Author's note: The main character of this fic is my first and farthest Dragonborn, exactly as she is in the game (though I've changed her name to make it more lore-friendly). I did not start roleplaying while playing her until after she'd reached the point of no return. As such,she will probably come off as some breed of Mary Sue, and the fact that she's a PC pretty far in the game rather than an actual character I put time into developing until after she'd become a demigod is the only reason I'm not calling her a Sue outright. She's a stealthy warrior who uses magic, she's Champion to eleven of the sixteen Daedric Princes, she's killed Alduin and Miraak, and she's maybe halfway through the College and Thieves' Guild questlines and many other quests besides, she has a ton of magic artifacts stockpiled in her house, she's rich...basically, she's your average level 50ish Dovahkiin. Just a warning for anyone who cares about that.
Another thing: This fic contains headcanons, artistic liberties, and other noncanon inferences I've made about the world of TES. These are included to flesh out such aspects of the world as what it feels like when there's a ton of magic in the room (and, by extension, what it feels like to use magic), what its like being a Saxhleel, and the effect lots of Shouting has on one's throat, among others. I've also written parts of this from the perspective of NPCs like Isran and especially Lydia, and there is a greater-than-zero chance that I'll write a bit through Serana's eyes at some point—and my character X is probably quite different than your character X. And definitely not as sexy. There will be no shipping in this fic.
In-game dialogue is either paraphrased or changed entirely, because I can't find transcriptions of all Serana's dialogue in a place easy to get at and I don't have the luxury of writing this as I play, though it is based off my progression through DG with this character. I've completed the Volkihar side once and have already gotten about halfway through the Dawnguard side on another character, so I'm familiar enough with the gist of things to feel confident taking some liberties.
Thanks to Chad Warden, whoever you are, for giving me a good laugh. c:
Now that that's all out of the way, please enjoy!
Set-Heeliss was not beautiful, with scales as dark and unforgiving as the hammered godsblood she always sheathed herself in, a heavy jaw and slitted amber eyes that seemed to stare through you as if you weren't there, a man's sturdy frame and so much muscle it seemed there wasn't room left for any body fat, even in her breasts. Her tail was thick and strong and she used it to swipe your feet out from under you as often as for balance and swimming. Her hands were rough, her fingers calloused from all the arrows she'd loosed, yet still they were dextrous and quick enough to crack even the toughest locks before you noticed. Her voice, harsh as all children of the Marsh were shaped to sound, had grown even rougher from frequent shouting at volumes the Hist never intended—no, she was not beautiful. Yet she was cunning, and quick of wit, and made up for in power mental and physical what she lacked in pleasantness. Her name carried great political weight—our hero, they whispered, our savior, Thane of Whiterun, Slayer of Alduin the World-Eater and Miraak the Traitor, Blood of Akatosh—and as many men and mer would have her head as bend their knees. There were rumors about a partnership with the Thieves' Guild, whisperings of deals with the Daedric Princes, and the arrangements she'd made at the peace council in High Hrothgar were unpopular in the regions affected, to say the least. Hatred was as powerful as love when it came to the game of politics, and power was the one trait Set-Heeliss had in excess.
So no, Set-Heelis was not beautiful, but by the time Ghaurug gro-Khazgur entered her bedroom in humble Breezehome (he'd never understand why the Dovahkiin of all people would live in such a modest home when she could've had a castle built just for her), he found himself seriously reconsidering his orders to kill her. Slumbering before him was the most powerful mortal in all Tamriel. She was a threat to Lord Harkon and all vampires, yes—but surely they could use her instead of murdering her in her sleep? It would be so easy to charm her and enthrall her permanently right here and now, and then in addition to having the most powerful mortal in Tamriel under his control he would have the leverage and firepower he needed to promote himself from a lowly assassin to a whisper in Lord Harkon's ear.
Unfortunately for him, his invisibility spell blinked out with a faint pulse of magicka as he contemplated insubordination. The Argonian's eyes snapped open, and in one fluid motion she swung to her feet, unsheathed the sliver of midnight she apparently slept with, and thrust it into his long-quieted heart. Ghaurug gro-Khazgur's flesh dissolved into powder around her sword and collected in a neat pile at the foot of her bed, and he was gone.
A short while later, a hero clad in ebony mail and Otar the Mad's second face knocked on Lydia's door, insisting in that ragged voice of hers that the long-suffering housecarl wake up and prepare herself for a bit of vampire hunting.
Isran surveyed the Argonian before him, frowning in suspicion. Not only did she bear the armor of Boethiah and the shield of Peryite for all to see, but his contacts in Markarth insisted she'd been sighted making trips to and from a known shrine to Molag Bal, and for a while she'd borne his mace. Clearly she worshipped, or at least made pacts with, the Daedra—and why would a pawn of the Lord of Domination want to serve under a former Vigilant of Stendarr dedicated to eradicating that Prince's parasitic spawn? She had gained the favor of Idgrod the Crone after cleansing Hjaalmarch of a vampire infestation, but that could have been out of a desire for the Jarl's favor just as easily as out of benevolence. The lust for power in the hearts of dragons was known to all Skyrim now, and no mortal blood beat in this woman's breast.
Still, he was sorely tempted to accept her. The Dragonborn was a one-woman army (and her housecarl made for two), and already she had two counts of saving Tamriel under her belt. She commanded the crimson wyrm who'd once been second only to Alduin, a great fire-breathing beast she could summon with just a name. If Set-Heeliss proved herself loyal, she would be a powerful asset for the Dawnguard. He just needed a test for her.
An old man burst through the great oaken doors, startling the farm boy Set-Heelis had brought with her, and stumbled into the light. Isran noted with disdain the uniform of a Vigilant, and with even more the scraggly blond sideburns and balding, pasty head of the aging Nord he remembered only for the dimwitted recklessness Tolan mistook for courage and fervor. And the damned fool was pleading for his help! But Tolan's interruption served its purpose, providing a task for Set-Heeliss to prove her truthfulness as well as bringing word of how Skyrim's Vigil of Stendarr had been utterly destroyed at the vampires' hands. Some part of Isran's brain found this upsetting, and he offered Tolan his condolences, but most of him could only feel that the Vigilants had gotten what was coming for them. They were weak, and in no way prepared for the course they'd set. The God of mercy could not cleanse the world of evil, only the searing light of dawn.
Dimhollow Crypt turned out to be a hole in the side of the mountain crowned by the Lord Stone. The first chamber held two vampires, who went down with just an arrow each once Set-Heeliss finished eavesdropping on them, and some sort of undead canine, which Lydia easily took care of. It also held the corpse of Vigilant Tolan, the poor man. Set-Heeliss swiped his robes to disenchant later. Lydia knew her thane heard her sighs of disapproval for her lack of respect for the dead, but as she had countless times before, she disregarded it and moved on to sniff out whatever mechanism opened the portcullis blocking the way deeper inside. Conveniently enough, the next chamber contained an enchanting altar, so Set-Heeliss cheerfully ripped the magic from Tolan's clothes—and suddenly dropped to the floor, motioning with a flick of her tail for Lydia to do the same.
Slowly, impossibly quiet in her heavy boots, she crept down the tunnel stairway, until the sounds of combat reached Lydia's ears (she always cursed herself when her thane heard something before she did, even though she knew a closed helm of steel plate blocked much more sound than the cloth and heavy glass of Otar, and her thane's hearing was really no better than hers—probably worse, with all that Shouting, she told herself). She heard the thick sucking sound of a draugr's breathing, the barking coughs of its speech, and she heard the tinny growls of the undead hound, and the awful sucking hiss of a vampire's draining spell, but she couldn't see the situation until she entered the room herself, just in time for the draugr—a deathlord, she realized with a shudder, noting the long horns on its helm—to cleave the vampire's breast open, tearing flesh and crushing ribs beneath the blade of its axe before the creature fell to dust, and kick the dog sharply in its sternum, sending splinters of bone into its throat and killing it immediately. By the Divines, Lydia hated draugr.
Her thane, however, showed no signs of trepidation, slipping into a shadowed corner and firing arrows into its gut. Lydia wished she had that luxury, but she was nowhere near as stealthy as her thane, especially in her ebony plate. Instead she charged forth to hack away at it with her magicka-frosted axe. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks when the draugr fell before it had a chance to Shout her into a corner, where she probably would have crushed something important between ancient stone and heavy armor. Again. Upon remembering that last incident, she whispered another prayer, this time thanking the gods for teaching Set-Hesliss how to set a bone.
Aside from a truly gigantic frostbite spider and an even stronger master vampire, nothing else of particular interest happened until the pair reached the deepest part of Dimhollow. Here the architecture abruptly changed from that of the ancient Nords to something...else, more modern in appearance though the air tasted as though it had never felt the sun. There were gargoyles everywhere, and Lydia heard the distinctly haughty voice of a merish vampire somewhere below her. He was interrogating another Vigilant. Had Lydia been in charge, they would have attacked then and there, and they may just have saved the Vigilant's life—but Set-Heeliss ordered her to remain still, and she had to listen as the monsters sent him to Aetherius. She relished the sensation of her axe biting into the vampire's collarbone.
They came upon what was obviously some kind of puzzle. Lydia's common sense told her this was a trap, and the tingling at the nape of her neck as her hair stood on end and iron tang in her mouth told her it was drenched with magic. And the mad lizard she followed around sauntered right up and put her hand on the button in the center of it.
There was a sort of tink sound, and Set-Heeliss withdrew her hand, took off her ebon gauntlet, and pressed it again.
An iron spike shot up, punched clear through her palm, and withdrew with a small spurt of blood. The madwoman grunted in pain and hunched over, but quickly stood back up again and inspected the bleeding hole in her palm. A few puffs of Restoration set it right again, and she put the gauntlet back on as if nothing had happened, as the floor lit with lines of purple fire.
"What possessed you to do that?!" Lydia hissed as she danced back from the flaming magicka, but her thane only laughed and began pushing the braziers scattered around until they all caught fire and the concentric stone rings they stood on began to descend. The podium upon which the button stood turned out to be a tall, thick column beneath the surface, with a door in it. Without hesitation, Set-Heeliss opened it.
A woman with a gods-damned Elder Scroll stood inside, arms crossed over her chest like the ancient Nord dead, and as soon as her tomb opened she stumbled out and opened her eyes—eyes which glowed amber in the dark.
Lydia felt reality shattering around her ears like so much stained glass. There was no way in Oblivion any of this could be happening. It was simply too insane. Sheogorath must have reached out from behind her thane's eyes and latched onto her at last. A vampire who looks to be nineteen, maybe twenty at best, with an ELDER SCROLL.
And Set-Heeliss, Thane of Whiterun, the Last Dragonborn, Blood of Akatosh, Hero of Skyrim, Slayer of Alduin the World-Eater and Miraak the Traitor, Champion of eleven of the sixteen Daedric Princes—the demigod walking Nirn removed the mask of Otar the Mad, helped the impossible girl to her feet, and flashed a sharp-toothed smile.
"Hello," she rasped. "Are you all right?"
As it turned out, this Serana was not only a vampire maiden with an Elder Scroll, she was from some long-forgotten era before the Empire of Cyrodiil, she had some staggering daddy issues, and she was as close as a bloodsucking abomination such as herself could get to being a princess, or at least a very highborn lady. Lydia had a hard time feeling pity for such a royal mess, but her thane certainly did, so she tried to remind herself that said royal mess was only a girl. Serana had barely any idea where or when she was, and it was clear she didn't know her whether there was anyone alive (so to speak) she could trust.
Lydia still didn't like how quickly Set-Heeliss decided to trust the girl, especially when her thane announced that they would escort her halfway across Skyrim to what was ostensibly her home. Vampires were known for their magical glamour, said to enthrall even the strongest of minds so as to make for easy prey. But when she'd confronted her thane about her fears, the Argonian shut her down. "If she were to ensorcel me, my dear, why wouldn't she do the same to you? Be reasonable." Lydia let it go after that, though she remained wary of the vampire.
And now the trio of women stood on the shore of an island northwest of Solitude, a cold and dreary rock jutting out from the Sea of Ghosts taken up almost completely by the imposing castle, all stone wrought in the same style as the innermost chambers of Dimhollow Crypt where Serana had been entombed. The frigid sea spray and rotting, skeletal hawks did little to bolster Lydia's mood, nor did the carved gargoyles on the bridge leading up to the castle's massive doors, which looked just like the ones in Dimhollow with their stone claws that sheared through her ebony breastplate like fabric to draw the blood from her flesh.
"Let me do all the talking from here on out," the vampire said, taking the lead as the trio started across the bridge. Though her face was a mask, the tone of the girl's voice made it clear she was as uncomfortable with the situation as Lydia, if not more so. At the end of the bridge, a gate barred their way, but the half-blind old man on the other side babbled ecstatically at the sight of Serana and opened it to let them pass. As she and her thane shouldered the massive oaken doors of the castle apart, Lydia caught a glance of his hapless grin—notably lacking fangs. A thrall. She shuddered and hurried inside.
Immediately, they were waylaid by a skeleton of a mer, recognizable as a High Elf only for the skin stretched tight over his bones, which was the yellow of aging canvas, who looked her over like a cut of meat until Serana stepped forward through the heavy doors. He cried "Lady Serana!" and ushered the trio into a grand dining hall.
Three long tables had been arranged to form a U shape, with the mouth facing the entrance and a throne at the center of the back table. The tables were full of people, all dressed in queerly styled robes of red and gray and black, and the two side tables each had a pale figure dressed in rags splayed out on top of them. Plates of flesh and goblets of blood framed the bodies in a grotesque mockery of a feast, and the room was decorated in splatters of blood so large Lydia might have taken the hall for a battlefield. It wasn't until one of them groaned in agony as she passed that she realized they weren't corpses, and that combined with the thick stench of blood was enough to make bile rise in her throat. When she glanced at her thane, however, the Argonian showed no signs of discomfort.
The Altmer vampire led them to the center of the room, where a former Nord in a more regal version of the jagged robes the others wore stood waiting for them. When he opened his mouth to speak, a shudder passed down Lydia's spine that she couldn't repress.
"My long-lost daughter returns at last. I trust you have my Elder Scroll?"
Serana stepped forward to address her father, though it clearly pained the girl. "After all these years, that's the first thing you ask me? Yes, I have the scroll."
"Of course I'm delighted to see you, my daughter," the once-man drawled. "Must I really say the words aloud? Ah, if only your traitor mother were here, I would let her watch this reunion before putting her head on a spike. Now tell me, who are these strangers you have brought into our hall?" As he said this, he fixed his amber faze directly on Lydia, whose higher brain immediately shut down in primal terror.
"These are my saviors," Serana replied. "The ones who freed me." The barest scrap of conscious thought remaining in Lydia's grasp decided to reconsider her mistrust of the girl, but then her father refocused his gaze on Lydia and the thought fled.
"For my daughter's safe return," he said slowly, "you have me gratitude. Tell me, what are your names?"
Were she capable of moving her lips, Lydia would have cried out, No, don't tell him, it has to be a trap!, but she was paralyzed, and simply watched as her thane stepped forward. "I am Set-Heeliss, and this is Lydia, my shield-sister and dear friend." Lydia thanked all the gods that the Argonian had enough sanity not to reveal any more of her identity than a simple name. "Who are you?"
"I am Harkon, lord of this court. By now, my daughter will have told you what we are."
"You're vampires," Set-Heeliss replied, as though commenting on the weather.
"Not just vampires. We are among the oldest and most powerful vampires in Skyrim. For centuries we lived here, far from the cares of the world. All that ended when my wife betrayed me and stole away that which I valued most."
The mercenary in Set-Heeliss showed its face then, and once again Lydia feared for their lives. "Do I get a reward for finding your daughter?"
"I was about to suggest that very thing." The grin spreading across Lord Harkon's face was truly terrible to behold. "Yes, you most certainly deserve a reward. There is but one gift I can give that is equal in value to the Elder Scroll and my daughter." Death by blood loss? "I offer you my blood. Take it, and you will walk as a lion among sheep. Men will tremble at your approach, and you will never fear death again."
Set-Heeliss matched Lord Harkon's grin. "And if I refuse your gift?"
His own smile dropped from his face. "Then you will be prey, like all mortals. I will spare your life this once, but you will be banished from this hall. Perhaps you still need convincing? Behold the power!"
The vampire hunched over and clutched his head, and his skin began to slough off his body, melting into blood as it hit the floor. With a nauseating crack and squelch, bone punched through muscle and formed what appeared to be a second set of arms growing from the monster's shoulders. Fingers and toes lengthened into claws, prominent fangs grew even more so, and finally a stone-gray skin grew back and pulled itself tight over his exposed muscle. As he completed his ghastly transformation, he arched his back and loosed a bestial roar. Lydia couldn't tell if it was out of pain or desire to intimidate his mortal guests. With a flap of his ghastly shoulder arms—no, wings, Lydia realized, looking at the frayed webbing of skin clinging to them—Harkon pulled himself into the air, and remained there, hovering half a foot above the floor.
"This is the power that I offer," the vampire lord cried. "Now, make your choice!"
Divines have mercy on our souls, she's actually considering it. Set-Heeliss stood in contemplation for a full minute, devouring the monster before her with her eyes. When finally she did speak, the gods were good enough to keep her from giving the answer Lydia feared...but she wasn't sure that this was any better.
Set-Heeliss shrugged. "Tempting, I admit, but I've already done Molag Bal enough favors for this lifetime. In the next, once the Princes finish squabbling over who gets my soul first and I've done my time in Sovngarde and Sithis returns me to the Hist, perhaps I might take you up on your offer, but at the moment being especially flammable would be more of a hindrance than the myriad boons of vampirism would benefit me."
The vampire's displeasure was tangible. "Then begone from this place, and do not return. I will not be so generous if I see you again." A swirl of magicka enveloped Lydia and her thane, and they found themselves standing on the desolate shore of the island keep once more.
And that's the first chapter complete. I apologize for the great amount of time it took for me to add that last tiny piece; my real life is not conducive to a steady update schedule. With luck I'll be able to post the beginning of the second chapter soon!