- II -
The break of dawn found Meleske perched on the edge of the bed, using a comb to viciously wage war on the tangles in her damp hair. It had been a restless night, comprised more of tossing and aggravated grumbling than unconsciousness. Her muscles ached despite the number of times she healed herself, rendering her sore and contributing to her foul mood. She suspected the second activation of her Highborn ability as the culprit, although she couldn't be sure. The bags beneath her eyes were heavy with fatigue, but her mind would continue to rob her of rest should she attempt sleep again.
Even as she fumed in the stillness of her room, the events of the previous evening plagued her thoughts. Dodging certain death and surviving a town's total destruction were feats attributed to sheer luck and the temporary favor of the gods. Failing to enact her rightful vengeance on the Stormcloak and the Legionnaire, all because of the damned brats offering themselves as sacrifice, was due to her own shortcomings as a Mer. Some would call it taking the moral path, an adult refusing to strike the most innocent of living beings. But she didn't see it as acting moral. She saw it as weakness.
Her parents had taught her two things: one, Mer were superior to Man. End of story. Two, if Man were to cause any form of harm, offense, or even relative inconvenience to Mer, then Mer should always collect justice, no matter the cost. Admittedly, the standpoint seemed extreme to carry around, but such was the way hers had been shaped. If her parents had seen her, walking away from the crowd without so much as conjuring a temperamental fireworks display, they would have exiled her from the Isle of Balfiera.
The comb was discarded on the bed when she finished taming her shoulder-length tresses. She rose to her feet, feeling every excruciating pull of her stiff body, and dragged herself to the wooden table next to the wardrobe. She was about to collect her belongings and make a stealthy departure from Riverwood when Delphine strode in without knocking.
Pinning her host with a withering glare, Meleske said through clenched teeth, "I realize this is your inn and all, but could you at least give notice before entering?"
"I thought you might attempt to sneak out," Delphine replied, staring pointedly at the coin purse and sword in her hands, "so I came to stop you."
"But I already paid you for this overpriced room," Meleske protested, waving the nearly empty coin purse in accusation as the one remaining gold coin bounced around inside.
The innkeeper fought back a wry grin and tossed over a pair of fur boots that the other caught with difficulty. "I'd imagine your trek to your next destination would be quite painful with bare feet."
Meleske narrowed her eyes in suspicion at the footwear. "I can't afford these."
"That's why I'm asking you to pay with your time and cooperation." Delphine gestured to someone over her shoulder and stepped aside to hold open the door for them.
The items dropped out of Meleske's arms and hit the floor with a loud clatter when Ralof and Hadvar entered with caution. She swung a reproachful look toward Delphine, who ignored her and asked the men to take seats at the chairs on the opposite sides of the room. They had cleaned up and changed out of their respective uniforms, but appeared to have had about as much sleep as she did. The tension in the air was so thick, one could almost choke on it. Meleske felt her body temperature rising again, and she considered this invasion of her space an invitation to take them out. As soon as the fire spell sparked to life in her palms, however, Delphine shut her down with a quick shock of an adept level lightning spell.
"Akatosh's arse!" Meleske swore, running her hands up and down her arms in an effort to erase the lingering shaking of her joints. "All right, I yield! What the devil are you thinking bringing these two miscreants here, anyway?"
The "miscreants" were too busy glowering at each other to offer her hostility any acknowledgement. Both had yet to say a word, but their deep reluctance to spend any amount of time within the other's vicinity was clear as day.
Delphine closed the door and turned to them with a grim expression. "I need all of you to get your stories straight about the dragon's appearance so I know exactly what we're dealing with," she declared. "If it caused as much devastation as Meleske described, we really will need to send word to the Jarl of Whiterun."
That mollified them long enough to shift their attention to her. Meleske trudged to the bed and sat at the base of the headboard, as far away from the two men as possible. Delphine stationed herself in front of the exit and placed her hands on her hips as she waited for the cold silence to break. She looked every bit like a prison warden, blocking their primary way out and able to electrocute them if they tried to climb out the window.
Finally, Meleske grew impatient enough to snap, "Oh, for the love of the Nines, I'll go first then!" and proceeded to rant about how she had ended up on the chopping block, embellishing her version of the tale with blatant insults toward the Stormcloak rebels and the Imperial Legion.
Her story was followed by Ralof's input, and then Hadvar's. All three recounts of the first half of events at Helgen were fairly synchronized, more or less, but once they reached the part about finding a way to escape the smoldering town, Ralof and Hadvar had the audacity to briefly unite and point resentful fingers in Meleske's direction for rejecting each of their offers of help.
"We had reached an intact keep and were trying to lead her to safety," Ralof told Delphine with a deep frown.
"And she didn't even choose to go with one of us, she simply charged through on her own," said Hadvar, clearly affronted.
"Well, obviously I wasn't going to be caught dead with either of you since I hate you both," Meleske snarled.
Delphine's blank face spoke volumes of her interest in the dispute among them. Which was to say, none. But before she could turn the subject back to the dragon, Ralof decided that now was the time to try to counter Meleske's aggression.
"Your hatred is understandable because of what I did to your companion," the Stormcloak began, recalling how she had cursed him three ways to Oblivion with just her mouth after the act, "but you should have allowed me to escort you through the keep. You attacked my comrades inside and left them to die in pools of their own blood."
She drew herself up in her seated position, golden eyes glittering dangerously. "Now listen here, Olaf—"
"Ralof."
"Whatever. That was my favorite and last handmaid whom you absentmindedly impaled with your sword while running from those inept Legionnaires, so your fellow rebels had it coming," she spat. Then, swinging her malevolent gaze to the Imperial soldier, she continued, "And you! I don't even know what your name is—"
"Hadvar."
"—nor do I care, but you've got some nerve breathing the same air as me when you're the one who gave out my death sentence." Had she been any less of a lady, she would have been foaming at the mouth.
Delphine cleared her throat and stepped forward. Meleske looked two seconds away from throwing herself at one of the men to scratch out his eyes, and the last thing she needed was the corpse of either a Stormcloak or an Imperial decorating the floor of her inn. "Enough. I think I understand. Meleske, I don't know if you still plan on going to Riften, but you're going to need a carriage or a horse to get anywhere in Skyrim." She reached behind her and opened the door, indicating they were free to go.
Predictably, the Altmer was the first to shoot to her feet. Delphine continued, "The closest city to here is Whiterun, which will have a carriage for hire. If you visit the Jarl and inform him of the dragon situation, I'll provide you with traveling supplies and reimburse you for the cost of this room."
Meleske hesitated, wary. "Why me? Have one of them do it. And what makes you think I want your help?"
"Ralof is going to Windhelm and Hadvar is going to Solitude." Delphine's smirk was positively infuriating. "The way you carry yourself and your mentioning of having a handmaid imply that you're part of Altmeri nobility. Skyrim is a dangerous place, princess. You're going to need all the help you can get."
x-x-x-x-x
By the time Meleske stepped outside into the fresh morning air, with a new traveling pack strapped to her shoulders, she was ready to maim anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path. The townspeople steered clear of her and kept their spiteful glances discreet as she heatedly adjusted her hide armor, finding the itchy material intolerable. Delphine had made good on her word that she'd provide her with supplies, and even "happened to find" some spare healing, magicka, and stamina potions to fill her pack. The armor was an added bonus, although Meleske suspected that Delphine had chosen the most hideous and uncomfortable set on purpose, and she'd drawn the line when Delphine tried to place the matching helmet onto her head.
"If I wanted to look that ridiculous, I would have just worn a bloody bucket!" she had yelled before jumping out of reach and bolting out of the inn.
Now she stood in wait, keeping an eye out in case the unsightly metal headpiece made a reappearance, and wondered who her traveling companion would be. Delphine had told her that someone from town—"Not Ralof or Hadvar," she had specified when Meleske began to throw a tantrum—would escort her to Whiterun. She speculated as to whether this person would get her lost on purpose, leading her to her death in retribution for her actions the day before.
And when she saw Sven round the corner and come trotting to her with an absurdly big smile on his face, her heart sank. Not because she was worried he would lead her astray—not that the dim-witted fool could pull off such a scheme—but because she would rather just fall dead right there than spend a day's journey with him.
"Ho! High elf maiden!" he greeted as he came to a stop in front of her.
"Please tell me you're not the one who will be taking me to Whiterun." She didn't bother to mask the dismay pouring out in waves from her voice.
"Oh no, not I, but I'm flattered that you would request me for such a task," replied the oblivious bard, who was in immediate danger of expiring at the hands of the enraged Altmer. "I was only hoping if, before you go, you could give this to Camilla Valerius for me." He produced a folded letter from his pocket and handed it to her.
"What is this?" she demanded, holding the paper away from her with her thumb and index finger as if it were diseased.
"That wood elf, Faendal, has been harboring romantic notions for Camilla even though I keep telling him she's already mine," Sven sniffed disdainfully. "I wrote a letter full of venomous nonsense and signed it under his name. If you give it to her, that should put a stop to any communication between them."
Meleske gaped at him in disbelief. A few seconds passed. And then… "Were you born completely brainless or did you just grow up that way?" she exploded, actually shaking from the release of the built-up emnity. The letter burst into flame and fell to the ground, the embers fluttering in the breeze. "I'm already playing courier to the Jarl of Whiterun on matters that are actually of some significance! I will not be involved in your inane, juvenile plots, and—really? Just… really?" She was having such a difficult time wrapping her head around the idiocy of the request that she was at a loss for words. "Go. Just. Go."
He tried to look down his nose at her, which failed considering she stood over half a foot taller than him. "Well! No need to be so rude—"
"Get out of my sight before I bend you over and shove your flute where the sun doesn't shine."
That certainly got him moving. With an indignant sound caught in his throat, he turned tail and scurried away without looking back.
She exhaled in irritation and started scratching at her armor with renewed vigor to occupy her hands and quell the urge to send a stream of flames after him. Where is my blasted escort? Every minute spent in this town increases my risk of madness.
Just as she had grown tired of waiting and resolved to head to Whiterun by herself, something caught her attention. A dog that had been walking on the road veered into the space between the inn and the trading goods shop. When a quick glance around showed no one coming, she shifted the weight of her pack and followed it. The dog stopped behind the inn, sensing her, and turned around to pant happily in her direction. She drew closer, identifying it as male when he relieved himself precariously close to the patch of cabbages next to the building. He finished his business and approached her, tail wagging.
Checking to make sure no witnesses were present, she crouched down and ran affectionate fingers over his head and ears. "Oh, you adorable, filthy, smelly mongrel," she gushed, feeling all her anger evaporate and her heart swell for the dog as he licked her face. "You need a long dip in the river and, more importantly, a mint, but I still think you are the most endearing animal alive."
The stifled chuckle behind her froze her blood. "So, you're actually a dog lover, are you?" Faendal asked in amusement.
Rotating her head stiffly toward him, she bit out, "Why do you always pop up at the most inopportune moments?"
He only grinned as she straightened and allowed the dog to go on his way. "Well, hopefully you'll forgive me this time because I'm to escort you to Whiterun."
She felt more relief than she cared to admit at the news. "Ah, I see. Took you long enough. We should get going, then."
"Uh, but before we go…" He fumbled in his pack and took out a piece of paper that Meleske's eyes zeroed in on. "Sven and I have been feuding over this woman, Camilla Valerius. I have written an unintelligent letter on his behalf and was wondering if you could—"
The letter was snatched out of his hand and ripped to shreds before he could finish. "Has this place infected you with its stupidity?" she fairly roared into his astonished face, the remnants of his letter floating down around them. "That idiot bard asked me the same thing. You want my input? Grow a pair and talk to her yourself."
Faendal stared after her, dumbfounded, as she stomped away. "Did you just say 'grow a pair'?"
"Come along, tree-hugger. The day is wasting," she called back.
"Hey, not all Bosmer worship trees, you know."
He hurried to keep up with her long strides and informed her that she was going in the wrong direction. After some arguing over orienteering and land navigation, they settled into a moderate pace on the path to Whiterun. His attempts at conversation were met with terse muttering and exasperated sighs, so he gave up and just tried to enjoy the scenery. Unfortunately, even that was impossible with his traveling companion because when she wasn't grumbling about how much she hated Skyrim, she was tearing off chunks of her armor and tossing them into the surrounding foliage. And despite implying earlier that he was an exception to the wood elf stereotype of protecting nature, he found himself retrieving every single piece of hide almost as quickly as she discarded them.
Meleske, deaf to Faendal's requests to stop littering, stared wistfully in the distance as she ripped off a particularly itchy part of her skirt layer and chucked it over her shoulder. She had never truly appreciated all the splendid clothing given to her every year back home. Her wardrobe consisted of the latest fashions from Cyrodiil, exotic accessories from Elsweyr, fancy heeled shoes from the Summerset Isles, and various trinkets from the other provinces. She even dared say she owned a fur coat imported from Skyrim.
Now that she was adorned in this (possibly flea-infested) getup, she could suddenly see the shimmering patterns cast by her crystal chandelier, smell the vase of fresh lavender sitting on her vanity table, feel the softness of the satin robe hanging by her mirror. Her chest constricted at the prospect of abandoning these things. The concern wasn't for their value, but for the thought behind each gift. One dress she hadn't yet worn had been carefully selected and presented to her the year before by her favorite handmaid Sariel, the one who perished at the end of Ralof's sword. For it to go to waste would be a shame, especially since Meleske was aware of how long Sariel had saved up to purchase it.
"Faendal," she said quietly, the sound of his name surprising the Bosmer still picking up after her. "The carriage at Whiterun. How far west does it go?"
"To Markarth. It's right at the border to High Rock," he replied as he stuffed the last of the hide scraps into his pack.
"Then that will be my next destination."
"Really? I would have thought that you'd be heading south to make your way back to the Summerset Isles."
The smile she sent him was grim and unsettling. "I hail from the Isle of Balfiera, off the coast of Wayrest. Did I fail to mention that I am next in line to rule Direnni Tower?"
x-x-x-x-x
A/N: Reviews and constructive criticism are highly welcome and encouraged. Thank you!