AN: Beta'd by LZW. Thank you, friend. To be honest... this chapter cause me a whole lot of conflict as pacing has been a huge problem throughout this fic. I had half the mind to completely rewrite the chapter but nah...
Chapter Nine: Dance Mania (Part Two)
Does it matter who I was? All they remembered was the Champion, not me. As for Theodore Aegis, I could be making him up. I don't even know if he even exists. He might be something I just dreamt up as I recall memories of me, the me that was me but not Me but now Me.
Can a god even dream Himself as mortal? I feel like Dyus… I need to strangle someone right now.
Is there no utopia other than Euphoria, she thought as she flew across Mania.
It was a madman's saying in this realm. Tucked in the corner of Mania, there was a place of mist, gold fog and an endless field of flowers. The people there, stuck in feeling everlasting bliss. They just stood there, still as statues, doing nothing, feeling nothing but trapped in peaceful bliss. No one was bothered by the corpses of one of their brethren hidden beneath the leaves of the flowers, the ones that stood too long to the point of death. What mortals sought in their life could be found there easily. It was why some grieved of leaving that place… even if it was a death trap.
Even the Saints, however, resilient and resistant they were, were just as much affected. It was unwise to be exposed to the pollens for too long, considering the addling mind affects it has. But she had gone there anyway. The Tree of Madness had sunk its root so deep within the floating island that it had made what was a desolate scrap heap into… well, Euphoria.
It even had its own sapling.
How sweet its perfume was, she had to wash it off using the sea of storms below the Isles. The wind picking up the yellow dust and turning them into nothing more than trails of glimmer behind her.
Zudeh rode the winds. Her white wings glinted briefly metallic under the glaring lights of Aethurius. There on the horizon, a stroke of light cut away the pitch black canvas, a hole in the Void. So near that the Magicka, the glowing motes had spilled on their shores. An ocean of light.
Why in the Void were they so close to the edge of Oblivion?
If it weren't the grace of Sheogorath, the citizens would've surely burnt from the concentration of magick. Mortals are after all Limits. Their body so frail and can take only so much.
And yet they dance and dance, a smile on their faces.
She could not understand these mortals, but perhaps it was why the Princes were fascinated by them.
Your Lord walked as one of them once.
Perhaps Mania would bring out their Lord. The Dancing Plague was not something Sheogorath had wont to ignore, as it was the night of festivities. The high spirits of mortal at a height to the point it was reflected in Nirn. Such festivity had once plagued and swept like a flood in every city, town, village and road for three days or more, taking in casualty as it tired those who were enraptured to the death.
Zudeh's gold eyes hawked at the preparations, at the mortals beloved by the Mad God. These were what the lesser spirits had borne in their sacrifice.
Ants.
The bonfire set up, lining the streets and roads as the ants traveled up and down in streams like blood in the veins.
New Sheoth's courtyard was packed below her as she circled, mortals crowded around the circular clearings where the bonfire stood in the center.
Perhaps… they wouldn't need to use the Crystals of Order. Perhaps these mortals will call out their Lord, she hoped.
Zudeh flew down and landed on the tower's roof of the Sacellum. Below her feet, Mania's own flame shone with delightful gold. The light sparked a bit like fireworks that some spat out from the tower in its blaze.
Their Lord was in a cheerful mood.
Perhaps he was watching them, she thought before glancing at Dementia's side. Their flame was still in calm blue and remained contentedly lazy, its flames stretched, pooling out, spilling and trickling into a blue light-filled liquid. It made Dementia's tower pulsate with blue cracks.
She heard the strums and hums of music, of instruments plucked, drummed, blew and played in an upbeat tempo. A mortal's voice, a woman's, soared as the crowds chorus and chimed in.
The dance moved and crashed like waves, spun in a motion of blurs and colors as flames, crackled and roared.
And she waited for their Lord to surprise them. To burst out on one of the flames in a swirl of rainbows and laughter.
Or blood and silence.
Or shadows and screams.
Depended on his mood.
Cups were overfilled, sweet liquids were poured, and the musicians continued to strum their way. Feet tapped and stomped on the white marble rhythmically to the beats, a rigid march of the ballroom.
To say Theodore swept her off her feet was a bit of an understatement. Her dance partner was energy on heels. She couldn't help but grin, feeling light and happy in the painful, painful flight that was the dance, so happy she didn't notice her partner disappeared as another took his place.
It didn't matter. There was no Zero tonight just the regaling of the night.
And the girl enjoyed for once… the happiest night of her life, and that could be noted by the Prince of Debauchery who had quickly surrounded himself enamored mortals around him. Sanguine glanced around the hall in his smile and found his brother observing the mortals amidst the crowds of dancers, changing partners fluidly by unpredictable whims with that shit-eating grin on his face.
Innocent and playful as Sheogorath appears to be, there was a menacing aura coming off him. More so than it ever was. It made the ballroom darker, the shadows long and alive as if they too were enjoying the night. Yet no mortals cringed when shadows stood amongst them, instead, they grew wilder and frantic as if something was whipping behind their backs. It was so strange and disturbing as they were behaving opposite of what should have been natural.
He had an inkling what the Madgod might be planning and he liked it. Simple as it was and done before, but dammit it was classic. The classic was the best and no one really have got tired of the classics. Especially if it was the naked type. Nude parties are the fun type!
He believed in sharing. What was not to like about it, it went along his sphere so well. Festivals, parties, and holidays were after all about spreading joy, and debauchery afterall. Any person who was willing to share shows that he was passionate about it.
Sheogorath would understand… but then he always understood everything or nothing, it was hard to say. He understood in his own way. When everything was blown into extremity, where emotions become so one-tracked and strong, how mortals' thoughts just devolved only in pure actions, enslaved by their body and mind, Sheogorath would always understand. That was debauchery. No right, no wrong, no shame, none of these silly mortal terms, it may be wicked and corrupting but if it makes people happy, why do they stop themselves?
Of course, it wasn't his fault mortals didn't know their limit and frailty, but there was nothing wrong with burning so passionately.
Even if such a flame dies quickly.
"Sanguine," a cool but beautiful voice murmured his name.
She was, of course, would not accept nothing but beautiful, gorgeous. Pretty was just too simple, pretty has no love in it.
"Mother of the Rose." Sanguine turned, grinning at his ever-luscious sister. A crown of roses sat upon the brow and held her loose flowing hood. Her glowing blue-skin delightfully teased behind her translucent fiery starlight robe that spoke of the twilight skies. "I must have done something right to finally get you to come here," he teased warmly.
Azura just smiled mysteriously at her brother's antics, then glanced at the hall around them. Walls and roofs were gone, yet the lights and chandeliers hung, floating, the galleries columns stood tall, but the groves had claimed their place. Roots slid across the marble floor, vines crept onto the columns, and canopies hugged the clearing around them.
A night of senseless debauchery was sure to bring not only the Prince… but spirit themselves into his realm, especially when there was no heavy protection, or influence of the dead gods to stop him. And at the mortals choosing. He was invited in all senses of the word for they had tread into his sphere willingly.
But… "What makes you think we're in just your realm." Queen of the Night Sky laughed gently. "If anything about the shadows that walked and the skeleton musicians tell much of our unbrother's place in this as well."
Sanguine only feigned lamentation as his failure to impress his vast influence. "I admit the Madhouse is overlapping with my Grove." Despite his lazy posture in his lounging on the cushioned seat with the mortals singing, pouring wine around him, he gave a critical eye on his sister. "You're not here for me, aren't you?" He slurred teasingly.
The Prince of Dusk and Dawn didn't even look guilty when her eyes fell back on him, eyes that spoke of changes, the music of dusk and dawn, the magic of the twilight. They remained cool despite the fact he sensed the silence berate that befitted of an aunt.
"Would you be upset if I took our Mad brother for a while?" She asked softly.
"Fine by me." He just shrugged in reply, then finely plucked a rose from one of the thorny vines that were brave enough to claim a part of the clearing near him. He offered the blood red flower and she accepted it coolly in a manner that retained her elegance, not minding its thorn, nor how the stem was bleeding of red liquid and its leaves being the shade of the blackest ebony.
Sanguine smirked when she placed the rose neatly into the many others of her crown, his being an odd one out, like a black sheep amongst the stunning silver and beauty of white and red.
"He's playing with the mortals right now," Debauchery pointed at the center of the hall where the undeniable source of madness was snapping the heels of the mortals. "I'm sure you can't miss him."
"Thank you." Azura smiled and turned to drift away.
"Oh Azura," Sanguine murmured, nevertheless she heard him. "Be careful. He's in one of his nasty moods. He might step on your foot if you try to dance with him."
"I can handle him."
"Haughtiness is not a wise trait. You know what he has done to us."
"And I shall never forget," Azura replied without turning.
To try to catch him was trying to catch a fox. But nevertheless, she caught the silver fox and immediately let him led the dance, however, dangerous on her part to let him.
"By Azura, by Azura, by Azura, I can't believe it's you! Standing here, next to me," cried Sheogorath with a vicious grin on his face as they danced intimately amongst the mortals. She did not miss how the tempo got a bit quicker for them. Sheogorath was stepping up from the mortal's standard he put on, just for her.
A challenge for the Prince of Twilight to see if she could keep up with his game. Or perhaps he was mocking her for making her play the same game that the mortals had not a clue they were playing.
But she wasn't mortal… most would be left breathless once he left their arms, their body burning and aching from exhaustion, not realizing how long they danced in his embrace. Try as they might, they couldn't keep up with their elusive partner. She, however, easily followed his steps, and quickly they were becoming the highlight, perhaps his way to show he knew how she wished to be seen in the eyes of mortals, as the walking wonder befitting of a goddess.
It was hard to see if he was really mocking, or just respecting whilst admiring. It was hard to say with everything when it came to Sheogorath for he knew her and the Princes in ways that only the Mad God could know.
Blue of the Twilight, and the purple of Madness, the colors they left in their trail alike of the auroras and colorful stars that brush the night of Shivering Isles. How easily his form changed into one that he enjoyed putting on whenever he was at home in his realm.
She followed his muse. Let him have his moment.
"Now, what honor have I earned to bring the lovely presence of the Twilight into my dance?" He asked cheerfully as they now waltzed.
She was aware his hand was on her waist, his other a resting place for hers. If he were Sanguine, he would have lowered that hand and she would have to deal with him. But this was Sheogorath. He might decide to do the crazy and do it anyway. Or he might decide to crush her hand that rested on his palm and do both, or do something much more worse. Like sticking that hand into her waist and pulling out those, what mortals called, intestines that he babbles about.
But he didn't. Not yet. After, maybe. Soon?
"I came to finally ask the favor," she said in her ever-gentle motherly voice.
"Oh." Still grinning, though his eyes suddenly fixated on her crown of roses. "Where did you get that?" His voice turned cold and quiet.
"Sanguine," she murmured softly at his sudden change.
"It's ugly, a slight in the eyes." He quickly snatched the bloody rose out of its place.
Azura narrowed her eyes. "It's my gift."
Sheogorath just smirked back at his sister. She would not let herself be lowered into a petulant child, he would love that.
Or maybe he was just trying to grate her nerves. Azura gave a flat look at his brother when he flirtatiously put the stalk in his mouth… and bit it. Slowly and gradually, he ate the rose with its thorns and all. The flower and petals part the last to be swallowed into his mouth.
She could hear the sound of the hard stalk snapping and being crunched as he chewed in front of her.
"Sheogorath, that was not nice of you," she chided as if he were a child.
He kept on giving that big smile of his. If he was mortal, his mouth would have been bleeding from chewing on thorns.
"Y'know what's not nice, dear unsister?" He continued cheerfully as they waltzed, he spun her. "Pelagius the Third completely ravishing his Dunmer wife, Empress Regent Katariah." His gold and silver-blue eyes narrowed on her blue skin. Though they were not ashen or gray, but tied more to the skies. "In front of everyone, the guests of the ball," said Sheogorath in childlike wonder.
Azura did not like that look on his face.
Be careful. He's in one of his nasty moods. He might step on your foot if you try to dance with him.
"On a table too," he whispered as they passed by a table filled with all kinds of delicacies. "Where plates, forks, spoons, food, wine sits. That's just rude." He gave a sinister laugh as a second voice joined, albeit laughing jovially. "But such nastiness is expected amongst the Dunmers, hmm? In some ways, Dunmer and Khajiit have similar carefree minds when it comes to rude stuff."
"I never thought you be the kind to attract Bal's type," she replied calmly, ignoring his accusation entirely on her intimate connections of the two races.
"Oh Pelly isn't just Bal, he's all mad I'm afraid, but sadly." Sheogorath sighed. "He's always miserable. I might have to pop in for a visit to cheer him up."
"That would be nice of you," she murmured.
He nodded and a glowing wisp floated past him in their dance. The Madgod just glanced at her with a raised eyebrow.
"A little beauty," he murmured at her, smiling as the grove surrounding them filled with floating orbs, shining with an enchanting light of their own. The grim darkness that surrounded them, watching the mortals being whipped, a stifling presence that seemed to suck the air and make mortals frenzy… just faded under those mesmerizing light.
Sheogorath merely grinned at the fact his influence was being stepped on. She might as well have stomped on his dancing boots while she was at it.
"It would be rude of me to crash into the party without bringing something," she replied at the look he was giving.
"Ah, here I thought it's all giving and no receiving from you." He chuckled then spun her sharply and leaned her down.
She wasn't alarmed at that, nor at the close proximity he was giving that would make Sanguine or Molag jealous of his brother's place.
"What was that favor you asked of me," he asked innocently, totally unaware… or aware of the position he was putting her in.
Humor him.
"My champion, the Nerevarine," she began softly. "I sense his soul in this world, and all I ask if you return him to me."
"Nerevar, Nerevar, Nerevar Reborn," he sung and called, his eyes turning white. "Hortator that shall bring Morrowind from its ashes back into its glory." He grinned all of a sudden. "If he can beat the Dragonborn to come but my bets are on the Dragonborn."
Azura softly tutted. "My Nerevarine has more time under his belt."
"What we need is another Dragonborn, like Pelly or Reman!" He added, excited and lifted her up in a snap.
"Or a once wise ruler, Nerevar," she cut in, ignoring… his mentioning of the most unpleasant mortal and Dragonborn to ever have existed. Reman.
He immediately frowned. "Hah! That Chimer Warlord was tricked. The Dragonborns have always survived trickery," his voice sharp. "I'm afraid it's Dragonborn!" He smirked at his sister.
Azura responded his challenge with a glare. "Nerevarine is what Tamriel needs," voice curt, but still soft.
"Dragonborn." Eyes changed back to their usual ice-blue and gold.
"Nerevarine."
Both did not notice how they had stopped dancing in their glaring.
"Dragonborn."
"Nerevarine!"
"Dragonborn!" Sheogorath was now snarling hotly with his forehead pressed against his sister's.
"Nerevarine!" She hissed back, nose touching nose, with the least care if she was appearing petty in front of mortals.
"Guys, guys, guys!" A warm voice cut in and arm rested on their shoulders, forcing them apart. Sanguine looked at the heated gods, amused. "You're embarrassing yourselves here. This is a party, not a debate," he chided both of them but smiled demurely with how boyish he was looking. "Now kiss," he added as they stared daggers.
Sanguine looked at his brother, worried at the feral, nutty look he was giving. He looked like he was a snap away from pulling a Vivec or a Bal, or whatever Sheogorath does violently on Azura (stuff her with blue berry pies, maybe), in front of everyone, without the least care of eternally damaging his connection with Azura, and well, her connections as well.
But then again this was a night of passion! Nothing wrong there.
It would embarrass the Queen of the Night Sky for the next Era or two, but her tantrums were cute. They were like the least harmless tantrums compared with what the other Princes pulled. It was why the Dwemer picked on her with that whole daisy in a cupboard experiment thing they did, or maybe it was just a made-up story a mortal wrote?
Minus side being, she wouldn't ever come out of her realm until the incident was erased. But this wasn't Nirn, as if she would care for what the mortals witnessed here. It would be one hell of a talking point in Oblivion, though.
This was Azura he was dealing with. There was no trickery with her, no show of force or power like Meridia, and yet she could perfectly handle the worst Princes out there by herself. And Sanguine felt like he wanted to see some bit of that action. Breaking the camel's back when it comes to Sheogorath though… would not guarantee the reaction one would expect, or at all wise. And violent throws, however, many blueberry pies involved, were not his style… Sheogorath had always gotten them back in the most unexpected ways.
That nature of his thought might slap back in his face. Sanguine was no foolish Prince nor was he a trickster of the nasty type… at times.
"Guys," Sanguine called out in their staring contest that could set a nation or two on fire if it stood between them, or in this case spontaneously changed into random bits and bobs or suffer eternal floods of watermelon and whatever blessing-curse Azura cooked up. "If you want a room, I can arrange it for you lovebirds," he joked warmly.
Sanguine would rather have them make up by kissing noisily. Mortals were so easy to deal with for that. All that pent up energy did go somewhere at least. But Princes... the gods, even lesser spirits were really annoying in some ways. If it's not bound to their nature, don't expect them to be doing something that doesn't at all remotely relate to their sphere. He kinda disliked his siblings because of this, they were no fun at times.
The Madgod glared before giving in with a quick, chaste peck on her lips. Azura smugness was short-lived, though.
"Dragonborn," Sheogorath whispered when he slowly stepped back.
"Nerevarine," she mouthed back, indignant, cheeks slightly deep blue.
Tabitha, the human doll gazed at the blood-red wine in her hand. Others had easily drunken the ichor, carefree and without worry. She merely stared like a doll, and she certainly behaved like one. No slip of smile, or anger, not even sadness, just the mere passive still face of a child that had experienced more than she should.
But… she would not let herself become unfeeling, for the same emptiness had claimed the lives around her. And that was why she let Kirche within her life more than it was wise to do. She couldn't help admiring the passion she had, more so than Miss. Ice Sculpture, as some boys would mutter, had in her heart.
And sometimes, her lack of emotions disturbed her. What easily upset everyone did not upset her, and she couldn't put a finger on it, was she really that uncaring or something? It just… well, it reminded of her uncle. Minus the insanity.
The Ardent though, made sure she didn't get consumed in this vortex, and Tabitha appreciated that. She was all she had besides her books. The blue-haired doll smiled at the red-head Germanian who tipsily stumbled onto the back of a girl, shoving her to a boy she'd been confessing then promptly swayed into the crowds, disappearing with a grin on her face.
Never thought she was a sucker for romance. The Germanian girl was more down-to-earth. She didn't dish around the subject, and to others, it was barbaric, hard to swallow. Sometimes Tabitha wondered if broken-hearts ever came to haunt Kirche.
Nothing more than bitter youths to ruin everyone's day. Or was it just her, thinking the worst out of everyone? Thinking what they were capable of if given the reasons? Tabitha grimaced at the thought.
Kirche wasn't cold and ruthless, who liked to leave broken hearts behind on purpose. She was entirely opposite. She was fire, natural, burning. A passion that did not suck the love out of others. Warm. It was an unspoken dignity that separated Kirche from the slanderous whispers. An admiring respected quality.
They knew Kirche, and they should know she was a fire that was never meant to be kept. If they were a fool, they would burn.
But despite her promiscuous reputation, Kirche loved to make items out of the students.
They're just so cute, Tabby! Just look at them, smooching there, look how he takes her hair, and her hand on his arm - hey, where are you going?! Oh, I get it, you're embarrassed! Hahaha! Her voice rang in peals of laughter.
Shameless gossiper, busy-body and likes to spy on people's private moments, romantic-addle-headed match-maker, and of course outright scandalous, that was Kirche. She fights to get the man she wants or to get the romance she wishes to see.
And then Kirche saw them and gasped.
"She's so beautiful Tabitha," Kirche whispered in awe.
Tabitha frowned. "Who?"
"How could you miss her," Kirche said breathlessly, her eyes on the circling group of dancers that seemed to follow a mesmerizing rhythm, a ritual as if to compliment the center of attention. "Her."
The human doll wondered if she was drunk until she saw the fabric that whispered those times when she laid on the academy rooftop and watched the sunset. She could not describe clearly what she felt, but it felt like those days when she looked out of the window, in the early mornings and felt the new day coming… a promise renewed for those she loved. When the promise did not feel empty in her mind and heart, the days she didn't feel she was lying to herself that it would be different.
'You will have her back. Do not despair.'
Tabitha rocked back in her heels and she saw the Lady sweep into view.
The world stopped as she processed the strange alien that graced them. She. Was. Beautiful. But… something in her made her put down the wine and be on guard. She wished she had brought her staff now.
Her unnatural skin was the color of midnight blue. But, Tabitha frowned at the fleeting glimpse. No… no, she saw a rich dark tanned skin that made Kirche's soft smooth skin flawed. It was a glimpse but it wasn't hard to spot them since they were taller than the young students and even few staff amongst them. But she saw them, the tanned Germanian dancing with the Lady.
A gentleman with a vicious grin, and dark vibe that made Tabitha recalled her uncle but worse, and the dark, dark moments of her life that she wished to just… give in to something deep inside her.
Like what her Gallian uncle had become. Her mother had whispered that piece of truth to the doll she had crooned.
Youthful until the void fell from the crown of the Twin Staves, into his heart. And he forgot every feeling, it ate him. All of him. It's in the blood, the sickness, it's in your blood. The cold bloody void.
"Who?" Tabitha breathed to Kirche. Different type of who, that translated to a must know than a simple inquiry.
"You didn't know!" Kirche squealed, "It's Louise's beau's sister!"
Louise's beau? Louise has a beau? And he has a sister? No, it felt… where in the past couple of days, she felt like there was an intruder amongst their fold.
Intruders now. Her instincts warned.
"He also has a very handsome brother," Kirche slurred and giggled in high-pitch, no doubt drunk beyond her imagining when she seemed to sway and swoon on her feet."He said he kept a special drink for me since I was such a good girl," she whispered conspiracies.
And then she heard shouting of some other language amongst the center of the dancers. Saw the Lady and Louise's… close companion stood standoffish. They glared at each other hotly, almost intimately while the awkward third wheel… Tabitha exhaled, a drunk tanned man, but much paler than Louise's companion keeping the two apart, was grinning lopsidedly at them.
Somehow… it reminded of a scene of a dysfunctional family Tabitha came across reading in a book. They were always arguing and came across as humorous at distant. Siblings ripping each other's hair.
Except they were grown up, and felt… Tabitha didn't know how to describe it, but it felt like she was standing on a spiky trap, separated by only a thread. And if some conflict broke out between them, the thread would break, and she would fall… so would others.
Colbert stepped back into the ballroom. Well, it looked like the ballroom, but it had changed as the enchanting world he was in was creeping and claiming the place.
"The Princes stand amongst them," the voice pointed.
"Where?" Colbert frowned, seeing nothing out of sorts besides the distracting woods and the festivities.
"Ah mortals, they never will comprehend when a Prince stands before them."
"It's like asking an ant to understand the meaning of the sun, sister."
Colbert frowned at the rebuke and well, the mortal part.
"Look again with those eyes, and see them standing there in the center."
The center, the center was where the dance was. Where… three tall beings stood, outlandish, alien. The world spinning around them at their whim. And something in Colbert kicked him, and he felt very nervous all of a sudden.
"Who are they?" Colbert asked, hoping not to offend his host with this question.
"An ignorant mortal." Laughed the voice. "How rare. And usually, they don't last at all in their meeting with the Princes."
"But aren't all mortals ignorant?" Another jabbed.
Colbert frowned unhappily at the multiple disdains.
"No, sister. They come in variety, some more, some less. But always that hint of ignorance is there. It's what makes them want the knowledge the Princes know." The same voice that guided him answered. "To answer your question, mortal, three Princes stand in your way. I shall not say their names, for it might draw their attention on your ignorance. One, the Lady of the evening, Mother of the Rose," the voice pointed at the only tall lady who stood the same rank amongst the other two, wearing a stola with impossible colors that shifted and shimmered. A circlet of roses held the palla draped over her head like a hood.
Her skin was blue, and Colbert had sucked his breath and wondered, how could he have missed her presence? She reminded him of the old Saints statue back in the days where the Papacy was an empire, except alive and walking, and much more breathtaking.
The Fire Mage shook his head, and breathed in, trying to wash off whatever enchantment that had struck him with that thought.
"Daedric Prince of Dusk and Dawn." The voice went on.
Supposed Daedric spoke of their race, like Gallian King, or Romalian priest. But that would mean a nation, a country. One that he hadn't heard of.
"You mean Princess," Colbert added when he noted the voice addressing the Lady as a Prince.
"As if such distinguish should be made!" She laughed. "She is amongst equal, first amongst equal. It would be an insult. What you imply would mean she is not amongst her ranks."
Colbert kept his mouth shut this time.
"The gentleman amongst his ranks," it-she continued. "Prince of Madness," pointed at the white-haired man, who stood closely to the Lady of Dusk and Dawn. He wore purple clothes, a strange regalia. Outlandish tunic over a white silk shirt with ruffles at his neck and collars. Though seen from far, he saw how the fabric shimmered of etched patterns that reminded him of those on tree barks, except more elegant, ignoring the eyes and diamonds on his shoulders.
"And our Lord," pointed the last tipsy… Colbert held back a swore at the devil standing freely amongst his students. Four horns growing out of the skull, a skin so dark it was ebony and an armor never seen before. Dark and blood red, with spikes that curled delicately at the sharp corners. "Prince of Debauchery." The Drunk who was sniggering, leaning heavily on The Gentleman for support.
"The most handsome, and powerful of them all, of course," added the other voice.
"Is not!"
"Is too!"
And the devil that he knew Brimir warned about in passionate throes! Was this a dream, Colbert thought. It was a very surreal lucid dream. But… but… if he was the devil, and he was the only who knew the devil was amongst them, should he be stopping the party?
But then what about the other two Princes. Who stood equal with the devil? Maybe they were demons as well. Good Lord and Saints! How did devil and demons get invited to the party?
Or maybe he was just overreacting and having an overactive imagination. It was just a dream.
It was not like they were doing any harm.
No, that was what the devil would want you to think! It was just… the red-painted face wasn't helping at all against the crazy thoughts in Colbert's head.
"If they are Princes," The Fire Mage began after a hard swallow. "Who is their king?"
All the voices burst into laughter.
"Who's their king?!" A voice squealed and giggled. "Who is our king?!" She repeated, laughing. Our, not surprised, they said the Princes were their Lords. And that meant they were of the same race or something.
"I said, prince. Think, mortal, what the base meaning means?"
Prince… Colbert frowned as he thought hard, the gears in his head spinning quickly. No, no… princeps. The first in time and order. The first, chief, the most eminent, distinguished, or noble. The first man, first person. The highest title saved for the Romalian Holy Emperor in the days when the Papacy were young. But to have multiple Emperors, was their nation split into principalities? Each ruled by the Princes. A race with many Empires? But that mean they came from a very vast place and land, something Halkeginia wouldn't have missed.
Colbert felt like his world was expanding. Halkeginia was just a small corner of the world. Held back against what was out there. Besides the ferocious oceans, and the inhospitable desert and elves barring any chance of seeing what's far. The only thing he knew of the world beyond these lands were stories passed by travelers claiming to be from Rub al' Khali.
"Misconstrued, but close enough. Mortal. Man, they are not, and Emperors are nothing to them. The first spirit they are, if you forget that nonsense of time is linear and the laws the mortals poof applying to them. They ruled much than the mere dust you call your world." There go all his theories.
"But Sheogorath is the youngest?" A voice piped.
"Yet he has seen and existed just as much as the oldest. Does it matter?"
"No, I suppose not."
"You said spirit, first spirit," Colbert repeated in urgency, almost stammering. "Do you mean First Born?!"
"First Born? Mortals and their romanticism of the Beginning." He heard the grimace. "Supposed, in a way, they are First Born." Sighed the voice.
Weren't the faes First Born? He thought the tales of the faes were just bastardized stories on elves. Pointy ears nonsense and all. Children of the forest. But… these Princes didn't match those stories. Didn't look like them at all. Not even elves. But the fact they were called as the First Spirits.
Shapeshifters? But shapeshifters were mere species. They were not elves.
First Borns... the voices called the other two equal to that devil. Except they were stories of First Born magic capable of shapeshifting power. They could be demons hiding their nature, or just merely a race that shapeshifted themselves to look terrifying.
Except they were called spirits. A misnomer for demons, according to the… more zealous of Brimir's faith.
They weren't elves or faes, but demonic spirits that elves made contract with to give them power and magic that said to rival the Void. Except Colbert had always taken such tales with a grain of truth. Skepticism. And he wasn't sure he wanted to believe in it because it sounded terrifying if it were true. But mostly he wished to sort through what was propaganda, indoctrination, exaggeration, old wives' tales from… truth.
Many things held back Colbert from believing the past Crusades were wiped out like blown dust. Or he knew they failed, and many, many died. A huge number, enough to count as wiping out a country's militia that the recovery was still felt 'till now. That was fact. But how, how? If such power existed, how did it work?
Because if they had such an easy access to that power, why weren't they wiped out?
But this was a dream, right? Except part of him was not believing that anymore. And part of him, the skepticism part, wished to ask questions, questions that might be unwise to ask. Especially to the spirits who held powers given easily to the elves that slaughtered the Crusades. Armies that painted the field blood red.
If they were true, said the skepticism part.
"Would it be rude to ask for an audience amongst your Princes?" Colbert asked.
"No, not in such festivities. Here, you don't need to worry the rituals of summoning. Ask away, but be ready to give something back. Knowledge has a price, after all. That is something that hasn't changed." Hopefully, when they meant offerings, they didn't mean the kind of offerings stories told. Like human sacrifices. Or your first child.
He reminded himself they were just stories. And many people mistook simple beasts as demons before. Fae, elves, spirits, he was sure the Princes were anything but simple.
"One quick question," Colbert added. "If… they are the First Borns, the first… spirits," the word slipped out stiffly, "Isn't it a bit redundant to be called princeps? I mean to say princeps of the First Borns. It's like saying, the first spirits of the first spirits. The first of the firsts."
A voice laughed, he guessed it was his guide. "My… reminds me of the time the mortal called the Slave Queen Al-Esh, doesn't it, sisters?"
"Oh yes. The most High High," the voice giggled at some hidden joke.
"You are sharp, mortal. Nevertheless, it is truth for they are our princeps. We have existed long before shadows have been cast, before you, mere shade."
And something about that made Colbert shut his mouth. He rather tests his theories without appearing impudent, else if his theories were correct, he might end up blasted away like dust.
The Fire Mage gulped and quickly stepped forward, back into the celebration.
If you had one wish, what would it be?
Peace? But violence was the way to the heaven. Nirn's entire existence relies on conflicts for it to continue its struggle, to churn out powerful beings to save or destroy anyone or anything that threatened it. Heroes exist because conflicts exist. If there is no conflict, there is no hero. And so, Nirn would be defenseless.
Maybe happiness, but the meaning of happiness is open and different for each person.
She didn't know.
Her uncle asks her stupid question at times. What use is there to wish when it is the nature of man, mer, and beast to struggle?
She wished to be content, but she also wished for change. You can't have both. In the end, the answer was always, I don't know.
I. Don't. Know. Common words that pass her mouth in exasperation and impatience, the words of an ignorant fool. A lapdog of reality. A lazy person. That was what she was, a clueless girl, clumsy with a poor-sense of direction and time. So easily lost that she had to make her own map of Skyrim. Somehow, she could not compute maps made by others. Fate always teased with her direction. Always she would end up too far north-east, or too far south.
Lost Dragonborn.
And lost she was. Here… her compass was worthless. Here, she had no maps. Here, she didn't have a clue where she was. But her uncle put her here and therefore he must have believed she could get herself out of this.
Paarthurnax found her lack of time and direction amusing. For dragons always knew the time and always knew where they were. He always gave her a mental exercise, visualizing Skyrim from above and for some reasons, dragons could easily imagine it and knew where they were on that imaginary map. It seemed it was the opposite for her. Her ill-luck with time caused exasperation amongst her followers and traveling companions, as she often, when losing track of it, neglected herself and the state of her clothes.
That was what you got choosing a savage that was one with the wilderness for a Dragonborn, who was unable to understand or speak in common tongues, and as some assumed, could not read nor write. A mute. Fate though sent the one man who could groom her into something. Her uncle. And he did his task forcefully, physically, harshly. Savage wild girl no more, but a lady.
A reluctant one that is. She still ate with her hands and stuffed her mouth with rare-cooked meat. She barely brushed her hair and she hadn't a clue on needlework. She did not like stew, as she would rather eat her food raw or just simply roast food on the campfire.
Her uncle was the woman of the house, and she was that messy messy son.
It would explain her short boy-cut hair, much to her uncle's despair. Either short hair or having to deal constant grooming from him. Now she was more glad to have her hair short because it was stuffy inside her hood and scarf.
It was wrapped around her head and face, a thin, breathable loose barrier against the sands and wind. The cowl of her uncle's shawl kept it in place and her hair free from sand. She felt like the dead Alik'rs, for the cloth they wrapped around their head was said to be used when they were dead.
Mostly to cover their face when the end came.
She had faced the worst blizzard Skyrim ever had. Called upon by a frost dragon, to besiege the city of Whiterun. She didn't kill the dragon. Her uncle did, temporarily. She didn't know swordplay at the time, only fist, dirt and a knack of hiding and running away. And that was useless to a dragon whose eyes and nose could sniff a white rat out of its gray siblings, and whose hard scales had brushed off many steel arrows and swords easily. Normal weapons were useless. Even enchanted weapons seemed to be needles to them. Destruction spells were just a sneeze, an irritant. Then add the fact reality is in the whims of draconic creativity.
Worse than that damn unicorn! And I HATE unicorns!
Dragons, divine creatures for being children of Akatosh, or aspects of the Time Dragon. Does that mean she was killing her Father bits by bits?
She grimaced as she trudged very, very slowly up a sandy hill. Soft sands sinking beneath the weight of her boots. Against the harsh wind of the sandstorm, she pushed against the storm blindly into the swarming violent murky brown.
Replace snow with sand, ice cold with heat, the stinging numbness of the wind with the sharp tingle of sands slicing. Regardless, her Chitin armor could withstand the heat. They were designed to handle the arid humidity of the Red Mountain at the same time the cold chilling wind that was said to blow from Atmora. Blizzards and dust storms were natural occurrences what with the mountain spewing that dark thick smoke, upsetting the weather into an unpredictable pattern.
Still… she could feel the grime of sands and sweat mixing in those uncomfortable corners of her armor.
Right now, she had to fight that huge urge from shouting Clear Sky. She really, really wanted to shout those words. It was there, buzzing in her throat and so clear in her mind, the meaning on the tip of her tongue and ready to be shouted at the current reality.
As the winds howled around her, pushing against her body and tugging her cloak and scarf hard, she looked up through the thin fabric of the scarf over her eyes.
She breathed in the thick stifling air of the inside of her cover then whispers of Thu'um slipped her lips. The power of the words resounded throughout the air.
The howl and wind slipped away, the flinging stinging sands fell, the sandstorm retreated and like a blanket pulled down from over her head, the piercing sunlight hit. The heat immediately ramped up a notch, and already she was toasting beneath the cloak… burning like roast chicken in an oven.
She made a face and pulled the scarf around her face roughly, horribly upset and sweating profusely. Her eyes despaired for all around her a sea of sands, of dunes that towered into giant hills, the ocean waves frozen in time.
Seriously, was her uncle a dunce? She was a Nord! In a desert. What the hell, uncle?! Nowhere to go, in the middle of nowhere with no guides whatsoever and no indication where to start!
Think. She paused as she stood on top of a dune, gazing at the arid desert around her.
He must have believed she would get out of this. Somehow that crazy ass mage of her uncle had the most insane belief in the impossibility. Right now she itched to take off her Chitin armor, and the cloak and scarf around her, but her exposed skin felt like it was burning under the sun. Not wise to expose her body bare in this kind of weather. She immediately wrapped the scarf around her face to avoid sunburn. She felt like a vampire, except when they got sunburnt, as Serana said, their regeneration made sure it didn't show. It was just extremely uncomfortable for them.
A sigh, she went down, more like slid down the dune, over its soft white sands.
It was hot enough that she could see a haze coming off her, her sweat immediately turning into vapors.
Shit. Her uncle wanted to kill her or something?
No, no, no. No. Did he ever think of the fact she would need to know where the water holes were to survive crossing the desert? Had he ever thought of the fact that one needed to know where to go to survive a desert like this?!
The sun high up above her head, no giant dune cast a shade or shadows for her to hide at the bottom.
She cursed her uncle as she walked… to nowhere. If she didn't find anything or somewhere to go by luck, then she was doomed. Why didn't he tell her where to go? Was it really hard to just tell which direction and where the hell she was?
Oh, Dragonborn, you need to go west of here. Yes, west of here. Here. Yes, here.
But no, no he had to spout nonsensical crap that didn't remotely have to do with what she had to do here! Or why.
Where was here again? Oh wait, he didn't tell her!
Hours she walked, berating the fact she let herself listen to her uncle's favor. She was still in the middle of nowhere. When evening approached, the temperature lowered down to somewhere she was comfortable. But she was thirsty as hell. Her throat was parched, her lips felt like paper, her gums sticky against the inside of her cheek, and her tongue felt like leather.
Oh gods, her uncle was a nut for sending her here with no help whatsoever. A throbbing headache pounded inside her head as she settled herself at the bottom of a sand dune with these thoughts running wild.
Seriously, she wouldn't last three days at all here if there was no water to drink. And if she had a waterskin, it would need water to refill for her to survive another day. And food. Another crucial thing. A backpack of food means jackshit if it won't last her days wandering here. With a horse that carried some of her food would've make sense, but when you don't know where to go, with another belly needed to be filled with water, it would only slow her down and would be cruel to the horse. Her chance at surviving being lost here is zero. She slumped to the ground, dejected.
All she wanted to do was stuff her head into the ground for being that stupid. It all just merely started with a conversation, she didn't even get a chance to prepare because it was just supposed to be a stroll with her uncle under Skyrim's night sky. And they were supposed to return home after the discussion ended. Only for him to pull this on her without warning that adventure started now.
She still hadn't opened her backpack.
It was night, the alien stars were bright, the air freezing but to her Nord's skin, it was cool. Perfectly cool. She did not see the Mage, the Tower, or the Thief when she looked up at the night sky. The Birthsigns.
Your family. There to shine the way back. Your Home, sister. We're waiting. But they weren't there, and that meant she was far from home. But the moons, they were… smaller, different colored. Pink and bluish-green?
Where the hell was she?
No familiar constellation, then no navigation in the night. Her hopes dashed. Were they in Oblivion? It was said that entering a realm was like entering a whole other cosmos with its own stars, worlds, and moons.
Calm down. You're dumb and stupid, but you survived the worst. You figured things out before. She breathed in. Just distract yourself. Do something other than wailing despair.
She slipped her arms out of the backpack's strap then immediately rummaged through the contents. She found a good portion of rations that probably would last a week if she was careful. But waterskin… Skyrim's Dragonborn immediately started flinging stuff out of her backpack in panic.
Water?!
Seriously, did her uncle really want her to die?!
Ivory white caught her eyes in the dark, a familiar criss-cross patterned against the smooth white. Of course. Her heart relieved at such sight. She wanted to whoop when she pulled out the White Phial.
She hugged Curalmil's work against her chest tightly with that stupid grin then lifted the white phial up to her blue eyes. Closing her eyes, she prayed like the Niben Imperials did with their ancestors.
She merely wished for water, something to sate her thirst and help against hunger. Opening the stopper, she didn't bother to spill the content to see what kind of liquid it had inside, merely drank to her heart's content. The liquid was deliciously cold, like the snows of the Throat of the World.
She wondered if it would refill itself with cold mead if she wished it. Sighing when she finished the contents, her belly full, she leaned back against her upright pack then moved to place back the items she chucked out. Without caring about being out in the open, or the fact she hadn't bothered to set up camp or made the tent, or take out the bedroll, she lay there against her pack, already nodding to sleep.
When the first sunlight hit the horizon, she knew the phial would refill itself with her last wish.
Okay, she loved her uncle back.
She hated her uncle. That man, why did she listen to him!
She was snarling heavily under her breath as she trudged over the twentieth or something dune. Kicking the white sands beneath her chitin boots, she glared at the cloudless sky. The heat scorching and burning, dragging her down in constant waves. She would not be beaten by mere weather!
Sand, sand, sand, and sand everywhere! In her armor, in her boots, sticking to her sweats, EVERYWHERE!
Right now, she felt like she wanted to punch someone… in the face then shove the hot sands in their mouth.
Call the rain? Wouldn't solve anything, wouldn't get her out from the predicament of being lost.
Then she thought about summoning. She thought hard and long.
Odahviing was her right, and he fought hard to keep that position. Even so much had the gall to say there be no other dragons to stand by her side, for his mighty wings alone (quote Odahviing) could take duty of Thuri's left-wing also. It was also a jab… at her small size amongst the giant scaled children of Akatosh since his wings was long enough to take the space of her supposedly left-hand lieutenant. Paarthurnax had puffed smoke at that silent jab.
Durnehviir had taken it as a humorous challenge. Deprived from all social necessity throughout the era in the Void, he happily jumped into dragon politics without so much a thought. Perhaps Nirn's sky had made the dead dragon drunk with just life. He even enjoyed being insulted by the red dragon, felt reliving, just living.
Odahviing had one big advantage, he had lived in Nirn long enough, remembered the winds, the sun, the plants and greenery. He knew how to command the forces around him for he was always constantly reminded of the Words of Power, more than any dragon.
Durnehviir had stayed so long in the Void that such meanings were faded memories. His elemental shouts were loose and weak in return, easy to withstand. Yet ironically, the Frost Shout was chilling, more so than Odahviing's and not in a good way. Coldness was the only companion for Durnehviir, the mark of the Soul Cairn. She remembered how Durnehviir's yol felt when he had greeted her in Soul Cairn.
Weak, like a dying ember.
It was... cruel. He had only given her an accepting look on his fate. The look that reminded her of Paarthurnax when she now understood the meaning of his name, and put at rest her suspicion. It was their nature, in their name, so in-grained that the only one thing they could do was accept it. Their fate.
Except she wasn't one to accept fate, nothing was ever that simple.
It was why she turned her back on the Prince of Fate.
"Qahnaarin."
"Drem Yol Lok, Durnehviir." She reached out and brushed his once, not-dulled nor rotting nor wasting away like that of a serpent that had not fed, scales. His shiny green scales. Glorious green, rich like glass armor.
By rights, when Valerica returned back to Nirn and into Castle Volkihar, Durnehviir should've been released of his contract. The deal was to guard Valerica, and how could he when she had returned to Nirn.
Rule-lawyering, her uncle was suave when it came to the matters of dealings. Not like the Ideal Masters cared, as Durnehviir's ties to the realm were mere… side-effects, by-products. Not their fault. She felt like smashing the giant soul gem, the container of theirs for that.
They were worse than making deals with Daedric Lords!
"Is my Voice not strong enough to resist the ties?" She greeted her old friend. The last time she'd seen him, he was taking his nightly habitual flight beneath the Skyrim's sky in her stroll with uncle.
"Niid, but strong enough for me stay by your side until you will it not," Durnehviir answered the same old answer, a ritual. He lifted his long neck at the landscape around them. "Sendaar?"
It might be her imagination, but was there a hitch in his voice?
Without so much as her permission, he dived into the sand and she quickly covered her face from being sprayed by the kicked sands.
Okay, she expected him to fly, but…
Durnehviir looked like a dragon who had found mountains of gold and decided to bath in it. Sand never felt that good, right? She tilted her head as she watched her draconic brother dug into a dune, disappeared into it then poked his head out in a torrent of sand explosions when he burst out.
"This sendaar is good, Qahnaarin," Durnehviir reported as he seemed to lap in the sun… like a cat in summer. "The heat of the sun, strong… runs deep into gol."
I noticed, she deadpanned. Like ice to flames, Durnehviir, despite being a green dragon, preferred the sun and heat the most. Perhaps because it ties to life itself on Nirn. Odahviing, as his name foreshadowed, enjoyed snowstorms and the snow even if he was a red dragon amongst the white ice of Skyrim.
In fact, his dirtiest trick was to call a snowstorm, forcing them to fight him blindly in a blizzard.
"Durnehviir, I have much need of your eyes." The Last Dragonborn cut in his enjoyment.
"Fos los nii hi hind?" He tilted his draconic head, waiting for her command, his curled four pointy horns gleaming in the sun.
Years by her side had done him much good, Nirn returning his old strength. She wondered if he would ever be strong enough to resist the ties of Soul Cairn. His scales shone and not festering some disease between the cracks. He had fed on what Tamriel had to offer, and his once bony, rotting, neglected body was now full and lean.
They cannot not die of hunger, but like Paarthurnax, ignoring the need of feeding would merely neglect their body state. As Durnehviir's body had, causing discomfort and weakening them.
So when she dies… there would be no one to call him, and he would return back to being a dead dragon. All his shine and glory would be in the past, wasted away again. He was one of many reasons why she fought for her life, she would not fail her comrades.
But the remainder of what her end would bring saddened her immensely.
"I don't know where I am," she told him, kind of glad her red sweating face was hidden behind the scarf. Durnehviir did not like to be pitied.
"You are not in Tamriel anymore," he reported simply when he raised his head eye-level to her as he stood on the foot of the giant dune she was on. His once blind festering gray eyes now gleamed of emerald fire.
"Then where are we?"
"That depends your… fahzon on Vus."
"You're not making me this easy."
"Dov do not… see," he struggled for the words, as there was more than seeing when it comes to dragons. "Vus like joore."
We don't see the world like how mortal's does.
Of course.
Well, asking these types of questions won't get her out of this desert.
"I need your wings, Durnehviir," she admitted sullenly, and knew dragons had a lot of pride, so much pride they would not lower themselves to be ridden like horses.
Stingy lizards.
"As I thought so," Durnehviir rumbled, a dragon's laugh. "Are you sure you rather have dii viing… then say, Odahviing." Dragons and their love of toying with words, she rolled her eyes. He had more life in him than the day they met, that was for sure.
And no, Odahviing was a smug and prideful dragon. He would have snipped at the chance and would use this moment to bite her back in the ass in the sometime future. Durnehviir was more easygoing, less hot-headed than his brother.
If she suspected what the green dragon said was true, Odahviing would take a while to fly here, wherever here was. If Dragonne Papre could fly even into Oblivion and back to Tamriel without portals, then Odahviing could reach this place as well. As long there was time, then the children of Akatosh could ride the streams even with their own wings. Time though, she was not willing to wait for.
So it was Durnehviir by default.
"Enough," she waved away such question. "Will you fly or not?"
"Qahnaarin, you have tempted me to stay longer by merely asking the favor," he confessed his weakness for the feel of the skies, then lowered his neck for her to reach.
Broad and wide his neck was, enough for her to stand on the ridges of the uneven spikes. But she sat down on the smoothed scales, just by the back of his head where the scales allowed him to bend and tilt his head easefully. She grabbed onto the top pair of his four curled horns to steady herself, legs and knees tightened in their clench on him when he lifted the whole his head up to the skies.
"But must we leave sendaar?"
"Durnehviir!"
A chuckle, and a thundering shout of winds. If one would look to the sky, one would see the streaking blur of gleaming green shooting quickly across the skies, fleeting like the cold winds of Skyrim.
Unbeknownst to them, two observers had rushed up a distant dune, tracing whispers of ripples from the spirits and gazed off at the skies.
"Should I… fight for Tamriel?"
The speed of his flight had slowed back down into a glide. The howl of wind and its tugging faded into soft flaps. There were still somewhere in the desert. Durnehviir though told her they were going opposite of the coast, into a land of a more temperate climate.
"That is not for me to decide, Qahnaarin. But wherever you go, I follow," he rumbled.
"The dragons are restless. They smell war, a great war and they wish to be part of it," she confessed, a troubled crease between her brows. Was it even wise for her to leave Skyrim at this time? "Even with Paarthurnax's teaching, I fear it would all be for naught when this war break out."
"Big, small, war, battle are… pah rinis, all the same," he answered back.
"I cannot imagine how the other Dragonborn have an ambition fit of an Emperor," she muttered.
"You are a dov, are you not?"
"Paarthurnax told me I am… a minute-mender," she replied, recalling what Paarthurnax… sensed difference in her. And from what she remembered of her visit in High Rock, a peculiar priest of Akatosh had stood stunned, even dropped the hourglass he held when she stepped into the temple.
We thought we lost you, Time Keeper.
"We may be the same, but we are meant for different purposes," told the Lost and Last Dragonborn. "Even if I am from a different piece of the tapestry, I am still meant for Temples…"
"Jill... " he gruffed in agreement. "Vahzen, briinah, it is not common for tiid vokreniik to walk the vus. Not since tiid do vu, Dawn era… uv tiid kren, dragonbreak. They never… stayed and always returned to Bormahu."
She remained silent at that. The night sky above, cold and chilling wind brushing past them even through the shawl of her uncle.
"What do you think of the dragons who took the flesh of mortals?" She leaned forward to the warmth beneath her, back aching from the weight of her backpack, her legs and ass were complaining from hours sitting on the hard scales.
Shapeshifting, dragons shapeshifting. But they were fables and tales, like those dragon eggs which revealed to be eggs from mere reptilian beasts, dragonlings, pale copies of the real dovs. They were even more fabled than female dragons. Then there was an instance of a song, that Olaf One-Eye was the dragon Numinex. She blamed her uncle for that piece of verse.
"What does Odahviing say?" He asked instead.
"Did, Durnehviir. Did. Your tenses slipped. And I know, dragons see tenses as stupid."
"Friik, Qahnaarin." The green dragon chuckled.
She smiled then frowned at the question. "Cowards," she answered sadly. "He said they were cowards. That they had no pride by taking the shape of joor. That it's equivalent to cutting off the tail and wings of another dragon, and shaving off one's scales. Disgusting. He got into a fight with a river dragon too for that." Said river dragon was another rare red dragon who did not like the fact he was being insulted, after all the general populace had done in revering him.
"And this is when you visited Cyrodiil?" He stressed the verb tense.
Illegally. "Yeah," she admitted. She was really surprised the Imperials were that jumpy to see the Dragonborn in their country. But she had uncle, a legitimate citizen and old friend accompanying her.
There was also this one time on the road of Cyrodiil, a crazy Nibenese they met had immediately dropped to the ground and groveled. Her uncle revealed later that the worshipper was part of the Cult of Thousand Saints and Heroes. It really boggled her mind. There were so many cults amongst the East of Cyrodiil. Most popular being Ancestor Moths, Emperor Zero, and the Hero Hjalti, Tiber Septim, Emperor of Man… much to the whole Talos worship banned and the cultist protesting that they worshiped the man, not god.
All the time she was there, she wondered what happened to the other red dragons that has been said to crown the skies of the White-Gold Tower. Despite the pitiful number of dragons left after Reman and Tiber Septim's time, they were still there, and always have been there. But it was up to them to show themselves, and for them to grace their presence to a mortal was an honor… to the Imperials at least. After Alduin's return, there were a lot of dragon activities and sightings, not just in Skyrim. It seemed other dragons had heard his voice all across Tamriel.
And much to her apprehension, hers as well.
It was the winds, Qahnaarin. They had told your deeds.
"It wasn't just Cyrodiil that Odahviing caused trouble," she added. Amused on Odahviing's antics, the other red dragons had risen from their slumber in the rivers of Lake Rumare and the lake itself. She suspected their choice of bed was mostly because it was literally a bed of septims from centuries of accumulation on travelers wishes and scoffs on the Imperial City. And ships… loads and loads of ships with all its golds and fineries lost with them.
Sadly, the river dragons weren't the only harassed victims of Odahviing, High Rock too had to deal with Alduin's former lieutenant.
Odahviing even got into a fight with the Priest of Akatosh Chantry at Wayrest, and one of the Knight of the Hour. Both of them later… well, they were really vague, but she suspected them to be dragons from how Odahviing reacted very negatively from a sniff of them and that devolved fast from a jab.
I lived, and where were you all this time? That's right, dead beneath the ground. Defeated. Same with all your worshippers. And that was coming from a brash Knight of the Hour, a quite sinister Breton too.
Then there was Skakmat. She made a very peeved face in her recall.
A fabled dragon who had served the mother of King Lysandus, Nulfaga, before the Warp in the West. She suspected the roars in Wrothgarian Mountains belonged to that old dragon, suspiciously about the time Odahviing decided to sulk off after her scolding. He always picked a fight left and right.
Paarthurnax wasn't lying, Odahviing was a hot head, smug bastard too. He did not like his authority questioned, and always expected other dragons to respect his place as Thuri's right-wing. He found all the other dragon who did not serve Alduin or didn't die in the Dragon War mere deserters that needed to be addressed.
It was not like she travelled around just to recruit dragons for whatever cause or power… But by all the Nines, she was really reminded how Odahviing was quite similar to Esbern and Delphine when it came to addressing long past issues.
But Odahviing was the dragon who punished any others that dared to challenge her and her orders after she'd proven to them time and time again. He, whether he knew or not, contributed to the recovery of Skyrim after the Dragon Crisis.
"Rest, Qahnaarin, do you not?" He asked, perhaps thinking her spacing out as a sign of mortal's tiredness.
She shook herself out of her own thoughts and grimaced from the ache of her muscles. "Well… yes. Land, Durnehviir," the woman commanded.
And he did, in some forest clearing. She sighed when she slipped down from his neck, knowing she had to pitch a tent and set up campfire with aching muscles. By the time she had set it up, it was truly dark. Near pitch black beneath the forest canopies.
Durnehviir's eyes eerily glowed in the dark… another mark of the Soul Cairn. From what she remembered, dragons didn't have glowing eyes… but Draugr's eyes do.
Having her fill of rations, she laid down on her bedroll, but a question slipped her tongue. She had asked this question before, but it might be different with him.
"Do you rest, Durnehviir?" She asked the green dragon that had settled itself into a circle around their camp, acting as barrier and wall against the winds.
"Sleep is luxury," he rumbled back as idle smoke puffed out of his mouth, a dragon's way to show contentment and clued in the fact he was thinking about the sun. "Dov do not need rest like joor. Rest is for mii to seek drem onto ourselves, or to heal our battle wounds."
"I see," she murmured sleepily.
When her eyes closed, the undead dragon began counting his time by her side, feeling the will of her call unclenching in her sink to sleep. It was now his will that held him to the world, but even then it was nothing compared to her Voice. By five hours, Durnehviir felt the ties to the Soul Cairn more undeniable than ever, and no matter how much he had thrashed and flown far in the past, that accursed place always brought him back. He was weakening, he could feel his strength fading.
It was a torturous feeling that all dragons hated. More so than the mortals.
You make a poor soldier. He could only accept those words Odahviing had spoken, since his ties to the Soul Cairn would make him an unreliable supporter for her. There was no way for him to express his authority and position on Nirn unless he was summoned in a challenge. To the red dragon's eyes, he did not deserve such position she gave naively to him.
Ruefully, he made a poor watcher as well, because by the time he felt the Soul Cairn claiming him once again in a burst of purple flame, he was too late to wake the Dragonborn.
When dawn broke, the Last Dragonborn awoke and hid her face when noting her companion was still unable to stay with his own strength alone.
He would need more than his old strength, she dismissed that thought and prepared for the new day, ready to summon him again once done.
From his cracked dried lips, he breathed out the words that haunted him, "I see you."
You… you…who watched him. Who reads him as if he were some passage in an Elder scroll, thinking of him now, right now within those lines above, below and in between. Who will continue thinking of him soon after…
.uoy ees lliw I dna, uoy ees I