Chapter 3: Fus

He had been right to assume that his life was about to become far more complicated. He found himself again in Riverwood, but this time he was not looking to the expanse of road or sky, but to the jagged teeth of the mountain high above the sleepy town. An old barrow stood as a sentinel overlooking all that stretched before it. Grand arches of hardened stone curved skyward in weathered arms encapsulating the resting place of those long buried, and according to Ralof those slighted and scorned.

To many it was symbolic of all things rotted and decayed, to him it was a sacred space where souls laid in slumber eternal. The hardened stone was beautiful to him, glistening under the white veil of the clouded heavens. He doubted many would see it that way. Dark and foreboding, or silent and resplendent? He supposed it mattered little if not at all.

Regardless of how he felt for such places, he was to take from it. He would be little more than a thief and the title felt ill suited on his tongue and his insides twisted with guilt. The unholiness of duty sat oily and foul beside his conscience. One does not take from the dead it was simply not done. No matter the circumstances, or so he had thought.

Nothing had changed that thought, despite the exigent need for the stone slab called the Dragonstone. No matter what he called it, no matter that he felt disgust of it, he knew well that he would do as asked. He would steal from the dead if that meant keeping the living, the living. Then again he recalled once when he was young and his mother cradled him close, she told him with solemn voice that the living could always wait but the dead… The dead could not. He wondered now, if that was truer than anything else.

It was this thought that brought the beast to his mind. Eyes of hellfire red, spiraling with the cosmos of nothing and the end of all things. Wings aloft on winds adorned with bone spikes and scales, black as the likes of tar and soot. Alduin, emWorld Eater/em. The Dragon King.

The dead would not wait, he knew. His mother had been right. What that meant of the now he could not ascertain. Ralof told him of walking dead and he had met restless spirits before. He could even recall a time in his younger and more foolish days where he spent an entire year running from the daedric prince Hircine, and other such horrors. This did not feel like that sort of thing, it was more ancient even than The Hunt. It spoke from in him with words that were the bones and teeth of old gods. It made his insides quiver and his stomach sick.

Such moralities and noble judgments had been alive before Alduin and the strange words pushing him into some fearsome place. Whatever the beast had been, the dead quaked under it. He had to make it right. He had promised he would do what he could to aid against the plight to come, partly because of such ancient whispers. Also, because he could not deny the man who asked it of him with such gravity and purpose.

He recalled the kindly aging face of Jarl Balgruuf. He saw the crinkling of his mortal eyes, his voice and spirit when he claimed he would not stand idly by when his duty was to protect, warm and smooth words like molten steel. He was a man of action and regal resolution. A true leader of mankind, and so easy to fall into line behind. Balgruuf asked and so he agreed. His respect had not diminished even in the face of his new responsibility, and not even when placed before their so called court wizard did he doubt the intentions of this man.

The mage however, he could doubt him. Farengar was a pompous sort. He was full of himself in a way that he had recalled in younglings of the Aldmeri guilds, but lacking the discipline. The only difference in his arrogance and theirs, was that he could not recognize his betters and would not hold his wagging tongue. His magic for what it was worth, was the sort wasted on a man such as he. A mind like that was made for a scholar and never a practitioner. The gift was laying to waste in the flesh and bones of the unambitious and lackluster man. He had thought it insulting.

Despite that, he found himself somehow listening to such a man, and when he listened he tended to get roped into things that he was not responsible for. Things like stealing from ancient tombs, though to be fair it had been the Jarl that cemented his involvement. He was weak to the pleading of those weaker than himself. If he had power, then it was his responsibility to use it to aid those that didn't have it. His teacher of old called it Noblesse Oblige, said it was a foolish thing. It had always gotten him into trouble before and now was no different.

Bleak Falls Barrow towered over him in grim mockery of his inner turmoil. The only consolation was that he got to return to Riverwood. He was growing fond of the town in the short time he had to prepare and on his second day of the five he had needed, Gerdur had joined him to gather supplies for his mission. She had looked cross at first, but once he explained the situation she agreed to aid him in the ways that she could. They spent a day gathering herbs for potions, making provisions, and he had slipped away midday to the smithy.

It had been soothing to hold a hammer again. The sound of it striking steel was satisfying, more than he could ever recall it being. Better even than when he made Siealdryn. It must have been the open freedom here, or the air, or the idea that even if he made this thing it would never taste the flesh of a living man. That was enough to make it worth more to him than anything he had yet made.

He spent the remainder of his day and much of his evening aiding in the shaping of armors, and forging of steel blades. It kept his hands busy and his mind clear, a time to catch up on the emotions that he had to leave behind him. In the end he had asked for nothing of Alvor but his skill and willingness to assist earned him a set of light armor. So he passed the Second Day.

The third day found him with a bosmer of the name Faendal, of who he found refreshing. It was not often he ran into a skill he had not honed in his long life. So many years of battle mastery had taught him much in the way of crafts and arts, some much more than others. It was with great interest that he joined the mer for the remainder of his time.

He was a good looking figure for an elf but not the type to gain the attention he desired of women. The mer had exotic skin, dark and smooth. His hair was pale white and much as his own, silvery in sheen. Thin lips were generous with vicious smiles, quick in wit, and quicker still were deft fingers to the draw pull on a bow.

It was a skill he envied and he openly admitted his lacking of it. To Faendal it was something hilarious, an elf who could shoot a bow. For hours he howled in riotous mirth as his companion failed miserably at hitting the targets both far and near. They spent hours in practice before they decided he would have made for a poor example of a wood elf had he been born one.

They spent a good portion of the day on his shoulder stances. It was an uncomfortable experience and harder still to retain. The sword required a different set of balances and his forward stance for the bow was the opposite of the offensive nature of his usual battle bearings. It was more defensive, made to make the wielder a smaller target. It reminded him of when he was taught to fight with fists in place of blades, but even that couldn't really compare to the off kilter stance of a bowman.

By late afternoon his fingers were raw and aching, his muscles burned in a way he hadn't felt since his days as an acolyte under battle master Miranthe. It was all worth it, because his target was filled with arrows, some even well meant. Nothing so skilled as his bosmer friend but enough to be impressive for having never wielded the likes before.

He was grateful for the time well spent and maybe it was because of this that he agreed to speak to Carlotta on behalf of his new friend. It could also be because he needed further supplies for his assignment. Whatever the case he found himself in the local shop, agreeing to aid them. In a way he was glad for it. Getting justice for the Riverwood Trader would put him at ease, if only for a portion of his coming misdeeds. More comforting was that Faendal agreed to accompany him. It lessened the pressure of his chest that he would not be going it alone, and the bosmer would be a good set of eyes and quick fingers.

The fourth day they spent fletching arrows and righting armor for the journey up the mountain. Laeriyel was hopeless in archery but his forging was a force to be reckoned with. He dealt with the steel and iron from Alvor to hone their blades and made tips for arrows while Faendal took care of the shafts and fletchings. More than once Laeriyel spied Carlotta watching them with rapt fascination and more than once he noticed the dark flush crawling handsomely up his companion's neck.

It must've been good to be so young and so in love, he told Faendal, eyes glittering with mirth. He received a hard right hook to his shoulder, but the bite to it was fond enough that he could not find it in himself to mind. The fifth day they rested and rechecked their supplies. Then they left with the dawn of the next morning. They set off with Carlotta seeing them over the bridge, and if his companion spent a bit too long in saying goodbye to her, well he wouldn't pick at him for it.

Now, the pair stood in the shadow of the Barrow with the sun high overhead and feeling smaller than they could ever recall being before. The snow about them glinted harshly, blinding them in its brilliance. The air froze their skins with biting teeth. Laeriyel felt he was justified in thinking that his life had been about to be far more complicated than he intended because trouble found them long before they even set foot within the hall of dead things.

They had little trouble in the beginning and ascended the mountain swiftly, as mer they were quick and bosmeri were quicker still. It helped that Laeriyel was used to crossing rougher terrains than this and Faendal was used to the taller climbs of Valenwood. The only challenge was the bitter cold that seeped into his bones and made his insides ache. Teeth set on edge, and muscles quivering.

Between the two of them it had become a race of sorts, healthy competition in a way that could actually be moderately fair. They scaled with light feet and the green lands gave way to whiter snow. More than that, the brighter day made them keep their heads down low as they roved higher. A shadow fell over them mid morning and over an outcropping of rocks a lone tower came to view.

It was a solitary thing of olden stone, as Helgen had been, save this tower was glazed over in sleet from the thin air and chillwind from the north. Not frozen yet but nearly so. He wondered distantly what bastions lied on the tundras of the frozen north and The Sea of Ghosts. He wondered what it would be like to stand before them before shaking the thoughts away. Maybe if the lands had been warm he would have fantasized further, but alas he was not a being built for the frozen tundra. He was a man of the hearth's fire.

He would have continued on but movement on the tower's high eaves made him halt and crouch low into the chill of stones. He felt his companion settled beside him just as alert, and with them both so slight they fit together seamlessly. For a good few minutes they both observed with keenness that came from superior sight. To any untrained eye the stone outlook would have been abandoned and from so far away the unsuspecting travelers would have continued in ignorance, possibly even into death.

They were not mere men however, they were mer, and more than that one of them was a Bosmer. Their eyesight was far superior and made them excellent in ranged combat. Altimer also shared a keenness of the eyes, but Faendal was leagues over him. Laeriyel had spent a good amount of his youth as a scout, so he knew how to see even if he did not have the sharpness or clarity of his friend.

It was only the experience from those scouting years that he saw them before Faendal did, but it was his friend's his dark finger that pointed out the rag tag pieces that adorned the nord lookout slipping past the door.

Lips settled over one of his long ears and the heat of his voice carried the word. Thin lips brushing slow against his cold skin. emBandits my brother/em. The air was hot and his skin prickled at it. He nodded in response and just as soon as that, the heat was gone and with it the chill returned with a vengeance. As one they carefully maneuvered around the path ahead until they came to a better vantage point.

Two sets of eyes monitored the doorways, taking stock of the numbers and trying to guess the rest. It was far too early in the day to have to exhaust themselves and so they chose to infiltrate as silently as possible. He could have crept close enough and eliminated the watcher at the main doorway but to be safe he left her to Faendal and deft Bosmeri fingers.

The bosmer strung his bow tight, covered arms steady and pose lithe. It was statuesque and mastered in a way that Laer had little hope of ever emulating. The sound of the bow was lost in the wind and the silent arrow struck true. The shaft stuck half out and the head was lodged deep into the woman's neck. Blood trickled from the wound that was sealed around the shaft too deep to not be fatal. She listed sideways and then fell, the edge of the bridge taking her weight as the life fled from her. It was painless and simple, a clean death not befitting a criminal.

He should regret it but it had been far too long since he felt such emotions for those who would not feel it themselves. The sound her body made must have been heard because a second form wandered out of the safety of the tower walls. Already another arrow flew and in seconds he joined her, the death again the likes of 'quick' and 'painless'. They waited another good while and when no others came to see about their dead brethren, the pair moved over their rocky shelter and advanced.

They crossed the threshold as one, tandem bodies in a synchrony that few could match. This time Laeriyel led the way, the steel singing softly from his hip as he unsheathed the sharpened instrument he had crafted with care. Cool shadows greeted him along with the flickering heat of torches, light glistened from the studs in his lighter armor. The firelight danced a tune of desperation, the cold and wind doing little to help keep their kindling. What heat could have been was very little in reality, though the stone kept at bay the brunt of the cold.

Within the next ten minutes they had cleared the tower, the work was clean and quick. Bandits they may have been but inexperienced in sword work and sloppy all the same. Too young, even in the eyes of man and it struck him as odd. He had to wonder where their minders had gone, for this was nothing but a midway stop. The supplies here were much too generous to be just a good haul, not with how far Riverwood and Whiterun were from here. He shared his thoughts but the spoke no more of it for now. It could wait.

They took lunch in the tower, side by side to share their heat. They joked lightly, and enjoyed each the other in the short span they had to rest before they continued higher still into the jagged peaks. For a good while they were silent, eyes alert and strained into the gleaming white of the mountain.

"It is strange, I did not know bandits to be so close to Riverwood. They tend to keep to the wilds or at least closer still to the roads of the southeast. They must be desperate or..." That was it exactly, and Laeriyel raised his eyes to take in the pensive nature of his accomplice.

"After something specific most likely. They were young, too young to know how to turn a blade away properly. The upper levels also held more clothes and goods than for those few. I think these are the bandits that stole into The Trader. Whatever prize awaits them must also be in the Barrow. I wonder if it is what I seek. We have further yet to go but they most likely reached the peak before us. No doubt with Carlotta's Golden Claw in hand. What a mess." He ran a hand over his face, his fingers much too cold to have been normal. They were paler than he could ever recall them being, on the verge of turning blue.

"We should tread lightly and strike quickly. Who knows what or how many we are facing." They sank into silence as they ate their brief meal then moved on. It only got colder the higher they went and it seeped into his insides with ferocity. His fingertips tingled, his ears felt sharp and brittle, and each lash of his fair hair caught the cold in it like a whip cracking on his skin.

It became enough of a bother that he decided to summon his magic to warm him. Travel cloaks could only stave off so much and he had not thought of weather when they were packing. Gerdur hadn't thought of it being nord. He would not soon forgo such preparations in the future. His veins pulsed angrily to the mana rising in them, forcing its way through him like many snakes to big to fit. Even a good week out of Helgen he still felt the potency and frequency of the poison they gave him on the way. It still crippled him, as the magic bit his insides and seared in him all it touched.

Despite the pain he pressed on and let it thrum within. It was better this way, to reopen a wound to heal it properly in a sense. At least now he was warm, and his fingers melted in tune to it, pinpricks in his nerves dispersing to nothing but the languid heat of mana and self. He felt a shoulder touch his own and from then on Faendal became the ever comforting presence at his back. A leech on his magic induced warmth. He found that he didn't much mind it.

Higher and higher they climbed until Shadows fell long over them. Colossal arms of heavy mountain stone, etched in ice and sleet. Swirls of detail, primitive, carved into the bases and arching walkways that once must have been a formidable defense to invaders. They were but ants in the scheme of its immensity and humbly they came to the steps of the large mountain tomb of Bleak Falls Barrow.

They did not need words to know what was amiss. They had assumed that they would encounter the remaining bandits here and so they did. These were a different sort and a slight bit more skilled though not enough to matter when it came to the quickness of arrows and the bite of steel. They fell down steps in heavy thuds that echoed on wards and down the mountain. Red stained white, and was enough for both he and his companion to wince at the sacrilege of their passing.

They agreed that they would remove the bodies on the way out. This place deserved its peace without the wandering souls of murderers and thieves. Again he was right to assume that his life was to be more complicated. Their entry to their exit was riddled with peril from bandits, spiders, and skeever beasts, to thieves and the restless dead, fleet of foot and heavy in their strikes. It was unnerving, he thought, as he closed the eyes of a draugr that fell before their final door. The smell of decay and stale air sat heavy on his pauldron shoulders.

Dirt and blood, viscera and bone meal, all of it collected on him and weaved into the fabric of his being. He wondered if one day he too would lay like this, restless and haunted. Molding in decay and too empty to know friends from foes. Would he be duty bound by oaths he had to keep enough to become like these lost ones? He was lucky that he had company to pull him from the darkness of his thoughts, for they had little time to spare on despair.

They opened the door as they did much of the day in unity. It had been exciting and exhausting and the idea that their adventure would end soon was both disparaging and uplifting. They worked well together, faced puzzles, and trials at a speed that many would have found astounding. He was glad, that he came in the end. Glad that he had listened to an arrogant mage and remembered the honesty in Balgruuf's eyes.

They were so close to their goal and then there would be rest. When they entered the caverns their spirits lifted when they smelled crisp fresh air. Light sifted through the edges of high stone giving substance to the giant walls within and the oddly carved slabs of stone on a raised dias. It was a relief to have finally reached a peaceful place free of dangers.

It was damp of course, but that bothered them little in lieu of seeing clean water. He could not stop himself from splashing his own face and reveling in the cleanliness that followed. Faendal eagerly explored the cavern. Every once in awhile he would come away from a patch of earth or wall with a plant. Laeriyel knew the basics of the art, enough to make healing tonics or draughts to aid in keeping his energy high for battle, but beyond that he was hopeless in the art of alchemy.

Then again it could have been for Carlotta. He recalled the alchemy station in the Trader and couldn't help the fond smile that pulled at his lips. Skyrim was full of the heart warming and it soothed the hurt in him to see love so fresh as this. To meet spirits the likes of Ralof and Faendal who laughed well and easy, truer friends he had not had in a long time and it only took them days a piece to win his affection. Truly a great land.

All the better to keep it from the maws of dragons.

It did not take him long to locate the dragonstone or rather where it should have been, as its alter sat imposing on the dias' high table alongside a many old tools that had become familiar looking. By now he could identify each embalming tool such was their popularity. Beside the table laid a casket, sealed of heavy stone, a guardian. There were two options, the first was that the stone had been stolen and the second… Green eyes flitted over to the final bed of the guardian, it was buried with him.

"I am so sorry friend, forgive me but I must," he hoped it would be enough, hoped the watcher would understand and stay sleeping. As he stepped further toward the table and the casket he felt a chill on his back, and a breath on his neck. He turned quickly, unsheathing his blade with the song of steel, to find nothing. Nothing save a wall with scratches along the face.

He carefully surveyed the area surrounding him but still nothing. As he turned away he felt it again, the chill on his back, breath on his neck. This time however, he heard it. A small thing as if calling from a great distance. Vertigo assaulted his senses and he had to close his eyes tight against the feeling of his mind turning over and over again. Then when he finally steadied himself he opened his eyes to find the wall inches from his person.

The whispers rose in a violent crescendo. Words old and raw burnt their way deep inside him and he felt himself reach out to them as if he had no control. Somewhere deep in him a voice rose to meet the words and when they touched all time stopped, all his heartbeats slowed for an instant as the clear voices raged within. Like the shouting of old gods. When they left, they left the word and took with them his autonomy.

He couldn't hear for the pounding in his skull, could not make out anything but the word in the forefront of his memory. All consuming in its presence. He did not hear the casket open. He felt not the chill from spells of ice, or sensed the maliciousness of the figure approaching upon him. All he knew was the word, all he knew then was the thumping of his heart with the blood of ancients. Wings beating across clouds and into sunlight high over the earth. Shattering mountains into walls, scratching understanding into them. Things of power, Stroma. Home.

When he came to it was because of the insistent grip shaking his shoulder. Why was it touching him?! Why should it dare? Rip. Tear. Rend. Mortals all of them.

"Laer?! Laer! By the nine are you with me? What happened to you!" The words sounded muffled, as if he were under the water, garbled and flighty. A language he should know and he wondered what this thing was attempting to say.… His head spun, great cobwebs pulling at the edges of his mind. Half his blood on fire and the other half foreign. His heart thudded in great, heavy beats with power the likes of which he knew not. His magic was silenced by the primordial pull that was sinking like a sickness into his center. His gaze focused in vibrancies he never saw before.

Fuzzy, bright, like a tiny flame. Lips were moving but he couldn't tell what they were conveying anymore. Clarity fled from him. Slowly though, in long blinking hazes he surfaced from that strange place. His legs threatened to give way and he heaved a gasping breath. His lungs burned, as if he hadn't tasted air in a long long time. It was as if he had been in a body not meant for him and far too small.

Faendal was looking at him with panicked eyes and checking him over mercilessly. A Draugr lord was slain with no less than six arrows just paces before him. He felt as if the world was trembling but realized it was himself, his veins felt clear but the magic in them felt wrong somehow. He tried to recall what he had been doing, but all he could remember was stepping up to the table. The table and then… An ache hit his temple. The pain was a reeling mass against the forefront of his skull and pounded behind his eyes.

Strong arms held him steady through the fit. It passed and with it came a lightness in his bones and an itch at his throat. Pressure in his spine that tingled much too pleasantly given the uncomfortable onslaught of whatever that had been. He shivered against Faendal's chest, chilled and heated, excited beyond measure. The energy coursing in him overrode his weariness of the day, the need to run or scream, expend the power he had was tantamount.

His eyes lingered briefly at the wall, what had been scratches had changed to a word which every now and again he knew. Force it said. Fus.

They fled from that place as soon as he could pull himself together. The open air was a blessing, cold and biting but wholesome after so long in the dim, the dank, and the dark. Snow crunched below their boots and wind rushed through their hair. A crescendo carrying in the life of Thedas. They were relieved to be free of it. Still it did not quell the strangeness in his spine, his gut, or his heart. It felt other, and strange but the more time that passed, the more it settled. No. Not settled. Integrated into him. Some bizarre harmony was reached and all was well.

It took a few more hours for him to feel like himself again, enough to inquire of the stone slab which Faendal had taken on their leave. The elf kept shooting him concerned looks and sometimes it felt as if he would ask about it. He wondered what he would say, what he could say about magic that he had no understanding of and yet, knew like a child its mother.

They reached the town by late evening, when all the world slept in the dead of night. The stars overhead were bright and clear. The whole of Aetherius on display for mortal eyes, clearer than he recalled seeing except among the sands of Elswyre. In him was peace and he wondered what exactly happened this day for he felt changed, irrevocably made into something else. He ended the day in the town inn and felt that fate was still not yet done with him. An instinct told him he was only just beginning his tale and for the first time in so long he looked forward to it.

The next day he returned the claw to the trader and made sure they knew of Faendal's bravery. He wished Alvor, Gerdur, Hod, and Faendal fond farewells as he turned again toward Whiterun. Adventure singing in his blood like the call of dragons. The screaming of old gods.