A/N: my apologies for this taking so long (at least, longer than my normal time); I actually had a life outside of fanfiction. It was good stuff happening, but I ended up with very little time for writing for a whole week *GASP!* Then, horror of horrors, I came down with a severe case of Writer's Block *rips out fistfuls of hair*
So, anywhoozies, here's the next chapter—finally. And cookies to everyone who figured out ahead of time how I was gonna fix things! *tosses cookies* Oh, ah, you know what I mean! ;D
Chapter Twenty-One
Vorstag stumbled in the darkness.
He was anemic after his imprisonment, his muscles withered away to leave him almost as helpless as a babe. But the earlier healing spell had granted him some refreshment, and the idea of getting far away from Northwatch Keep breathed new life into his wasted limbs. With stubbornness born of his pure Nordic blood he pushed himself forward into the black, trusting his life, his freedom, to a complete stranger—not that either were worth much. He was already dead, dead to everyone who had ever known him. Besides, what life could he have now, blinded, crippled, a burden to his friends? He was even a burden to the stranger who guided him through the black.
The thought played in the back of his mind, that this Ebony Warrior that led him was really a Thalmor, or even Norilar, but reason told him he was only paranoid. He knew Thorald to be a fellow prisoner, and Thorald had accepted this Ebony Warrior at face value; so could he.
His hand clung with desperate reluctance to the cold, armored forearm, like he was holding on to a snake to pull himself out of quicksand. Gods, but he hated the feel of hard armor, the memories it brought back of crushing and pinching and tearing and bruising…
His feet stumbled again. The Ebony Warrior paused in her steps, lending a second gauntleted hand to steady him, before continuing into the black. She had offered to make camp for them right there in the courtyard, take the time to fix something warm and filling for him to eat, allow him to get a full night's sleep… But he had to get away from the Keep. He didn't care where he went, it truly didn't matter, and she had been willing to put the Keep far behind them before they stopped. And as long as she could see well enough to travel during the night, they walked.
The fact that it was nighttime didn't matter to him; everything was dark all the time—blacker than the blackest moonless midnight, blacker than the nights within Cidhna Mine, blacker than the bottom of the ebony mine in Raven Rock. Whether his eyes were opened or closed, nothing showed, no glimmer of shifting shade or shadow, no dim glow or distant star. His was now the eternity of the grave, only his heart and lungs had yet to catch on that he was dead.
May Arkay have mercy on him and grant him death soon.
…
Gerhild stumbled in the darkness.
Not physically—her footing remained sure and her grip strong, a necessity for Vorstag to help him keep going. Yet mentally she struggled and stumbled and groped blindly for something—anything—that could help her. This was all new territory for her; never having experienced nor imagined anything like this before, she had no idea what she should do or say or think or feel…
The past few months played out in her mind as they continued down the moonlit path, the ghosts of memories flitting through the trees. Their reunion in the Reach, fighting a dragon as a team as if they had never been apart. Nearly becoming permanently trapped in Raven Rock Mine. Their first and last night together on the Northern Maiden. Her hardship in coming to terms with his loss. The SHOCK of finding him alive…
Alive. Crippled. Defeated.
That was probably the hardest to take, Vorstag's defeated attitude. Thorald mentioned that Vorstag had never once—not a single time!—broken down and given in to Norilar and his tortures. Yet the man faltering beside her was not the Vorstag she had loved, nor was he the Nord who had stubbornly defied his Thalmor captors. The man beside her was vanquished, his spirit at long last broken, and by something she couldn't comprehend. She needed to speak with him, she needed to understand, but as long as they were walking she knew they wouldn't be able to talk.
So she continued to set one foot in front of the other, to progress them down the path and away from the Keep, and waited for his body to finally demand a rest.
The night was half gone before he stumbled once too many times. She felt him fall against her, his weight slipping off her forearm and aiming for the ground. Swiftly she wound her arms around him, unable to stop his fall, but managing to slow it down to lay him gently on the ground. His breath was labored, his forehead soaked in sweat, his heart racing near to bursting within his chest. "You pushed yourself too far," she admonished tenderly. "Rest here while I set up camp."
"I'm not an…" his voice broke off suddenly. He was going to say he was not an invalid, but that wasn't true. He was an invalid, his life now that of a crippled beggar, living off of other people's pity and charity. The sooner he got used to his new lifestyle, the better. "Thank you," the words came out quietly enough to sound sincere, thanks to his exhaustion. Weakly he rolled himself out of her embrace, until he lay on his side, his legs drawn up to his chest, his forehead pressed to his knees.
Three times she opened her mouth to speak. Twice she reached out to touch him. But for the time being she left him alone, lying on the dirt path, while she set up their small campsite. By the time she had a fire going, she realized he was asleep. She wrapped her bedroll around him carefully so she wouldn't wake him, but he was so exhausted he didn't even stir from his slumber. She slipped an extra tunic under his head for a pillow, and set the tent up around him, providing him shelter from the wind. This high up in the mountains, the snow had yet to yield to spring, and every stray breeze tore through his transparent skin, chilling him to the bone, making him shiver in his sleep.
She used her whisper Shout, but could detect no living or dead threats around them. Secure, at least for the rest of the night, she removed her gauntlets and helmet, and enough of her hood to expose her sweating face to the cool night air. Timidly she looked at Vorstag for the first time without veil or shadow to hinder her sight.
He had changed. The physical changes were expected; he'd been imprisoned for three, almost four months. Tortured, beaten, starved, his once powerfully muscular body had withered to where the ridges of his ribs showed through his skin, to where his elbows and knees stuck out like jagged rocks below a cliffside, to where his long-fingered hands and large feet seemed ungainly as if they belonged to a much larger man. His dark brown hair fell in stringy locks like it did when she first met him, back before she had convinced him of the benefits of regular bathing.
His face had changed the most. The tattoo was still there, thanks to her arriving before the Assistant had the time to carry out his grisly threat. His jaw was still solid and thrust out with Nordic pride beneath a straggly beard. And his brow still scrunched at the outer edges with a puppy's transparent emotions. But his cheeks were sunken and hollow, making his features seem long and drawn. And his eyes…
Damn Norilar! May Stuhn give her strength to track him down and kill him a thousand times for his abuse!
Inwardly she indulgently raged, venting her impotence in a silent and immobile rant.
Outwardly, she watched over him for the rest of the night.
…
Vorstag wasn't sure when he woke. He realized with a start that he had been aware for quite some time to a soft noise coming from not far away. It was a grating noise, like two pieces of metal scraping against each other. For several panicky seconds he thought he was back in Northwatch Keep, and his exhausted mind couldn't remember why the thought panicked him, why the thought was wrong. Unable to see, he focused instead on the familiar sound. It had something to do with armor, but it wasn't like the armor-related sounds he was used to hearing, a gauntleted fist slamming into a passive body, glass boots stalking closer across a stone floor. This sound was an older type of familiar, something to do with his past, with the Time Before…
…with his life with HER.
Gerhild sat a quarter of the way around the fire pit, close enough to keep an eye on Vorstag but far enough to give him some privacy. She had gotten a bit of sleep during the rest of the night and the first part of the day. Now she waited for him to wake, occupying herself by cleaning her armor and weapons, checking each and every crevice for bits of gore or blood. She checked the edges of her axe and dagger too, amazed at Eorlund's skill, the blades sharp and without nicks after the abuse she had put them through. She knew he would scold her, should he ever learn how she had misused the ebony war axe to break iron shackles. But she didn't regret it. Vorstag was alive. She'd gladly chip and dull her blade just to keep him beside her.
"Cleaning your armor and weapons?"
His voice almost startled her, coming so unexpectedly from his still form. He had made a small noise a few moments ago, but she thought it was a bad dream. By the Nine, he'd certainly earned the right to have a few of those! She realized now that he had woken up, though his eyes remained closed, and through the noises she was making he had reasoned what she was doing. "Aye," she said, keeping her voice deep and rough, not wanting to hit him first thing in the morning with her true identity. Gods, she needed to find a way to break it to him, and soon. "I spilled a lot of Thalmor blood yesterday, though not enough."
A sound came from Vorstag, something like a scoff, or half a laugh. "I can agree with that." He pushed himself into a sitting position, his eyes opened a little and staring sightless at the fire, guided by the warmth. "But just so long as Norilar is dead, I'll be satisfied for now."
Stuhn's Shield, but he had to mention Norilar. She felt the bitter taste of ashes in her mouth as she admitted, "He's the only one who got away."
She heard him strangle the groan in his throat. She looked up and wished she hadn't. His eyes were squeezed shut tight, but his expression was full of despair and pain and… fear.
"I'll get him, Vorstag, I promise you. Once I see you to safety, I'll hunt him down and skin him alive."
He flinched, as if her heated words had struck a physical blow. Belatedly she remembered what the Assistant had been threatening to do to him when she entered the torture chamber. Before she could curse her clumsy tongue, he was asking, "What of Sorcal? He… he was the one… he was going to…" Words failed him, but his fingertips at his tattooed cheek held meaning enough.
She had never learned the other Thalmor's name. "The Assistant Interrogator? He's dead," she assured him. "His throat was cut by my blade, clean through to the spine. Killed instantly."
Vorstag sat still for several moments, his whole torso moving with his heavy breaths as he struggled for control over his fears and emotions. "Too quick a death."
"Aye." She had set aside her work to fill a cup with a little ale. She put a bite or two of stale bread inside to soak up the ale, and handed it to him. "Here, have a little something to eat. Get your stomach used to food again."
He took the proffered cup, his mouth watering with the thought of something—anything—edible. His fingers dipped in and found the soppy bread, pulling some out to shovel into his mouth. He barely chewed before he swallowed, the taste too good and his body too starved. But he had heard the tone in her voice, the fervent agreement underlaid with rage and pain. "Sounds like you have a history with the Thalmor. That why you're agreeing to do all this extra work without pay?" He swallowed the last morsel before forcing himself to sip slower at the ale that was left.
"Extra work?" she asked, wondering what he was thinking, worried that she had unwittingly made some mistake. "Oh, ah, you mean my promise to you to hunt down Norilar?"
He nodded, finishing the ale. "That, and delivering Thorald's message to his mother, and escorting me to the nearest settlement. Most mercenaries don't go out of their way like this."
She took his cup, lifted in a mute appeal for more, and refilled it with ale. This time she passed it back with a chunk of Eidar cheese. "Try this, it's soft. Sounds like you know a bit about mercenaries. You one yourself?" she tried to ask guilelessly.
Vorstag made a bitter sound. "I was," he accepted the cup and the food, keeping his face downward. "Preferred the term, 'freelance adventurer for hire.' Made it sound less likely that I would switch employers, should a better offer come along."
"Mercenaries do have an unsavory reputation," she allowed.
Vorstag swallowed the bite he had been chewing and commented, "You still haven't answered my question."
Gerhild sighed before she spoke, willing him to recognize her. "Like you said, I've got a bit of history with the Thalmor. When I was hired to rescue Thorald Gray-Mane from Northwatch Keep, I almost refused my pay, but that would have looked too suspicious."
"You were sent to rescue Thorald?" he asked, almost choking on another bite of the soft cheese.
"Aye, but when I stumbled across his brother already scouting the Keep, I decided they didn't need to know why I was there. It was enough that Thorald was freed." She grew alarmed as Vorstag's expression changed, from one of shocked surprise, to one of bitter pain and longing.
Gods, it hurt bad enough, knowing everyone who knew him—who loved him—thought him dead. But then to hear that someone had loved Thorald, that someone wouldn't accept Thorald's death, that someone had sent this Ebony Warrior to free Thorald…
…and no one had looked for him, not even HER.
"Vorstag?" her hand was on his shoulder, not trying to move him or hurt him, merely letting him know of her presence. He couldn't help the tears, morose and hot, stinging his useless eyes. He couldn't suppress the shudders as his whole body wept. The last of the cheese crumbled in his fist as he struggled to regain control of himself.
"Talk to me," she pleaded, forgetting to disguise her voice. "Please, Vorstag, talk to me. Tell me what is wrong. It helps, believe me, it helps."
He shook his head, but not in refusal so much as in despair. The words to form his thoughts into coherent communication simply eluded him. Yet she waited, as patient with him as he had been with her through all her troubles. She watched as he forced the tears away and wiped his cheeks dry with the back of a hand. She took her hand from his shoulder, but only long enough to grab a small rag and wet it down. She passed it to him, letting him wipe the squished cheese from between his fingers.
Again his thoughts were full of HER, the Ebony Warrior's voice and touch and actions so like HER, what SHE would do or say. His bitter tears tried to turn to bitter laughter, and he pressed his thin lips together until they turned white. If SHE was beside him—if SHE had rescued him from Northwatch Keep, SHE would've told him who SHE was by now. It was just the stress of his experience, the shock of his freedom, that was confusing his mind. The woman beside him wasn't HER, she was just some mercenary with a history, sent to do a job. Having convinced himself, he parted his lips and took a deep breath. "Sorry," he said softly, his face turned away as he passed the rag back, "Don't know what came over me…"
"You have nothing to apologize for," she remembered to roughen her voice again. She'd seen the emotions cross his features, obvious and familiar to her, and knew the pain he was experiencing. "You've spent the past several months in your own personal plane of Oblivion. It's gonna take some time to readjust."
He nodded, accepting her statement, thinking of how drastically HER experience had affected HER. He'd like to hope he'd have an easier time of it, but blinded and dead to everyone… No, this was not something to recover from, this was something to endure. "How long," he whispered, "Was I in there?"
She was about to speak before she caught herself; there was no way the Ebony Warrior was supposed to know that. Quickly she scrambled for an answer to give him. "Don't know. Um, today's the 23rd of Rain's Hand, if that helps."
The trembling returned, but she ignored it, hoping he could handle it himself. He had to—he just had to—find a way to deal with his situation. She watched his lips move, trying several times to find the right words, and willed him to grow strong.
"The year's still 204, isn't it?"
"Aye."
He nodded with a strange sort of relief. "Three—almost four months," he swallowed. Funny, he thought to himself, it had seemed longer. Endless. Like an eternity. He needed to find something normal right then, something common and mundane and not pain-related. The next words out of his mouth were exactly that, a random everyday type of thought. "Missed my birthday."
She nearly gave a short bark of laughter, that missing his birthday had been the first thing he thought of, but she knew he was searching for something normal. She'd been in his situation before: tortured, doomed, and then suddenly freed. After Helgen, she had Ralof to help her, to give her direction and a purpose and keep her moving, keep her living, until she could find her footing. Now she would do the same for Vorstag. "Happy belated birthday."
He laughed at that, or the noise he made sounded like it might have been a laugh. At least he lifted his head up a little, though still turned away from her, and let the breeze fan his hair. "It's kinda… funny…" he said, his words hesitant and timid. At first he wasn't sure he could or should talk with this stranger, but she had made the offer to listen. And it felt good, knowing he could talk again, that it would be alright to say words—any words—without a Thalmor there waiting for him to slip up. Even the idea of talking with this Ebony Warrior was enough to lift that tight feeling of guarded anxiety from his chest.
"What is?" she prompted, her voice almost at its normal tone, when he had grown silent again. She shifted to face him, watching him closely for any sign of the trouble he was having. She was going to get him through this, going to get him to a place where she could tell him who she was and that she loved him. She was going to fix this!
"That's not the right word." He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "But all the time I was… imprisoned…"
Nope, she thought to herself, he couldn't say it yet, but that will come in time. He'd only been free for a few hours.
"…I had… I guess I had a sort of purpose, ya know? I had to keep quiet. I had to keep myself from answering Norilar's questions, to protect HER." She heard the emphasis he put on that word, but he kept talking so she had no time to wonder about it. "That was… that was… something to do, something only I could do, a purpose to my existence: defy Norilar. But now I'm free, and there's nothing for me anymore. No reason for me to do… anything… go anywhere…"
He was close, too close, to that suicidal despair, the same she had felt after learning of his 'death.' She couldn't let him finish that thought, couldn't let him slip away from her again. She had to find a purpose for him, a reason to continue. "What about…" her voice broke, and she had to clear it and remember to disguise it before she could speak. "Didn't Thorald mention something about you and the Dragonborn? Don't you think she'd want to know where you are? And what happened to you? I would, if I were her." Stuhn's Shield, but she came close to saying it just then. She'd have to watch her tongue.
He was shaking his head again, the strands of his hair lanky with months of filth. "SHE thinks I'm dead. I'm sure of it, or SHE would've… SHE would've…" his voice faded away, as he gestured dejectedly.
"What happened?" she played dumb, hoping it would encourage him to talk. "Why are you sure she thinks you're dead?"
He took a deep breath, his shoulders straightening a little with the movement. "I've had a lot of time to think about it, to figure it out." He remained wary of telling this stranger too much, so he adjusted the truth slightly. "I… I have met the Dragonborn before, nothing exciting, but we traveled together for a month or so quite a while back. Then last summer, I was escorting a couple of orphaned kids to their aunt in Markarth. We were attacked by a dragon, and the Dragonborn showed up out of nowhere to help me fight it. The twins must've seen us talking afterwards, and thought we knew each other pretty well, ya know? Anyway, they're living with their aunt now, who works in Understone Keep, where there's a Thalmor Justiciar in residence. He probably heard them talking about the dragon, and the Dragonborn, and my talking with HER, and thought it possible I might know who SHE really is. He would've passed the information on to Norilar.
"He went through a lot of trouble to make sure no one would look for me," he continued, the tale spilling from his lips as tears spilled from her cheeks. "Especially the Dragonborn. Lured me away from Markarth with the story of a rogue sabre cat. Had me track it through the mountains to its den, where he ambushed me with a paralysis spell. Norilar had a plan to make it look like I killed the sabre cat, only to fall victim to its mate. Stripped me of my armor—don't know if you've ever heard of Stalhrim Armor, but that's what I had. Pretty rare here in Skyrim. He put my armor on a corpse roughly the same build as me. Destroyed the face so no one would notice the tattoo was missing," he flicked his fingers towards his cheek.
"Norilar didn't miss a single detail. I had a ring, fairly distinctive, given to me by… a friend," he stuttered slightly. Gerhild noticed his hesitation, and wondered what he might have meant to say, but he kept talking. "Everyone knew about the ring, knew who'd given it to me, knew I'd never take it off. Couldn't, damn thing was too small. When they stripped me of my armor, I had hoped it might be overlooked, then SOMEONE would've known I was still alive."
He lifted up his left hand, not sure where she was other than somewhere to his right, but fairly sure she would be able to see he was missing a finger. "But Norilar saw the ring, told one of his men to leave it with the corpse. When it wouldn't come off, he took the whole finger.
"That's how I know everyone believes me dead, because if they didn't, if SHE knew I was alive, SHE would have been here a long time ago to free me."
He stopped, shifting his position on the cold ground, and Gerhild took the opportunity to wipe at her cheeks and blink furiously. She felt like Nirn had slipped from beneath her feet. She could see it clearly now, how they all had been fooled. And it worked. Damn Norilar! Damn him to Oblivion and damn him again! Her head twitched, as if she had caught his scent on the wind and would start that moment to track him down and…
Vorstag needed her more than she needed revenge. And Norilar wouldn't escape her forever. He had been lower on her list of priorities, as Alduin and the dragons posed a bigger threat to all of Tamriel—all of Nirn. She didn't want to focus on personal vendettas when there was a bigger problem to deal with, but Norilar had come up a few notches on that list, right beneath Alduin. She'd kill him, slowly, bring him to the point of death and heal him only to do it again, as he undoubtedly had done to Vorstag—Stuhn's Shield—countless times.
Vorstag had suffered everything, because of her. He'd been captured, tortured, blinded… all because of her. And he was still protecting her, still refusing to say her name, to reveal the identity of the Dragonborn, the one person who had left him to suffer at Norilar's hands.
The guilt was so heavy it nearly physically bowed her down. A new thought occurred to her, another reason why he would want to remain dead to everyone, and with trepidation she asked, "Do you blame her, the Dragonborn, for what happened to you? Is that why you don't want her to know you're alive?"
He turned towards her, his expression full of shock, though he managed to keep his eyes closed. "SHE didn't do this to me," he clarified, "Norilar did. And Sorcal. They blinded me. They…" he stopped, took a few panting breaths to get himself back under control. The vision came to him unbidden, his last sight, Norilar's ear on the background, Sorcal looming closer, the flash of reflected life off of a tiny metal blade, then red. Then black.
His hands were shaking. He wanted to sick up the little bit he'd managed to eat. He could feel her hand on his shoulder, light and tender and warm and alive.
"So why not let her know you're alive? I would, if I were her. I'd want to know that a friend of mine wasn't dead."
He could hear it in her voice: pity. Pity and sympathy and charity and…
"There's no point," he answered softly, the defeat apparent even to his own ears. How ironic was it, he thought to himself, that imprisonment and torture couldn't break him, but freedom had? "I used to be a sellsword. When I traveled with the Dragonborn, we fought dragons and explored tombs. Can't do that with HER now, can I? So there's no point in letting HER know."
"But…" she wouldn't let it rest. Even when she felt him glaring at her with his eyes shut tight, she had to press. "Alright, so the Dragonborn is out of the question, because you can't travel with her like you used to. But isn't there anyone in all of Skyrim? Some one person who would want to know the truth, no matter what? Some person who, I don't know…" She may have meant herself, but she intended to mean Ogmund. Stuhn's Shield, but she was making a mess of this. "Someone you care about? Someone who cares about you? Who loves you?"
Merciful Mara, again she came too close to saying it to him. Her heart was near to bursting, it was beating so rapidly. Please, Mara, let him hear me.
"There's… there's one…" his eyes opened slightly, as if through willpower alone he would see her before him now. "I know she loves me," he whispered softly.
It took a couple of pounding heartbeats before she could speak. "You do?" The amazement in her voice was just as soft. Could he have known she loved him, even before she had figured it out?
"And she knows I love her."
Her heart suddenly stopped, knowing it couldn't be her, as she hadn't been sure if Vorstag even liked women, much less liked her. "She does?" The incredulity in her tone was quickly covered by a cough. "Excuse me. Ah, so, what's her name?" She tried to keep the jealousy from her voice, but damn it, who was this other woman who knows he loves her? When did they meet and fall in love? Why had she never known about it before? It couldn't be Lydia, that thought was too preposterous. Perhaps it was that Redguard woman in Raven Rock, what was her name…?
Vorstag couldn't answer right away. It was the one name, the one thing, he had to forget, to lock away, to keep from Norilar.
But he was no longer in Northwatch Keep, suffering under the hands of his Interrogators. He was free. His torture was over. He could think it. He could say it. He forced himself to remember HER name again.
"…Gerhild…" he whispered her name, tenderly, like a prayer, like he did that last night they were together. She turned towards him, shocked, and almost answered before she realized…
…he was speaking the name of the woman he loved, not the name of the woman he thought was beside him.
Vorstag loved her. He thought she knew of his love, as he had known of her love even before she had known… Ah, gods, what a mess! Her heart broke all over again. She had no idea how the miscommunication had happened, but she supposed there was no point in trying to figure it out. It happened, it was in the past, and right then she had to focus on helping him find his future—their future.
"If the two of you love each other," she started, feeling like she was trying to slip through a roomful of pressure plate traps, "Ah, then, why wouldn't you want her to know you're alive. It must be hurting her, thinking you're gone."
Vorstag shook his head. "Better that, than the truth."
"You can't mean that."
He lifted his head up and fully opened his sightless eyes, the milky hues bright, the tiny scars glaringly obvious in the bright light of full day. "Look at me! I'm blind! A cripple! And I can't… I won't impose on any of my friends, not now, not ever. And especially not… Gerhild." He hung his head again. He hadn't spoken her name in so long, had been so fearful of it slipping out even by accident, his lips almost couldn't remember how to form the sounds. It had felt so familiar, though, so natural and right to speak that name again. He wanted to say it over and over, to make up for lost time, but there was no point without her there to hear him. "I won't do it, I won't become a burden to her. Her father was a cripple, a beggar, had been since before she was born. She had to support him all through her childhood, and it left her… it left a scar behind, ya know, an emotional one? I won't put her through that again."
It became a little clearer now, why Vorstag was so adamant. But he was wrong. Aye, memories of her father hurt, and she had an unreasonable fear of the same fate happening to her, but he was wrong. "That's not your decision to make, but hers, don't you think?"
"No, it's mine," he softly affirmed, the stubborn Nordic set to his jaw grew even more pronounced. "It's more my decision, my life, than it is hers. And I won't change my mind."
Gerhild was stymied. Here she sat, on the verge of telling him who she was, but knowing she couldn't. How badly would it hurt him, she wondered, if he found out now that she was the one who rescued him, who saw him like this, beaten and blinded because of her, wallowing in self-loathing and worthlessness? Damn Vorstag and his pride. No, she'd have to wait even longer, wait until he had come to terms with his loss.
Or recovered from it…?
She had gotten a good look at his eyes just now, clear in the daylight, had seen that the blindness was caused by scars. And she knew someone who could remove scars.
"What if… well… what if you weren't blind?"
"Doesn't matter," he shrugged, "I am blind. Can't change that."
"Well, you see, there's the thing," she kept her voice light and easy, refusing to be dragged down with his depression. "Keep in mind, I can't make any promises. This might work, this might not. Or the person might not be there anymore. But I think there might be a way to give you your sight back."
Vorstag dropped his cup again, empty this time. "What did you say…?" he gasped, one hand groping for her as his mind began to grope towards the possibility.
His sightless eyes at long last showed a glimmer of hope, and she did her best to nurture it. "Well, you see, in my line of work, I've made some connections over the years with, well, let's call them people of questionable social status. I don't judge them, they don't judge me. Anyway," she kept chattering away, keeping him thinking, keeping him positive, "There's this one woman, she, ah, has a particular skill set that is fairly unique. Face sculptor. There've been a few occasions where my face has gotten too well known, and she's been able to change my appearance. Now, one day I needed to change my face just for a short time, like a disguise. We were talking, discussing what this temporary face would look like, and she mentioned giving me a wicked scar over one eye. I didn't want to do it, thinking I'd lose sight in that eye permanently. She laughed, and said it was just a scar, she could remove it as easily as she could create it.
"Now, like I said, I don't know if that only applies to scars she makes, or if it would work in your case, but it looks to me like your eyes are scarred, right?"
Briefly that last image came to mind. He pushed it aside, focusing instead on the beautiful sounds coming from her lips.
"Aye," he breathed.
"Well, I do know she can remove scars she didn't create. I had this long one right across my… cheek," she quickly lied, hoping he didn't notice her hesitation. "She removed it without leaving behind so much as a blemish."
Vorstag nodded, remembering Gerhild's missing Hagraven scar, and wondering if this Face Sculptor was her secret, too.
"So, she might, just might, be able to help you. That's if we can find her. She's been threatening to move; she's getting too well-known where she's at, and there are people after her. But if she's still there…"
"Where?" he asked, the single word overflowing with eager anticipation.
"Riften." The groan that followed her answer almost made her laugh, thinking of his last experience in that city. It wasn't fair, her knowing and his not knowing who she was. Then again, he had wasted all that time, knowing they loved each other and not telling her. This was just payback.
And after his sight was restored—please, Stuhn, let it work—she would tell him the truth. Or he'd see it for himself. Then, no matter what the future held, they would face it together.
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Crickets chirped in the eternal darkness, letting Vorstag know that it was night. Other sounds reached his ears, water lapping against wooden piers, the drone of dartwings, a distant dog barking at some imagined sport. His senses of touch and smell picked up on things as well, like the cool breeze tugging at the corners of his hood, or the heavy scent of water filling the air. No longer able to rely on his sight, he had been surprised to discover just how much of his surroundings he could discern through his other senses. Perhaps they were compensating for what he lost, or perhaps he was only now able to focus on how useful they were, but he quickly realized he wasn't as helpless without his eyes as he had first thought.
But, by the Nine, he would prefer being able to see again.
"We at the docks?" He posed it as a question, keeping his voice soft, wary of how well sound traveled across water. The Ebony Warrior was beside and slightly in front of him. He could hear the leather of her armor creak as she turned her head to answer quietly over her shoulder, "Aye. Thought it'd be a good idea to use the back way in."
Half of a smile tugged at a corner of his mouth. Early on in their travels, he realized that the Ebony Warrior rarely took off her armor, even when they camped for the night. He had asked her why, since he plainly couldn't see her face and there were very few threats to warrant the constant readiness. She had told him there were some Holds where she may be wanted by the guards for some slight or imagined disagreements, and always keeping her helmet on helped to evade some of these time-consuming incidences. Now he lifted his head a little, the lower part of his face coming out of the shadow of his hood to show the smirk on his thin lips. "Got a bit of a reputation here, too, have you?"
It was meant as a jibe, and he was rewarded with her appreciative chuckle. "Aye, perhaps, can't always remember which misunderstanding has been resolved, and which Hold is still interested in me."
He hummed an agreement, but other than that made no effort to continue the conversation. Truthfully, he felt… strange was probably the best word for it, as non-descriptive as it was. The possibility of having his sight restored left him in a constant limbo of dreadful hopefulness. All the way here, as they spent the past several weeks traveling literally from one corner of Skyrim to the other, he had been able to stave off the jitters by telling himself there was no use worrying until after they reached Riften. But now they had reached Riften, now they were close to this Face Sculptor, to finding out if it was possible, to his being able to see again…
A tightness returned to his chest, akin to the feeling of Norilar's fist clenching around his heart. He tried to push it aside, tried to imitate Gerhild and her ability to deny all her emotions, but this fearful anticipation was too strong.
He distracted himself by thinking about their trip here. The Ebony Warrior had purchased clothing for him from some Khajiit traders, including a hooded cloak that covered his head, even fashioning a blindfold to cover his eyes. She told him it wasn't necessary, that the hood hid this features well enough, but he felt calmer, more secure, with the blindfold covering his eyes, knowing that even if he slipped up and took off the hood or lifted his face too high, that his milky eyes wouldn't show. He didn't know—couldn't know—how bad it looked, but judging by her reaction, the small inhales and gasps… it had to be unsettling if it made a mercenary catch her breath.
With his disfigurement securely concealed, he began to feel more confident. Learning to use his other senses helped in this area. So did their trip, surprisingly. Though it should have been too much for him after his ordeal at the hands of the Thalmor, the hardship of fast travel actually did him some good, helping him to develop lean muscle and increase his stamina. He was far from the thickly muscled sellsword he had once been, but he was getting there. After he got his sight back, he would be able to focus on retraining his body to wearing heavy armor and handling a sword and shield, and then…
He couldn't finish the thought, not until they found this Face Sculptor and learned whether or not she could fix his eyes. Then he'd think about… Gerhild…
Coming out of his musings, he realized that they hadn't moved for a while. He thought the Ebony Warrior was waiting for him, but after a gentle clearing of his throat, he realized she was lost in her own thoughts. Stuhn's Shield, but she kept reminding him of Gerhild. "We gonna enter the city, or stand out here for the rest of the night?"
He heard her shifting as she came out of her thoughts. Her voice was light and teasing as she answered, "Just enjoying the view. You cast a pleasing shadow in the moonlight."
Vorstag's smile faded, but he ducked his head to hide the fact. The Ebony Warrior liked to flirt with him. He had tried to convince himself she was just doing it to keep his spirits up, which admittedly had flagged often over the past several weeks. Though the overly friendly act was intended nicely, he felt uncomfortable because he knew it was false. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, however, as she had gone out of her way to help him, so he hid his true feelings and let her think he was blushing—gods knew he used to blush often enough.
"Come on," she said, patting his hand tucked into her elbow, "The door's this way."
She slipped them through a side door, down on the lower level of the docks that brought them onto the lower level of Riften's canals. Vorstag could imagine what there was to see, having been in Riften so many years ago, and knew he wasn't missing much. Old and rotted wood, musty and stagnant water, bits of litter and sewage bobbing on the waves, collecting under the stiles.
By the Nine, but Riften was the armpit of Skyrim.
At least they entered late at night, so the foot traffic was nonexistent on this lower level. He didn't want to have to dodge around other pedestrians, all of them pushing against him, bumping into him, knocking the Ebony Warrior from his grasp. A little surge of panic fluttered in his chest, which he quickly stifled; there was no cause for alarm. No strange hands were touching him, only hers.
"Vorstag, you alright?"
Damn, but his anxiety must have showed. He forced himself to relax, giving her a curt nod, not trusting his voice not to crack. She accepted his lie, and they started walking again. After several blocks and several turns, she put her hand over Vorstag's as a signal that she was about to stop. He stood still, allowing her to pull out of his grasp and take care of whatever she needed to deal with, all the while he waited patiently for her to reach back for him again. As he waited, he tried not to think about the blackly oozing water only a few feet from him, or how unnaturally quiet this city was at night, as if everyone knew this was the time for thieving. He didn't dare take a step without her, didn't even dare reach out for a wall, but turned his head to allow his ears to catch whatever soft sounds she or others made.
There was the squeaking protest of an old door being opened, but other than that she made no sound. Not until she returned to him, calling out his name softly so he would know it was her hand that touched his chest. His searching fingers found the crook of her elbow, and he took up his position once more.
"You ever been to the Ragged Flagon?" she asked quietly, leading him into the Ratway, the maze of tunnels under the city that housed more than the sewers.
He thought about her question, not really wanting to be honest. "Don't think so," he answered just as hushed.
"It's not easy to mix it up with any other tavern, being so close to the sewers and all."
He really didn't want to respond, remembering the month he and Argis spent here in Riften, the drinking, the brawling, the final night when they'd sampled skooma, got wasted out of their minds, and woke up the next morning rolled by thieves and wearing nothing more than matching tattoos.
Aye, he was not going to tell her about that.
He gave a slightly embarrassed cough and mumbled something that didn't make any sense, simply wishing she would drop it. He could hear the humor in her voice, and wondered why she thought she was teasing him. He supposed it didn't matter, just so long as she didn't ask again.
Vorstag bumped into her shoulder, not having gotten the usual signal from her that she was stopping. He panicked for a moment, his other hand coming up to grip tighter to her armored elbow. "What is it? Something wrong?" In the blackness of his view he imagined bandits, cutthroats, rogues, even Falmer surrounding them, heading off their escape. He knew it was foolish, but damn it, the closer he got to getting his sight back, the more anxious he became.
"No, ah nothing's wrong," her voice sounded distracted, and a lot less rougher than normal. "Just took me a moment to find her. Ah, listen," she started walking again, "Why don't you let me go alone and negotiate, alright? She might decide to up her price, after getting a good look at you. Wouldn't want her to take advantage of us, would we?"
"Suppose not," he agreed, not that he really had a choice. It was her money paying for this, after all. He fully intended to pay her back, once he was able to work again, but for now she controlled the pursestrings.
"Good, good," she took his hand from her elbow and put it on the back of a chair. "Just stay right here. I'll only be a few minutes."
Vorstag didn't sit, but kept his face downward and tucked deep inside his hood. He could hear the quiet murmurs of several conversations nearby, but thankfully no one approached him. After a few minutes, he heard her returning, talking with another woman. "And I told you I have to see the extent of the damage, before I can give you an estimate. Ah, this is the man?"
"Aye," the Ebony Warrior answered.
The other woman hummed, "Very well. Let's go to my room; it's a bit more private."
He followed them passively, his nervousness increasing. From the little he heard, it sounded like this Face Sculptor would be able to heal his eyes, but like the Ebony Warrior had said, she wanted to negotiate for the best price. He struggled to keep his anxieties at bay, praying his mercenary companion had enough coin to cover it, wondering how long it would take him to pay her back…
"Have a seat," the new woman said, and he was guided to a chair beside a table. He heard someone lighting lanterns around the room, and then a chair not too far in front of him creaked as a weight was set upon it. "Now, then, let's have a look. If you could remove the blindfold?"
He nodded, pushing back the hood and undoing the knot, his fingers fumbling momentarily. Stuhn's Shield, but he could barely sit still as he felt her fingers on his face, tilting his head, pulling open his eyelids.
The Face Sculptor hummed, sounding somewhat appreciative, "This was the work of a master artist."
"Sounds like you admire the bastard's technique," the Ebony Warrior's voice was rougher and angry.
"Don't get me wrong," the other sounded unfazed by the simmering volcano in the room, "I'm not saying he was a good man; far be it from me to judge another's morals. I could sit here and infer that it was a high ranking Thalmor Interrogator who did this, if I was the type of person to express curiosity in my clients. I've learned, however, that curiosity is unhealthy—one of the reasons I'm in this cesspool of a city. No, milady, I assure you I hold no interest in why this was done. But I can fix it. For three thousand septims."
"Two," the Ebony Warrior affirmed. Vorstag kept quiet, feeling like he was a piece of meat being bid over.
"Twenty-five hundred," she countered. When the mercenary didn't answer right away, she continued, "You know I'm the only one who can do this."
He heard an explosive breath being released beneath her helmet. "Fine. But for that price, it had better be the best work you've ever done…"
"Please," the Sculptor sounded unconcerned, even bored, "All my work is my best. And you've never complained before, have you? Now, if you don't mind, we'll need some privacy."
"You gonna start now?" he asked, licking his lips, feeling his heart begin to race.
"Yes, might as well. You're here. I'm here." Her voice sounded a little fainter, like she had turned her head away, "But you don't need to be here."
"Aye, I get the message. Vorstag," he felt her gauntleted hand on his shoulder, "Come back to the Ragged Flagon when it's over, alright?"
He swallowed and nodded. A moment later and he heard a door open and close.
"Now then," the Sculptor said, setting her hands on either side of his face, "This may… sting… a little. If you need to stop, or take anything for the pain, just let me know."
He thought about his months at Northwatch Keep, and wanted to laugh at her warning. Yet after the first ten minutes, he had to call for a short break.
After the first hour, he was sweating.
By the time she was finished, he was shaking, his breath was ragged, his hair and tunic soaked in sweat, his skin pale and clammy…
But his eyes were whole once more.
He blinked at his reflection in a polished brass mirror, until the vision blurred behind unshed tears.
"Tell you what," the Sculptor said quietly, almost as exhausted as he was, but feeling some of her tough exterior worn down by his reaction to having his sight restored. "I outrageously overcharged the two of you. If you'd like, I could remove these other scars, maybe the tattoo, or give you a matching one on the other cheek…"
"Could you…" he hesitated, a plan coming to him on the spur of the moment. Norilar must know by now that he escaped. His description would be circulating among the Thalmor. And it wasn't as if he had a life to go back to, so what could it hurt? "Could you change my face, just a little, so people who knew me might not recognize me…?"