentle.
She went completely limp, tawny lashes coming to rest on pale cheeks.
When she woke again it was darker and there was something warm and soft curled against her side. When she stirred Daigna lifted her great head and looked down at her.
There was movement that interrupted the dancing orange light. The god-orc knelt at her side, a bowl in his hands.
He was no longer dressed in his leathers, but in a linen shirt, stretched tightly over his wide shoulders. His head was uncovered and a long black braid curled over his shoulder and brushed his forearm.
"D'ya need to relieve yourself?" His voice was little more than a growl.
When she shook her head he knelt next to her, tilting the bowl so she could catch a whiff of the rich, steaming broth it contained. Her stomach woke and protested with a vengeance.
While she knew that there were purification rites for eating she should observe before Auri-el she couldn't bring herself to give them more than a passing thought as she opened her mouth eagerly to accept the warm liquid.
"Swallow slowly now," he rumbled.
After only a few spoonfuls her eyelids drooped and with a whispered prayer of thanks she slipped back into a deep healing sleep.
This is a repost/reformat of a drabble style story. A few things have been added & changed but it is largely the same. This will now be a seven chapter story in a traditional prose format.