It was cold and lonely in the highest tower of Arcwind Point, but that was exactly why Kara was there. She was hoping Clavicus Vile would show up as soon as the year began—she had some bones to pick with him about the deal she'd made. She sat with her back against the wall of the tower, staring into the fire in front of her. She could survive without one, she knew, but she still felt the cold and the light made her night that tiny bit more bearable.
She doubted if anyone in the history of Tamriel had made a decision as stupid as hers. It had sounded so tempting, what Vile had offered. But she'd felt the limits of her new powers and found them a curse. She could not die, that much she was sure of. No blade nor fire nor fall could kill her, although she'd tried many of them and every other way she could think of. Short scars dotted her chest, with matching ones on her back. Longer scars lined the insides of her forearms. With pain from the exterior world losing its meaning, she had made up for it internally.
She again reminded herself to eat. Although she could not die of starvation, she still felt hunger. She'd have to descend from the mountains to find anything, though. Little lived at Arcwind Point. There had been draugr when she'd arrived, armoured undead with huge swords and the power of the Thu'um. Her ebony greatsword, a gift from the Dragonborn, had carved through them with little effort. Her enhanced strength at work. She could now wield the once-heavy sword with only one hand.
She thought of her often. Gylhain, ender of the Civil War, slayer of the World-Eater. Kara remembered their first meeting, on the shore of Lake Ilinalta. With her still committed to the Stormcloak cause long after the war had ended. And with the Dragonborn essentially in retirement, living above Falkreath with her wife. Gylhain had been wearing no armour, only wielding a single longsword, but she'd made Kara feel like every combat skill she had was worthless. Gylhain had let Kara live that day, turned her aside from her outcast life.
Kara huddled her furs tighter against the bitter winds. The moonlight was obscured by heavy clouds, loaded with the possibility of future rains. The night stretched on, heading towards the new year. Heading towards her first month of serving Vile. Eleven months of freedom, one month of servitude. It had sounded like a good deal. But nobody just deals with the daedra and gets to walk away.
Midnight. The first of the month of Morning Star, the year two hundred and nine of the fourth era. Dawn of a new month and a new year. Suddenly there was a gap in the wind, and Clavicus Vile was there. His form was small and rotund, just as she'd seen him that day she'd stepped through the Oblivion gate. Two small horns protruded from his forehead, he was clothed in multiple layers of fine furs, and his smile was eternal.
He sniffed dramatically and peered around the tower. Still smiling, always smiling. Kara's eyes met his.
"Take it back," said Kara, her voice creaky through lack of use. She let loose a harsh cough. Vile crouched on the other side of her fire.
"Take what back?" he asked, all innocent and unknowing.
"This curse," croaked Kara. "Take it back. I don't want it."
Vile's smile showed teeth. "You want to rescind on a deal? Can't be done, I'm afraid." He lacked even the remotest whisper of sympathy in tone and expression.
"But you lied!" said Kara, her voice gaining clarity. "I still feel pain and cold and hunger. I can still be beaten. You lied. You said I would be a . . . a demigod."
"Are you not?" asked Vile. "You cannot die, you will never age, disease will not touch you—"
Kara spoke over the Prince. "You didn't mention the scars neither!"
"You never asked," replied Vile. "Besides, do you think the gods do not feel pain, or cold, or hunger?" He stretched his short arms out and looked around distractedly. "Now, it is the month of Morning Star, and I have a task for you. That was the deal. You can do whatever you want for the rest of the year, but for this month, you serve me."
Kara didn't move, but an idea began to take shape inside her mind.
"I have divined the location of my Masque," said Vile. "It has been recovered by bandits occupying the shipwreck known as the Winter War. You know where that is."
Kara nodded. Eastmarch, her old home. The wreck was north-east of Windhelm, trapped out in the ice of the Sea of Ghosts. Easy enough.
"Go there," Vile went on. "Kill the bandits and retrieve my Masque."
"How do I get it back to you?" she asked wearily. No matter how hard she tried, how tired she became, a full night's sleep eluded her. She snatched an hour or two whenever she could and always awoke with the fast heartbeat of an escaped nightmare. Every bone and every muscle in her body ached with the weariness, but her enhanced strength and speed seemed unaffected.
Vile's smile showed teeth again. "Barbas will find you," he said, and vanished.
Rising, Kara strapped her greatsword to her back and lit a torch from the fire before she stomped it out. She contemplated taking the short, painful way down the mountain, but decided against it. She had no wish to complete Vile's task any sooner than necessary. The snow was thick as she descended the many steps, Skyrim still fully in winter's grip. No dead rose as she passed their ancient graves.
She would remember Arcwind Point. Its remoteness suited her very well. With her increased strength, she was increasingly worried about accidentally hurting innocent people. Not to mention the attention—the last thing she wanted was to be an attraction. It was for those reasons she stayed away from civilisation as much as she was able, avoiding the cities altogether, travelling off-road, only venturing into the smaller towns when she was desperate for supplies.
She cut herself off from others, and so had no news of those who she had once travelled with. Gylhain, the Dragonborn, had vanished too after the battle with the Thalmor and daedra at Helgen. That fateful day when everything had changed for Kara, when she'd stepped through the gate and made her deal with Vile.
She assumed Dar'epha and Vash were still running with the Guild and the College respectively. Kureeth and Falin she knew had spoken of settling in Winterhold too. Antario, the only one Kara could truly have called a friend, had not spoken of his plans. She did not know if he was even still in Skyrim. Overcome with the consequences of her own choice, Kara had vanished into the wilds after the battle at Helgen, emerging too late to find her comrades, to her great regret. Antario had been a formidable ally, and a better friend than she'd deserved.
Soon enough, she reached the base of the mountains and emerged into the south-western end of the Rift. Faint edges of Secunda peeked through the clouds, Masser still completely hidden. She headed north, passing through what had once been, five years prior, an Imperial Legion camp. Their position within the province secure, they had long abandoned such camps for the relative comfort of forts and cities. Only an abandoned anvil and Kara's useless war memories marked the location.
Kara ran her hand across the anvil, wiping the snow off its rusting surface. She remembered the old days when she'd run as a Stormcloak, the familiarity she'd needed with the wilds of Skyrim, particularly the eastern half. She moved on. To the east a small Dwemer ruin jutted from the earth, but she left it well alone. Bandits usually occupied its stone crevices. She had no wish to be reminded of her curse, and a fight was a sure way to do that.
It was still night when she came through Ivarstead, the small town lying asleep in the shadow of the Throat of the World. Not a soul marked her passage. With both moons now visible, Kara put out her torch and decided she might as well stick to the path. The risk of encountering a traveller was worth the ease of the travel itself. Down the hills and the winding paths she went, drawing out each step into its own special moment in time.
Dawn had begun to creep upon Skyrim when she reached Darkwater Crossing. The mining camp with its single building and collection of tents was still and quiet but for one figure: a Dunmer named Sondas Drenim. Kara knew him of old—the Stormcloaks had often passed through the camp during the war, on their way to some doomed endeavour.
The miner was sitting crosslegged next to the fire around which the tents were encircled. He was using a long branch to jab at the coals, trying to resurrect the flames from the previous evening. He eased to his feet as Kara approached and made a gesture. He guided her silently away from the tents, over into the small fenced garden that abutted the house. They grasped wrists.
"It's been a long time," he said, looking her up and down. Kara wrapped her arms around her torso in the vain hope of hiding something. "Thought you might've died in the war."
"No," said Kara. The war felt several lifetimes ago. She was changed, in too many ways. She paused—how to explain what she did now? How to explain her deal with Vile, her inner emptiness, the way her eternal life stretched before her? "I guess . . . I'm an adventurer now," she said. Technically true.
"A dangerous life," said Sondas. "Lonely too." Kara just nodded. "You need any food?" he asked. "Supplies?"
Kara shook her head. Times were hard enough for the miners, she didn't want to add to their troubles. "I can manage on my own," she said.
Sondas frowned and looked unconvinced. This wasn't the Kara he was used to conversing with. "Well," he said, "there's always work in the mine if you ever need gold."
Kara shook her head again. "I don't need gold," she said. She preferred the open air, to feel the wind on her face. Spending so much time underground, hammering at the earth day in and day out, was not the life for her. She knew that Sondas would take her refusal as a suggestion that she had enough gold already—the truth was that in her new lifestyle she had abandoned it almost entirely.
Sondas tried to fill Kara in on recent happenings around Skyrim, but she barely listened. She bid him farewell and forsook the path, heading north-east across Eastmarch, working her way around the warm bubbling pools. The air grew warmer, but she kept all her furs on. In Skyrim, the heat never lasted. She would be slogging through snow again soon enough.
She passed by one of the standing stones, avoiding its blessing. The way was uneven, but she went on. Soon, too soon, Bonestrewn Crest loomed before her. A notorious dragon lair, although the Dragonborn had killed most of them during her time, so there shouldn't—
An unmistakable roar shot up from the peak of the Crest. A roar that every being in Skyrim had quickly learnt to fear since the World-Eater had descended on Helgen all those years ago. Kara had been there, had seen the birth of the legend and barely escaped with her life. Again she felt the primal fear, then remembered who she was and what she had to do. A dragon loose in Eastmarch could cause unmeasurable damage, and the Dragonborn wasn't around to save everybody this time. She drew her sword and sprinted up the path to the peak, moving at a speed no mortal could ever hope to match. Time to put Vile's curse to good use.
There, atop the curved stone wall embedded with ancient runes in ancient tongues, sat a huge dragon. As she approached, its great bronze wings spread and the beast catapulted itself into the air. She skidded to a halt, her eyes following its flight. She bent her legs and waited for the beast to pass over her.
The circling dragon approached, bellowing words Kara could not understand, did not need to understand.
"Yol-Toor-Shul!" it roared. A great pillar of fire came towards Kara, the dragon swooping in low above her with intent to incinerate her in an instant. Kara felt the heat wash over her, felt her skin ripple and burn, felt her hair and furs catch fire. She launched herself, a standing jump straight up, reaching just as high as she needed to. Her greatsword sliced along the dragon's belly. Red blood spurted onto the ground.
The dragon roared again and crashed to the earth in front of the carved wall. Kara's landing was just as graceless. Her vision blurring, her sword-grip loosening, she thumped back to the dirt. Her legs gave way and left her on her side. She scrunched her eyes closed, jagged lights darting across the insides of the lids. When she opened them she saw the dragon coming for her, a blood trailing from its wound.
Still smouldering, Kara ran at the ancient creature, slashing a deep cut along its right side, hacking at the nearest wing. If it took off again, she'd never catch it. It turned to snap at her, but she met it with her sword, drawing blood from its snout. She struck again. The dragon tried to pull back, but was stopped by the carved wall.
Backed into a corner, the dragon lashed out with a front leg, gaining power by pushing off against the wall. The force of the blow cannoned Kara across the peak, almost sending her off the not-insignificant drop. Instead of meeting air and then the ground below, she met a spire of rock with her back. She cursed and rushed the dragon again.
It swiped at her again, but she was prepared and did a short jump back out of range. Coming in, she brought her sword down, breaking into the dragon's skull—a blow that would have been beyond her before the deal with Vile. The huge form crumpled in the dirt.
Kara dropped to the dirt as well, rolling in it to put out the fires that still held in her hair and on her clothes. The dragon's corpse lay unmoving.
In a pool near the base of Bonestrewn Crest, planning to clean her sword, Kara found herself examining her reflection. Her clothes were scorched with black marks. Her hair had taken the worst of the dragon's fire, most of it a tiny fraction of the length it had once been. She drew her knife and hacked off the remaining long pale blonde strands. She ran a hand across her new shorn scalp. A finger's width was all that remained, and her scalp was blistered and scarred by the fire, as were parts of the left side of her face. Her left ear was unrecognisable.
She spat into the fool, breaking the mirror. She sheathed her knife and moved on, uncaring. She'd never thought much of her own looks to begin with—too thick in the neck, too small in the eyes. A scarred visage seemed appropriate to her, an outward manifestation of her curse.