Sim'baja sat quietly in the living room of Breezehome, gazing at the fire as the girls giggled and trained with the wooden swords he had made them. Lydia gave them soft instruction as they battered at the dummy, and Sim'baja heard her laugh every now and then, a clear indication that she enjoyed her time with the two girls.
"Are you alright, dear?" a soft voice whispered in his ear, and he felt smooth arms reach around his neck and wrap around his chest. Soft skin touched the side of his face, and he felt light breathing play across his fur, and he sighed contentedly as he gently wrapped his fingers in his wife's.
"Just resting," he said as his thumb gently stroked her knuckles. Aela remained silent; having known warriors her entire life, she knew when to press for answers, and when to wait for them to be offered. Her patience paid off when he sighed, running his thumb over her knuckles. "The Thalmor have been routed, Skyrim and the Empire are pressing back on the Dominion, and the Khajiit are being allowed to have a presence in Skyrim society. Almost all of Sim'baja's life has been spent fighting. Fighting for freedom, for acceptance, for people, or just for the hell of a fight. What is left for warriors like us when all of the fighting is done?"
"I don't pretend to know the answers," she said, resting her chin on his shoulder in a rare moment of vulnerability. "As you said, we've been fighting all our lives. However, we now have two daughters that we would both die for, and I'm sure we'll have even more."
The Council of Healers would disagree, he thought to himself, feeling an ache in his chest as his glance turned to his bookshelf for a moment, his eyes falling on his copy of Racial Phylogeny. "Khajiit is sure you're right," he told her.
At least you had a daughter near the end, he thought to himself as he watched Arya dance in the Bannered Mare. The woman had changed into a pink and purple dress that swirled around her legs as she spun, her bare feet gracefully moving in time with a lively tune the bar's resident bard was playing. Her fiery hair, so like her grandmother's, fanned around her, and his world-weary expression softened as he saw the sheer joy on her face. In a moment she was in front of him, pulling his arms, shouting "Dance with me!" and in another he found himself yanked forward, stumbling slightly as she pulled him into the center of the room. The onlookers laughed, not in judgment, but in the comfortable manner of friendly people who had imbibed enough mead to make them even friendlier.
It had been some time since he had danced, but the movements came back to him, and he managed to guide her energetic movements into a slightly less wild spin. Her laugh pealed high and clear, even that reminding him of her grandmother, and he felt the ache all over again. He was thankful when, moments later, the song ended, and they collapsed breathlessly onto a bench as the patrons cheered. Arya beamed at him, her face flushed, and he couldn't help but smile back, even if it was only slightly. "This one believes he will teach you to ride a horse tomorrow," he said, and in her slightly drunken state Arya simply nodded, her smile still fixed on her face as her mind was still obviously on dancing. A moment later, she jumped up on a table, and the bard began playing again as she began to sing.
"When he was 'prenticed in Riften,
He came to see his dear!
The candles all were burning,
The moon shone bright and clear!
He knocked upon my window,
To ease me out of my pain!
I rose to let him in and then I barred the door again!
I like well your behavior,
And this I often say,
I cannot rest contented,
When you are far away!
The roads they are so muddy,
We cannot walk about!
So roll me in your arms, love,
And blow the candles out!
My father and my mother,
In yonder room do lie
A-hugging one another,
So why not you and I?
A-hugging one another,
Without a fear or doubt!
So roll me in your arms, love,
And blow the candles out!
I pray thee speak more softly,
Of what we have to do!
Lest that our noise of talking,
Should make our pleasure rue!
The streets they are so nigh, love,
The people walk about!
They may peep in and spy, love,
So blow the candles out!
And if we prove successful, love,
I'll name it after thee!
I'll treat it neat and kiss it sweet,
And daff it on my knee!
When your three years are over,
Your time it will be out!
And I will pay my debt to you,
By blowing the candles out !"
It was a night where even with two moons there was little light. Sim'baja slipped quietly from his place in front of the door of Arya's room, leaving a small paralysis rune in his stead as he left the bar and the city, working his way through the plains until he was far enough out of sight of the city that no one could see what he would do. His eyes met the twin moons for a brief moment, gleaming before he suddenly bent over double, letting out a growl as his body began to expand, darkness covering his form and his clothes disappearing before the transformation concluded with a burst of energy, revealing not a werewolf like his wife had been, but a were-lion. Raising his maw to the moons, he let out a roar the likes of which had not passed his throat in decades, before he dropped to all fours and ran, moving through mountain passes and forests until he came to a rocky hill with a narrow path leading to a familiar door. It took a few moments for him to transform back, and another few moments longer to don his Nightingale armor, the hood and the mask down to reveal his face.
Festus' body was still pinned to the damn tree almost a full century later; the bones were sun-bleached, and the once-beautiful robes of darkness were tatters that had faded to the point where no one would have been able to guess their original color if they had never worn the robes themselves. It was not the body he was there for though; the black pool was a void before him, refusing to even so much as reflect the starlight. Sim'baja closed his eyes, reaching a hand out above the edge of the water, trying to recall how it had happened so long ago. It won't be the same way, he thought to himself. This time I'll have to do something. "Arise, Shadowmere!" he exclaimed. Nothing happened.
He tried several variations of the phrase, each one met with failure, and as midnight approached, he decided to sit down and ponder the puzzle as he had many times when he was a student in the College. Closing his eyes, he recalled Shadowmere's appearance. The mare had been beautiful, there was no doubt about that. Her ebony skin had had a gleam to it, even when she had been galloping for what seemed an Age, and her mane and tail had been smooth as any he had ever felt. It was the eyes that stuck out in memory; even when she was a void in the night, those eyes shone like…
Blood. In an instant he was up and the Blade of Woe was out, parting the skin on his palm effortlessly. He squeezed his hand into a fist, the crimson drops appearing black in the night, and he heard them hit the water with an almost imperceptible drip. A small sizzling sound followed moments later, and the water began to roil and froth, before two glowing eyes appeared. He quickly stepped back as Shadowmere burst from the waters, mane flowing and steam rolling off her body, and he marveled at the sight of the beast after so many decades.
"Shadowmere… my old friend…"
Sim'baja sat on a stump the following afternoon as Arya slowly walked Shadowmere in circles in one of the large plains just outside Whiterun. "Did I mention I've never ridden before?" she asked yet again, back in her fine clothes and nervously holding the reins in a white-knuckle grip.
"Several times," Sim'baja replied. "Shadowmere is more intelligent than any other horse in Tamriel, quite likely all of Nirn. Let her guide you; trust her, and you will learn how to ride any horse you might find." Shadowmere nickered at the praise, speeding up to a trot. Arya tittered nervously, bouncing slightly in the saddle. "Not bad," Sim'baja said, yawning slightly. "At this rate, you'll be able to ride at a gallop at the start of the next Age. Summer will end soon, and childhood as well." Sim'baja whistled, summoning Shadowmere, and when the horse arrived before him, he leapt into the saddle behind Arya, holding her in place as she tried to climb down. With another, sharper whistle, he caused Shadowmere to rear back, pawing at the air as Arya screamed, before the horse galloped forward.
"I'm gonna kill you!" she screamed as Shadowmere leapt over a log, jarring Arya in the saddle. Sim'baja laughed behind her, a lively sound, and they galloped on. He occasionally would shout out advice, and she would follow it as best she could. When they finally arrived at the Solitude stables that night, she was sore, but she could ride.
"Khajiit will buy you a drink," he said, tying up Shadowmere and tossing a small purse to the stable hand. They began the trek up the road to the gates, Arya wincing slightly as she walked. As they strode up through the stone towers and walkways, Sim'baja closed his eyes, his ears twitching as he listened to the sounds of the area. There were crickets chirping, waves slapping the shore below, the creak of ships rocking, rigging swinging in the breeze. A few moments more and they were at the gates, then in the city proper.
The Winking Skeever had been renamed, it seemed; the sign hanging outside was for The High Queen's Cat, the picture being a cartoonish painting of what he guessed was he and Elisif in a rather… intimate position. How did they get that cleared? he wondered to himself as they walked in. The place smelled of lavender and alcohol, and while not deserted, definitely had fewer people than he would have expected for this time of night. He handed Arya the coin for some drinks and two rooms, and he wandered through the building, observing the change in decoration, furniture, and overall atmosphere. He noticed a Dunmer woman sitting in a chair with her back to him, and something twitched at the back of his mind. Something about her seemed familiar, and he sat down across from her.
The woman glanced up at her cup, doing a double-take before shock crossed her expression. "Dragonborn?!" she almost shouted, and in an instant he realized that it was Jenassa. "How are you… it's been almost six decades! I… you should be dead!"
"So sorry to disappoint," he drawled, leaning back in his chair. "This one sees that you no longer wear the armor of the Blades. Did those Crusaders drive you away as well?"
"They all died, as mortals are usually wont to do," she replied, eyeing him suspiciously. "I am all that remains. After you left, we could no longer enter Sky Haven Temple, and we no longer had the means to track down the dragons. You destroyed us."
"The Blades would have had this one eliminate an entire race of sentient beings," he growled. "Paarthurnax secluded himself to overcome his nature through effort and force of will. Odahviing assisted in Khajiit's defeat of Alduin. Durnehviir even now serves the penance for his lust for power. And greatest of all, the Dragon Blood runs strong through this one's veins, Jenassa. When all of the dragons were gone, where would Khajiit have stood with the Blades? Who is to say he would not have been next in your hunt?"
"You gave me purpose then stole it from me!" she growled, launching to her feet and slamming her fists on the table even as he leapt to his own feet. "A decade and a half I spent fighting beside whoever had the coin, and then you came and brought me somewhere I would never have to worry about where I would find my next meal. You brought me into the fold of something I could only have dreamed of being a part of, and then you destroyed it!"
"Do you wish for an apology?" he hissed. "Khajiit asked you – all of you – to join him when he left. You chose to stay." He saw her hand twitch ever so slightly, and in a flash the Blade of Woe was in his hand. In another, it was embedded in the table, and the place was silent as everyone stared. "Take it," he hissed. "If you believe you are owed blood, then pick up the blade and try to take it." Her expression was murderous, but Sim'baja also saw the fear that was present in just the slightest flicker of her eyes. "You remember that Khajiit was always a better fighter than all of you, don't you?"
"Fuck. You." The dagger was in her hand faster than he thought capable of her, and though he moved in time to avoid the stab to his eye, he paid for his cockiness as it parted flesh on his cheek. In another instant he had her arm in hand, twisting until her face slammed into the table and the dagger went spinning out of her hand, clattering on the floor. His blood dripped onto her sleeve, soaking into her leather armor. She tried to muscle her way out of the hold, but he pulled a little more, and her string of obscenities turned into an involuntary hiss of pain. "You son of a whore," she managed to work out, and judging by the way the words were warped, it was safe to assume her nose was broken. "I should have aimed for your cock instead."
"Khajiit would rather we had parted on different terms," he said simply, and with a wrench there was a loud pop as he dislocated her shoulder, the woman screaming in pain as he stepped back, casually bending down to pick up his dagger. As he motioned for Arya to lead him to their room, ignoring the slight fear in her eyes, he heard Jenassa scream one last thing to him.
"The Dark Brotherhood will deal with you!"
He paused for a moment, the words pounding in his ears. There was something there… some memory that was at the edge of his mind, but for some reason he couldn't quite bring it forth. There were flashes though; the gleam of steel, the Blade of Woe parting flesh, rich banisters turning to black as flame consumed them, and a red-and black clothed Nord woman with auburn hair pleading before her neck was snapped. "I look forward to it," he whispered.
Hope you all enjoyed it. Review, and tell me how I did.
-Zeratide, out.
