The Sorrows of a Young Sorceress
He was beautiful!
In fact, it was really outrageous, downright unfair, that a man should be endowed with such otherworldly beauty. The voluptuous golden locks showering down onto his broad shoulders, the shirtless muscular torso like the cast of the perfect man which had never before, until now, known an actual fleshly form—and the godlike qualities by no means ended there. The symmetry of his strong-cast facial features of impeccable complexion was of such indescribable splendor that she nearly felt like weeping upon gazing at them. The eyes as deep blue as the ocean seemed to emanate light into which she'd have gladly been absorbed. And his smile—no, there simply were no sufficient words for it.
She stared open-mouthed as this lovely apparition slowly walked over to her with fluid motion of near divine grace. He stopped right in front of her and, with a smile reaching right into her very being, gently seized her slender shoulders with his large, strong hands. He looked deep into her eyes, and her heart fluttered. Those lovely full lips parted as he was about to say something. She braced herself, certain of the melodic quality of his voice. Knowing that whatever he was about to utter would forever shake her soul.
"Ariadne!"
She frowned. As gripped by passion as the man surely was, she was right there in front of him so there was no need to yell. And his voice was awfully . . . feminine. This was a bit of a surprise, no doubt, but surely not a detail she could not learn to get over—
"Ariadne!"
And just like that, right in front of her eyes, the man's lovely visage started to blur out. In distress, she reached out to touch him, but her hand went right through the rapidly fading image.
"No, no, no, don't go. We just met, and . . . well, I thought we could—"
Stop jabbering, you idiot!
"Who you calling idiot, idiot?"
Irascibly muttering to herself, she opened her eyes, her hand impotently hanging in the air above her. And as the last of the dream melted away, she found herself on her back in her bed, blinking at the dispiriting gray ceiling of her cubicle. She scowled.
"Ariadne?"
Ariadne squeezed the hand into a fist, closing her eyes in frustration.
It was the scholar.
"Ariadne, are you awake?"
"Well, I am now," she muttered.
"Ariad—"
"What?" she cried. "What do you want?"
"Could you please come here so I don't have to yell?"
"'Come here'," she muttered as she kicked the blankets aside and clambered out of bed. "What am I, a dog?"
Once in her robes, Ariadne walked testily out into the rounded central space of the Hall of Attainment. The cubicles into which the space had been broken served as the living quarters of the mages living at the College of Winterhold. It was quiet now, with most of the students on an intense practice period during which they spent most of their time outside of the College's premises. The only sound was the low-level buzzing from the beam of magical energy shooting up from the fountain in the middle of the first floor. That and the faint shuffle of papers from the cubicle where the scholar kept her office.
Ariadne stopped outside of her own room with her arms crossed in front of her. "So," she called, "what is it?"
She could her the scholar sighing. "There's a courier waiting outside. He's got something for me. Would you be so kind as to go pick it up for me? I'm sort of in the middle of something here."
Ariadne blinked. Then she opened her mouth. And closed it again, giving her head a shake. No, probably not worth the trouble. "Fine," she snapped and, with a sigh of her own, headed to the stairs.
A courier! The least that the little bore of a woman could do is run for her own damned messages. In the middle of something . . . Yeah right! A damned lazy ass was what she was: acting as though her stuffy books and papers were so much more important than anything else, including Ariadne's beauty sleep—which was, by the way, the one thing she had left these days in the way of escape from her dreary duties.
She couldn't help but wait until the Arch-Mage would dismiss her from this utterly thankless commission as the scholar's assistant. Sure, it liberated her from some of the other undesirable chores around the College; but after the better part of a year, well, washing dishes and peeling potatoes did not sound so bad at all. Besides, as soon as she passed her expert's exam she would be forever free of such duties as well. Perhaps then she would finally leave, maybe get out of this backwards province altogether. Find her destiny in some place more happening. And that destiny, she was sure, was bound to be a glorious one.
Until then, however, she would just have to do her damnedest to keep her feelings to herself. And in the meantime would simply have to swallow her pride and do things such as consulting messengers.
Reaching downstairs, Ariadne realized that she was still tingling from the dream. Oh, if only she'd had enough time to complete it! Even if it was a dream, she would not have spurned a little roll in the hay with a tall, gorgeous god of a boy. By this point, she deserved as much! Just thinking about it only made the tingling worse. So she pushed the thought away with some melancholy.
Downstairs was also totally deserted, which only refreshed her grouchiness. In the past, these practice periods had easily been her favorite occasions, when they really got into the action of things! Well, in truth she'd only had a chance to participate once, as during the first year they'd considered her too young. But then last year she'd had an absolute blast during those passing couple weeks: really getting to practice Destruction Magic the way it was meant to be done! Yet it had sadly only culminated in her being assigned to her present task.
Initially she had thought of it as a punishment of some sort. But what was she supposed to have done wrong? Sure, she'd shared some innocent kisses with a fellow student during one excursion, and yeah she'd snuck away for a little nap now and again; and of course there was that one time when she'd slipped some powerful laxative herb in that jealous bitch Vala Orania's drinking cup when she wasn't looking—but she didn't think anyone had known about those! In fact, she had later concluded, no one had. It was simply that someone had to run errands for that weird, reclusive Imperial, and the lot fell to her.
And so now she was stuck here as the errand girl.
Before going out, she stopped to regard herself in the large mirror by the entrance. This immediately made her feel a bit better. At least she still had her stunning good looks! The fine Breton features, the chestnut eyes and long dark-brown hair, all of which she'd inherited from her classic beauty of a mother, complete with a few complementary enforcements from her towering, piercingly handsome highborn Imperial father. Ariadne was tall and slender and yet there was still a shape to her: the curve of the hip and chest which made sure—as if the rest of her would not have sufficed!—that all male eyes were instantly drawn to her. And of course the female ones too, except that the looks on them had a distinctly different coloring than their male counterpart. But in both cases, however, she had to admit that those looks much pleased her whenever she garnered them.
She had finally reached an adept's level in Destruction Magic, which allowed her to wear the garb going with the rank. She'd been happy about that, not least for finally being rid of the hideous apprentice robes. The adept robes' color scheme of gold and amber simply brought her out so much better.
Ariadne nodded at her reflection contently and went out. A cold morning wind hailed her, and she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth, cursing under her breath. Somewhere out there, spring was in its prime with flowers in full bloom and the sun gentle on the skin. Not so in this forsaken corner of the world! Around Winterhold, as the name itself suggested, the snows never ever melted. Gods knew how long it had been since she'd last felt the warmth of the sun on her face. Hell—she'd probably not even seen the damn thing for months! Small wonder if she was starting to feel a bit on edge!
Muttering, she walked into the College's circular courtyard, mindful so as not to slip on the ice. Straight ahead was the tall towering entrance to the Hall of Elements, in front of which stood the imposing statue of the first Arch-Mage, Shalidor. By the statue, there was another fountain of magic out of which another blue beam shot into the gray skies. An impressive sight, to be sure, one which could be seen from far away.
By the fountain there stood a small figure huddled against the wind's onslaught. And as Ariadne drew near, the head of that figure bobbed up. A familiar light ignited in those eyes as the young Bosmer got a look at her.
"You're here with a message?" Ariadne said none too patiently.
"Uh." The fool blinked as though having forgotten where he was. Mesmerized, no doubt. He came to his senses enough to go fumbling for the bag slung over one scrawny shoulder. "Uh, yes, ma'am, of course. Here. Here." He then looked up, a touch guarded. "Uh, you're Ariela?"
"No," she replied with decisive impatience, "I'm Ariadne."
The Wood Elf's feature's brightened. "Heh, well that sounds—"
"Yes, it sounds the same," Ariadne cut in, rolling her eyes. She stuck out her hand. "Now, can I just get the message, please?"
The courier hedged, frowning. "Uh, I'm not supposed to give it to anyone other than—"
She took a weighty step forward.
"Here, here!" the courier sputtered, and Ariadne was hard-pressed to stifle a grin. Instead, she snatched the paper out of the fool's now shaking hand, muttered thanks, and spun around to stride back inside.
"Uh, it was a pleasure meeting you!" the boy called from behind her.
She rolled her eyes.
Though a good part of her did feel self-satisfied, this doltish runt was not exactly someone whose ogling did much for her right now. She could still feel his eyes at her back. Staring like an idiot. That's what they always did.
If he were someone of even moderate esteem, then that would be fine. But a damned messenger boy!
It occurred to her only passingly to wonder how the scholar had known about his arrival in the first place.
Upon closing the door behind her, Ariadne shuddered a bit at the relative warmth. Before heading up to take the letter, she stopped once more to look in the mirror. She smiled at her reflection, then silently shook her head. Poor boy: how could he not have gawked!
After spending almost two whole decades in this world, she was already plenty knowledgeable of its ways. Yet it had been for only a bit less than half of that time that she had gotten to know the burning lust in the gazes of men. And no matter who the male in question was, the look was pretty much always the same. Some sort of mix of desperate need and the greed to possess. Evaluating her as though she were an asset to be acquired. Whether that man was rich or poor, born low or high, made no difference. And despite that she'd learned to enjoy the feeling it gave her a great bit, the power it gave her over him, there was no denying that it was . . . pathetic.
Yes, that was just the word. Pathetic.
Like the creatures themselves, I suppose.
Ariadne shrugged at her reflection, a motion which the reflection then returned—both of them perplexed by, and ultimately mostly indifferent to, the ways of men. She then set out to return upstairs.
The scholar, the small mousy Imperial named Ariela of . . . wherever, was in her usual posture: hunched among the piles of books and disorderedly scattered papers all over the desk, which dominated the cubicle serving as her study-bedchamber. The small bed in the corner was unmade, the bedclothes most likely unchanged for weeks on end. Dibella knew what manner of creatures lived in them by now.
Ariadne stood in front of the desk for a good while before she realized she was not going to get noticed any time soon. She cleared her throat. "So here's the—"
"Not now!" Ariela blurted without lifting her head. The pen scratched so feverishly against her notebook that it was small wonder the paper didn't catch fire. "Just—just a second here, and I'll be done. Just have to finish this. Please. Take a seat."
Sniffing, Ariadne looked about. A lone backless stool lay on its side by the desk. Rolling her eyes, she righted it and pulled it underneath her behind.
While she was waiting for the older woman to finish whatever she found to be so important, she read some of the titles written on the spines of the books piled on the desk. Secret Societies by P.S. Eudonymous. Effects of the Elder Scrolls by Justinius Poluhnius. The Black Arts on Trial by Hannibal Traven. Reality and Other Falsehoods by Who-the-hell-ever. From Aedra to Xivilai: Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah by Some Stodgy Old Coot.
Riveting stuff.
Finally, Ariela looked up and saw Ariadne perusing the books. And when their gazes met she could see something light up in the scholar's eye. Surprise. A certain hopefulness, even. Her lips parted as if she were about to say something.
"How can you stand it?" Ariadne cut in.
The scholar frowned. "What . . . what do you mean?
Ariadne gestured. "I mean all this. This . . . drivel you have to pore over days on end. Dry as the paper it was scribbled on. I imagine it must be awfully tedious, doing what you do."
"Drivel? No, no," Ariela finally replied, blinking as though she'd just been introduced to an altogether novel notion. "Not at all. That's not true in the least!"
"Uh huh."
"No, seriously. You couldn't be more wrong! This." She swept her small hand over the mess on the desk. "This is what it's all about. Everything that's ever been a thing—there's nary anything in this world that somebody did not take the time to investigate: to really give some thought and careful study, and then write down their thoughts on paper for others to appreciate. Scholarship, Ariadne!" Her face positively glowed. "Science! There's absolutely nothing more important or interesting in the whole world!"
Ariadne opened her mouth to voice her objection.
"Take what you do here, for example!" Ariela exclaimed. "Magic. It seems such an obvious thing that we should understand what it is. I mean, it's been used by mortals for millennia for purposes both beneficial and harmful, long enough that we take it for granted! And yet, and yet . . . we still have no clear idea of what it even is! Or what magica is. Where it comes from. Think about that—is it not simply incredible!"
"The Magnus—" Ariadne tried.
The scholar cut her off with a dismissive wave of her hand and a contemptuous pfft. "Magnus Schmagnus! That theory doesn't even make sense, let alone explain anything."
Ariadne could not help but feel affronted by the other woman's rude manner. She did, however, have the good grace to keep her perfectly justified sense of indignation to herself.
As far as she knew, there wasn't simply one theory about how the god Magnus played part in the birth of magica, the energy which mages made use of when partaking in the magic arts. The standard legend had it that magica was the residual part of Magnus' power his virtual destruction in the creation of Mundus, the mortal plane. And the other idea closely related to that was something like that he had torn some kind of hole into Aetherius, the realm of the gods, through which magica had then flown into the world. Something in that vein, anyhow.
There were others theories too, coined by the sort of people who had nothing better to do in their dreary lives than come up with contrived explanations for matters that others had the good sense to simply utilize for their benefit—but she had only learned those for as long as it took for her to pass her courses, and then forget all about such inconsequential blather as soon as possible and move on to more interesting things.
So, who's the smart one?
"No, the truth of the matter is," Ariela said, apparently still intent on proving some point, "is that there is no clear idea of what we're dealing with when using magic."
"We?" Ariadne asked. "I was under the impression that you had no finger in such business. Weren't you, like, one of them? You know—a dullard?"
The scholar flushed. "Ahem, yes. I am a . . . Dull. For some reason or another, people like me are unable to connect with magica. True enough." She cleared her throat. "But that doesn't mean the subject matter isn't of great interest to me! So far I believe that I've read virtually everything written on these questions, and the one thing I can attest to is that I've become none the wiser for all my reading!"
"Imagine that," Ariadne muttered.
She fought hard the urge to roll her eyes. Even to think that reading about magic even saw the shadow of actually doing it—Ariadne could think of no more foolish assertion. There was simply nothing comparable to the thrill—the sheer power—of wielding forces that one would have thought to reserve for the gods or nature. The bliss of it was quite incomparable. She genuinely felt sorry for anyone who could not participate in this most sublime of arts. To feel the force of magica, whatever it was, coursing through and pouring out of you, the sense of empowerment embedded in the art—and, she thought, this was especially true of Destruction Magic—was greater than any other pleasure imaginable. Compare it to—
She suddenly became aware of Ariela's mouth still moving with words coming out, and that she had tuned out completely.
Her cheeks warming a touch, Ariadne made the effort to concentrate.
". . . but none of those proved to be of much help," Ariela went on. "Contrived, esoteric nonsense for the most part. And in fact the only somewhat elucidating text that I've come across is the documented correspondence between my mentor Cicero Herennius—bless his soul—and Eurnus Dradas, an esteemed scholar at the Synod. But even those two genial figures had to admit that the best they could come up with were some educated guesses. Their only true unequivocal point of agreement, and simultaneously the only assertion nearing a conclusion in their letters, was that in casting a spell one in some form or another participated in the act of creation itself, if only apparently after the fact. That the words spoken in that instance somehow took part in the process through which the gods themselves are able to shape and mould the cosmos, and that in this it was intent that was paramount. But that's as far as they would go. Not really forwarding the question too much, I think.
"Now, the most fascinating ruminations in the letters, in my estimation, were the ones Herennius briefly indulged in, speculating about magic's relationship with causation and probability. He hypothesized that perhaps the mage, casting a spell, in some way alters the probability of things happening. That is, an occurrence such as would otherwise be very unlikely, say, you projecting fire out of your fingertips, was made more probable and ultimately inevitable, once you tap into the essence of being and manipulate it by way of arcane language. But as interesting as that might be, he concluded that it was far too abstract, not to say utterly unfalsifiable a hypothesis to be of much value. Dradas wholeheartedly agreed."
This Herennius fellow had been a curmudgeonly old codger from Cyrodiil who had arrived at the College a few years back, around the same time that Ariadne had started her magic studies. The man had positively contaminated the Arcanaeum with his peculiar musty odour, which had forced her to check out any books she needed instead of studying there. For this, and that was reason enough, she had born something of a grudge against him. Then, when the old boy had contacted some inexplicable sickness, she had been alarmed at first. Sure, she'd directed some bitter thoughts against him, but surely she had not caused . . . no, she'd pushed such guilty thoughts away. It was simply not likely. And yet, some one year after the arrival of Ariela, the man had died.
Had she . . . cursed him?
Surely not. That was just stupid.
In fact, stop thinking about it!
Ariela drew breath, as if she'd forgotten to do so for a while, then continued on her interminable tangent. "The best and most direct attempt at defining magica, in my opinion, comes from one eccentric Breton mage and scholar named Alabistair Adrognese. He named magica 'the will of the soul', and claimed that every action we engage in with our will should in some sense be judged as an act of magic. Now, while that might be a confusing statement at face value, it is in my mind the most solid argument out there, as far as I know, that has the courage to think a little bit outside of the standard framework of thought. And if one is not afraid of a little bit of controversy, it is interesting to compare Adrognese's definition with what the High Priestess Thelema Morvayn from Morrowind wrote in her treatise On the Gift of the Dun Molag—"
The scholar's droning faded into nothingness as Ariadne's gaze fixed on the woman's precipitous beak of a nose. A typically Cyrodiilian feature, to be sure, and she for one thanked Dibella for having dodged that particular arrow. She mostly had her mother's delicate blood to thank for that. In fact, she would've easily passed for a full-blooded Breton, and almost everyone seemed to take her for one as well. What's more, having grown up in High Rock, she didn't feel as though she had much connection with her father's heritage. Your only truly Imperial feature, Adne, is your character, he once said. Whatever that was supposed to mean.
"Well?" Ariela said.
"Well what?"
"I said, would you not agree?"
"Oh yeah," she replied. "Sure. Why not."
Ariela frowned at her for a moment. Then her eyes went to the letter still in Ariadne's hand. "Right, I suppose I should have a look at that."
Ariadne handed it over.
"Hmm," the scholar said. "It's from my guild. What do they want?"
The Scholar's Guild, from which she'd originally come, located in Cyrodiil. It was that dusty conclave of stuffy academics that Herennius had been the principal of. Said enough to Ariadne about the necessity of the sect that their leader could be away for several years without anyone particularly missing him.
At Ariela's question, she shrugged. "They miss you and want you to go back home?" I wish!
Ariela frowned at her briefly, then tore open the envelope.
While she read, Ariadne stretched out her long legs on the shallow stool. Winced at the pain in her knees. She'd spent way too much time inactive, and was getting old before her time! It was high time to get some action for a change. If even—or perhaps especially—the sort which simply required for her to spread 'em out—
"What!" Ariela exclaimed, startling the young mage from her nascent reveries.
Straightening on the stool, Ariadne frowned. "What?" She was surprised to find that she was actually almost curious.
Ariela read on. "No. What are they . . .?"
Ariadne waited.
"Listen to this. They've got some nerve, I'll give 'em that! Yada yada yada . . .on account of the very unfortunate and untimely demise of principal Herennius, the frankly unconventional nature of his original research, and the political situation in the Empire currently being what it is, we see no alternative than to request your immediate return to Cyrodiil. You will be immediately reassigned upon your arrival. Best regards, Plitinius."
Ariadne's brows went up. Well, what do you know!
Ariela's furious eyes lifted from the paper. "Can you believe it?"
Barely. I did not actually expect to be so lucky. "Too bad, huh."
"Absolutely not!" the scholar barked, not even hearing Ariadne's response. Her hand closed around the paper, crumpling it. "If they think they can just push me around at their will they've got another thing coming! Herennius passed a year ago, and not a word from them until now! Oh, I'm sure Plitinius is positively crushed by grief, seeing that the highest position in the Guild just fell in his lap. And the political situation? What does that have to do with anything? Infighting of out-of-touch nobles—that stuff has never ever been a major concern for our kind! Some in this very College lived through the damned Civil War, and they barely paid mind to it!"
That would have been the Civil War of Skyrim. Ancient history, as far as Ariadne was concerned. At any rate, before she was even born. Some people sure still liked to harp about it, though.
Sagging back, Ariela sighed. "It's so typical, isn't it? 'The unconventional nature of his research'? That's exactly the sort of attitude Herennius was always complaining about, that he'd had to fight all his life. The chief reason that led him to keep his thoughts mainly to himself. It's like, they get this narrow perception of what is appropriate, what you can study or think about. Deviate from that and . . . It's like—" She went to rummage through the piles of books for a minute, then produced a tome with its binding torn. "It's like with this."
Ariadne squinted at the faded title. "The Eternal Flame—and How it Died," she read.
"That's right. Now the author, Herminia Cinna, started out as an amateur scholar who ended up earning her chops in the scientific community with her brilliantly sober histories of the ancient Ayleids. She was soon celebrated as a ground-breaking historian and welcomed into the scholarly fold. So you would think that her story had a happy ending right?"
Ariadne shrugged.
"Well, wrong! See, some decade after the Oblivion Crisis, her interests turned to the Dragon Fires and their final annihilation. She got curious. How had the fires truly served to keep Oblivion at bay, and why was it that their extinction enabled Mehrunes Dagon to proceed with his invasion? This turned her into studying the symbolic significance of fire in general, its place in societies across time and space, from primitive to highly civilized ones, being particularly interested in the theme of continuity, both individual and societal, which fire at times has come to represent. She went out of her way to use her keen historical sense developed with her earlier research to sketch out bold theories about the workings of the Dragon Fires and their link with the minds of mortals and with the processes of belief.
"And what do they do: do they judge her on the basis of the soundness of her argument, the rigor of her scholarship? No! They debase her on account of her being 'outside of her field'! Completely out of hand, they ignore all her hard won arguments, the acuity of her analysis, simply because she decided to do something different, to probe outside the box, which then all culminated with the ending of her whole career! And that's exactly what has happened time and time again to anyone who dared to push the envelope just a bit too far! It's—bullshit!"
Ariela slammed the book on the table with a resounding thump, causing Ariadne to jump. She slumped back again, brooding inwards. "Well, they can forget about it," she muttered. Then unfurled the letter again to stare at it, shaking her head.
While Ariadne waited for wherever this was going, she picked up the book for a summary examination. After a couple seconds, she tossed it back with a shrug.
"It's actually a really fascinating topic," Ariela said, "and might actually interest you too."
How do I doubt that so very much?
"I'll tell you more about it later."
"I'm sure that you will," Ariadne mumbled.
"Anyway, I won't let them push me around. Let them come and get me if they want!" The scholar straightened and tore the letter into pieces. She grabbed a pen and a bottle of ink, then produced a sheet of paper. After dipping the pen in the ink, she poised it above the paper. "I shall send them a reply." She thought about it for a minute, then, with a grunt, tossed the pen aside, spattering ink. "Ah, I can't think of anything scathing enough!" She made to stand up. "I'll think about it as we go."
Ariadne raised one brow. "Go?"
"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Ariela smiled. "We're going on a little adventure!"
Ariadne did not return the smile.
