Chapter Twenty-Five
23rd First Seed: 4E 205
Gerhild stood on top of a small rise, surveying the landscape. Not that there was much to see. The area was aptly named Blackreach, but her newly heightened senses could easily penetrate the black.
Her Daedric armor nearly blended in with her surroundings, only the red, otherworldly glow pulsing between the plates gave any clue that she stood there. She still had her ebony weapons and shield, but the armor had been a gift from her new "friend," a gift she couldn't refuse. And why would she? It was useful, intimidating, and strong.
Like her.
She was still, listening to sounds unheard, seeing things that were hidden, one part of her ever alert while the other wandered through her deep thoughts. It had been a hard road to get here—all the sacrifices she made, the bargains, the threats, the secrets, the lies… Yet she had what she wanted, or nearly so. She had her secret edge over Alduin, and soon she would have the Elder Scroll that would give her that final Thu'um to defeat him.
Then she would turn to Norilar. The bastard had haunted her dreams, back when she could still dream. She had caught glimpses of him in the crowd, ever since Solitude fell to the Stormcloaks. He seemed to be everywhere she went, always present but never quite close enough to reach. She began to fear she might be going mad and imagining him, but Ralof had commented on how he kept seeing a green-cowled Altmer wherever they went. Aye, Norilar would have to wear a cowl to hide his stump of an ear; the fact that he wore a cowl was as much of a giveaway as the disfigurement. At least, thanks to Ralof's vigilance, she knew she wasn't imagining him, she knew Norilar had remained in Skyrim even though the rest of the Thalmor had fled—curse them! And it seemed he was going to be obliging and stay nearby, ready to fall to her blade, once Alduin was defeated.
One enemy at a time, she reminded herself. Only a fool fights two fronts at once. Well, perhaps no more than two. She was currently engaging the vampires, while looking for something to help her against Alduin. Some might consider that two battles, but she considered it killing two birds with one stone.
And she was the stone.
The ever-alert side of her brought her out of her musing for a most unusual sight. She had seen many strange and wondrous things here in Blackreach—giant glowing mushrooms, crimson nirnroot, veins of geodes and rare ores, a long lost Dwemer city—all without the heart or soul to fully appreciate them.
However, the scene in the valley below her was something else. A group of Falmer were fighting a Dwarven automaton… no, that wasn't an automaton, at least, not like any she'd yet encountered. It was taller and thicker than a sphere, and without the wheel-like base to provide locomotion. But it was too short to be a centurion, even though it wielded a hammer at the end of one arm, and a sword at the end of the other. She watched the battle dispassionately, a part of her wondering which side would triumph, before she almost negligently Shouted, "Laas Yah Nir."
Strange, she thought to herself, the Falmer glowed as enemies, but the automaton seemed to be an ally. Perhaps it was necessary to her quest, to finding the Elder Scroll hidden somewhere here in Blackreach. Shrugging, she set aside her curiosity and prepared to join the battle. Regardless of what it was, it was only barely holding its own against the Falmer. And she doubted it could see the additional Falmer on their way, the ones that her Shout had showed her. If she needed that automaton for her quest, then she would have to rescue it.
She ran downhill, pulling out her war axe as she went, deciding not to use her crossbow as the Falmer and automaton were too close together, and she couldn't risk a stray bolt hitting the automaton. She kept quiet as smoke, almost flying into the fight, bursting upon them before they knew she was coming. Two quick swings, and two Falmer were dead at her feet.
The automaton took notice of her, but had its hands full with three Falmer and couldn't do more than make sure she wasn't sneaking up to kill it. She left it alone, focusing on the last four Falmer, who had wisely decided she was the greater threat.
She swatted aside a spear with her forearm and cleanly lopped off the head of the Falmer who had wielded it. Two quick steps, a feint, and a spin and another Falmer was down. The last two Falmer came at her at the same time, one on either side, and she had to grab her dagger to have a weapon in each hand. The ring of steel on ebony echoed through the blackness like a death knell.
Yet it was all so easy. Her reflexes were too quick for them, her body too limber, her strength too overwhelming. Even with weapons as small as hers, and spears as long as theirs, they didn't stand a chance. She repeatedly blocked their thrusts, lulled them into a rhythm, and in an impossible move she bent too far backwards as they thrust forwards. Her torso removed from their trajectory, they only had a moment to be surprised at her sudden disappearance before they impaled each other on their spears.
She twisted as she bent, confident that her last two foes were dead, to catch a glimpse at how the strange automaton was doing. It was not good. One Falmer had gotten a lucky blow on the back of its leg, almost hamstringing it, but fouling up the gears enough to cause the limb to seize.
Gerhild landed gently on an elbow, immediately rolled to bleed out her momentum, and came up catlike on her feet, arms spread, weapons at the ready. She threw her dagger, burying it deep into the neck of the Falmer behind the automaton, the one that had injured its leg. The last two had engaged the automaton from the front, and she didn't have a clear shot at them. Seeing how close the reinforcements were, she knew there was only one option left. She drew back her shoulders, took a deep breath, and Shouted, "Fus Ro Dah!"
The two Falmer were thrown back, one landing broken and twisted around a small stalagmite, the other rolling backwards down a hill with the wind knocked to of it. The automaton remained unscathed, something she was thankful for as she hadn't been sure it was a close enough ally not to be affected by her Shouts. She watched it turn towards her slowly, still limping on a bad leg, and stare at her a moment before a voice, slurred but amplified from within the metal face, said, "Gerhild?"
By the Nine, she knew that voice. It was… something familiar… something she had lost… something she had once longed for… it was… it was…
"Duck!" she commanded, coming out of her buried memories. With more Falmer coming, there was no time for musing. Even as the automaton obediently crouched, she leaped into the air and grabbed her crossbow. She managed to fire three bolts into the oncoming horde before she landed on her feet directly behind the automaton. Then it stood and, with their backs to each other, they fought the Falmer trying to surround them.
It had been a long time since she fought like this, and it felt… good? Aye, that was the feeling. Good. She could remember it, remember how it felt, and even now could feel a shadow of its former sensation. Gods, but how dead was she, inside and out, if she had to work at it to remember an emotion? They battled together, back-to-back, the trust between them as strong as it had ever been.
"There's too many!" he shouted while parrying a spear thrust with his hammer and slicing off the arm of another with his sword.
Gerhild was hard pressed as well. A Falmer had managed to force one arm upwards while another shot an arrow into the less protected underside, penetrating between the plates of her armor. "I agree. Faas Ru Maar!"
The Falmer caught in her Shout gave a fearful cry, some even dropping their weapons as they ran away, frightened out of their minds. He glanced over his shoulder to see them run off, but had to immediately return his focus to the fight. He thought he remembered her learning that Shout, something to do with fear or dismay or something. He'd ask her later, when they were alone…
He pulled himself out of his musings, grunting as he turned to catch one who was about to stab her from behind. He noticed the shaft of the arrow in her side, breaking as she brought her arm down on yet another opponent, but didn't comment. They had their hands full at the moment.
He chopped and swung and pounded his way through Falmer flesh, his body moving automatically, all the while his mind was repeating one name over and over and over. Gerhild. By the Nine, but he wanted to linger over the thought. He couldn't afford to, not yet, and did his best to set it aside until the last of the Falmer were finally defeated.
But she was there, at his side, just like old times…
The fight did not last for too much longer, but it was long enough as far as he was concerned. He was winded by the time the rest of the Falmer were either crushed beneath the force of her Thu'um, or hacked to bits by his sword and hammer. He looked around, a bit dazedly, for the next enemy before he realized they were at long last alone. He spun to face her, and found her simply standing there, staring at him as he stared at her.
She was the first to speak. "Vorstag?"
"Aye," he breathed, wanting to say so much more, not knowing where to start.
"Are you hurt?"
He felt like laughing, the relief and joy and love building inside him like a volcano, but he knew this wasn't the time or place. He shook his head, limping a few steps closer to her. "Don't think so," he managed to say, his thin lips stretched wide in a charming smile beneath his unique helmet, "Other than they fouled up the knee joint of my armor. You?" he asked, thinking about the arrow wound under her arm.
Gerhild shook her head. Truthfully, she could have been sliced nearly in two, but right then she wouldn't have noticed. All she knew was… Vorstag… alive and whole and with her again. She wanted to close her eyes and listen to his voice, let him wrap his arms around her waist, feel his breath on her skin as they lay together… Stuhn's Shield, but she had fucked things up. The realization struck her with the force of a bucketful of icy water. She saw him close the gap between them and make to put his arms around her, but his strange armor wouldn't allow it. He gave a half of a laugh, as he looked down at his arms ending in weapons rather than hands, and said, "I know you thought I was dead, but… Ah, gods, there's so much I want to tell you…"
"Not here," she stopped him, though she did reach out to touch his helmeted cheek, softening the abrupt nature of her words. "We should get going before my Shout wears off and those Falmer I scared find their courage again."
"Right," he nodded, somewhat reluctantly, "Good point. Come on. My home isn't too far away."
"Your home?" she asked, retrieving her dagger from the dead Falmer.
"Aye, it's a small Dwemer house. Got a nice little garden, if you like mushrooms. Me," he paused to give a chuckle, "I've been here too long; had my fill of those rotten fungi a long time ago. Could you pick up those two skeevers? I would, but," he gestured with his appendages, "I'd have to skewer them. It's what I normally do, but…"
"Of course," she answered quickly, and obligingly picked up the oversized rodents by their tails. "You were out hunting?"
He nodded, the gesture awkward and abrupt within the Dwemer helmet. "Like I said, got plenty of mushrooms to eat, but sometimes you need to sink your teeth into some meat, ya know? Luckily, there are plenty of skeevers around. Don't think I'd wanna try Falmer." He shuddered, his strange armor making a rattling sound as he did so.
"Wouldn't have been out today but, well, I had a little accident with my supper. I have this Dwarven shield hanging above the fireplace, just a little decoration to make things feel more like home. Anyway, had a stew cooking in front of the fire, when the shield dropped from the mantle. Knocked it into the flames. I made another pot, but that used up the last of my skeever, so I thought I might as well come out and hunt for more, while the last bit cooked. Lucky I did, or we might not have seen each other." He chatted amiably, telling her about the small dwelling and the surrounding area as they walked. He didn't seem to mind her silence—had he ever?—but filled in the space between them with the comforting sound.
They rounded the base of a cliff, and she got her first view of where he had been living for gods know how long. Several of the giant glowing mushrooms seemed to float overhead, offering plenty of light to see by, giving her a clear view of the small, Dwemer built cottage. In front of it was what looked like a courtyard with a garden full of mushrooms, just as he had said. To one side he had managed to build a small skinning rack out of bits of Dwemer scrap metal. And a little further on there was a larger house. "What's in there?" she asked automatically, her thieving compulsion surfacing, making her itch to take a peek inside.
"Don't know," he shrugged. "Place is locked, and I don't have any picks, not that I know how to pick a lock." His words ended in a chuckle, which she amazingly found herself almost mimicking. Stuhn's Shield, how long had it been since the last time she laughed? And it was so easy, after just a few moments with him, to start to feel again. "You can check later. Right now, we should get inside, before we're spotted."
She nodded, motioning for him to lead the way. He walked up to his front door and shrugged, his arm sliding out of the metal sleeve and the Dwemer sword falling to the ground with a bit of noise. "Sorry," he muttered, fumbling at the door for a moment before it opened. "Here it is. Not much, but it's been home now for… I don't know how long. Since I got here. Kinda hard to keep track of the days, when you can't see the sun."
He stepped aside, and Gerhild entered ahead of him. The house was small and cozy, but for one person she supposed it had all one would need. There was a bed to the left, made of stone like everything else seemed to be, but piled with small pillows made from skeever furs. To the right was the fireplace, a Dwemer bowl bubbling merrily with a mushroom and skeever stew. Directly in front of her was a table and two chairs, which she walked up to and set the dead skeevers down on top of.
"What do you think?" he asked, taking off his helmet and setting it on a low shelf next to the fireplace. "Not much, like I said, but it's kept the Falmer out of my hair."
She turned around to look at him as he divulged himself of his makeshift armor. He didn't wear much underneath—she supposed he didn't bother too often with clothing as he was the only person here—nothing more than a loincloth which only served to keep things out of the way. She found herself staring in painful fascination as his body was slowly revealed to her hungry gaze. Gods, but he was still built like a mountain, his muscles having regained their former strength after all the months of dining on skeever and lumbering around in that ridiculous armor. To see him so healthy, so strong, after everything he'd gone through, caused a warm tingle—one she thought lost forever—to flutter inside her before quickly dissipating.
It was strange. Though he had his scars removed, the ones Norilar gave him, Vorstag had left some scars untouched. There was a small scar, between his left eye and eyebrow, from his fistfight with Rolff in Windhelm—the same fight when he'd gotten the nickname 'Arctic Stones.' She supposed she could understand why he kept that scar, as a testament of his manliness or something. But he'd also kept the three scratches across his chest he'd gotten from a troll when they went to retrieve Igmund's father's shield. She knew he wasn't sentimental—he wasn't one to keep mementos or souvenirs—and the only person who knew he had those scars or the story behind them was her, so she didn't understand why he would have let those scars remain.
He finished setting aside the last piece of armor and, somewhat sheepishly, turned to face her, as if knowing already she would be staring.
The silence was deafening.
"I know," he said at last, not stepping towards her no matter how badly he wanted to, "I… I don't look the same."
"You look like your father," she agreed, remembering what the Face Sculptor had told her, what Ogmund had told her. The cheekbones were more angular, the jaw a little softer, and most notably the mesmerizing tattoo was gone. But his eyes were still Vorstag, still the same sad-puppy-dog brown.
He touched his cheek, as if the tattoo was still there, as if he knew that's where she was staring. "I had my face changed because, well, the Thalmor were after me, and…"
"I know," she said, taking a step forwards, her hand lifting with the fingers spread as if she would touch him.
It was all he needed. He reached out to her, wrapping his bare arms around her hard armor, his eyes flickering back and forth where he thought her eyes would be. "Gods, Gerhild, I… I don't know what to say… I suppose you're mad at me… you have every right… but I couldn't… I mean, after what happened…"
"I know, Vorstag," she repeated a little stronger, but he acted like he hadn't heard her.
"I suppose I should start at the beginning."
"You were abducted by the Thalmor," she broke over his words, watching his eyes widen as she continued, loathing the way his expression changed. "Norilar staged your death so no one would look for you. He tortured you at Northwatch Keep for information on me, the Dragonborn."
Again the clamorous silence returned.
"Thorald told you, didn't he?" he asked, putting it together for himself, just a little bit wrong. "I'm sorry, Gerhild, I didn't want you to know. You already thought me dead, and the Thalmor were still after me…" His arms shifted their grip, trying to find a way to hold her that didn't get himself poked with the evil-looking spikes in her armor. His arm brushed against something, scratching his skin, and he turned her to find the arrowhead still impaled beneath her arm. "What's this? Gerhild, you've been shot."
"Oh, it's nothing," she tried to brush it off, pulling out of his arms and backing away. She knew she should set the record straight between them, but there was too much ground to cover. She supposed it really didn't matter which misunderstanding was tackled first.
"What do you mean, 'nothing?' If that stays in for too long, it could get infected, or work its way to the artery and you'd bleed out. Sit down," he pointed to a chair, "And let me help you out of that horrible armor. We'll get the arrowhead out first, then you can heal yourself. You can still cast a healing spell, can't you?"
"Aye," she murmured, but he wasn't listening. He had taken off her gauntlets, and took a moment to hold her hands in his.
"By the Nine, but you're cold. Forget the chair. Sit down in front of the fire. I'll get you some pillows. Now let's get this armor off carefully."
She obeyed, feeling like the headsman's axe was swinging downwards towards her neck, watching it descend in slow motion, while she did nothing to evade it.
He pulled off her helmet, expecting to see her face shining with love, but she dropped her gaze and turned away. His hand reached out to cup her chin, again feeling how cold her skin was, and her hand reached up to hold his and prevent him from lifting her face. He let go, somewhat reluctantly, and wondered, "What? Is something wrong?"
She didn't answer, picking at a tuft of fur on one of the pillows. "How'd you make pillows without any feathers or straw for stuffing?"
"What?" the randomness of the question startled him. He shook his head, but answered as he helped her out of her cuirass, "Oh, ah, crushed chaurus chitin. Ground it down until it was just little beads, almost a powder, and stuffed it in the pillow. It shifts a little under your weight, but it supports your body fairly well. A bit noisy whenever you move, takes some getting used to, but it's more comfortable than stone." He set aside the cuirass and reached for her dagger. "Mind if I use this?"
"For what?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder, her eyelids open just far enough to see what he held, not to see his face.
"Cutting out the arrow."
"Just pull it out," she sighed, turning away again and going back to plucking miserably at the pillow.
"No, it'll hurt less if I cut it out. Do you want something to bite down on in case, ya know, it hurts?" He returned to her side, dagger in hand, to see her shake her head negatively in answer. A chill of warning ran down his spine as he knelt next to her. He ignored it and made her lift her arm so he could get a good look at the wound. "Gerhild…" his voice was bewildered, as he only then realized what was missing, what his subconscious had been trying to tell him was wrong. "You're not bleeding. Did you already heal the wound, with the arrow still inside?" He looked closer, saw that there was no blood on her white tunic, or on the skin around the wound. In fact, there seemed to be no blood at all.
"Vorstag…" she sighed, wishing there was some way to hide it from him, fearing how he'd react. But there was no hope for it. She squared her shoulders and prepared herself to face what was about to come.
As the mystery of her strange behavior was finally solved, he found himself unable to move. Instinct and fear told him it was useless to run, told him it would be safer to keep still and hope he wasn't seen. He could barely breathe as she at last lifted her face upwards, turned towards him, and pierced him with her eyes, not the cool violet or midnight blue he remembered in his dreams, but a warm and ruddy amber.
She felt… sadness… regret… resignation…? It was hard to tell, being so dead inside and out, what it was she felt. But her emotions were reawakening with him back. She did feel some pain, not physical but emotional, when she saw the fear and disgust in his eyes. Aye, he knew her for what she was now. Seeing that he wasn't moving, she reached around with her other hand and plucked the arrow from her dead flesh. Resignation, she decided that was what she was feeling, as she dropped her gaze and stood. She walked over to her pack just inside the door, rummaged around for a moment, and brought out a small, squat red vial, ornately decorated with gold. She uncorked it and took a small sip.
Vorstag stared at her, not believing but unable to disbelieve. "You… Gerhild… you're a…"
"A vampire," she finished for him.
He stared at the wound as it closed, healing without a scar, the pale edges of skin pulling themselves together and hiding the bloodless flesh from view. Finally he found himself able to act. Finally he found his voice and his reason and his nerve. He pushed himself off the floor, the initial shock falling away, and walked up behind her. "What happened?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her cold-as-the-grave body.
"It's… complicated…" she hedged.
He chuckled. The sound was so warm, so full of life and love, so well-remembered and longed for, she had to smile in response. His embrace was comforting, and it had been so long since she had any comfort, that she found herself turning towards him and clinging to him. "Gerhild," he sighed into her hair, stroked her back, and gently urged, "Everything with you is complicated. So, un-complicate it."
She should have tears in her eyes, hot tears of bitter regret. How could it be, that everything she had done—sacrificed, hidden, committed—all of it seemed worthless now that she stood within his arms? "I thought you were gone," she whispered into his chest, "That I'd never see you again. You said you wouldn't return to me, to anyone who knew you. I tried, Vorstag, I tried so hard, through the whole damn war, to do everything to get you to come out of hiding. That's what I thought, that you were merely hiding from me, from everyone who knew you. And that if I threatened the Reach and Markarth, I thought you'd come out, if only to talk me into sparing your home. But we took Markarth, and you never showed. And then Ogmund said he thought he saw you—no, your father. And then the vampires killed him. And after Solitude, after Ulfric was named High King, I set my sights on destroying the vampires. But when Lord Harkon offered me this gift, I thought, why not? You were gone. There was nothing to live for. I could defeat the vampires from within easier than from without. And it wouldn't stop me from defeating Alduin—it would probably help. And now I'm here, searching for an Elder Scroll to help me trick the vampires and destroy Alduin, and instead I find you…"
He didn't understand half of what she said. He didn't even try. He waited until the words wound down, until they stopped tumbling out from between her lips, until her body was still and cold in his embrace. "That all?"
She pulled back a little and looked at him, a tiny furrow between her eyebrows. "Well, er, basically…"
He nodded, fighting the urge to smile. "Just one question, then."
She simply waited for him to ask.
"Could you repeat that, a little slower this time?" Damn, the corner of his mouth gave the slightest twitch. Of course she saw it, knew he was gently teasing her, but there was an answering twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"Aye, I suppose I could." She would have blushed, if there was blood in her body. The little she'd had to drink from the Potion of Blood had been used to heal the small wound. "Where should I start?"
He shrugged, "At the beginning. Where else?"
"Where else, indeed," she murmured.
Before she started, he helped himself to his stew, his stomach having made loud enough protests near the beginning of her story to warrant supper. They sat at the table, Vorstag eating and listening and asking a question now and then as Gerhild told her tale. She began with her reluctant trip to Windhelm. She described her conversation with Ulfric, their plans for ending the war, and her subsequent conquests of The Pale, Whiterun, and Falkreath Holds. He nodded, commenting on how he had heard about her riding a dragon, and saying that was approximately the time when he ended up in Blackreach.
She had just reached the part where Thongvor had his nearly bloodless coup in Markarth when the door burst open.
"Fuck!" cried Vorstag, jumping up from the table. Quickly he realized he had been too lax on their way to his house, neglecting to cover the scent of the dead skeevers. He had been doubly foolish in forgetting to bar the door. The Falmer had followed the trail to his house, and were now clamoring to get inside and kill them. He exchanged a look with Gerhild, but there was no time to talk. He took his table knife in one hand and lunged for the Dwarven shield, sitting on the floor beside the fireplace as he hadn't had time yet to rehang it.
Gerhild was also moving, faster than humanly possible, her vampiric powers adding strength and speed and agility. She fought the Falmer with only her bare hands, trying hard to remain in control of her vampiric instincts, but it was difficult. She knew she could defeat them easily; all she had to do was to change into a vampire lord—but not in front of Vorstag. Please, Stuhn, she prayed, I don't want him to see me like that please not that I'd rather die than have him see me become the embodiment of nightmares…
She glanced towards the door, where a Falmer was rifling through her pack. She saw him pick up the Attunement Sphere, snarl at the fight going on behind him, and head for the exit.
"Damn it!" she ground out between her teeth, the bed between her and the door. She looked over to Vorstag, who had managed to battle his way towards his strange armor and detach the sword from the sleeve to use against the Falmer. "Vorstag!" she called, nodding towards the door when he had a chance to throw a questioning look at her. "We need that sphere to get out of here!"
He didn't answer, but shoved at the Falmer to his left with his shield, swung his sword in a menacing arc to his right, then leaped forward. In three steps he was out the door and chasing after the Falmer fleeing with his prize.
Blackreach always seemed darker whenever he first stepped outside. It took him precious seconds before he could see which direction the Falmer had run. He followed his ears more than his eyes, jumping over stones and dodging around corners. He caught up to him quickly, however, as the Falmer was unaware he was being pursued. In two strokes he was lying dead at Vorstag's feet, the strange sphere rolling from a limp hand.
Panting, Vorstag walked after the sphere, having to drop his sword before he could pick it up. Then, cradling it in the crook of his shield arm, he turned and jogged back to the house. Gerhild was still inside facing who knows how many Falmer, and he…
He hit the door and bounced off.
"What the…" his words trailed away, his brow scrunching in confusion. He pushed at the door again, but it wouldn't even budge. "…no…" he moaned, leaning hard, bracing his legs for leverage, and finally battering at the door with his shield. "No! Damn it! Gerhild! Open the door!"
He doubted she could hear him. Pressing his ear to the crack, he could barely make out the din of a fight from within. There was the sound of stone breaking, metal crashing to the floor, and… screams…? It wasn't Gerhild screaming, but the Falmer. He listened from the outside, the noises muted by heavy stone and metal, but indisputable. Gerhild was fighting the Falmer single-handedly.
And she was winning.
He didn't know how long he stood there, pressed against the impassible door, straining his ears for any sign of how the fight was going. He did know it took several heartbeats before he finally registered that he was listening to silence. Then, thankfully, there was the sound of the locking bar scraping upwards and the door began to open.
Gerhild stood there, framed in the doorway. Her clothing was torn and bloodied, though not with her blood. A few strands of hair were mussed, and there was a streak of red gore she had just wiped off her chin, a drop having escaped the back of her hand. Her features looked more gaunt, more angular, and more gray. She didn't speak, her amber eyes burning with fire, her lips parted far enough to show the red tips of her fangs.
He was frozen, unable to step into what had been his home. The floor beyond her was soaked in blood. Bits of bodies and random chunks of flesh were strewn about the place. Broken weapons lay beside broken bones. A stone chair had cracked, a Falmer's body unnaturally twisted through the wreckage. In a word, it was carnage.
She saw the look in his eyes, the shock and disgust and loathing, and feared she had lost him again. Her gaze fell to her feet, watching the blood ooze slowly past and through the doorway.
Then a hand touched her cheek, warm with life, and she dared to look upon his face again. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his soft brown eyes now filled with concern.
She couldn't understand the change. Hadn't he just been looking at her with shock and revulsion? Then again, perhaps he had been looking at the scene behind her. She dared to hope she hadn't alienated him, as she couldn't bear the thought of ever again being without him in her life—or un-death. "No," she shook her head, "At least, not severely. A little more of that potion I carry, and I'll be fine." Or fresh blood, she added to herself. His wrist was close to her mouth, the vein twitching with his pulse.
He nodded. He didn't know what to say, so he pulled her to his chest, one arm still full of shield and sphere. She selfishly allowed it, though in her current state—heightened by the recent fight—she could both hear and feel his heart beating against her cheek.
"Vorstag, I…" she had to distract herself, had to remain in control now that the danger was past, "I should tell you… I mean… about this… about what I did just now…"
"It's over," he tried to stop her, but she wouldn't have it.
"I… I locked you out… I did it on purpose… I didn't want you to see… I'm a very powerful vampire…"
He laughed, not knowing what was funny, thinking maybe everything was so absurd he had to laugh to cope with it. "Couldn't imagine you'd settle for being a weak vampire."
She gave a short bark of what might have also been laughter, but he didn't pursue the matter. She was with him, beside him, and he was going to do everything in his power to keep her there, no matter the cost.
"Suppose we should clean this up?"
"Why?" she asked, leaning back to look into his eyes, fiery amber to his wooden brown.
"Well, it is sort of my home," he suggested.
"You wanna stay here?' she teased him, focusing on the distraction and not the warmth of his body flushed with blood. "I would've thought you'd want to leave this place, return to Skyrim."
He gripped her with both hands, dropping the sphere which she deftly caught thanks to her accentuated reflexes. "You… me… home…?"
"As soon as I find the Elder Scroll, we can use this to reach the surface, activate an elevator," she gestured with the sphere. "If nothing else, we'll go back up the way I came down, but I'd rather have the Scroll. Would save me a return trip…"
Her words were cut off as he lifted her off her feet and spun her around. He was laughing, full of strength and life and hope. "Ah, gods, to see the sky again. The sun! To feel the wind… Aye, Gerhild, leave the mess. Let's get going."
"Don't you want to…" she gestured to his current state of near undress.
He looked down at himself, saw that he was wearing little more than his loincloth and a shield. He laughed again, his thin lips spread wide to show perfectly white teeth. "I guess I got ahead of myself. You're right. Let me pack a few things, then we'll get going."
"I should make sure I still have the Lexicon," she hummed, heading towards her pack. Actually, she was more concerned right then with finding her little vial of Potion of Blood. Vorstag's presence was far too distracting, and after fighting Falmer twice in one day, and reverting to her vampire form, she was feeling exhausted. She needed to feed. She needed that vial!
The Falmer had efficiently rifled through her pack, moving items around, breaking some and hiding others. Her hand couldn't find what she was looking for, however. She dumped her pack upside down, scattering the contents, splashing into the puddles of remaining blood.
"Gerhild?" his voice called to her from across the room, questioning and concerned.
She looked up at him and tried to smile reassuringly. "Slipped. Ah, here's the Lexicon, all safe and sound." She picked up the cube and replaced it in her pack. His brow furrowed a little, the look that meant he knew she wasn't being completely honest with him, but was willing to let it slide for now. "Um, Vorstag," she started, trying to sound merely curious and not desperate, "When you chased that one Falmer down, did you happen to see a small red vial?"
He tilted his head as he gave it serious consideration. "You mean that little vial you drank from, to heal that wound under your arm? No, I didn't see it with him. Is it missing?"
"Aye, or I wouldn't be asking." She heard the reproachful look he gave her, even without looking up from repacking her knapsack. "Sorry, Vorstag, I guess I'm a little tired."
"That vial," he said as he popped his head through an old tunic. Thankfully his few remaining items of clothing had been tucked away in a chest and been missed by the blood splatter. "It has something to do with your being a vampire?"
"Aye," she forced herself to sound civil, casting her search wider for her missing vial. "Since my body is dead, I can no longer be healed by magic; I have to drink blood to heal. The vial contains a potion I can drink instead." She stopped suddenly, her eyes wide as she gave a little cry and started for the fireplace.
"What is it?" he asked, fastening his belt as he came over to see. She was kneeling on the floor a few feet in front of the hearth, her fingers picking up delicate pieces of red glass and broken gold filigree. He watched her for a moment, before he dared to ask, "This isn't good, is it? I mean," he continued, not wanting her to become cross with him again, "This is very bad. You needed that potion, to heal and stuff, right?"
She nodded numbly, feeling the heat radiating off his body just a few feet behind her. Stuhn's Shield, the pulse of his blood was in her ears again. It was hard to drown out, but she wouldn't do that not to him not now not ever!
"So, what do we do now?"
"We get out of here," she said quietly, dropping the shards back to the floor and standing up. "Better get that armor back on. Who knows what we'll find guarding the Elder Scroll."
"What about you?" he asked, an idea beginning to grow. "You're sliced open in a dozen places. Are you sure…"
She stopped him with a laugh. "I'm dead, or undead, at least. I can't be killed, not by a few cuts. I'm not gonna bleed out," she hefted her cuirass into place, "And this'll hold me together long enough. After we reach the surface, I know where I can get more of that potion." She searched for her gauntlets and helmet, which the Falmer had scattered all over the room.
"You sure?" he hummed. "I mean, if you need blood, there's an awful lot on the floor." As soon as he spoke the words, he knew they were wrong. "No, I didn't mean you should eat off the floor, or anything, ah shit…"
He had turned away, frustrated and angry with himself for his tactless comment. He didn't hear her approach—not that he ever could hear her when she wanted to be quiet, even while wearing heavy armor. Her hand on his arm almost made him jump. He covered the movement by grabbing at blanket made from skeever hide and stuffing it into a pack.
"Vorstag," she said softly, "I… I tried already. Falmer blood, I mean. Tried to drink it. I… I couldn't…" she shuddered. He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and looked at her questioningly. "It was like trying to drink rotted meat."
It was several heartbeats before he answered her, busying himself with fastening his makeshift cuirass. He left the sleeves off, deciding to leave the hammer behind, and fastened a belt to hold the sword. "Never thought of that," he commented, "How different races of people might taste. Or animals. Suppose the skeever isn't very appetizing either, huh?"
"I'll be fine." She could see where this was going, almost read his mind, the idea he was trying to get himself used to, prepare himself for, talk himself into offering.
His long fingers touched the skin at his neck, right over where his artery lay. "Ya know, if you needed to, you could…"
"Don't!" she commanded, so forcefully he could hear the echo of her Thu'um in her voice. She must have heard it, too, even from within her helmet, as she stopped and tried to regain control of herself. It was harder than ever, her vampiric nature stirred up by all the fighting—all the blood—and the shock over finding Vorstag still making her emotions—her trapped soul—want to take to wing and soar. "Please, Vorstag, don't ever suggest it. Don't ever think it. I won't do that to you."
"Do what?" he asked, "Drink a little blood? Come on, Gerhild, it's not like you would drink so much you'd kill me…"
"You don't know that…"
"Or does drinking from a person automatically make them a vampire?"
"No, of course not…"
"So there's no danger…"
"There's plenty of danger!" she cried. "I… I don't… I don't want to turn you into a thrall, a mindless husk of a man, good for nothing but feeding." Her voice ended in an irritated huff. "A vampire sometimes uses a spell, to keep our victims calm so we can feed without dealing with their struggles. Repeated use of this spell can have permanent effects. I've seen them, the cattle, in Castle Volkihar, caged and pathetic, moaning weakly. They've been fed on so many times, they no longer have any will to resist, even if they know they're being drained dry." She looked back at him, and he could almost see her amber eyes burning through the hood and darkened helmet. "I won't have that happen to you!"
He didn't speak right away, but he did walk up to her, fearless, confident, strong. He put his hands on her shoulders, mindful of the spikes in her armor, and guessed where her eyes were within that darkness. "I know that won't happen. I know, Gerhild," he held her as she tried to shake her head and dislodge his hands, "I know you won't do that to me. But I won't force you if you don't trust yourself; you know about this better than I do. So, come on," he let go with one hand to scoop up his pack and settle it on his shoulder. "The sooner we have the Elder Scroll, the sooner we can leave this place, and the sooner we can get you that potion. Do me one favor, though," he paused again to try to settle his helmet on with one hand, still holding on to her, as if afraid she'd slip away like smoke if he let go.
"What?" she asked warily, happy that he wasn't going to press the issue, but fearful of what he might be asking for instead.
"Tell me how, and why, you became a vampire?"
She nodded, picking up his sword and handing it over. "That I can do, or try to, while we walk."
"Good. Where are we going, anyway?" At last he felt certain enough of her intentions to let go of her arm.
"Southward," she answered, gesturing with her hand towards the door. "You got everything?"
He gave a rueful sort of laugh. "Gerhild, nothing here really has any meaning for me. Well, except this," he paused to pick up a shovel tucked away in a corner. When he saw the curious tilt of her head, he knew one of her eyebrows had just lifted itself upwards. "Long story. I'll tell you all about it, after you finish telling me what happened to you."
She nodded, "Fair enough. Where was I before we were interrupted?"
"Markarth. Thongvor had given you his sword, and you had the dragon fall on it."
"Right. So, Galmar named Thongvor Jarl of Markarth. I was tired of it all, and wanted a little fresh air, so Ralof and I left the city to take a walk in the countryside…"
A/N: okay, so, I have to admit: I haven't played the Dawnguard DLC; I just can't get myself to do it. But of course I decided to have a bit of Dawnguard in my story *face palms* Needless to say, since I haven't played it through, I know very little to absolutely nothing about Skyrim vampires… other than they're annoying and killed Belethor on my favorite profile D"X
So, I asked for help. I want to shout-out to a couple of my long-time followers—Bugaboozled and Leviathan48—for their help *hugs*
Also, a very special thank you to NevaRyadL. He/she not only has a very awesomely thought out vampire story ("The Bloody Thief"—yaoi warning. I just gush over poor little Anton's emotional and moral struggles), but they were willing to answer some very pointed, and no doubt silly sounding questions of mine. I hope they find my spin on Skyrim vampires worthy (mainly because I feel like I plagiarized them shamelessly. Hey, I asked first. Wait, is it still plagiarism if I have permission?)
Okay, so, my idea of these Skyrim vampires:
Their bodies are dead, so they don't heal with potions or magic. They do heal when they drink blood (I know, Draugrs heal themselves sometimes and they're undead; but they're a different type of undead. Like I said, this is my interpretation).
They have emotions, albeit subdued, as their souls were lost when they became undead, and the romantic in me believes a lot of our emotions are from our souls, not just our brains.
The greater the amount of blood they consume, the more human they become. Eventually, however, the blood gets used up, like energy from food for a normal person, and they become more vampiric—hence how their vampire powers grow and how the sun hurts them more, the longer it's been since they've fed. Yet the more often they feed, the more their bodies get used to being a vampire—so the stronger they get when they do revert to pure vampire form. Kinda like lifting weights: it hurts right after you're done working out, but keep it up for a couple of weeks and you begin to see results.
Makes sense? Hey, I tried my best. Well, you know the drill: call it creative license and just roll with it :P
P.S. to my guest reviewer, Ena: there, they sat down together in the middle of nowhere and had a nice long talk. Happy? ;D Actually, I was writing the scene when I got your review. lmao Great minds think alike, huh?