The Strings of Fate
Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with Skyrim or the Elder Scrolls series. All credit for this story goes to the wonderful minds at Bethesda.
Song Credit: The majority of this chapter was written while listening to Sunday by Moby. God Bless Moby.
"Fate can be a quiet thing. Most of the time it operates like a thief, slow and subtle. I've seen it work that way many times. It's almost never a man in a suit of Dwemer armor showing up at your doorstep. But when it is? Well, you'd better pay close attention. The Gods have got some plans for you, and that's them tugging the strings of fate."
- Sylgja the Hammer
Four months ago. 4th Era 200. Turdas the 9th, Hearthfire.
Her life as a miner was probably over.
Sylgja sat on her bed, wincing as her bad leg stiffened with the movement. She sighed and yanked her pant leg up, revealing a large and twisted scar on her thigh. The skin around it was red and tough. Sylgja hated looking at it.
She began rubbing a homemade ointment on the scar in order loosen the muscle and relieve her pain. Sylgja quietly thanked the priest of Mara that had happened upon Shor's Stone a few days after her accident. The Dunmer, while quite adept with Restoration magick hadn't been able to fully mend the damage. Still, he had healed her wound to the best of his ability, binding the flesh and removing infection.
Despite the priest's best efforts (she had forgotten to ask his name), Sylgja was still unable to do any real work in Redbelly mine. She had fostered hopes of speedier recovery over the last few weeks, but her ointments and potions only dulled the pain and she was running out of ingredients to make more.
You wouldn't be as bad off as you are if you had been more careful, she thought as she applied the salve to her scar. The effect was immediate and gratifying; the pain was dulled and a cool sensation countered the heat coming from the wound. She would walk a little easier now.
Think of it this way, she told herself, if you had gone off adventuring like Ma you'd be in a smelly, dark cave tending to your wounds instead of in the comfort of your own home.
"If you'd gone off adventuring," she said aloud, "You'd probably be happier with your lot in life."
It was true. Mining wasn't fulfilling work. Not for her, at any rate. Sure, it had been fun as a child, learning to carve into rock and the right way to dig ore from the earth, but that was long past.
Sylgja stood and pulled up her pants. The ointment pressed against the smooth leather and made a dark spot on her trousers, but the Nord woman was past caring about something as simple as a stain. She had work to do, what little she could manage, and she wasn't going to waste the day worrying about her wounds. She tucked her white miner's shirt under the trousers and secured everything tight with a simple hide belt.
A knock on her door brought Sylgja out of her thoughts. "You awake in there? It's Filnjar."
Syljga pushed a lock of brown hair out of her face. "I'll be out in a moment." She suppressed a chuckle. She could almost see Filnjar; bearded face, long grey hair and the horridly amusing bald spot he wore with pride. He was a good man, kind and successful. She knew he fancied her, not a surprise given that she was the only woman in Shor's Stone. She was tolerant of his affections as she found them somewhat endearing, and he was comfortable to be around. Too comfortable, in some cases. There was no adventure in him, and he had the tendency to look after her like she was a doll of porcelain. Beautiful, but easily breakable.
Sylgja was anything but fragile.
"Just getting myself situated," she told Filnjar. She winced a little as her leg shook with a spasm, another side-effect of her wound. The muscle was strained and damaged. When she walked it was little more than a dragging limp.
"Glad to hear it," Filnjar said through the door. "Odfel and Grogmar hit a new vein earlier last night, so we're opening a new passage. They found some strange new ore I've never seen before."
Sylgja busied herself with a cloth, wiping off the salve that stuck to her hand. "Grogmar was saying something about that. Hard to believe there's anything else down there other than ebony and iron."
"Who knows? I sent a courier out to Riften earlier. The folks at Elgrim's Elixers should be able to figure it out." He rapped his knuckles on the door in a playful rhythm. "In the meantime, we need to keep busy. You're on smelter duty and we need those fires nice and hot."
"I'll have it ready," she promised. She masked the pain in her voice with good humor. "Maybe you'll be able to actually get some work done today. The rest of your miners are probably scratching their heads without me, trying to figure out what to do." She paused. "I'll be out there in a moment, Filnjar. Don't worry about me."
Filnjar laughed warmly, but Sylgja thought she heard bitterness in his voice. "It's my job to worry. I'm heading down to see how the new passage is coming along."
Sylgja heard Filnjar walk off and found herself sighing again. Smelting was all she was allowed as of late. Her wound kept her from doing any actual digging. She took a small silver bowl from her cabinet and filled it with water from a large jug. She dipped her hands into the water and used it to clean her face.
After drying herself with a rag, Sylgja looked at her reflection in the bowl. What she saw was a pale, pretty face framed by dark brown hair that was cut in a short bob. Her brown eyes were large and expressive on her narrowed face. She saw full, pale lips, curved eyebrows and a small scar just above her right eye. Attractive, certainly. Beautiful? She didn't know. Others were a better judge of such things.
She pulled herself out of her introspection and groaned at the thought of another day of smelter work. Still, it was better than being a beggar in Riften. Sylgja grabbed her pickaxe off a nearby table. She looped into her belt, straightened her posture and limped outside.
It was warm for an early morning in the Rift, and that meant that working the smelter was going to be near unbearable. Not only was the added heat going to make the work that much harder, but her ointment wouldn't last long in the warmth. She would need to re-apply it before long. Sylgja stepped off her porch and walked over to the smelter, nodding to Filnjar as he proceeded to enter the mine.
At least the day was pleasing to look at.
Sylgja brushed a strand of hair from her face. Her hair was growing longer and she would need to cut it before long to keep it out of her eyes. Sylgja sighed and began to kindle the smelter's flames, feeding it coal and scrap wood. Sweat beaded on her brow. She had only spent minutes outside and she already knew it was going to be a long day.
A scream tore out of the mine.
Sylgja turned to see Odfel, Grogmar and Filnjar running out of the mine, their eyes wide with fear. Odfel had a nasty gash on his shoulder and Grogmar's right leg was covered in sticky webbing.
Something was skittering after them.
Filnjar looked back over his shoulder. "Somebody get that door!"
Grogmar, his Orc tusks bared in an angry snarl, ran to seal the entrance. Sylgja screamed as something rushed out of the caves to meet him. She caught only a glance of it, a glance was enough. Fangs. Eyes. Massive hairy legs. A nightmare.
Grogmar smashed the thing back with his pickaxe, his eyes red with blood-fury. Green ichor sprayed from the wound he inflicted and painted his face and clothes. The monster hissed as it retreated and Grogmar slammed the mine door shut, baring them with a large metal beam. He stumbled away from the mine, his hand clenched around the handle of his pickaxe. The two men and the Orsimer sat on the ground as they struggled to regain composure, breathing hard.
"What happened?" Sylgja cried. "What in Oblivion-"
"Damn spiders," Grogmar said, shaking his head to clear the rage from his system. He wiped the ichor from his face and smeared it onto his shirt. "Odfel and I were-" He stopped talking and rubbed his eyes. "We were trading shifts with Lan and Berag. We were already on our way up when they started coming from the new passage we had just started." Grogmar began tearing away the webs that clung to his leg, stopping only to wipe away the ichor that dripped into his eyes.
Odfel groaned and pressed his good hand against the wound in his shoulder. "Bastard things. Stopped to help Lan and one of the spiders put a fang into me. Filnjar pulled me away before it could hit me with a full dose of venom. Otherwise I'd be as dead as the others right now."
Sylgja's blood ran cold. "Lan? Berag?"
Filnjar shook his head. There were tears pooling in his eyes. "They were dead before they knew what was happening. I saw... I saw one of the spiders wrapping up Berag in web. By the Eight, it was horrible. It was spinning him like a children's top."
Sylgja was silent as the deaths of her friends hit her. Her hand went to her mouth and she pushed the urge to sob aside.
Odfel looked over at Sylgja, pain in his eyes. "Needs a bandage and a potion. My arm is going numb."
She nodded. "I'll be right back." She started to limp towards her house, her jaw tight. Two of her friends were dead, but the rest needed help.
Filnjar pulled himself up and started after her. "Sylgja, wait. I'll get it."
She turned, anger in her eyes. "No, you won't. I need to brew up a fresh one, and you don't know how. See to Odfel until I get back."
"I-"
Sylgja resumed her walk. "I don't need you to baby me, Filnjar." Her hands clenched into fists and she stormed off, doing her best to keep the sadness at bay.
"So the guards aren't going to do anything?" Sylgja couldn't believe what she was hearing. "It's been three days!"
The firelight crackled as the miners ate. The sun was about to go down. The four sat around the outdoor cooking fire, each of them with a bowl of watered-down soup and tired looks on their faces. None of them wanted to think about Lan and Berag. The spiders had probably sucked them dry.
Filnjar shook his head sadly and stirred his soup with a wooden spoon. "They're talking some nonsense about keeping an eye out for enemy soldiers."
Odfel snorted in contempt. His shoulder was bandaged but he still managed to be his usual uppity self. "Bunch of cowards is what they are. As if the war would ever find itself this far into the Rift."
"Damn fools," Grogmar agreed as he brought his bowl to his mouth and slurped a good portion of it down. "What good is having a mine when the people paying for the ore don't want to defend it?"
"No good at all," Sylgja said quietly. Her own bowl of soup was untouched.
Filnjar cast a wary look at Sylgja. "Eat, you need to keep up your strength if you're going to heal properly."
It's not going to heal, she thought, not unless the Divines see fit to cast a miracle upon me. Still, Sylgja swallowed a spoonful of soup, if only to appease Filnjar.
"So what are we going to do?" Grogmar barked as he ate from his bowl. "We can't sit around and wait for those spiders to die natural deaths."
Odfel nodded. "We should hire some mercenaries. One of us should go to Whiterun and see about having the Companions help us out."
"Whiterun is too far," Filnjar said, irritation in his voice. "The next ore cart will be here in two days, and it's at least twice that to get to Whiterun and back. If we don't get that ore before that cart shows up we won't last through the next trip." The Nord blacksmith kneaded his forehead and sighed. "Besides, we wouldn't have nearly enough gold to pay the Companions for their work."
Grogmar tugged at his beard, trying to pull the solution from the graying hairs. "Mjoll the Lioness is down in Riften. She's been adventuring in these parts for years, maybe we could-"
"She's retired," Odfel said bitterly. "Lost her nerve exploring some ruin, that's what I heard. Now she struts around Riften and acts like she's helping the fight against the Thieve's Guild. Damned fool woman."
It was quiet after Odfel finished. Nobody wanted to think about how dire the situation was. Nobody wanted to abandon Shor's Stone.
"I'll do it," Grogmar said, breaking the silence. "I'll kill those spiders dead. All I need is a pickaxe."
"Don't be insane," Filnjar told him, "You have no idea how many of them are down there."
Grogmar shook his head and stood, his eyes red and angry. "I may not be a youth anymore, but I'm still an Orc. I've worked this mine for almost ten years and I'm not about to let some damn bugs keep me from my work."
"I'd go with," Odfel grunted as he rubbed the bandaged gash on his arm, "But I'm no good like this."
"Nobody is going down there!" Filnjar barked.
Sylgja gritted her teeth. "Well we need to do something! We're stuck unless that mine is clear! That's our livelihood!"
"Sylgja, we can't just-"
She couldn't believe how spineless Filnjar was being. "Our friend's bodies are still down there! Are you going to just leave Lan and Berag to rot?"
He had nothing to say to that. None of them did.
"It appears you have a problem."
The four miners turned and saw at the sound of a strange voice. Sylgja had to suppress a gasp.
A massive suit of golden armor stood nearby. Broad shouldered and motionless, Sylgja had to assure herself that the stranger wasn't a statue. Patterns and symbols of foreign design scrolled across the armor and made Sylgja's head spin. Even in the dimming light the armor gleamed, a masterwork of peerless craftsmanship. The man's face was covered by a sculpted helm and grimacing metal face mask. The war mask was bisected by a metal flange that rose over the top of the helmet to create an imposing crest. It made an already striking figure that much more intimidating.
His only visible weapon was a long mace of that same golden metal. Sylgja couldn't tell its exact length with just a glance, but looked nearly as long as her forearm. The weapon was squared, four-flanged and looked like it could crush a skull with little effort. The golden edge of a large round shield could be seen hanging across the armor's back.
Sylgja caught Filnjar's gaze. As though they'd rehearsed it, the miners looked at each other, unsure what to make of the situation. "What's your business in Shor's Stone, friend?" Filnjar called out. He stood and glanced at Sylgja. She shrugged.
"Work," the armor said. The voice of the speaker was strange; cultured, precise and definitely not Nordic. A metallic flange accented each word. "I seek a Nord. A man of the name Filnjar."
Filnjar froze. "Aye," he said warily, "That would be me."
The helmet turned and fixed Filnjar with a sightless gaze. "I come from Riften. Hafjorg at Elgrim's Elixirs sent me to inquire about an ore sample."
Filnjar stared dumbly for a moment. "I... uh yes. That." He rubbed his forehead. "Hafjorg is going to be disappointed." His eyes dropped and the rest of the miners looked on in silence.
The armor shifted slightly. "For your sake, Nord, I pray my time has not been wasted."
Filnjar paled visibly and took a step back.
"I've got the sample," he said with a bit of fear in his voice. "But the mine's been shut down. Had a run in with some frostbite spiders that forced us out three days ago. We haven't been able to get anyone to clear it out. No mine, no point in sending the sample to Hafjorg. I'm sorry."
"I will not return empty handed," the armor said angrily.
Filnjar took another step back and Odfel and Grogmar rose from their seats. "I don't know what to tell you," Filnjar said. "We've no way to clear them out."
"We don't have anything without that mine," Odfel said with a glare.
The armor's head inclined slightly to one side. "If the mine were cleared, then you could resume business as normal?"
Filnjar nodded. "Aye."
"The guards aren't any help," Grogmar said with a snort.
The armor laughed, a short, condescending sound. "Are they ever?" His gaze shifted the the mouth of the mine, just up the hill. "Frostbite spiders," he murmured. "How many and how large?"
Oldfel glanced at his wound. "Didn't exactly get a good look when we were running for our damn lives."
"Three," Grogmar cut in. "At least. Maybe four. They were big, too. Big as I've ever seen them."
The armored man nodded. "Did you catch their coloration?"
"Brown," Filnjar said as he scratched the side of his face. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"The details are always important," the armor chastised. "They were brown, so I am surprised you escaped their webs." He pointed at Odfel. "Had they been white, you would not have survived the night."
Sylgja's eyes went wide. "Their poison is different based on color?"
The armored man shifted his gaze to her and she suppressed a shudder. "Indeed. The creatures breed different adaptations for different parts of Skyrim. The spiders in the north have a stronger venom. The spiders in the southern climates tend to foster a more paralytic toxin. They numb their prey, allow them to sit for a few days wrapped in web and then suck them dry. The cold of the north means that their white kin can afford no such luxury."
Sylgja placed a hand over her mouth. "Gods. That means... that means..." She trailed off as she imagined Lan and Berag struggling weakly in the dark, at the total mercy of the spiders.
Filnjar walked forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, Sylgja."
She recoiled from his touch like it was poison. "It is not okay, Filnjar!" Her voice was a hoarse shout.
The armor shifted a little. "This is not all of you."
Grogmar nodded. "Two of our friends are still down there. It's been days."
"Then they are dead," the armor said bluntly.
"You shut your damn mouth!" Odfel roared. He stood up and yanked his pickaxe from his belt. His wounded arm trembled slightly. "You don't get to come to our home and talk down to us like this!"
"Put it down," the armored man commanded. His hands clenched into fists as he took a step forward. Odfel's pickaxe dropped to the ground. Sylgja could only watch.
"Please!" Filnjar held up his hands. "We don't want any trouble."
"Save you words," the armored man spat. "I have no quarrel with you. The spiders shall feel any wrath I possess."
Grogmar's eyes went wide. "You're going to kill the spiders?"
"I will remove the infestation. Break their bodies, burn their webs. Your mine will be clean."
Filnjar and Grogmar shared a look. "We have nothing to offer you in return," Filnjar told him. "Certainly not the kind of money needed to pay for such a task."
"If you lack gold, I would ask to rest under a roof after my task is complete. The sun is dying and I prefer not to travel at night. Also, a meal. Preferably warm."
The miners looked at each other. Odfel shook his head. "I don't like it."
"You do not have to," the stranger retorted.
"If you clear them out you can stay with me," Sylgja offered. "I've a spare bed, blankets and some fresh hay. And I'm sure I can scrape some food together." She locked eyes with the stranger's mask and ignored the strange looks the others were giving her.
The armored man nodded. "I will return shortly. Have the bed and food ready for me." The miners watched the stranger walk up the hill toward the mine.
"Wait!" Sylgja called out. "You're going in alone?"
The armored man paused at the mine's entrance. He glowed golden, brilliant under the dying sun.
"I am never alone," he replied.
Without another word, he drew his mace, unslung his shield and descended into the mine.
"He's been down there for a bit," Sylgja said quietly.
Oldfel snorted. "Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. I'll not weep while he gets himself killed." The miner finished the last of his soup and stomped toward the residence that he and Grogmar shared.
The Orc gave the mine a hard look. "An odd one, no doubt." He gave Sylgja a tired smile. "Thanks for the soup, my dear." He turned and followed Odfel into the house.
Filnjar and Sylgja stood and waited in silence. The sun had all but fallen beneath the horizon and the strongest light was the cooking fire before them. Filnjar prodded the burning logs with a branch. The fire spat ash and embers in a light cloud. Renewed, the flames licked the air with greedy tongues.
It was Filnjar who broke the silence. "I'd better get that ore sample he wanted. I hope he kills all those damn things." He gave Sylgja a reassuring smile, but she wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the mine. Filnjar sighed and left the fire. Sylgja sat alone and waited.
She didn't wait long. Soon enough, the armor emerged from the mine, his golden color dulled slightly by the night. Sylgja stood, in awe, as he made his descent. His mace was stained with ichor and there was a spray of it across the front of his armor, but the stranger looked otherwise untouched. His shield hung loosely from his left arm, a few fresh scratches in the polished metal.
The armor reached the fire and sat down across from her. The log shifted under the weight of his armor. A bulky pack of tanned hide slipped to the ground next to his feet and he rested weapon and shield against the bench. The grimacing war mask tilted down as he looked into the fire. Sylgja watched in silence.
Eventually, he spoke. "Have the preparations been made?" he asked quietly. There was a tiredness to his voice that Sylgja hadn't heard before.
"Oh," she replied, a bit dumbstruck. "I'll get it taken care of." She rose from her seat, not once taking her eyes off of him. "Filnjar went to get your ore sample." The armor said nothing. Sylgja lingered a moment longer before turning to head inside.
"You limp," the man said, and she stopped. "Are you injured?" The metal tone had taken on a tinge. Concern? She didn't want concern.
Sylgja didn't turn to look at him. "I'm fine," she muttered. She opened the door to her home and stepped inside, leaving the man alone by the fire.
Filnjar walked outside, a chunk of glimmering ore in his hands, and saw the stranger, sitting alone by the cooking fire. The guards were patrolling the roads nearby. He could see the glow of their torches. Slowly but surely, the glow of dozens of torchbugs lit up the night as they began... well, whatever it was that torchbugs did.
He approached the armored man, a little cautious. "Were you successful?"
"Your mine is clean, Nord. Your problem is solved."
"That was awfully quick. You sure you got them all?
The armor's shoulders heaved. Filnjar realized that the man had shrugged. "The infestation was just starting to take root. Their webs have been burned, along with their eggs. They were large, but your Orc was correct as to their number. Four is nothing against me." He pulled a rag from his pack and set to wiping down his mace and shield.
The miner's next words were hesitant, almost fearful. "Were you able... did you find-"
"Bodies. Yes, two of them. Drained of their..." The armor trailed off when he saw the look of sorrow and discomfort on Filnjar's face. "I cremated the remains, said the proper blessings to Arkay for safe travel to Aetherius."
Filnjar's voice was low, even in the quite buzz of night. "Berag wasn't much for the gods, if I'm any judge. Never saw him pray or anything. Think he was trying to keep his mind off of things. Never spoke much."
"And the other?"
The old mine head sighed. "Lan had an amulet of Talos. His father was a Stormcloak, died in the first years of the rebellion. Lan always said Talos protected him from the worst of the mine accidents. Guess spiders don't count for divine protection."
The armor said nothing, but produced a simple leather loop from a pouch hanging from his waist. Hanging from the the chain was a small bronze axe-head, the swirls and shape signifying its connection to Talos. The stranger held out the amulet to Filnjar, who took it with a shaking hand.
"I do not worship," the armor said quietly, "but perhaps you may say a prayer for your... friend. Dedication to those we have lost is an important process, if not sacred."
Filnjar had no idea what to make of the man. "Thank you," he said with certainty as he curled his hand around the amulet. "You've saved us from becoming destitute. Even if the others are a bit gruff, know that we're in your debt."
The armored man waved a hand in dismissal as he finished cleaning his weapon and shield. "I take no debts, Nord. I work. I kill. I take payment. I do not take words."
Filnjar frowned. "Regardless," he said, trying to remain amicable, "Here's that ore sample you were asking for." He held out the chunk of rock and the armored man took it.
"Distinct in coloration," the armor grunted, reaching behind with one hand to pull his pack free.. "Likely unrefined quicksliver. Your mine will become most profitable, should this discovery lead to a substantial vein." He stuffed the sample and the cleaning rag inside before slinging the pack back over his shoulder. Silent once more, the armor stared into the fire.
Filnjar shifted slightly, uncomfortable in the quiet firelight. "Well, have a good night. And thank you again."
"The woman. Is she always like that?"
Filnjar glanced at the armored man. "Who, Sylgja? No, she's just having a rough time of it. We all are. Not used to seeing strangers in Shor's Stone, for that matter." He looked down into the fire that the stranger was staring so intently into. "She took a bad fall a few weeks back. Hasn't really recovered."
"I see," the man said. He raised a hand to the fire and a tongue of the flame jumped into his palm.
Filnjar's eyes went wide. It wasn't much of a display, but the use of magic put the superstitious Nord on edge almost instantly. "You're a mage?" he whispered.
"Sorcerer," the armor corrected. "Is that discomforting?"
Filnjar thought he heard a tinge of humor in the voice, but the metal sound almost smothered it entirely. "Well," the Nord said nervously, "Just as long as you don't go burning down any buildings." It was supposed to be a joke, but Filnjar's fear kept it from being even a chuckle.
The armor said nothing.
Filnjar stood for a moment, as if trying to find something to say. In the end he gave up, nodded his thanks and walked back inside.
The armored man sat in silence and let the fire grow in his hand. His mask flickered with golden light as the flame burned.
He began to speak. More than that, really. He began to moan, a deep, resonating chant that made the air buzz. Both fires danced with his song, growing and ebbing with the sound of his voice.
"Words cut iron,
Singing blade.
Peace is spoken,
War is made.
Souls gone black,
Love is given.
Sins of mortals,
All forgiven."
He repeated the song three times, never changing pitch or tone. The words, tinged by the metal of his mask, filled the air. When he finished, he extinguished the fire in his hands and the one at his feet before rising. He looked up for a brief moment, staring into the glow of the night sky.
Sylgja, watching through the crack of her door, closed it silently.
"There, now that's a bed worthy of any tavern in Skyrim."
They were indoors now, away from the cold of the night. Sylgja had lit a few candles to give light to her modest dwelling. It wasn't much, but it was hers. That's what made it important.
The armor glanced at the bed and nodded. "You have my thanks. If I may, I wish to eat before I rest for the night."
Sylgja nodded her head at a nearby table. She had a bowl of grilled leeks and a plate of cooked potatoes sitting on a wooden table.
"It's nothing fancy," Sylgja said as he sat down. She took the chair across from him and rested her elbows on the table.
"It is food," the man said, somewhat supportive. "It smells pleasing."
Sylgja found herself blushing. She had no idea why. The stranger was gruff, slightly unapproachable and she hadn't even seen his face. The song had been beautiful and his masterly control of fire was incredible, but he was a stranger. And an arse. And she was attracted to him?
Nonsense.
He reached up to pull off his helmet and Sylgja realized she was holding her breath. The golden helm came off and she got a first look at her guest.
Her mother had told her stories of great warrior-men when she was a little girl. While Sylgja preferred the stories of her mother's exploits as an adventurer, the fanciful ideas told in those old tales did leave their impressions. They had always been big men with thick necks, long beards and flowing hair. Their features had always been cut from stone and their eyes were said to glow with righteous light.
The little girl in her was disappointed when the man beneath the armor turned out to be the opposite.
He wasn't a Nord, that much was certain. His skin had been pale at some point before the sun had darkened it. His head was rounded, face narrow and the muscles of his neck were thin and tough. His head was shaved down to the scalp and only the barest shadow of stubble graced his chin.
The thing that stood out most, at least to Sylgja, were the sorcerer's eyes. A dull gold color, there was an aged look to them, though Sylgja wouldn't have guessed he was any older than his mid-thirties. Still, something about the eyes unnerved her, though she didn't let it show on her face.
The gold-eyed man wore a stern expression that was framed by an inverted 'V' of warpaint that started at the man's forehead, crossed over each eye and ended just above the cheekbone. The markings were expertly done in black and looked as though they'd been applied some time ago. A scattering of scars dotted the left side of his face, but he was otherwise unmarred.
Aside from the markings and the eyes, there was nothing truly remarkable about him. He wasn't particularly handsome or unattractive. Sylgja let herself breathe. He was just... odd looking. Normal, but odd. Breton or Imperial, she couldn't tell. He could have been either.
He lifted a fork off the table, his hand still encased within his gauntlet, and speared one of the leeks. The motion was quick and precise, almost too quick for Sylgja's eyes to follow. She marveled at how dexterous he was, even wrapped in his armor.
The armored man crunched the leek and ate in silence, his mouth closed as he chewed. He did not speak until the food had been masticated thoroughly and swallowed.
"These have been prepared well," he said quietly. "You have my thanks."
"You... you are welcome," she stammered. He was so strange. Her friends and family always ate in raucous groups and talked while chewing. The manners of the armored man were as alien as his armor.
"You find me strange, correct?"
Sylgja sat up straight. It was like he had read her mind. She stared, a fierce blush forming in her face. "A bit," she admitted. "You're not from Skyrim, I know that much. I've never entertained a foreigner before."
"You have been most hospitable," the man said. He consumed a mouthful of potato before speaking again. "Many in Skyrim would not let a stranger into their home. Even fewer would do so for a sorcerer."
Sylgja tried her best to look surprised. "You're a mage?" she asked.
"Sorcerer," he corrected. "But yes, I practice the magickal arts."
"I've... I've nothing against mages," she said. "Or sorcerers." Sylgja cursed herself for sounding so pathetic. She had never met a real mage, at least not one who professed to be a student of magic. She was used to priests and their arts of Restoration. It was the only kind of magick most Nords tolerated.
"You are kind," he told her. She looked up and found herself staring into his eyes. She couldn't think of anything to say.
He finished his meal in silence, not once trying to start a new conversation. Sylgja sat and watched him eat, unable to fathom what made her so dumbstruck. There was... there was something about him. It was an aura, a strength. She found it difficult to think about, impossible to express.
The magick. It had to be the magick.
"Well," she said, more to break the silence than anything else. "I suppose you'll want to get some rest."
He nodded and she rose from the table. A spasm of pain overtook her leg and she lost her balance. She shifted forward in an attempt to keep upright, but she found herself falling anyway. She gave a small cry and closed her eyes, waiting for the impact.
The breath left her lungs, but not from hitting the floor. Sylgja opened her eyes and found that the stranger's arm was wrapped tightly around her middle, holding her up. She couldn't believe it, but somehow he had managed to sit up, move around the table and catch her before she hit the floor. Nobody was that fast.
He walked Sylgja over to her bed and set her down. She collapsed, groaning, onto the blankets. Her leg continued to shake with the pain and tears pooled under her eyes. She wanted to scream, but her voice failed her.
She dimly registered the sound of his voice. The pain made it seem like he was talking from a great distance.
"You are having a severe muscle spasm," he told her. "You need to relax. Do not fight the pain, it will only make things worse. Embrace it. Join it. Allow it to run its course."
She nodded, tears now flowing freely down her face. Her leg felt like it was on fire. She stopped struggling and the pain ebbed a little. It still throbbed like heated iron, but it was beginning to subside.
After what seemed like an eternity, the pain in her leg finally faded into a dull ache. She buried her face in the blankets and sobbed with relief. It had been the worst pain she had ever experienced.
Pain or not, she still sat up in shock when she felt the gold-eyed man tugging at her pants.
"What are you doing?" she demanded weakly. She slapped at his hands as they undid her belt.
"Helping," he muttered. She struggled in his grip and her leg gave another debilitating spasm.
"Hold still," he ordered. She tried to push him off, but he was too strong. Her trousers were yanked down, exposing the scar, in all its throbbing glory. Sylgja thanked the Eight that her long mining shirt covered her nether regions. Her eyes wide with horror, she pleaded with her attacker.
"Please... please I-"
"This is a horrid wound," the gold-eyed man said. He pressed his cold gauntlets against the scar and she squealed in pain.
All at once, the pain left her. She looked down, her eyes wide, and watched white-gold tendrils of healing magick jump from the man's fingers and into her skin. Sparks of the stuff buried themselves into the scar tissue and smoothed it out. Others she felt deep inside the muscle, mending the shattered tissue. She could feel the magick restoring her leg as it flowed through her. It was far beyond what the priest had been able to manage.
She stared at the healer. His eyes were closed and his lips moved to a whispered mantra. Power radiated from him. The magick pouring from his hands made his golden armor glow with arcane brilliance.
Sylgja's vision began to dim. His face was the last thing she saw before she faded into unconsciousness.
Sylgja woke up late the next morning, in her own bed and under its sheets. The sun poked through the thatch of her roof and struck her face with a beam of unwanted light. She groaned, still sleepy, and shifted to block the sun from her face.
Her bad leg did not bind in protest.
She sat up, wide-eyed, and looked at her leg. She was still dressed in her miner's clothes, trousers and all. Sylgja rubbed the spot where she knew her wound should be. When it didn't protest, she stood quickly and stripped her trousers off entirely.
The scar, once a pulsing, knotted thing, was now a sliver of discolored skin that was no bigger than her thumb. She flexed the muscle and waited for a bolt of pain to shoot through the damaged limb. Nothing.
She stared at the scar, unable to find the words to describe her gratitude. A massive smile split her face and tears of joy ran down her cheeks. She was ready to throw her arms around the healer that had saved her from the debilitating pain.
Sylgja looked up and opened her mouth to thank the sorcerer, the man who called himself a shield, but the words never left her mouth.
The spare bed was empty.
LM here,
Yeah, we got us some backstory. I liked writing the whole 'what happens in Redbelly mine' bit. Grogmar got to smash some spiders cuz' he's an Orc and I love 'em. Oh, and our armor-clad protagonist heals the heroine. What could be better? Well, that whole implied fear-of-rape thing probably didn't put him in the best light. Ah well. Hope you enjoyed!
R&R,
Levi Matthews
