Chapter 2: Dividing an Empire
Speaking the words Ulfric Stormcloak had said yielded no effect. I tried using various pitches. I tried singing, whispering and hissing them, and emulating the tone and accent that I remembered him using. Nothing. Not even the candle flame on my desk gave a shudder.
When I couldn't figure out how the words worked on my own, I turned to my family's library. The key to figuring out what the Jarl of Windhelm had done would be in a book; if not one in Proudspire, then one at the Bard's College library.
Armed with a vague recollection of a Nord magic that used the voice, which had been touched upon during a history lesson at the College, I took a few likely tomes from the study back to my room, and began scanning their pages.
My eyes were scratchy and my head felt dull by the time I found something useful in the Skyrim Edition of Pocket Guide to the Empire:
...The Nords have long practiced a spiritual form of magic known as "The Way of the Voice", based largely on their veneration of the Wind as the personification of Kynareth. Nords consider themselves to be the children of the sky, and the breath and the voice of a Nord is his vital essence. Through the use of the Voice, the vital power of a Nord can be articulated into a thu'um, or shout. Shouts can be used to sharpen blades or to strike enemies at a distance...
I leaned forward and thunked my forehead onto the open book. Of course. Ulfric Stormcloak had used a Shout, a thu'um.
If I wanted to harness the same power he had used, I would need to study this ancient Nord magic. It was not an impossible goal, but it would take time – time that I did not wish to waste while Ulfric and his Stormcloak army destroyed our way of life. Now that I had a name, I recalled more from my lessons; mastering even the most simple of Shouts took years of dedicated meditation.
As I mused over this quandary, I noticed movement in the corner of my eye, and glanced up hastily. Giselle had floated to my room and was standing, wavering in the doorway.
She was a mess. Her dark hair was damp and curly with flecks of mud in it, and her robes had grass and mud stains down the front. But her face was clean and pinked in places, as though she had recently furiously scrubbed it.
What's she doing, I wondered?
"There's..." she muttered, then swallowed as her blue eyes fluttered closed.
I crossed my brows and stood, taking a tentative step toward her. Ulfric Stormcloak could take no more from us but each other, but still; "What else has happened?"
Giselle's eyes opened, and it was then as though she saw me properly; as though my voice had brought her back to herself. There was a hint of distaste marring her expression as she looked me up and down, and began again. "There's a man here from the Temple," she said, quietly, but still with an underlying barb, as though this were somehow all my fault. "He wants to speak to us both about...preparations," she glanced away from me, and her judgemental eyes travelled around my room.
What was she looking for? I couldn't remember the last time Giselle had been in my room, so perhaps she was simply noticing the changes. When we had been very little, we had bounced between each other's rooms all day, and sometimes a few times at night, if we needed each other.
That was a long time ago, I reminded myself. Since that time, my room had been rid of the toys and dress up clothes and filled with neat piles of journals, sheet music, history tomes and musical instruments. Treasures to me; worthless to her. Was I just as worthless, in her eyes?
Made uncomfortable by the prospect; for it might actually be true; I hastened forward. "Okay."
Giselle had left the man from the Temple of the Divines in the sitting room beside the entry. I didn't catch his name when he stood and introduced himself, but I didn't care as I took a chair and my sister sat in another.
The man – priest? - was young, and seemed very nervous as he explained that our parents had been shifted to the Temple and would be prepared for burial by the next evening. He advised that we might visit to pay our final respects at any time between now and then.
There was little required of us by way of response, and I wondered why he had asked to talk to us at all. When the priest paused long enough for me to notice the silence, I focused on him. He was glancing between the two of us with sympathy in his expression.
Perhaps he did require some sort of response. I nodded, and drew on my training to procure something generic.
"Thank you for telling us," I spoke. I had not intended it, but the sound that left my lips was deadpan. "We shall visit the Temple in that time."
I turned to Giselle for support, but my twin was silent and staring at the wall with glazed eyes, consumed by her own thoughts.
"There is one final matter I need to discuss with you both," the man's eyes flickered to Giselle momentarily, full of worry, before settling back on me. "And that is whether or not you have any requests, in regards to their burials."
I didn't understand what he meant. When I crossed my brows in confusion, he pressed on.
"For example, any special objects or pieces of jewellery, clothing and the like, that they might wish to be buried with, or in."
"No, nothing," Giselle quickly supplied in that quiet, sharp tone she had used in my room when she had collected me.
I flashed a glance of annoyance at her, but she was still staring at nothing.
"Your - your father's sword, for example," the man tried again. "Surely he would wish that to accompany him to-"
"He would not wish to be buried at all," Giselle snapped, lifting her head suddenly.
My breath caught in my throat in fear of the fire I saw in her eyes. Was she about to cast a spell?
"Giselle," I hissed in warning. The man was only doing his job; it was not his fault that our parents had been taken from us.
Before I could apologise on her behalf, the man from the Temple stood and bowed his head. "I do apologise, Miss Passero," he murmured calmly. "This is not a pleasant duty for anyone to attend to, under any circumstances, let alone the one you find yourselves in today."
He must be a priest; he's said that before. I stood as well, and motioned toward the door. "If we think of anything we will bring it with us when we come," I assured, then walked toward the entryway so he would have no choice but to follow. Giselle had been rude, but I abruptly wished he would leave us be.
A flicker of uncertainty crossed his features. "Of course. My condolences, Miss Passeros," he bade us farewell.
"Thank you, Brother," I murmured, then closed the door behind him with a barely-audible click.
Facing the blue-steel door now that all was quiet, I let out a breath that I hadn't realised I'd been holding, and leaned forward. My forehead pressed against the metal and I closed my eyes, taking another long, shuddering breath.
Then I returned to Giselle. She was sitting where I had left her, and staring at nothing again. Placing a shaking hand on the door frame, I opened my mouth, determined to break the silence, though I had no idea of what to say.
Before I could say a word, she turned her tear-filled eyes up to regard me. The accusation I found in her blue depths, so like our father's eyes, brought a flush to my cheeks. I had not murdered them!
But she wants to blame someone. Of course she blames you.
"I don't want us to fight any more," the words tumbled out of my mouth. "They wouldn't have wanted to leave us, but they-"
"Don't pretend to know what they wanted," Giselle cut in, her voice low and quiet. "You're as bad as that priest, aren't you?"
"This - this is what I'm talking about," I waved my hand toward her. "They would want us to help each other, but you are determined to hate me."
I expected my sister to snap back, but she surprised me; turning her head down as her eyes clenched shut. Shorter strands of hair fell to cover her eyes.
It took me a moment to realise that she was crying. The sound of her quiet sobs broke something in me, but I didn't – couldn't – cry with her. She just made me angry, more angry than was reasonable under any circumstances. We had work to do – our parents deserved a proper burial – and she was sitting here crying as though we had time for such a thing. Which meant that I would have to do all of the work.
I turned and left her there and strode back to the door. Fury coursed through me and my face and ears burned. I stormed outside and gulped down breaths of cool morning air with relief.
Any other sisters would have mourned the loss of their parents together, but Giselle? No, she was determined to grieve on her own, and determined to drive us further from each other.
Not that you are any better, I told myself snidely as I leaned against the door and glanced up to the sky. Your sister was in tears, and you yelled at her then thought only of how her emotions affected you.
I blinked hurriedly, pushing my thoughts aside roughly, and wondered why I hadn't been able to cry yet. I should have cried rivers by now. But then, there had been no time to cry while my emotions tumultuously bounced between shock and anger – a fierce, white-hot anger, sharper than anything I had ever felt.
The sky was dull and grey, and full of low clouds. The greyness was like a blanket to my fury, muffling it. As I focussed on my breaths, as though I was preparing for a performance, I felt my anger slip away on the passing sea breeze.
How could we have let things grow so sour between us, I wondered? Even when I had told Giselle that I didn't want us to fight, I had said it out of guilt over our parents, not for our own benefit. Of course I didn't know what they wished, but surely no parent would want their children to be at war with each other?
Time changes all.
The High King's defeated words to Ulfric Stormcloak thrummed through me. After a moment's consideration, I nodded. Yes, time would change all, be it for better or worse, and given today's little performance, I doubted that we would need to endure each other's company for much longer anyway.
But today was not for fighting with Giselle, or for making any rash decisions about our futures. Today was for saying good bye, and that was all.
–
If only it had been that simple.
Perhaps under any other circumstances, Giselle and I would have been left to our grief and been allowed to visit and pay our final respects to our parents in private.
But within twenty minutes of the man from the Temple leaving, a pair of soldiers from the Imperial barracks arrived to escort me to Castle Dour. I had thought for a moment that I was being arrested, but realised when I was shown into an interview chamber with a tired-looking Legate Caesennius in attendance that I was there as a witness. And, as one of the only surviving witnesses of the High King's murder and the usurper Ulfric's escape, I was asked to provide my account of all that had passed to the Legion. Having gone over the events of the previous night again and again in my head, and eventually committing them to my journal, it was not difficult to answer the Legate's questions.
When I returned home, Giselle met me in the hallway. She had cleaned herself up and was dressed demurely and in black, about to leave for the Temple of the Divines, I assumed. Despite what she had said to the priest, she had a satchel over her shoulder, full of what she must have considered to be our parent's treasures. I could see the handle of father's sword poking out the top of the satchel; the silver pommel caught the entryway torchlight.
She blinked quickly – a startle – and had the grace to look guilty for a fleeting moment. Then her expression blanked.
"You're back," she spoke evenly, gingerly adjusting the satchel. "I am bound for the Temple."
I suppressed a sigh, too tired to argue with her, and nodded. There was a sense of weary defeat in my reply; "Wait for me? I just need to change." I was still in the blood-stained dress that I had worn to the Blue Palace the previous evening.
Giselle hesitated and didn't reply, but held her arms around herself as though she had a chill. I felt no frustration coming from her as I walked by and made for my bedroom, and she was still waiting there when I emerged a few minutes later. We looked mirror images of one another, but for our hair; hers, sleek and straight and unbound, and mine, wavy and uncooperative, fighting to break free of a thick braid.
"Mother would want you to pull your hair back for Temple," I murmured with a sigh as we left.
Giselle shook her head, her eyes glued to the ground as we walked. By the time we were on the main road, she had assembled an answer. "We are our own women now, Celeste."
I cast an uncertain sideways glance at her, but she said no more. Giselle had been my mother's favourite; of this I was certain. Giselle had complied – to my mind, revelled – in mother's suggestions and tastes. Had it all been an act?
She'll never admit it, if it was – and it's not like it matters any more.
Giving the Bard's College a wide berth, because I didn't want anyone from school to see and attempt to hail me, we ambled toward the Temple of the Divines to bid our parents good bye.
–
News travelled fast, and time, even faster. The day after our parent's burials, a lawyer appeared with their will; the details of which Giselle and I already knew. My parent's money and assets were to be split between us equally, and the Proudspire title was amended to contain both of our names, each with an equal share of ownership.
Not even a week had passed, and letters arrived from my mother's parents in Wayrest and my father's in the Imperial City. Both requested that Giselle and I go to them at once. The spiralling unrest in Skyrim, along with the reports of skirmishes on the borders, had everybody on edge, and I couldn't blame our grandparents for insisting we remove ourselves from what would surely be the centre of the mounting civil war.
I had expected Giselle to dig her heels in and insist that she would return to Winterhold to spite the Stormcloaks (or me), but upon the arrival of the letter from Wayrest, she had brightened, and the first true smile I had seen from her in - was it months? - graced her features.
"Of course," she mumbled in realisation. "I can study with the Mages Guild in Wayrest."
Within days, she had departed on a ship bound for High Rock. I had not tried to stop her – nothing I might have said would have changed her mind, anyway.
I told myself that it was a good thing she was leaving Skyrim. She would be safe with our grandparents, and eventually she would be happy, or at the very least, her snotty self once again.
The thought to leave for Wayrest with her never crossed my mind. Giselle and I needed to recover from our parents deaths separately, this much was clear. I was relieved on the day she left Solitude. She had bade me farewell with what felt like a genuinely warm embrace, and then with her hands on my shoulders, locked my gaze.
"Go back to the Bard's College tomorrow, Celeste," she had said, before she had gone. "My heart glows at the thought of being able to study again. So will yours, if you allow it."
I told her that I would.
And, because I had nowhere else to go and nothing else to occupy my time with, I followed through on my promise.
I found myself standing in the College entryway the morning after I had spent my first night alone in Proudspire Manor. I cradled my crumpled lute in my arms, intent on taking it to Dean Inge Six-Fingers. But by the time I arrived, her first class had commenced. I couldn't bring myself to slink into the class as late as I was; to be subjected to the curious and condoling stares of my colleagues. Not yet.
Dean Pantea Ateia found me as I stood motionless, deliberating what I should do. Her eyes widened when she saw what I cradled.
The Imperial woman had always been partial to me, despite my decision to major in lute and not the flute. She had taught me much about singing; about using my voice to its full potential, while taking care of it so that I could keep using it. She had taught me to extend my range by a whole octave, in the past three years.
"Celeste – what–? But, why are you here?" she hurried to my side.
I swallowed and stared at her, uncertain of the answer for myself. My eyes flickered over her as my mind chugged away, searching for reason. She was wearing a dull green robe lined in russet, and her hair was falling free around her face like a fluffy blonde curtain. While she waited, she held both of her hands out gingerly, as though she wanted to relieve me of my broken lute, but was uncertain of where she could touch it without causing more damage.
"I thought..that perhaps Madam Inge could assess it?" I resolved.
Dean Ateia pursed her lips and nodded once. "I understand. Leave it with me, and return to your sister."
"Oh. She's gone," I murmured swiftly. My arms tightened around the broken pieces of my lute.
"Gone?" Dean Ateia blinked as though affronted. "Where? Surely not to Winterhold at a time like this?"
I shook my head, and in the act felt a little of the fog clouding my mind retreat. "No, she has quit Winterhold," I explained. "She means to complete her studies with the Mages Guild, in Wayrest. She won't have to worry about the war-"
"My dear," Dean Ateia cut in with a stammer, "that is not at all what I meant," she cast me a perplexed look. "I had no idea that your sister could be so heartless. She should not have left you alone."
"Oh," I wasn't sure what to say. A strange sense of honour demanded that I defend Giselle, since she wasn't here to speak for herself. "It wasn't like that, Madam Pantea. We agreed that it would be better if we sought our solace in education and the distraction offered by the academic circles," I fumbled.
More lies, I berated. And to one of your teachers; one of the women who taught you how to spin such tales.
"I see," Dean Ateia sounded uncertain, but whatever she thought of my excuse, she let it go. "And, is that why you are here?" she asked; her trademark pretension returned. "To resume your studies?"
I nodded because it was easier than trying to reason a visit that I wasn't entirely certain why I had made.
Dean Ateia pursed her lips, but there was concern in her eyes when she shook her head. "If you insist. Voice instruction begins at ten. We are...focusing on the minor arpeggios, this week."
Again I nodded. The older woman nodded in return, then resumed her path along the hall, in the direction of the Deans' private chambers.
"Before then, report to Master Viarmo and advise him of your decision," she called back as she left. "We assumed that you had deferred."
I thanked her, and once she had gone, I sighed and sat on one of the bench seats by the doorway. Yes, I would visit the Headmaster eventually, but I did not want to waste the Altmer's time until I had thought this out. Did I truly want to return to the College, where I had left off?
Have you abandoned your promise to use Ulfric's words against him already? Your parents die, and you continue on as though it never happened?
But father would not have wanted me to give up my studies for the world. Even mother had taken pride in my achievements and progress. They would not want me to throw it all away.
The quiet tones of a lilting tune being plucked on a lute drifted to me, and I blinked hurriedly, gasping as tears sprung to my eyes. It was A Mother's Nursery Rhyme; a simple, sad song that I remembered - as though from a previous life - that Aia had been working on expanding. I glanced toward the staircase that lead to Dean Six-Finger's class as the lute player's fingers slipped during an elaborate, unnecessary trill she had added to the opening bars.
Whoever was playing continued, ignoring their mistake as we had been trained to do. While a bard noticed whenever a note was missed, audiences tended not to so long as the tempo was maintained. One of my colleagues Jorn had tested this out, much to our amusement, one memorable night at the Winking Skeever. During Lisette's break, he had played the whole of Mead, Mead, Mead, transposed to a minor key. None of the patrons had cared, and had heartily joined in singing the rowdy dirge. Lisette, on the other hand, had thrown him a withering look as she had resumed her shift, and refused to let him entertain her customers again.
I forgot all about the Mead song as Aia's pleasant voice, strong and sonorous, harmonised confidently with the tentative notes being plucked on the lute. I froze, closing my eyes and hugging my broken lute to my chest as my heart twisted and ached.
"Do you have five children, Mother?
I've heard that you do.
Five children? No, tonight I have four-
Four children, sweet and pure,
Four, and no more."
I yearned to join her, and to flee at the same time. A few lonely tears fell from my closed eyes and trailed a path down my cheeks.
I can't do it, I realised. The music will break me.
The lute player's fingering slipped again – on a similar section to before – and while they tried to recover, the music stopped after a bar or two more.
I opened my eyes and rose hurriedly, pushing back the tears before they could consume me. Dean Six-Fingers had doubtlessly stopped whoever was accompanying Aia. She would let a slip pass once, but not twice, and whoever was playing would now need to repeat the section in half-time, until their fingers were able to find the right notes instinctively.
I shook my head at myself - at my criticism of whoever had been accompanying Aia - knowing that it was probably Ataf. He had always had trouble with trills. The practise was good for him.
While I mused over my colleagues as a distraction from the decision I had to make, I drifted to the Headmaster's office and knocked.
The door opened a crack, and the Altmer's head poked around it. We glanced at each other for one startled moment, and then the Headmaster opened his door properly.
"Passero?" Master Viarmo's thin face was confused and his mouth turned down. "I did not expect to see you returned to us so soon," he admitted.
"May I come in, Headmaster?" I asked from the doorway.
"Ah – of course," he stepped aside, then followed me in, moving around to sit at his desk. "Take a seat."
I glanced around the Headmaster's office swiftly. My gaze flitted over the fine paintings and bookshelves lined with songbooks and historical texts; the plaques of appreciation and accolades; the medals and trophies and trinkets he had collected throughout his career. In the past I had looked upon his achievements with reverence, assuring myself that I would someday have a collection to rival his, if I remained true to myself, and my craft.
But now?
Why am I here? I do not wish to sing, and I cannot play a broken lute.
Belatedly, I shook my head. "I shall not keep you long, Headmaster; I would rather stand," the words spilled from me, lacking emotion. "I have come to confirm my deferral from my studies. I am leaving Solitude for a time."
I am?
Master Viarmo stilled as his eyes met mine, but then he nodded curtly. "You have every right to request it. Are you bound for your grandparents in Cyrodiil, or High Rock?"
"Cyrodiil," I found myself saying in a disconnected voice.
The Altmer murmured an acknowledgement. "Then I caution you to make haste, Celeste. The border between Skyrim and Cyrodiil will not be passable for long."
I nodded, feeling dazed and removed from this part of me that was making decisions. I had not intended on deferring and journeying to my grandparents at all when I had stepped into the Bard's College. The thought of leaving Solitude had not even crossed my mind. Had it?
"You may return to us whenever you wish," Master Viarmo continued. "And you must promise me that, once settled, you will have somebody repair your lute, or acquire a new one. Though you may not feel it now," he inclined his head knowingly, "a talent as demanding as yours will not allow you to ignore it for long. It will turn into a void that eats away at your very being until you appease its call."
"I – I promise, Master Viarmo," I stammered, bemused by the Headmaster's – what was this - praise? I had never heard the likes from him before.
He believes it will make you feel better, I mused.
The Headmaster seemed a uneasy, perhaps realising that he had let his stern demeanour falter. He sat a little straighter before he spoke again. "Very good. I shall make your decision known to the Deans."
"Thank you," I dipped my head and took a step back. "I shall take my leave."
Master Viarmo dismissed me, and when I walked from the room I made sure to keep my eyes trained forward. Everybody was busy in morning classes, so I was not passed, let alone questioned or stopped. The heels of my boots clipped lightly against the flagstones, tapping out a rhythm that grew faster and faster as I approached the exit. By the time I had reached it, I was practically running.
Once outside, I leaned back against the closed door, and glanced around the courtyard. I had spent many a day and night out here with my colleagues; making music, practising our craft, discussing history or developing a story. Taking in a great big, somewhat relieved breath of morning air, my mind caught up to what I had told the Headmaster.
So. Cyrodiil.
I nodded, accepting that my subconscious had made the decision for me.
I was going to Cyrodiil, to my grandparent's house in the Imperial City. Away from Solitude, and Skyrim, and the Stormcloaks. Away from the Bard's College, and Proudspire, and the Temple of the Divines, where my parents had been laid to rest.
You will be able to learn more about this thu'um magic at one of the City libraries. Perhaps even ask at the University about it, I told myself. If you can make use of the time, running to Cyrodiil won't be folly after all.
Still bemused by the hasty change in direction – was it hasty? - I made my way home. Now that the decision was made, I had to follow through and pack for the journey. Master Viarmo was right – if I wanted to make it into Cyrodiil, I would have to go before the war between the Stormcloaks and the Empire made crossing the border impossible.