Part I: Last Seed
Chapter One: Grave Ends and Awakenings (Sundas, 17th of Last Seed; Morndas, 18th of Last Seed; Turdas, 21st of Last Seed)
The woman stumbled through the snow-covered ground, wincing with every step. She wasn't dressed for the cold, and her feet had gone numb long ago. Her entire body ached, and the wound in her abdomen was bleeding heavily, leaving a trail through the snow behind her. She wasn't sure how long she could carry on like that. She had no idea where she was or even where she was headed. She'd been bleeding out for hours and could feel her strength fading. She had no clue what had become of her siblings when they'd gotten caught up in the fray and wished she was more familiar with the fauna of Skyrim. At least then she'd possibly be able to make herself some sort of poultice for her wound. Not that she could find anything in the dark or the snow anyway, but she was far too weak to successfully perform any healing spell on herself.
The snow thinned, hinting that she was approaching a lower altitude, and the air around her began to warm although it was now full of moisture, and she found her breathing even more labored.
Lights began to appear through the trees, flickering braziers and fires of some sort. A village?
She made her way slowly toward the lights but each step became more difficult.
Finally, she decided to rest against a tall stone she encountered.
"Just for a few moments," she muttered to herself. "I'll just close my eyes for a few moments . . . then I'll continue."
But within herself, she knew that wasn't true. She had no strength left.
Realizing the stone she rested against was a grave marker, she began to recognize the shapes of others around her in the dark. How fitting she'd spend the last of her living hours in a cemetery. The irony . . .
She opened her eyes. Her vision was blurred, and she felt like she was burning up. A face appeared above her. Her father? No. The voice was different.
"Shhhh, it's alright, my child," the voice comforted. "You're safe. Rest. Rest and heal."
Rest. That sounded nice. Her eyes slowly closed again.
She was in a bed. That much she could tell without even opening her eyes. When she did so though, she could see she was no longer in the cold forest or a damp cemetery but rather in a warm, dry home of some sort. She lie in a small, fur-covered bed, and the room was partially illuminated by a roaring fire in a hearth nearby.
Forcing herself to sit up, she inspected her wound and realized it had been treated and dressed. A bowl of partially eaten soup sat on a table beside the bed as well as a mug of some sort of liquid. Someone had been caring for her. They had found her, brought her inside, and nursed her back to health.
But who was it? Were they friendly? And where was she?
Voices on the other side of a wooden door led her to realize she may get the answers to those questions sooner rather than later.
The door opened, letting in a bit more light from what appeared to be outside. A tall, aged Altmer man entered the room, dressed in a long, dark robe. For a moment, she panicked. Had she been captured by the Thalmor after all?
No . . . that didn't make sense. The Thalmor would certainly not nurse her back to health. If she died on her own, they would've seen it as a favor from the gods. Furthermore, his robes looked nothing like the ornate ones worn by Thalmor judiciaries but rather the simple adornment of a priest of one of the divines.
"You're awake!" he said, sounding quite pleased. "Please don't fear me. I am a friend. I only wish to see you back to full health and on your feet again."
"Where am I?" she asked as he sat in a chair near the bed.
"You are in the town of Falkreath, capital of Falkreath Hold in Skyrim," he replied. "More specifically, in my home which also serves as the Hall of the Dead for our community," he waved toward a shrine and some benches on the opposite end of the room, "for I am a priest of Arkay, and our town is a simple one."
"Priest of Arkay?" she asked, trying to make sense of everything in her sleep-addled brain.
"Yes. My name is Runil," the old elf answered with a soft smile. "I am a priest of Arkay and serve Falkreath, tending to their dead and the large cemetery here. Do you feel like you could stomach some more soup? Kust made it specifically for you under my directions. It's full of healing herbs and protein-rich sources."
The woman stared at the bowl apprehensively.
"I assure you, child, you can trust me," Runil insisted. "I promise you, I mean you no harm. If I had, you wouldn't have made it this far into your recovery."
"I'm not exactly in the best place at the moment to be trusting strangers, especially those of my own kind," she replied.
"That may be the case, but you'll find you don't have much of a choice than to put some trust in me in your current predicament." He was quiet for a few moments, appearing thoughtful. "Perhaps if I tell you my own story it would help.
"I was born and raised on the Summerset Isles," he began, "not far from the city of Firsthold on Auridon. I trained at the college there and grew into a rather talented mage, quite advanced in the school of destruction magics. I served as a battlemage for the Aldmeri Dominion during the Great War. When the war ended, I wished to return to my home and hang up my robes, live a peaceful life after all the death and destruction I had witnessed at my own hand. I can still smell the burning flesh of the men I killed." He shook his head, as if shaking away some old memory. "The Thalmor had other ideas, however, and when I refused to continue serving them, I was named a traitor. I'd never committed a traitorous act against the Dominion in my life, yet because I refused to do their bidding and wanted to be left alone, I became a fugitive. I fled Aldmeris for the mainland and eventually ended up in Skyrim. The cemetery here in Falkreath seemed to call to me. So many warriors were buried here . . . I wondered how many were put in the ground by me or battlemages like me. I pledged myself to Arkay and to serving off my debt to the people of Skyrim, and here I am, nearly twenty-five years later, living a peaceful existence as a priest to the people of Falkreath. I'm still in hiding from the Thalmor, I suppose, but I'd like to think, after all this time, they've forgotten about an old man like me. But I know differently, as do you, I venture to guess. The Thalmor never forget. I live in fear of my discovery and am cursed to spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder."
The woman was quiet, taking in everything the old priest had just said. It turned out they had quite a lot in common.
"I am called Mari," she finally said. "Though my given name is Mariwen. I, too, hail from Auridon, from Matthies originally, and I, too, am a fugitive fleeing the Thalmor."
"I suspected we may have a bit in common when I stumbled across you in the cemetery, my child," the old man commented with a smile. "You don't see many Altmer in these parts. Though I must ask, how did you find yourself wounded in my graveyard?"
"My siblings and I fled after freeing my brother from Thalmor custody," Mari explained. "My parents were prisoners as well, but we were discovered before we could free them, and my father insisted we leave. We had done nothing wrong, my family. We didn't agree with much of what the Thalmor did, but we tried to keep to ourselves. My father, like you, had caused their displeasure when he refused to continue his service after the Great War, but because he was an accomplished blacksmith, they still found him useful to their cause and let him go about his life. My mother comes from a long line of Psijiic monks, so she was always watched closely. When my brother was spotted with a group of rebel terrorists, it was the last straw. The arrest of our entire family was ordered. My sisters and I were away from home, and thanks to warnings from our parents and some dear friends, we were able to illude capture. After our father told us to leave, we came to the mainland. We were headed to Skyrim because the last we knew, our uncle Borir was here someplace, but we were caught up in some sort of skirmish near the border and separated. I took an arrow to the side. I've no idea where my siblings are or even if they're alive nor how I ended up here, wandering lost and wounded through the snow."
"The divines led you, child," the priest answered simply. He passed her the bowl from beside the bed. "Eat just a bit. Then rest more. You need it. Your wound had quite the infection by the time we found you. I honestly wasn't certain if you would make it."
"How long have I been here?" Mari asked.
"Three days," he replied. "I found you on Morndas morning, shortly after dawn, when I made my first rounds of the cemetery. It is now Turdas, around mid-day."
Three days. She'd lost three days. Where were her siblings?
She ate a bit of soup and then succumbed to her tiredness.
Author's note: And so begins Mari's story. If you haven't read my first installment to this series, Skyrim Book I: Aerenwen, I recommend you do so. There will be six installments total, each following the life of one of this large group of siblings after their arrival in Skyrim. The order in which you read them once I post, really doesn't matter. Each story exists independently on its own, but there will be times they crossover eventually. We will follow Mari through a couple chapters until the end of the month of Last Seed. Then we will move on to another sibling. This will probably be the shortest part when updating Mari (two chapters total) as it just gets her set up in Skyrim and not much happens in her story until later.