"Dark have been my dreams of late," he said, "but I feel as one new-awakened. I would now that you had come before, Gandalf."
Arkay paced back and forth, watching the pool below him with great intensity. His movements were ghostlike, his coppery beard flowing every which way as if its own sentient being.
Kynareth looked up from her silvery pool, her crystalline eyes shining with tears that will not fall.
"Their souls sing to me," She said, her voice light and airy, "A symphony of sweet music, rather than the biting cacophony so many of the mortals seem to scream."
Arkay sighed, "Yes, but is this going to hinder the Dragonborn's journey? Already she should have retrieved the Horn…"
Kynareth put up her hand, light blue and slender. Her delicate forefinger went to her sapphire lips as if to hush Arkay.
"I hear the deep minor key…" She said, "A cello, unbeknownst to this plane. But I can hear it beating from his chest. He is sorrowful...look." She slowly cast her hand over the silvery pool.
The pearlescent waters shimmered, the forms of a group of two humans coming into sight.
"Can you not hear the whispers? Rich and deep; his heart cries." Kynareth spoke as if she were drifting off into another world that only existed in her mind, "Perhaps you need not worry about your decision…"
Arkay looked into the pool, his amber eyes glittering as he watched Boromir falling asleep next to Eira. A slight smile crossing his face as he held her close.
"His eyes speak to me," Kynareth spoke, "Affection that not even Mara had foreseen. But I do see great pains in the future…"
"What do you mean?" Arkay asked.
Kynareth sighed, breathing in the sweet scents of the grass and the Skyrim winds.
"I see a painful road ahead. The Dragonborn is a breath of wind, she resists her nature. Each time she looks back at him, there is wanting for something she knows now she may never have."
"She would not have done so if I had not sent him there…"
"No...but perhaps their actions will turn the tide for the better. Not all changes are an evil," Kynareth touched the pool with her finger, the scene changed.
They could now see Lucia sleeping in her bed in the darkened room of the tavern. Small breaths of contentment escaping her while she dreamed of shield-maidens in another world.
"You have given this one a father. She is a harp, each string plucked is that of laughter, rather than sorrow…"
"At what cost?" Arkay sighed, "A short-lived moment of happiness. And I may have very well destroyed the world."
"Fret not," Kynareth said, "Alduin is strong, but the Dragonborn will be stronger, given time."
"How much time?" Arkay asked, "Each passing day he grows in power…"
Kynareth laughed, "It will not be long now...see to it that she takes the pilgrimage. Take heart-" She shuddered, grasping her breast as if in pain.
"What is going on?" Arkay asked, watching Kynareth's eyes flutter as her hands gazed over the pool.
"Cold...blue like the deepest rocks, clear water, rising from the ground…" Kynareth shook, her voice growing deeper as if it were many people at once speaking through her, "The skies scream for vengeance, trials of the past. Death. It comes swiftly, racing through fields of grain, withering green." Her eyes widened, turning pure white, "So many lives will be lost before the Dragonborn is ready. Is this what you wanted? You will feel the breath of every life taken with each dalliance."
Arkay pulled Kynareth away from the pool, as he did so, the phantom of a great black dragon flashed, it roared once and then disappeared.
The pool lay stagnant, as if it were now a sheet of glass.
"Are you alright?" Arkay asked.
"He will try to find them." Kynareth said, her eyes still fluttering, "He is trying to break through to our realm." She sucked in a few deep breathes, "She must taste her power, shake his bones…"
"I understand." Arkay said, his voice low and somber.
He led Kynareth to her cloudy bed, leaving her to rest. Going back to the pool, he prepared himself kneeling down so that he could feel the Skyrim breeze in his beard. He then plunged himself into the silvery waters.
Boromir felt a gentle breeze wash over his face. His eyes fluttered open, slowly adjusting to the dim room.
He found himself in his own bed, remembering the feel of the crisp sheets the servants had always seen to.
He sat up, looking around. His hands flew up to his face as if to make sure he was still real. He wasn't sure at this point.
Boromir got up, thinking how strange it was that he had fallen asleep in the clothing he usually wore at court. A large white tree emblazoned upon his black velvety tunic. Going to the window, he could once again feel the sweet breeze of Minas Tirith, taking in the scents of dawn. The bakers would be up now, preparing for market, and the mouth watering scents of pastries being put into ovens made their way right up to Boromir's room.
It was a pleasant welcome home.
Boromir washed his face in the cold waters of his basin, then pulled on his boots. The castle was always chilly, so he then put on his fur lined cloak and stepped out.
Going down the hallway, the only sound to be heard was his boots tapping the stony floors. Boromir thought it odd, thinking that the servants would usually be up by now to prepare the dining hall for his father.
He went to Faramir's chamber door and knocked, expecting his little brother to already be up (if he even slept that night) reading a stack of books he lumbered over from the library.
There was no answer.
Boromir knocked again, and still no answer.
Perhaps Faramir was out in the courtyard? It was usually where he would go if he hadn't slept well that night.
Boromir made the twists and turns out of the halls that led from the bedrooms to the main hall. It was eerily quiet, and it chilled him to the bone.
He went up the stony steps that brought him up to the courtyard, he stopped just before he went down the steps. No guards were there, and no nobles on their way to make their presence known.
The only thing that remained was the white tree. Dead and cold as it always had been.
"Hello!" Boromir finally called out.
His voice echoed through the whole city. Nothing and no one calling to answer back.
Boromir felt his head swim, and he had to steady himself before he stumbled over. When his head finally cleared, his eyes were drawn towards a figure in black that was hunched over by the tree.
Slowly, Boromir descended, wishing now he had his sword with him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, goosebumps running up and down his arms and legs despite the warmth of his cloak.
The figure was much smaller than Boromir, but it brought him no comfort.
Boromir finally stopped behind the figure.
"Hello?" He quietly spoke.
He reached out his hand to touch the figure, ready to fight if necessary.
Instead, the black cloak fell to the ground when it felt his touch. Boromir looked at the lump on the ground and felt ill-at-ease.
"Looking for someone?"
Boromir whipped around, seeing no one. He looked all around, the air pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
A sharp ringing sound invaded his head. Boromir doubled over in pain, holding his hands over his ears.
When the pain subsided, Boromir looked all around him. It looked as if everything had started to melt. The only solid thing was a dark figure walking towards him.
The closer it got, Boromir could make out that it was the bent figure of an old man. Once the old man stopped in front of Boromir, everything ceased. The pain had gone entirely, and their surroundings were perfectly solid.
Boromir was still on his knees, looking over the old man.
He held himself up with a light wooden walking stick, well-worn over years of use. The man himself was seemingly blind, his white hair a stark contrast from his dark skin.
Boromir was unsure of what to say, his thoughts raced through his mind like quick flashes of lightning.
"Who are you?" Boromir asked.
"Son of Gondor, you already know me…" He paused, lifting up a wrinkled finger as if he'd had a groundbreaking thought, "Perhaps this will help?" The old man suggested.
His skin lightened, and he grew taller. The thin layer of white hair that had been on his head now dark brown. He was now a handsome young man, no older than Faramir. He was now dressed like a Dunedain. If Boromir had thought more about it, he would have seen the resemblance that this young man bore to a younger Aragorn.
He looked at Boromir's shocked expression and frowned.
"Let me try again then." He said, his voice changing as he spoke.
His green-grey eyes changed color, swirling into a mirthful blue. His size changed again, and now instead of a rich goatee he now grew a long grey beard.
The man set a blue wizard's hat atop his grey hair, and he smiled at Boromir.
"Better?" He asked.
"Gandalf?" Boromir asked, feeling his eyes water. He got to his feet, stopping himself before he had placed his hand on the old wizards cheek.
"An interesting name to call me," The wizard sighed, "You might refer to me as Gandalf if that would please you."
"I-I don't understand…You talk just like him, but..." Boromir started, "I saw Gandalf fall to the Balrog...so you must be some sort of trickery of the mind." He looked around, "And all of this...just a dream."
The man gave a hearty hmph, "You're smarter than you look."
"Who are you really? Some illusion? A spirit come to torment me further?" Boromir demanded.
The man was silent for a moment, then he started to walk, motioning for Boromir to follow him.
"I am willing to appear to you as this form because I know it is familiar to you. My true form would most certainly be too powerful, you could not withstand the sight." The man began, "In one world, I am called Hades. In another I am Osiris. Arawn. Falon'Din." He looked to Boromir, "Perhaps you would know me better as Mandos?"
Boromir froze, his face paling.
"Mandos?" He asked.
"Skip the grovels, lad. I've had enough of it over these millennia." The deity snapped, he regained his composure, "Though you have not been there long, the good people of Tamriel call me Arkay. Surely you must have seen the shrines. You know my priest who works in the hall of the dead in Whiterun."
"I do."
"I know you do." The god said pointedly.
"But-what should I call you? You've so many names…"
They stopped, finding themselves in the empty throne room. The god thought for a moment.
"You could call me what I am," He spoke slowly, "What I have always been. Death." Then he thought, "But I am feeling generous, I have saved you as Akray, therefore Arkay I shall remain.
"Alright…" Boromir said, "Then...might I ask, why is the god of Death so interested in someone like me?"
"Ha!" Arkay let out a dry laugh, "You say that like you didn't think of yourself as a man of importance when you lived here." He spread his arms, motioning all around the grey and abandoned hall. He saw that Boromir's expression was unchanged, and then added, "I must admit, I'm really not sure…" He sighed, "I saw you in that boat, and something stirred in me that I thought had gone long ago. A need to interfere, a selfish desire to...to help." He shook his head.
"Many of the others think it was unwise, that you should have remained, and died a warrior's death." He stopped to look Boromir in the eyes, "But I saw a greatness. A man who had not finished changing the world. No matter what world he was in…"
"I changed nothing...Merry and Pippin…" Boromir felt his heart ache.
"Are alive." Arkay assured him, "Do not doubt the part you played, lad." He paused, "I know speaking of Middle Earth makes you mourn to return. And I fear that is my fault. Know this, Boromir, son of Denethor. You will never again set foot on the soils of that world."
Boromir felt his stomach drop, he held a hand to his head, trying to rub away his painful headache.
"Why am I in Skyrim then?" He finally asked, "I'm in a place I know nothing about...thrust into this world where I can see I will make no difference in…"
"Wrong." Arkay stopped him.
Arkay held out his arms, as he moved his hands in the air, Boromir could see the throne room slowly disappear, melting into a plane that was dark blue and purple. A world of nothingness, yet Boromir felt as if he stood on solid ground.
A great pool of water lay before them, and Boromir likened it to Galadriel's Mirror.
Arkay waved his hand over the silvery water.
Boromir saw a great mountain, capped in snow. There was a dark monastery built into it, worn flags flying crazily in the sharp winds. Banks of snow built up onto the icy steps that lead to the iron doors with the head of a great dragon carved into them.
"This is High Hrothgar." Arkay explained, "At all costs, you must bring the Dragonborn here."
"That's what we're trying to do…"
Arkay stopped him, "This will be the easy task."
"Once the Dragonborn has reached the Greybeards, they will put her on the path that has been long set for her….And...I must ask that you depart from her presence. If you must, leave while she is undergoing her teachings. But by no means must you leave that mountain with her." He then added, "Return to Whiterun. In due time you will see the path laid for you."
Boromir felt his throat dry up, he looked at Arkay.
"You can't ask me to do that."
"I am." Arkay said harshly, "And you will listen. The Dragonborn's fate is sealed, nothing you do will change that."
"Stop!" Boromir shouted, "You have put me here so that I can do some good, I know that by being with her I will…
"You will accomplish nothing." Arkay retorted, "Each second you spend dallying with the Dragonborn, the longer it pushes her duties further. The fate of the world is at stake. The Dragonborn's fate is at stake..."
"You can't even call her by her name and you expect her to save the world?"
"She will realize with time that she must do what is necessary." Arkay said, waving his hand over the pool once more. High Hrothgar disappeared, and he could see a woman, throwing a broken shield to the ground.
Boromir saw Eira, her face hardened. There was a scar on her cheek that he hadn't seen before, her hair was longer, more wild.
She stood in front of a great black dragon, his red eyes peering into her.
Eira held up her sword, shouting something to taunt the dragon.
It roared, its throat turning orange as it prepared its Shout. Just as it did so, Eira ran at it, her sword at the ready as she plunged into the dragon's fire, her blade being driven into its skull.
Boromir hadn't realized he was crying, screaming Eira's name as he looked on at the vision of her broken body lying next to the crumbling bones of the dragon.
"I promised her…" Boromir said, his voice cracking.
"Her fate is to die, Boromir…" Arkay said, setting a hand on Boromir's shoulder, "Not even you can change that…"
Boromir woke with a jolt. His whole body shaking and sweating. He recoiled when he felt Eira's cold fingertips on his back.
She had been startled when Boromir had shot up out of bed, the blanket flying off. She wiped the sleep from her eyes.
"Boromir?" She called, her voice drawn out and tired.
Boromir stood there, remembering he was back at the inn. He looked to Eira, seeing her pale silhouette in the grey light of the oncoming dawn. He thought of how beautiful she looked. He rushed over to hold her head in his hands, kissing her lips.
"Divines help me, what's wrong?" Eira sleepily pushed him away, "What's gotten into you?"
"Nothing…" Boromir quickly let go of her, "Bad dream, I suppose…"
"Well...come back to bed. We still have a few hours or so before we leave for the mountain."
"Right."
Boromir crawled back under the blankets with Eira. Once she set her head on his chest, Boromir could see that Eira had already fallen back asleep.
He laid there in the quiet, not daring to go back to sleep. Instead, he watched the small rays of light peek through the small gaps in the wood. Some had fallen upon Eira, and Boromir felt a swell of emotion deep in his chest.
How could he just leave?
Arkay expected too much of him. While true, Arkay had saved him, his words bore into the back of Boromir's mind.
Who was he to contend with the will of a God?
Lucia sat at one of the tables, waiting for Lydia to finish speaking to the owner of the Inn to ask for a few things for the trek up the mountain. She tapped on the wooden bench in boredom.
Across from her, the door to the inn swung open. A man nearly the size of Boromir strode in, a cloak of furs covering most of his massively bulky body. Lucia watched him walk over to a woman who was enjoying a drink before a hard day of work.
"Got those bear pelts for you, Temba." The man said, his voice gruff and rich.
"Good," Temba said disgustedly, "I'm tired of those beasts giving me a shit time at the mill. Take what you need from the strongbox as payment." She handed him a key. Then she added, "And, Kujo, if you kill any more, just know I'll pay you for them."
"Yes, ma'am." Kujo said, now striding over to Wilhelm to ask for a drink. Then he sat by the bar to sip on his ale.
Lucia watched Eira come out of her room, stretching her arms up in the air until something cracked. She wore her dark brown pants and a clean grey shift.
She sat across from Lucia, cracking her neck. Lydia came over and sat next to her, handing Eira a mug of mead.
"Can I have some?" Lucia asked.
Eira smiled, "It's a bit strong for you, sweet thing."
Lydia gave a smirk while she cleaned out her pipe, "Maybe when you're a little older, kid." She suggested.
"I'm old enough." Lucia said defiantly.
"Is that so?" Eira asked.
"Watch me." Lucia stood up, stomping over to Wilhelm.
"I'll have one mead, please." She took out her coins.
Wilhelm looked down at her, wondering if she was being serious.
Lucia heard a snort coming from her left. She looked to Kujo, who was hiding an amused smile behind his mug.
"What's so funny to you?" Lucia asked.
"Are you really asking me?" Kujo asked, his amber eye flashing with amusement. The other eye covered with a black leather patch.
"Well I'm looking right at you, jackass." Lucia snorted, "So yeah, I am."
Kujo held back a burst of laughter, "You're really trying to buy a mead off this poor man?"
"I am."
"What makes you think he'll give you one?" Kujo asked.
Lucia looked over at Eira and Lydia, then back at Kujo.
"Those two large Nord women over there. The bigger one is my mom. And she could kick the ass of everyone in this place." Lucia put her hand on her hip.
Kujo looked over at Eira and then shrugged.
"She isn't unlike any other Nord woman in Skyrim."
"But this one kills dragons. And she could wipe the floor with your sorry ass." Lucia shot back.
"Dragons?" Kujo asked.
Lucia nodded, "Big ones. Then she sucks the soul right from the corpse."
"I see."
"Mandos me, Lucia," Boromir came out of his room to scold her, "Are you trying to buy ale again?"
"Mead." Lucia corrected.
"Oh, help me…" Boromir sighed, "Go back over and sit with the others. I'll get you a sweet roll or something…"
"But…" Lucia started, "This guy was doubting the awesome power of your lady love. She'll fuck him up."
"My what?" Boromir asked. He looked at Kujo, who was just watching on in utter amusement, "I'm sorry is she bothering you, sir."
"Not at all."
"Fuck that…" Lucia started.
"Language." Boromir said sternly, turning to Wilhelm to buy something for Lucia.
Lucia looked over at Eira and called out, "Kick his ass for me."
Eira spit up her drink. Lucia ran over to her and pulled on her sleeve.
"Let's go." She beckoned.
"Lucia," Eira watched the little girl struggle, "You really need to stop trying to get me into bar fights."
"It was only that one time, but this guy is talking shit."
"Oh?" Lydia asked, "What did he say?" She stood up, her hand flying to her ax.
"Both of you, calm down." Eira started, "It's way too early for this."
"But he said you're ordinary." Lucia crossed her arms.
"You know I am anything but that." Eira laughed.
"Therefore you should defend your honor!" Lucia said pointedly.
Eira said, "Lucia, if you listen to anything I say, let it be this. The make of a good warrior is not to join every battle for the glory, but to choose whether it is worth your energy. I see no harm that has been done…"
"She's absolutely right." Boromir added, sitting across from Eira and Lydia. He handed Lucia a sweet roll, hoping she would let the matter be.
"Unless of course the other party really was trying to insult you." Kujo called from his corner, taking a swig of his drink.
Eira was silent for a moment, then she sucked air through her teeth.
"Don't." Boromir whispered.
Eira shrugged, "It's the principle of the thing." she jumped up, walking over to Kujo. She stopped in front of him, "Care to elaborate?"
"The little girl says you slay dragons, yes?" Kujo asked, "No great warrior makes their way to Ivarstead. It's just not the way of the world."
"Your world maybe." Eira said, then added, "We seek to take the pilgrimage."
Kujo scoffed, "Not this time of year."
"Why is that?"
"For a Nord you don't know much about Skyrim."
"Yes, well, for a Nord you're rather short."
Kujo stood up, Eira dwarfed him only by inches. Kujo scoffed.
"You'll never get up the mountain with the wolves about." He said, "They always seem a little hungrier when the snow falls."
"There's always snow." Eira said, "It's Skyrim."
Kujo let out a dry laugh.
"You're very confident."
Eira shrugged, "Confident to know that I'll kick your ass all the way to Sun's Height."
Kujo scoffed, "Tell you what," He said, "I have to make a delivery to the monastery. It's a little earlier than I'd like, but if you win I'll help you up the mountain."
"And if I lose?"
"Well you still have your tavern room for the day." Kujo said, "What do you say?"
"That's cute." Eira said.
"Wait a minute…" Boromir finally spoke up.
"Deal." Eira cut him off.
"Of course. Why would it be any different?" Boromir threw his hands up.
"You're on," Kujo said, "I'll try and take it easy-"
Without warning Eira punched him square in the face, hearing a crack as his nose broke. Kujo staggered back a bit. Eira pushed away the pain she felt in her two broken knuckles to flash a wide grin.
"I can do it again if you'd like." She said, her eyes glancing down at Kujo's crotch.
Kujo looked down and he too noticed the bulge growing in his trousers.
"How about that?" He said quietly. Kujo used part of his cloak to hide his erection.
He looked up at Eira and cleared his throat, "So we should probably be leaving soon."
Eira grinned, "I was thinking the same thing."