Chapter 10: The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller

7 First Seed, 4E202

"It is but a matter of contemplation," I assure him. "For joor, a month is surely not long enough. But you are more intelligent than most."

Ungolim nods, though nonetheless with a small measure of dejection. "This truly is nothing like the magical arts, Domina. I had hoped that it would be… though I will continue to reflect on it." He eyes me a moment, respectful though affectionate. "You make it look far too simple."

I shrug. "I am afraid I have no worthy reply for you." I set down my cup. "Though…" I pause to think for a short moment. "Your lessons in the blockage of the body's energy flow have added an interesting measure of contemplation for me, with regards to that Word. Those techniques of yours are quite the opposite of what, I believe, this Word is intended to illustrate. Have you considered this?"

"Somewhat, yes, Domina." Briefly, his eyes flicker to Lydia, who sits nearby with her own small repast and listens quietly to our conversation, "Though to envision the exact nature of such an opposite has proven difficult."

"I think you apply the concept with too much force," Arngeir says quietly over his own cup. "It is a matter of patience and delicacy, and to know both sides of oneself."

"Both sides…" Ungolim mutters to himself, but then furrows his brow. "And if there are more than two?"

Arngeir responds with a small chuckle. "Better yet, some philosophers believe that we are composed of nothing at all, and that we therefore have no 'sides' to contemplate, in any sense."

"But we think and feel," Lydia says, crossing her arms, "so that doesn't make any sense."

"Ah," says Arngeir wistfully, "we only think we do." This only earns him a very confused expression from my housecarl, though it is evident that this is, to him, something of a private joke. "And you, Dragonborn?"

"Mm," I hum, in thought, "we are many things, and we are nothing at all. Many things because we cannot conceive otherwise, and nothing because we must convince ourselves of the opposite."

Lydia sighs. "I think you've been breathing thin air too long."

"Though I believe I've found my evening's contemplation," Arngeir says warmly. "As for you, Dragonborn, there is a matter we should discuss."

"You have my attention."

"Over a very short period of time," he says, his voice authoritative, "you have proven the incredible power and tenacity of your Thu'um. I daresay you have very nearly attained mastery of the Way. According to tradition, however, there is a final test for the Dragonborn to complete so that he or she might obtain the full blessing of the Greybeards."

I lean forward slightly. "What sort of test?"

"A ways from here, in an ancient fane called Ustengrav, rests the body of our founder, Jurgen Windcaller. It is a tradition that the Dragonborn should travel to this tomb to retrieve his horn, and to bring it back here to High Hrothgar."

I raise a brow. "Pardon me, Arngeir, but what is the practical purpose of retrieving this horn?"

"Aside from the ceremonial necessity," he replies with a small smile, for he understands my hesitance, "the tomb itself is an ancient testing ground for Dragonborn. Only those with a strong enough Thu'um will be able to reach the chamber of the horn."

I rub a hand over my eyes. Yes, Listener, delve into the ancient tomb to risk life and limb for some worthless ceremonial artifact. For a short moment, I think on Mother's orders: I was to go to the Greybeards, which I have done. Even without their supposed 'blessing,' I have already acquired a formidable mastery of the Voice… "Is this… truly necessary?"

Arngeir looks at me steadily. "Is it?"

His eyes do not deviate from my own, not until I scowl and look away from him myself. I was given no further instruction other than to go to the Greybeards; beyond this, I suppose, I am to decide what methods best lead me to my yet-unclear goal. Either that, or Mother truly is unaware of whatever endgame the gods have deemed fit for me, and has thus chosen to leave me to my fate. "And only I, and I alone, can pass through this place?"

"I don't know, Dragonborn," he replies with honesty. "Perhaps you will find some means to lead your companions through as well, though how exactly is not for me to know."

I drum my fingers against the table, frustrated. "What is my role in all this madness, Arngeir? Suddenly there are dragons in this land, and suddenly I can speak their tongue and think their thoughts. Suddenly, I am one mortal body away from being a dragon myself. A cataclysm approaches; the more that I meditate on the Voice of the sky, the more do I feel it. So, do tell me, with such ominous blackness looming just over the horizon, why in the name of all creation is this ceremonial horn more important than finding my real purpose for being here at all?"

My hand balls into a fist. "Many, many times, I have asked you, and many times you have refused to answer me. I have been patient. More patient than ever in my life. You will answer me, now. You will tell me what is happening in the skies above and the world below, and why I am here to do something about it."

In a way that is almost fatherly, he gently rests a hand over my own fist. "The Horn was… granted to Jurgen Windcaller by Kynareth herself. When sounded by a Dragonborn, it calls the attention of the gods to him or her… Briefly, they pause in their contemplations of infinity, and together, they confer some of their divinity to the worthy one that calls them." He takes a breath. "You will need this blessing, though it is our Grandmaster himself who wishes to explain why. First, however, you must go to Ustengrav."

I just stare at him. "They will… make me a god?"

"In a way," he says, almost dismissively. "You will still be mortal… but you will change, yes. Think of it as a touch of divinity, a blessing. There is a story in the lore of the most ancient of Nibeneans, if I recall correctly, that tells of a warrior of most impossible strength. He gained it because, when he was but a babe, his mother dipped him into the then-extant river of the gods. You know this story?"

"I do. He became known to the first conquering Imperials as Akhilleus."

"It is something like this, then. Or… that is the information that has been passed down to me. The last Dragonborn to receive such a blessing was Talos himself." He shakes his head a little. "Obviously, there may be some missing pieces."

I still do not stop scowling. "Akhilleus had a rather damning weakness."

Arngeir finally takes his hand from mine. "Don't we all?"

14 First Seed, 4E202

"I've been looking for you. Got something I'm supposed to deliver. Your hands only." The courier, a young man with a rather forgettable face, reaches into his bag. "Let's see here… A letter from Solitude! Looks pretty official."

I take the missive and toss the boy a coin. He runs off in some direction, though I take very little notice. Rather, it is the wax seal on the letter that captures my attention: it is the insignia of the banking house of the East Empire Company. I flip the envelope over: no name is written with which to address me. How the courier had found me, then, I could only begin to guess at.

Though the evening fires burn and the night is the mildest felt in months, a chill runs down my spine.

"A bank?" Lydia says as I flip the envelope back over, and she takes notice of the seal. "I thought you said they lost track of you."

"I thought they did." My voice is bitter. I knew that I would regret stopping over in Morthal again. It is my curse ever to find some kind of unwanted excitement every single time I set foot in this miserable town. "Though it would seem that they have found the Dragonborn." I rub my eyes, briefly, and think on how my mother would criticize such a gesture. "My likeness must be plastered all over Skyrim by now."

"Yeah you uh… well…" She takes a step closer to me, somewhat at a loss for words. "You do look kind of… well… unique. I mean. Your hair…"

"My hair," the letter crinkles in my tightening fist, "has never been anything better than a great target on my head. Countless times, I have been tempted to cut it off or dye it dark—"

"Don't do that!" Lydia interjects. Then she quickly remembers herself. "I mean… sorry…"

I raise a brow, although I lay a reassuring hand on her arm. What was meant to be a pleasant evening stroll for us has now turned into a reminder of not only the past I wish to avoid, but also of how few ways Lydia truly adheres to the manners of a housecarl. Nowadays, she tends to behave and speak with me as a lover ought… and here I am, hopelessly enforcing such behavior. "In the end, dear, I admit I am far too vain to alter it."

She gives me a small kiss on the brow. "I would have guessed," she says with light humor. "Are you gonna open it?"

"I already know what it is," I glower as we make our way back toward the inn. "Blackmail, ransoms, a request for a refunding of what I took all that time ago. Choose any one."

"But it was your money," she says, incredulous, "or… wasn't it?"

"It was the family's money, and now with my face all over Skyrim, I imagine they will want to line their pockets with my added requests for privacy."

Lydia scowls. "Bastards."

I make no reply, but I push the door to the inn open and go directly to our shared room. She follows close behind. Once inside, and with our door shut, I sit at the small table against the wall and crack the seal. The letter is written in fluid Latine, though with a shaking hand:

Mara mea,

This letter is enchanted, so no one but you can read it, should you not wish them to. This effort drains the last dregs of what remains of my mind. It has happened, Mara. I am slipping away. The tides are creeping up. I hear such horrible whispers. But the whispers have led me to Solitude and the last leg of our influence, because I must find you before Cato does: The likeness of the Dragonborn has not yet reached the Imperial City, though it soon shall. I will succumb very soon. For as long as I am able, I will use my resources here to find you… But if this letter reaches you first, I beg of you to come and find me, for I may already be lost.

Leon

I am on my feet and shouting for Ungolim before I even realize my doing so. The letter is crumpled up in my pale and shaking hands. He rushes into the room within seconds, his blade drawn, his eyes darting all about. "Domina?"

"Ungolim," I say, my heart pounding, "you must find someone for me. Immediately. Gather every resource at our disposal, every able-bodied courier and scout, every conceivable source of intelligence." I start to shiver as the reality of the situation comes into full focus, and as I am reminded once more of my own waning clarity. "You must find Leon Aestus. He looks…" another shiver, "He looks like me… but male. Taller. He is somewhere in Skyrim."

I fall back into my chair. Lydia looks back and forth between my Silencer and I, unsure of what to do or say. Ungolim furrows his brow. "A kinsman, Domina?"

"My elder brother." I place my head in my hands. "You must bring him to me. But… be warned… he is as formidable as I. And he…" I take a shaking breath, "has likely gone mad. Truly, mad. But, I tell you, under no circumstances may he be harmed."

"He will be found, Domina…" Then, as if in a rare form, my Silencer takes a hesitant step closer to me. "And if I may ask… what you will do now?"

I glare at him. "I told you to go, Ungolim."

He recoils. "Forgive me, Domina." Then he rushes out the door.

Silence quickly comes to reign over the room. My head is back in my hands. Leon. The voices drove him to Skyrim to find me. In the time since my flight from Cyrodiil, I have done my best to bury my connection to my lineage, my reputation, my society, and my family. I have done my best to forget them, to move on and to live comfortably and quietly in my newfound, and bloody, peace. I have worked to forget even my elder brother, whom I had loved the most of all my kin.

Now, alone, perhaps afraid, and without me, he has likely fallen to the madness.

You're next, the whispers brush my ear, next, next, next. Swimming like a fish! Fish! Fish soup, soup like clam chowder. Aren't we hungry? Stop looking over there! We know you're looking. Stab your eyes out. Fix it.

Faraway noise. "… ra."

Killed all her friends. "… Mara."

Loves you. Calling you. You killed all her friends. "Amara?" She crouches down before me and gently lifts my chin with her fingers. "Where are you?"

It takes a moment or two before I realize that I am looking into her eyes. Stab them. Her gaze is deep, her expression one of empathy and comfort. "A precarious place," I whisper. Precarious, precarious, mountain-tip-top fall.

"Come back," she says softly, as she rounds her palms about my jaw.

She knows. "I want to." Stab them.

Her thumbs brush the skin of my cheeks so very gently. My hands grasp at her wrists; this is less of a measure of support than it is a means of keeping them in view. I cannot trust myself in this moment not to cause her some kind of harm. "Amara." She pulls me toward her so that our foreheads touch. "Tell me, if you can."

"Tell you?" And share the family secret that everyone already knows? Ruin all the fun? She'll hate you. "Tell you…" I take a long breath. "It has happened to him… It has… I mean, I knew that it would. We all know it will, someday. But… but he…" I squeeze my eyes shut. I see them, hear them, screaming, laughing.

"What happened?" She presses closer, to regain my attention. "I don't understand."

Don't understand. Don't. "We are mad blood, Lydia."

"Mad blood?"

I open my eyes again. She is concerned, attentive, and close. "Mad. We carry a mark… a… curse, I guess. My kin and I. We… eventually go mad. All of us. As we approach middle age, we begin to hear voices. Everyone has a different experience, but… there are visions, incomprehensibility, and… a complete scattering of the mind. It started with Viator. He was thirty-five. Some are older, some younger, but…"

Now her expression is one of horror. "How… How old are you?"

I look her dead in the eye. "Twenty-eight."

She leans back now, and sits on the floor. "You weren't going to tell me?"

"It is not… something I like to think about." At least the screaming has quieted down. "I was going to tell you in the event of a rising necessity. I… suppose this would be the event."

And now she stands. "Sorry I… I need to think." Slowly, she retreats out the door.

And I am left, staring blankly, at the flickering flame of the candle on my little table. Flicker, flicker. Such a lovely fire, so small and useful.

I blow it out.

15 First Seed, 4E202

I wake from a fitful sleep to a cold bed and gray morning light. The bed is not cold because of emptiness: rather, my bed partner lies far from me, and is turned away. She joined me here the night before, long after I had already laid down, smelling strongly of smoke and mead.

I study her outline. Her reaction would have been the same, I think, no matter what time I would have chosen to reveal all this to her. Inevitably, I would have met this cold divide and this outward show of hurt and betrayal. Unwillingly, I smirk, though it is grim. You know not the half of it, my dear.

I roll on to my back. The thought of killing her briefly flits across my mind once more, though at this point the thought is trivial and quickly dismissed. I now know, for as much as it pains me, that she has become… important. Here I am, on my way to Sithis-knows-what-trial, and it is perhaps because she drives me to do so.

Though you were able to kill Astrid.

It was a mercy kill.

Even so…

I squeeze my eyes shut, having no desire to encourage any voice other than my own to guide my contemplations, well-meaning and helpful or not. I raise my head and note that Leon's letter rests still on my little table. Ecastor, and that is another pit of Oblivion to trudge through. I can only hope that my Brotherhood finds him before he comes to some kind of harm.

Lydia rolls over and opens her eyes somewhat, just as I magically will the letter into my raised and waiting hand. "How do you do that?" She mumbles, still half asleep.

"It falls within the school of Alteration," I reply quietly. "I change the air around the letter into a force that propels it to me. It sounds simple, though it took me months to learn."

The air is heavy with an unspoken accusation. She must feel it as well, because she makes only the smallest noise of acknowledgement, and then once again falls silent. She merely watches me.

For my part, I have very little more to say on the subject. For my kin and I, this is fate, an inevitability. House Aestus has attained mastery over quelling the whimsical joys of youth, all in favor of producing young and clever businessmen and women who might successfully continue the family fortune and line before they, themselves, also go mad. I am not so different in this regard, otherwise deviant though I might be.

And madness, for the Listener, means only very little. Many a raving Listener has led the Dark Brotherhood since the title's inception, as the voice of The Night Mother has a unique way of soothing any other mad voices that plague her host's mind. It is, perhaps, the greatest benefit of a position such as mine: in her presence, the creeping madness plagues me so much less. The thought leads me to crave my Sanctuary once more, and all at once I grow weary.

Lydia watches me still. "Do you have a headache?" I reach my hand out and lightly rest my fingertips on her forehead. Her skin is cool to the touch.

"A little." She, too, is hesitant. Neither of us wants to have this conversation, besieged, as we are, with every other chaos that needs to be sorted out. And although she might wish otherwise, she still leans a little further into my touch.

I cast my healing charm, and allot myself the small grace of allowing my strange affections to flow from me as a soothing white magic. "I have a question," she says softly, though her stare is hard. "A few questions, actually."

I move to touch her hair, and to lightly run my fingers through it. "Yes?"

"I know that there's a lot that you aren't telling me." A sensation like hot magma starts to bubble in my chest. "I've kept quiet. I figured it either wasn't my business to know, or you'd tell me eventually. But Amara…" She leans up on one elbow, and I pull my hand back from her hair. "After last night, I… I mean, that was shocking. Really shocking. It got me thinking: first about how selfish it was of you to… to keep me in the dark, knowing what'll happen… Then I started thinking about everything else."

"Everything else?" I interject, as I try to ignore the uncomfortable heat.

"Yes," she says, her expression one of cautious anger. "What network were you talking about last night? Who're all these informants and couriers?" Now she sits up fully. "It's either a spy network of some kind, or a business that you're just not telling me about. And the first one is illegal and the second one, well, it's damn suspicious that you don't talk to me about it. So what is it, then? You're awful good at lockpicking and sneaking around. So? Skooma, slaves, illegal animals? What?"

The fog obscuring my thoughts is a thick one. It is as if I can only hear half of what she says, or as if she were speaking to me from under water. "Lydia…" My voice is thick, too.

"Tell me." Her fists are clenched. "I swear, Amara, if you don't…"

I have to find the actress. The actress! I need her silver tongue, her wit and cleverness. My Lydia has made me too soft. Where is my ire?

So I force it. Though I know the outcome, I force myself into that comfortable, haughty anger. I pretend, for just a moment, that she is someone else. "How willful," I snap, though even I can hear the half-hearted tone to my voice. "How presumptuous. So now I cannot even keep certain matters to myself?"

"No, don't dig at me—!"

"You," I grind out, "you are insolent. Your nerve is astounding. I run a small labor business, you idiot. When people need work done, I send workers to them. I find jobs for people." The half-baked truth sounds pleasant even to my ears, and I feel a little gratified, knowing that I have not yet completely lost my wits. "Of course I have informants. Of course I have couriers. You wretch!"

I stand to look away from her, though under the presumption of dressing myself. I can no longer stand to see my own guilt reflected in her features, even if she herself does not perceive it. From behind me, she sounds just nearly as wretched as I have accused. "Well…"

"Well!" My fingers shake as I try, and continuously fail, to tie my sash. "Well! Among my kin, to discuss business with a lover is infelicitas, bad luck," I lie. "For this, it is taboo." I finally manage to tie the thing. I know I must still look disheveled, however. "I will be cursed now, surely."

"I didn't know you were superstitious…" I hear her rise, too. "And I didn't know…"

"No, you did not." Now I turn to face her, no longer having any excuse not to do so. The painful heat flares up to my throat at the sight of her: beautiful, guilty, and so very deceived. The heat suffuses me, and it is not comfortable, not wanted. "And you have no small idea of how bitterly I suffer. You fear for the future? At least you can contemplate having one."

And then… finally… my anger becomes real: "I am destined to die. If it is not by my own hand, then it will be from within the jaws of a dragon. I do not pursue this infuriating fate out of some simple desire to do good—oh no—I pursue it in the hopes that a god himself will extinguish my addled consciousness while it is still mine."

My last word resounds like a clarion in our little room, and then, all too abruptly, its furious energy is replaced by an uncomfortable silence. Now she merely stares at me, clearly at a loss for how to proceed. My own statement, however, has stricken me with more force than I could have ever anticipated. Yes, I want to die first. That does make quite a lot of sense.

No matter. I finish dressing and leave the room before she can make any further comments.

The main room of the inn is nearly empty when I cross the threshold. I take a seat in a chair by the central hearth, call to Jonna for a drink, and pinch at the skin between my eyes. There is so much more to worry about than the mess I have made with my housecarl. Now, I must decide as to whether or not I will remain in Morthal while the search for Leon is underway: to remain would expedite his delivery to me, should he be located. To continue my journey, on the other hand, would solve this ridiculous riddle of godhood that Arngeir thought fit to pose to me.

Paths, paths, the chattering between my ears agrees. You'll swim. I cringe. Indeed. He has already lost himself: the voices have him now, without question. I do not need to see him to know this, as the quake in his penmanship was evidence enough. I would not dare to hold out some kind of false hope for his last remaining shreds of sanity. More! He may not even recognize me. More! More!

They call for company, perhaps. I lean forward and cover my whole face with both hands. Would they even chatter with one another between both our heads? An ache brews from behind my eyes. More! He could very easily worsen my own condition.

The ache flares, and I decide that my time is too precious, and my own stability far too questionable. I know this for a fact, as I have seen the effects of this fatal imbalance far, far too many times before.

I must simply trust Ungolim to complete his task, and to keep what might very well be the raving, near-unrecognizable shadow of what was once my brother in safe keeping for my return. It is a risk, yes, as he could pose a real danger to himself, but his potential threat to me is perhaps greater.

It must wait.

Jonna approaches loudly from behind me, though she quietly hands over my cup of tea. Perhaps she had a mind to make conversation with me, but my entire countenance, with all its dark brooding, seems to discourage her. I ignore her, sip my tea, and let myself stew.

After a few moments I notice a lute propped up against the stone side of the massive brazier, perhaps left forgotten there by some traveling bard. It is a familiar weight, one which I realize I have missed, when I move to pick it up. I am unsure if this constitutes theft, but no one reprimands me when I take it back to my chair.

I pluck one string and discern, immediately, that the instrument has been a while neglected. The other strings are in much the same sad state of discord from one another, so that I must spend a small amount of time re-tuning the thing. The action is almost therapeutic, and when I finally do begin to play, a little bit of my previous duress wears away.

I finger out songs as I remember them, and as I reacquaint myself with this skill of mine gone long unused… But my hands quickly recall the countless hours of instruction and practice and polish, and soon enough, I am once again able to play without wasting much of my concentration on the action itself.

I can, rather, merely listen to what music I choose to invoke. I close my eyes and play like this for a long while, and as best I am able, I endeavor to focus on nothing else.

The sound of her too-loud footsteps, distinctive as ever, resounds from our shared room and then from the main room. The sound comes near to me, and then stops just before me. I open my eyes a little and see that she has taken a seat just across me, on the edge of the brazier's wide stone lip. I do not stop playing, though she watches me intently.

She is now dashingly well-dressed in one of the outfits I chose for her, perhaps as a sort of peace offering. And as a matter of course I am reminded, once again and all too keenly, of just how skilled a liar I can truly be. Her sorrow is palpable, and I can all but see the apology as it seems about to burst from her.

So I stop playing, and the silence which follows seems to sting us both. She says, quietly, intimately: "That was beautiful. I've… been looking forward to when I could finally hear you play."

I make no response. Quite suddenly I find my old habit of reticence rather appealing. I just watch her fidget before me, my features impassive. I haven't the slightest idea what to say to her, beset on all sides, as I am, by a sickening combination of guilt, affection, and self-preservation. The chaos she causes in me is just… unbearable.

I would be your heroine, if I must, I say to her, silently, and I would be the Listener as well, for it is where I most belong. I would keep you starry-eyed and happy, warm and comfortable in all my deceit, for as long as I might know myself.

This comfort that she provides me, sharp and undeserved though it may be, is like nothing I have ever known before. She does not stay with me out of duty or honor as decreed by her Jarl; no, she stays with me as a matter of loyalty to her more personal moral compass… and beyond this—and it is from here that my guilt smolders in me like some ever-growing pile of embers—beyond this, for the bond that has formed. It is one which even I would hardly dare to analyze to its depth.

It is one which colors my judgment, makes me weak, affects my actions, and guilts me so very deeply when I lie to her. It is one which forces me to realize that her pain cuts me, too, no matter how much I might try to force away such disorienting levels of empathy.

And twisted though my reasoning might be, I am nevertheless a little glad that I may very well die before she can see either the depths of my madness or my place within the Dark Brotherhood. Yes, I must admit it: I am indeed just a little bit glad.

"Amara…" My stare must be so uncomfortably penetrating. I lay the lute gently down on the floor, beside my chair. "Please say something."

"What shall I say?" I finally reply to her. "Would you have me plead my innocence, Captain?"

She winces when I speak her old title. "Amara…"

I stand. "We are far too behind schedule. My manservant is off to find my lost madman of a brother, I can feel my own mind slipping, and my housecarl suspects I am a criminal."

She all but jumps to her feet. "Your lover—"

"My lover," I cut her off, "yes, and my lover will shun me now that she knows the curse in my blood." I return to our room, and she follows right on my heels. Protect her. It is the smallest voice, the quietest. Do it.

"No—"

In our room I stop, turn, and put my fingers to her lips to silence her. I can feel the heat as it radiates from her skin, and she nearly falls toward me, so relieved is she at my touch. Her arms come about me before I can stop her, and we are pressed together before I can fight her. Save her. The maelstrom batters me anew and almost steals away the breath I need for my next few words: "I think it is time we parted ways."

Her grip tightens. "Talos, Amara. No. I'm not leaving you."

Now I know not whether to laugh or scream. "You—" she kisses my fingers, "you have done so, once before," I say.

"I'm not leaving."

"I will dismiss you."

"Won't stop me."

"Really?" The high pitch of my voice surprises us both, I think. "Really? You have done it before. Oh, but now… Now? Now, what? You see… a poor self-destructive madwoman in trouble, so you must rush to my aid? And after all your accusations? No." Save her. "Your dismissal will be honorable. I will give you that and a sizeable amount of money. Take it to your family and leave me in peace. This cannot go on—"

Her lips press against mine with the kind of gentle force I have become accustomed to, though now with an urgency. I want to pull away. I want to. But… she has a certain way of undoing me. A certain… presence of character which floods my senses, and she exerts it now, as she lays my head against her shoulder and presses her cheek to mine. I feel the flutter of her eyelashes against my skin.

"I don't have one. A family." My arms wrap about her waist before I can stop myself, before I can tell myself that I do not want to. "So… that would be useless. I don't have anyone to impress… and… okay, so I did do it before. I was doing what I thought was right. And I'm sorry, I… I didn't know you were superstitious like that. I didn't know and… And… you're not completely mad yet… right?"

I squirm, but she holds fast. "Oh yes, just leave as soon as I fail to recognize you and forget it all! Will that satisfy your conscience?" Please…

"No. Fuck, no that's not what I meant."

"Why do you not just go?" I wilt against her shoulder. The irony of all this is so… palpable. Finally, I actively wish to keep someone from harm, and now they fight against me.

She presses her face against my hair. On many a night, after having exhausted our passions, she would run her fingers through it in lazy and languid patterns. She would repeat how she so loves its color. How— I squeeze my eyes shut. "I can't," she says.

"You can't," I sneer. "I have just said you can."

"No," her reply is firm, "I can't." I feel thick tension as it radiates from her whole frame.

Maybe she feels the very same tension from me, as well. "I will fall to it, no matter what you do. It is not a matter of right or wrong. I cannot be saved—"

"Amara, please," she says as she finally pulls back far enough to look me in the eye. "That isn't why."

"Why, then?" I deadpan. I am wrung out, numb and exhausted. My heart is beating too fast and minute sparkles dust the edges of my vision.

But it is just… too late. It is too late to complain or to say I never wanted any of this, or to blame either her or myself alone for what has developed here. I may be insane, but I am not stupid.

Even so… I once again raise my fingers to her lips just as the damning "I lo—" begins to tumble out. Her green eyes widen, confused and frustrated.

"I know," I say, my voice finally soft and low. "And for that, you are perhaps just as mad as I." I stop her, again, when she makes another attempt to speak. "Stop," I admonish, and she settles. "That is my very reason for dismissing you. It is an act of mercy. One of my few." I look over her whole face and marvel at how fast and how deep I have let this woman hook into me. My sense of wonder is nearly as immense as my sense of guilt, and both of these are new to me, never before experienced. Please… "Staying will bring one of two results: death, or… something worse."

A little bit of color drains from her cheeks. She clears her throat. "Alright."

"… Alright… ?"

"Alright."

"Lydia—"

"Amara." I feel her pull herself together, stand straighter. At heart, she is a soldier, and to a soldier the promise of death weighs on the soul only about as much as one's daily bread.

That little voice in me, the oft-taciturn one with good intentions, retreats to its familiar corner. All is quiet. She stands steady, watching me, as if rooted to the spot. For my part, I am sapped nearly to the point of disorientation. "Other people have always exhausted me." I finally break our look and hang my head a little, eyes closed. "You are worse."

She pulls us close again, so that her lips are near to my ear. "Sleep a little, then we'll go."

"You will come to regret this," I say quietly, nearly in a whisper, as I lay back down.

But she says nothing as she seats herself in a nearby chair and packs and lights her pipe. I watch her do this, what is by now such a familiar motion of hers. I wonder if she knows how intently I sometimes watch her: the line that forms between her brows when she concentrates, for example, or the way she tends to fidget in her seat…

"Quoque ego…" I whisper, though just loud enough for her to hear, as I begin to drift off. "And I."

Though my eyes are closed, I detect a complete halt in movement from her corner of the room. She stops moving completely, and I fall asleep while quite sure that she is watching me intently.

16 First Seed 4E202

"Necromancers," I brush grime off my sleeves and sneer. "Filthy… reeking…"

"At least they lit the place up for us," Lydia mutters, alert and jumpy. "These… things… they're bad enough when I can see them."

"Draugr, dear." I fix my hood and glare at the body by my feet. I admit, I am perversely fascinated by it. This creature has been dead for thousands of years, and yet is only marginally rotted away. Upon reflection, I find it a small wonder that contemporary Nords tolerate magic at all, now having seen the sorry fate of their highly magical ancestors. I brush at my robes until most of the necromancer's ashy remains have gone, scowling.

She huffs. "All I need to know is I've got to aim for the head."

I make a sound of agreement, and after a shared look, we press onward. We pass through a set of doors and down an unpleasantly-slippery and poorly-preserved flight of stairs, which slows us, much to my displeasure.

These damned tombs and ruins. I have not even the slightest idea as to whether or not we are nearing our goal. So far, we have both managed to pass through. There were indeed tests of my Voice: traps, magical keys, draugr… I am glad for it, though. My Voice energizes me, and suppresses my fear.

The sweating, vile tunnel suddenly opens up in an almost-searing flash of light, and I must momentarily shield my eyes. Lydia quietly swears from behind me. But when my eyes adjust, I can describe it no other way: I am stunned. A small forest stretches below us, replete with speckles of bright sunlight that filter from oculi in the rocky ceiling. "Wow," my companion says breathily.

I am about to voice my agreement when a hostile, otherworldly growl erupts from across the chamber, and two draugr and a skeleton construct rush at us. The skeleton I dispatch easily with a single shot. The draugr, however, choose to attack Lydia simultaneously, so that she is forced into maintaining a stance of defense.

I overcharge a white-hot ball of fire between my hands, and release. It connects directly with the head of the one closest to me… but then it turns, much to the mutual alarm of myself and my housecarl. She has little time to fret, however, as her own opponent once again bashes her shield.

The draugr facing me cackles, deep and vile. I raise a magical armor over myself just as it straightens its stance, rears its head back, and—

"FUS RO DAH!"

I hear Lydia shout my name just as I hear a sicking percussion between my ears as my entire body is slammed against the cave wall. My vision clouds over, and the creature rasps: "Aav dilon… Dovahkiin…"

I smell it before I see it. When my vision clears, I see the thing loom over me, weapon high. A great cry of struggle erupts from nearby. The draugr strikes.

"FEIM!" The sensation, as the ancient weapon passes through what is essentially my ghost, is nonetheless deeply disturbing. Dizzy, disoriented, I scramble away just in time to see Lydia lob off the head of the first one in a fluid, furious movement.

My heart beats wildly in my ears as I turn back to flesh and again raise my armor. I have just enough time to take a breath and leap away when it Shouts again in my direction. I roll, overcharge, and blast a more powerful spell at it this time, so that when it goes down, it does not come back up.

I lower to the ground, breathing heavily as Lydia, sweating from the magical heat I have generated, drops her shield and runs to embrace me. "By all the gods, I…" She pulls my hood down and buries her sweaty face into my sweaty neck. "How are your brains not scattered all over that wall right now?"

"Magical armor," I reply, dazed, and motion to the blue shimmer on my skin. "But my head feels like the inside of a drum. It hope it is not a concussion." I brush a few loose strands of hair from my face.

Lydia furrows her brow. "A what?"

"A concussion," I say again. When she still gives no response, I sigh. These primitive Nords and their Second-Era Medicine… "A type of head injury. Will you do something for me?"

"What do you need?" She says attentively.

I hold up my pointer finger. "I am going to create a small amount of light in front of my eyes. I need you to tell me if the pupil—the black part—becomes small. Can you do that?"

Now she looks directly into my eyes, and with close scrutiny. "Yes, definitely."

"Good. Ready? … Now." I conjure a miniature Candlelight spell, hold it for a moment, and then release it, and the chamber once again grows dusky. "Well?"

"They became smaller… Now they're getting bigger again." She leans back, then rises to her feet and pulls me up with her. "What does that mean? Is that good?"

I feel a flood of relief. "Yes." We readjust ourselves and our supplies and continue onward, our pace still slow and steady. "It seems I was lucky. The mage armor saved me from what could have been a disastrous injury. A common sign of it is that the black part of the eyes stays the same, no matter how bright the light. Normal pupils shrink in bright light, and expand in the dark."

"Ah," she replies simply. Then she gives me a little nudge. "So you're a priestess too, eh?"

"Medica, in my tongue, but no," I shake my head a little. "Just some rudimentary field medicine. We would sometimes explore more dangerous areas in the Synod, so it was useful."

"You talk about the Synod a lot, you know. Do you miss it?" Even as she says this, her eyes dart to and fro. We cross into another series of chambers and lower our voices considerably.

"Sometimes," I mutter, as I halt us to assess the chamber just ahead. "I miss my thesis work more. It was brilliant, slated to be a masterpiece of a monograph on Dwemer technology. I think I will never forgive myself for destroying it." I take a deep inhale, and am equally sickened by the putrid stink of the draugr as I am by the miasma of ancient necromancy. "At least two here, maybe three…" I look down. The bodies of necromancers litter the floor, all in various states of decay. I also notice, much to my delight, several spots where the oil from their shattered lanterns has pooled on the floor. "Stand back, I have an idea."

She obliges, and I straighten my back and Shout: "ZUL MEY GUT!" Voice… Fool… Far… It rings in my head. The draugr burst from their coffins, right on cue, and charge at us. "Valete," I say quietly, and with a small smile, before I cast the whole floor into flames. They never manage even to come near to us.

Lydia whistles, impressed. "Resourceful. But ah… how are we gonna get past now?"

I make no verbal response. Instead, I gather my energies and weave them into the magical signs for snow, ice, blizzard… My companion makes a sound of astonishment when I release the magic and, suddenly, the whole room is buried under a half a foot of snow. I look back at her. "Like that," I say, and gesture onward. "Shall we?"

"Aren't you, well, tired? I mean, you just created a blizzard in an underground tomb…" She says as we trudge through the snow and enter into the next series of hallways.

"A little, but this is my life's work, these displays of magic. I have more stamina than most."

The next series of halls and chambers involve the same exhaustive fights with a seemingly endless, nauseating barrage of moldering Nords, so that we are all but drained of strength by the time we reach the largest chamber and all goes quiet after I Shout three foul draugr over an interior cliff. I scowl after them: that their brains were the first things to rot away is immediately evident.

"Hey, look!" Lydia says excitedly as she darts toward a nearby throne and chest. She pulls at the lid. "Shit, it's locked."

I approach her, smirking. "I thought that Nords were vehemently against graverobbing?" Nevertheless, I pull a lockpick from my pocket and crouch before the chest. It is rather enticingly large…

"The dead don't need to eat," she replies with a shrug.

I hum in agreement. "Oh, these old locks. It is always one or the other with these ancient Nords," I say as I get to work. "Either far too easy or next to impossible." In a moment, the lock pops open. "Far too easy."

"How would you know—oh, wow," she breathes in astonishment—and I can only agree—when we see that the chest is nearly full with gems and gold. "I… don't think I've ever seen so much money in my life."

"Mm," I agree. This sum would prove an excellent start for a complete renovation of the Sanctuary… I open my satchel. "How much can you carry?" I say as I start helping myself to the chest's contents.

Lydia drops her rucksack and opens it. "A good amount, I guess, we'll see… Wait. How… are you doing that?" She motions toward my satchel.

"Doing what?"

"That bag is so tiny, but you're shoveling all that stuff in." She approaches and attempts to peer inside. "It's dark as a cave! How…?"

"Ah, yes," I reply, finally comprehending. I then continue with availing myself of the treasure. "It is bigger on the inside."

"Bigger?" She watches me for another short moment, and then starts filling her own pack. "How?"

I give a small laugh. "I will tell you what my childhood master said to me about it: 'It would take me at least two years to explain the mechanics of it to you fully, and then another ten to make you understand.'"

Lydia just sighs.

We finish and approach our next obstacle: a puzzle of three pillars followed by three consecutive gates. I do not even need to scent it to detect that there is a strong magic here. As I approach one pillar, it glows bright and with an eerie, almost metallic sound, like a tuning fork. The first gate opens. When I step away from the pillar, the gate closes.

"Hmm," I hum to myself. "This is ancient magic. Just…" I touch the second pillar. It, too, glows with a similar sound, and the second gate opens. "Oh, you are beautiful." The magic is warm and pleasant to the touch.

"Are you talking to a magical rock?" Her voice is incredulous, but tinged with humor. She approaches one of the pillars, but it does not react. "I guess it's just for Dragonborn."

"Yes," I say, lost in thought. "I will have to find a way to bring you through."

"Ah," she says, her relief palpable, "I'm glad we're on the same page about that."

"I will not leave you behind." I visually measure the distance between the pillars and the gates. This will require more than just running… The idea hits me, and I smirk almost evilly. "Come here, please, Lydia." I gesture us both toward the outermost gate, and together we stand just before it. "Are you able to carry me on your back?"

She smiles a little, and looks me over just once: a quick, up-and-down motion of the eyes. "Wouldn't be the first time…" She says with a wink.

Here, of all places. My body's reaction to her, even in a place like this, is almost immediate. Even with us both covered in grime, sweat, and gore, she makes me desirous. Even after all the fighting, all the drama we have been through of late… by Sithis. "Yes, well," I give my head a little admonishing shake. "You must carry me on your back and run through the pillars and toward the gates. And," I take her hand into mine, "do you trust me?"

She squeezes my hand. "Yes, of course." She repositions her rucksack so that she now carries it against her bosom, and crouches down a little so that I can hop on. Her armor is cold and bulky. The last time she carried me in any capacity she was much, much warmer… and far less clothed. "Why'd you ask me that?" She says as she adjusts me on her hips.

"I will have to give us a little extra… speed."

Even through her armor, I can feel her tense up. "Ah but… Amara…"

"Either we do this, Lydia, or you may walk all the way back to the entrance and wait for me there."

She huffs. "Boost of speed it is, then." She shifts me one more time. "Ready?"

"Yes."

She takes off at a sprint through the pillars, which detect my presence and subsequently open their gates. I tense my upper arms against her shoulders, press my palms against her ears and Shout: "WULD NAH KEST!" I do my best to guide us both through the wind, but Lydia topples over and we end up in a heap on the other side.

"Oh, sweet Talos," my companion groans as she sits up. "That… was awful. I never want to do that again."

I, too, sit up. "It could have been worse," I grumble as I rub at where my bottom connected with the stone floor. "A Greybeard initiate once tried to use the whole Shout without knowing fully how. He blew himself to pieces—literal pieces. It took nearly two weeks to find and get rid of all the little bits of him scattered around the courtyard. Arngeir told me once."

She looks at me with alarm. "And why didn't you tell me that before?"

I lean over and kiss her dirt-smeared forehead. "Why worry you unnecessarily?" I finish with a sweet smile, and rise. She follows me, grumbling.

The final chamber, the burial place of the so-called Jurgen Windcaller, is surprisingly free of draugr. Statues rise up to greet me as I approach the site, and my prize rests on a small pillar just above the sarcophagus. I take it, and indeed, the horn all but pulsates with holy magic. I turn it over in my hands. It is obviously ancient, though beautifully etched and preserved.

"Is that it, then?" Lydia says, a hand on her hip. "I was envisioning something more… exciting, I guess?"

"Yes," I motion toward the sarcophagus. "I was nearly convinced that we would have to fight him, or some such thing. Or that the horn would have been stolen by some thief or meddler. Or… oh, something frustrating, certainly."

"A thief getting in here is impossible though," Lydia replies with a laugh. We make our way toward a door at the far end of the room. "Only Dragonborn can get in. So, you could've ruled that out, at least."

"Ah, I suppose," I say as we start up an incline to what I hope is the exit, and I give my companion a tired smile.

Author's Note:

1. The plot thickens! We've finally learned a bit about this whole "madness" thing that Amara's been mumbling to herself about for the past couple chapters. And she has a big brother? Oh my! I'm excited to finally be getting to this part. I'm going to have a lot of fun writing the next few chapters, let me tell you.

2. Someone please tell me you got and/or enjoyed the "It's bigger on the inside" reference. There's nothing I love more in a story/gaming environment/etc. than a well-placed easter egg. :)

3. I'm also having a lot of fun just exploring the chemistry between Amara and Lydia. There's a lot going on there. There's always something just underneath the surface with those two. That's also why this part of the story's been really cool for me: I get to write not only how they develop individually, but together as well. The whole dynamic's just been a really interesting mental exercise for me.

4. I hate Delphine. I hate Esbern. I hate the Blades. That is all.

Questions? Comments? Praises? Criticisms? Leave me a review. ;)

Cheers,

AE

P.S.: My chronic state of poverty remains intentionally unaltered by your intellectual property, Bethesda.