And here is my customary interlude chapter to finish off Part Two, featuring a character (well, two characters) whose backstories have been mentioned and hinted at, but never explained in detail. They've been knocking around my head since the beginning of the story, so here at last is the true story behind them...
Bear in mind as you read this that we're several hundred years in the future from Skyrim, so some details from the game have been changed. Any questions, please ask 'em. :)
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR – THE BLOODCALLER
For Veldarion, the word mother meant nothing. No images in his mind, no memories, no remnants of emotion. He'd heard that mothers were kind, and cared for their children, and helped bring them up. Well, if that was the case, his mother had been a failure. She clearly hadn't loved him, or Ilornias. And there was no reason for them to love her. If she'd been worth anything, she would have been stronger, tried harder. She wouldn't have been pathetic enough to let something as mundane as childbirth kill her.
Weakling.
He'd missed her, as a boy. He'd wanted her there. That was when he'd still been weak himself; as he'd grown, he'd moved past such foolish and childish desires. Ilornias had been more hesitant to let go. Even once they were both adults, he'd still said from time to time that he wished their mother had lived. Veldarion had rolled his eyes each time the words left his brother's mouth, but Ilornias had always been a little sentimental, and you had to make allowances for your twin. There was a reason why the word brother was the only family-related word that Veldarion connected with anything good.
As for the word father, that did have a meaning, but not one that Veldarion liked. Fathers were supposed to raise you, teach you and protect you. His father had got the first part vaguely right, but he'd failed miserably at the rest. Veldarion's memories of him were hazy. An empty bottle, a raised voice, a clenched fist. Huddling close to Ilornias as a shadow fell across them and insults and curses flew at their ears. And then, suddenly, a day when the door to their house opened and two figures entered, a shower of snow following them in for the brief moment that the door was open. A Nord in the dark blue sash and chainmail of a town guard, and an Argonian in a dock worker's thick jacket and tall boots.
'These are them, huh?' the Nord asked, crouching to get a proper look at the two ragged, grime-smeared boys who stood in front of him.
'That's his kids,' the Argonian affirmed.
The Nord grunted. 'Poor suckers. The mother's dead?'
'Died five years ago. Giving birth to them, I think.'
'What a mess.' The guard shook his head. 'And a waste.'
There had been more words after that, but those were the only ones that had stuck in Veldarion's head. He could remember the guard asking them to pack up all their possessions, which hadn't taken long, and then to follow him out of the house and through the streets, until the snow got too deep for them to walk, and the Nord had picked him up and the Argonian had carried Ilornias until they got to the orphanage. That was when Veldarion understood what had happened, but he felt no pain, only relief. And later that relief had turned to glee, because there would be no more shouting, no more blows, no more nights huddled on the cold stone floor.
A rope had snapped, they learned later, or was it a chain that had broken? It didn't matter to Veldarion. All he cared about was that there had been an accident, that a crate being winched up onto a ship had fallen down and crushed the man who had put up a feeble attempt to be his father.
And that meant that he and Ilornias were free to do as they pleased.
Well. Not as they pleased. It was an orphanage. They were watched, supervised, controlled. But not cared for. Yes, they were fed and watered and sheltered, but they received no special treatment. They weren't loved. Not that Veldarion wanted love.
It was two year before he made the discovery. Magic. Sometimes the orphanage managers would take them out into the town, and they could browse the market. And that was where he had found it, a small book with a flame stamped on the cover. He'd asked, with seven-year-old ignorance, what it was, and had been told that it was a spell tome – 'And too expensive for the likes of you.'
So Veldarion had slipped out of bed that night, woken Ilornias, and beckoned for his brother to follow him out of the window that never locked properly, into the streets, and to the marketplace, where he smashed open the wooden box that held the merchant's goods and took the tome. They stole the money, too, so that everyone would suspect it was a common thief who had taken it. And they had crept back to the orphanage, Ilornias wide-eyed with wonder, Veldarion smirking with pride.
Ilornias raised no objections when Veldarion announced that he, as the oldest, would be learning the spell. And he did learn it. Neither of them slept that night – they were too intent on watching a small orb of fire ignite over Veldarion's palm, again and again.
Veldarion's next step was to make a deal with the Khajiit traders who passed through the city once a month, and who always camped near the stables. The other merchants rarely stocked spell tomes, but when Veldarion promised the Khajiit that he and his brother would have the money, the furred travellers exchanged smiles and told him that they would supply the merchandise.
The money was duly obtained, from selling what they didn't need, and from dipping their hands into the orphanage funds now and again. When Ilornias voiced doubts, Veldarion hastened to reassure him – 'It's the orphanage money, and we're oprhans, so it's going to us anyway. Why not use it for what we want?' And the next month, when the Khajiit appeared again, they had tomes with them. This time there was enough for both boys to learn, and soon Veldarion was firing ice spikes and using fury spells on the bees so that they hurled themselves on the townsfolk and buried stings into their flesh, while Ilornias was frying rats with lightning bolts and casting Candlelight spells at night so that they can they could read books on magic when normally they would have been unable to see the pages.
They were eight when Veldarion became a necromancer. When the Khajiit turned up with a single spell tome that contained the knowledge that could teach them to raise a thrall, both brothers agreed instantly that Veldarion should be the one to read it. It was all he had ever wanted, to be able to reverse death. Not because there was anyone to bring back – why resurrect his weak mother, or his ignorant father? He wanted to be a necromancer because it was the ultimate power, the supreme way of slapping the Divines in the face. Cheating death.
That day, they found a dead dog, a stray that hadn't scavenged enough scraps, lying in the corner of an alleyway. And Veldarion had sent the magic out from his hands and through the dog's fur and skin, into the nerves and the marrow of the bone. And he had pulled the creature upright with invisible threads, and it had lifted its head and opened its mouth. A thin trickle of saliva had fallen into the snow.
Suddenly, Ilornias was tugging at Veldarion's arm. 'Vel, let's find another. A living one. If we attack it – throw stones or something – we can get them to fight – '
They were both running instantly, faces alight with eagerness. They found one quickly, a black-furred thing that belonged to the innkeeper, and pelted it with broken bricks and pebbles and everything else to hand. And the thrall-dog, the dead body that had obediently Veldarion all the way, flew at it with drool flying from its jaws and a vacant fury in its eyes. It bowled the innkeeper's dog over, pressing its muzzle into the snow, and Veldarion had shrieked with delight and shouted 'Kill it!'
And at that moment he'd felt something fail within him and the resurrected dog collapsed into dust.
The spell had run out of time, he knew. It didn't trouble him, because he knew that with time he'd be able to make it last longer, though it did send a rush of rage through him to see the other dog scrabbling up and fleeing. Once I decide something should die, it should die, Veldarion thought.
He bent down and scooped up a handful of the blue-grey ash that was all that was left of his thrall. And as it trickled through his fingers and was blown away by the wind, he knew. This was what I was born to do.
They were shouted at that night, for being late back and for leaving without permission, but they didn't care.
He kept practicing, as did Ilornias, once he'd learned the spell. And soon they were itching to try it out on a person, an actual dead mortal, but obviously dead bodies weren't readily available to them. Until the day that the guards caught a thief in the marketplace, and stabbed him through the chest when he tried to escape. Veldarion hadn't waited – he'd ducked behind a barrel, out of sight, and cast the spell. The yells of shock had been glorious, but the knowledge that he'd had a human thrall– however briefly, before the guards cut it down – was greater still.
They were nine by then, and the orphanage workers were giving up on them. They were always awake before they should be, they hardly ever spoke to the other children, they were constantly out of the orphanage without asking to leave, coming back ridiculously late. What was the use of wasting time and energy trying to stop them? They had other children to care for; the rebellious Altmer twins were a lost cause. And besides, the other orphans, especially the younger ones, didn't like to be around Veldaron and Ilornias. 'Creepy,' the more mature ones called them. 'Scary,' the youngest whispered from behind the adults' skirts. And the orphanage staff looked at each other sadly and admitted that there was nothing they could do, that those boys were going to come to no good, and that it was probably best if they weren't around much, because the little ones were so frightened of them.
Time passed. They grew. They learned. And finally, when they were ten, it happened. It was late; they'd spent the entire day practicing spells in the back alleys, summoning flame and frost atronachs and pitting them against each other. Weary but happy, they were trudging back to the orphanage when he reeled out of the shadows, lurching towards them with the same jerky movements as a thrall. A drunkard, a beggar from the look of him, with wide, crazed eyes and hair like rotten willow branches. He was holding a dagger in one hand. The look he gave the twins was hazy, out of focus; he probably wasn't even heading towards them. But he was an adult, and armed – probably fresh from a street fight, or a brawl in an inn. And he was terrifying.
Without hesitation, Veldarion charged an ice spike and shot it through his neck.
The man died instantly; no one survives a razor-sharp icicle severing their windpipe. He slumped into the snow without a sound, the dagger dropping from his grip.
For a moment, neither of them moved or spoke. Then Ilornias inched forwards, and, with a trembling hand, prodded the man's side. He leaped back instantly, but the man lay still.
'He's dead,' Ilornias whispered. 'You killed him.'
He whirled around. 'Vel, you killed him.'
'I did,' Veldarion whispered, breathless with awe.
Ilornias grabbed his hand. 'We have to get away! If they find the body – '
'They won't,' Veldarion said, and with a flick of his hand, he had the man enthralled. 'Once this spell wears out, he'll just be dust. No one will find him, or think we had anything to do with it.'
He felt stronger in that moment than he ever had before. He had taken life. Destroyed it. And no one except his brother would ever know.
He looked at Ilornias, and saw his own wonder reflected in his twin's eyes.
They left the orphanage four years later. They didn't ask permission, they simply packed up their things, walked out of the door one morning and didn't come back. A search of Windhelm confirmed that they were really gone. Nobody really missed them, except for Uniliel, who had often shot a longing glance at Ilornias only to turn away with a blush if he looked at her. The younger children were relieved, the older ones shook their heads and wondered what on earth they thought they were doing, setting off into Skyrim's wilderness on their own, and the staff sighed quietly and muttered that it was probably for the best. Theories abounded, of course, among the children about why they might have left.
'To join a bandit clan,' Horlund suggested.
'Or to go looking for magic books in other towns,' Iniya whispered.
'Maybe they murdered someone and the guards found out and now they're running away,' Ma'shazro hissed, with more than a little glee.
'They wouldn't!' Uniliel protested, rounding on him with a glare. 'They're not as bad as you keep saying. Veldarion's always a bit snappish, but Ilornias can be really nice.'
'You're only saying that 'cause you fancy him,' Horland said, waving his hand dismissively. 'It'll be better with them gone. They always gave me the creeps. It's not right, being that obsessed with magic.'
If Uniliel had been a Khajiit, she would have bristled. 'You never really talked to them, you just decided they were weird and never spoke to them, no wonder they were always on their own, nobody ever gave them a chance or tried to be friends –'
'Maybe they went to join the College of Winterhold,' Iniya interjected, before Uniliel and Horlund could come to blows, and as a matter of fact, she was right.
'Well, they will not get far,' Ma'shazro said. 'It is winter. And even if they don't freeze, there are bandits and bears and sabre cats on the road. They shall not survive to Winterhold.'
Uniliel shook her head wordlessly, her eyes widening with horror.
'Or they'll be back in an hour or two,' Horlund added.
'Dripping wet and begging for a warm drink,' Iniya grinned.
But this time, they were wrong. Veldarion and Ilornias did not come back in within the hour, or the next one, or indeed at any time that night. Or any night after that. And eventually the others stopped talking about them, and they drifted out of their memories. Soon there was no one left at the orphanage who remembered them, except for the staff, who were fairly sure that they would have died in the snow the night they left.
They, too, were wrong. Veldarion and Ilornias made swift progress towards Winterhold. Cupping your hands around a flame spell was an easy way of fending off cold, and of lighting a fire at night. One could stay up half the night, keeping watch under a Candlelight spell, and then they would swap over. There was only one incident, with a pack of wolves that thought the two young elves would be an easy meal, but Ilornias's shouts wakened Veldarion quickly, and a few well-aimed fireballs eliminated the only obstacle that tried to stop them from reaching their goal.
They were welcomed into the College with open arms. They were rather younger than the usual students that the mages of Winterhold took on, but no one could question their intelligence or skill. They learned quickly, just as they had hoped they would. New spells, new secrets, new knowledge came to them every day. But they kept to themselves, just as always, seldom talking to the other students in class, huddling side by side over the books in the Arcaneum, and often they would stay up until midnight discussing magic, what they could do with it, the different branches of it.
'Very bright,' the teachers would say, when they discussed them after lessons were over. 'Brilliant minds.'
The Restoration master frowned. 'They don't seem all that interested in my subject,' he said scathingly. 'Veldarion especially.'
'It's Destruction and Conjuration he wants to learn.' The Archmage sighed and shook her head. 'And neither of them wants to do much else. They're learning magic for their own reasons, never a thought for how they might use it to help anyone else.'
'That's not a crime, is it?'
'No, but I wish they would talk to the other students a little more. They don't seem particularly concerned with being part of the College. They just want to learn from us.'
'Isn't that what we're here for? To teach people?'
And the Archmage sighed and wondered if her fellow teachers realised what she did - that people who learned magic for purely selfish reasons would end up using it to hurt others. Those two boys had so much potential. She didn't know what kind of start they'd had in life that had made them so distant from everyone else, so determined to trust nobody but each other. But that was their most redeeming feature – the fact that even if they were unfriendly to everyone else, they were as close as brothers could possibly be.
But as time passed, while that one redeeming feature remained unchanged, their un-redeeming features grew worse. Soon the other students avoided them completely, and the teachers – while they took their answers in class and gave them extra tutelage if they needed it, just as they would have with any other student – found that they couldn't like them, the way they liked the others.
And the Archmage quietly asked them to turn a blind eye to the fact that they all knew it was the twins who stole soul gems from their private stores, and that they were the ones who were performing those peculiar experiments on the innkeeper's chickens. 'We have to give them a chance,' she told them.
She called them up to her private quarters, and spoke to them sternly. Ilornias had the decency to look vaguely guilty, and he shuffled his feet until Veldarion dug an elbow into his ribs. But neither of them would confess.
Veldarion listened to her, and though he didn't roll his eyes, he wanted to. What was the point of her asking these questions? What he wished he could say was that yes, they had taken the soul gems, because why shouldn't they do some extra experimenting, to learn a little more? And of course they'd been doing some tests on that idiot innkeeper's chickens. He could get some more, couldn't he? He had plenty anyway. And since the College didn't have any live animals around to experiment on, why shouldn't they do whatever they liked to the stupid chickens? It wasn't enough for him, or for Ilornias either, learning spells and magical theory, conjuring atronachs. Why couldn't they get onto real magic, actually manipulating living matter? They learned more through that than they did in the hours they spent listening to the teachers drone on about theory.
Once the two young elves were gone, the Archmage sat down and ran her hands through her hair, sighing. She didn't want to turn them away from the College, even though they had broken rules and were probably going to break more. They couldn't be all bad, could they? When they clearly loved each other so much, and when they had such a yearning to discover and learn?
But eventually the thing happened that simply couldn't be ignored. It was Fayenelle, the Alteration instructor, who found them out. Ilornias left his book of notes in her room after the lecture was over. She didn't realise until the evening, once all the students should have been in bed. But they always stayed up late, everyone knew that, so she thought there could be no harm in taking it to him straight away, because Ilornias always panicked when his work was missing even for a minute. And so she went down to Ilornias's room and knocked on the door.
There was an abrupt scuffling sound, as if sheets of paper were being stuffed away out of sight, and a light clunk.
'Ilornias?' Fayenelle knocked again. 'You left your book in my room.'
'You idiot!' a voice came from behind the door.
Veldarion, Fayenelle thought. 'I've brought it for you,' she called.
The door opened, and Ilornias's pale face appeared. 'Thanks,' he said brusquely, holding out his hands for the book.
Fayenelle was tall for a Breton, tall enough to see over his head and into the room. Veldarion was shoving something under the bed.
The Alteration master had never had any real affection for the twins. They were rude, and antisocial, and they were thieves. Those were probably more stolen soul gems being stashed under the bed, and for the love of the Gods, she wasn't going to let them get away with it any more.
Without another word, she slapped the book down into Ilornias's hands, pushed him aside, and threw open the door.
Ilornias let out a strangled yell and leaped in front of her, trying to block her path, but it seemed he didn't quite have the nerve to actually fight a teacher, so when she turned a fiery gaze on him, he backed away with a mutinous glower.
But Veldarion was there suddenly, standing in front of the bed, his hands curled around ice spells. 'This is my brother's room,' he snarled. 'You've got no right to be in here.'
Fayenelle could have conjured spells of her own, but she was determined not to let a somewhat scrawny nineteen-year-old threaten her. 'Veldarion,' she hissed, 'get out of my way.'
Ilornias moved to stand at Veldarion's side, and, after a brief glance at his twin's hands, summoned a lightning bolt into each palm.
Fayenelle drew herself up to her full height.
'Boys,' she growled, 'You're thieves, cheats and liars. But I don't think you're murderers yet.'
They gaped at her, and in that brief second in which they were frozen she shoved her way between them and knelt down beside the bed. She looked underneath, and what she saw made her heart stop.
Slowly, doubting that her eyes were telling the truth, she reached out and pulled it towards her. The moment the light fell on it, she withdrew her hand with a horrified, disgusted yelp.
She looked up at the twins. Both were glaring at her defiantly.
'Forgive me,' Fayenelle snarled. 'You're not murderers. You're far worse than that.'
Again, they were taken before the Archmage, who gazed at them with a mixture of sadness and fury. 'You two are perhaps the most brilliant students I've ever taught,' she told them. 'You have incredible minds. I never wanted your talent to be wasted. That's why I overlooked so many of the things you did. But I can't overlook this. It's not a rule of the College you've broken this time, it's a law of Tamriel.'
She turned to look at the thing that Fayenelle had brought up from Ilornias's room. 'You know – everyone knows – that the College is… more liberal about many subjects than other schools of magic. But there isn't a single magical institution in Tamriel that allows black soul gems. Not any more.'
'Why?' Veldarion gave her a belligerent glare. 'People used them for centuries without anyone-'
'That was before we learned about the Soul Cairn,' the Archmage interrupted him. 'And there is no excuse, no justification – none – for condemning a fellow mortal to an eternity in that place.'
'We weren't the ones who trapped the soul!' Ilornias burst out. 'We just bought it. It's not as if we actually hurt anyone.'
The Archmage shook her head. 'It's the same as the Skooma trade, Ilornias. When people buy, it creates a demand, and so evil people who don't care who they hurt decide to supply. And that means people are being killed. Trapped inside these.' She nodded towards the soul gem. 'And when that gem is used, their soul will be trapped in one of the most terrible places imaginable. Forever. I've been to the Soul Cairn. I've seen what it's like. Three hundred years ago, when it became common knowledge what happened to souls inside gems when they were used, they became illegal. Mages from practically every College and Guild across Tamriel met and decided, we will not let this happen.'
'So what?' Veldarion snapped.
'So, do you really think condemning someone to that is worth a little extra magical power? Would you want that to happen to you?'
'But it didn't happen to me.'
The Archmage closed her eyes.
'I'm not expelling you for the soul gem itself,' she said quietly. 'I'm expelling you because of the principle. Because I will not have young mages with such an utter lack of compassion in my college.'
'No!' Ilornias's eyes stretched wide open. 'Please - let us stay. We won't do it again.'
'Won't you?' the Archmage asked them.
Their silence was the only reply she needed.
Once the gates to the College had slammed shut behind them, and the gatekeeper shouted in no uncertain term that they weren't to come back, Veldarion gritted his teeth and tugged at his brother's sleeve. 'Come on.'
They're just idiots, he told himself, as he stomped through the snow. They don't even care about becoming real mages. Sometimes it's like Ilornias and I are the only ones who want to actually do anything with magic.
'There are other places to study.' Ilornias seemed almost frightened by his brother's fury. 'There's Cyrodiil. Or we could go to the Summerset Isles, I always wanted to see – '
'We're not studying any more,' Veldarion broke across him. 'There's nothing more that they can teach us. It's time for us to teach ourselves. And others.'
Ilornias's brow creased. 'What do you mean?'
'What do you think I mean? We're not listening to teachers any more. We're going to be our own teachers. They won't teach us about black soul gems? Fine. We'll make our own portal to the Soul Cairn. They won't teach us about Daedric magic? We'll learn it straight from the Daedra. And we'll find others to follow us. Nobody can set rules for us now.'
And so it was.
They travelled, venturing into the darkest corners of Tamriel, finding secrets that had been hidden for centuries. They fell in, briefly, with various Daedric cults, learning their ways and devouring the knowledge they were offered, but they always left before any ties could be formed. They experimented with different forms of power – they were vampires, for a few months, but they quickly decided that the promise of immortality wasn't worth the fear of sunlight and the allegiance to Molag Bal, and until they could work out a way to counter-act the ill effects, there would be other ways to prolong their lives, if they needed to. 'We're Altmer, after all,' Ilornias said. 'We've got centuries before we have to start worrying about getting old.'
They experimented with lycanthropy, too, but they never intended to keep the beast blood. They didn't want to form too strong an allegiance to a single Daedric Prince. They infiltrated a shadowy temple on the Falkreath border that, they had heard, contained the secrets of Nocturnal, but to their frustration, the guardian sentinels drove them away with weapons that, while ethereal, still were capable of inflicting a lot of damage. Mind-controlling spells were all that was needed to ensnare a few weaklings to Boethiah's shrine for sacrifice. 'It's easier to learn from the Daedra than I thought it would be,' Veldarion commented, after they successfully communed with Peryite.
'But they want to spread their influence. Of course they're going to make it easy for us,' Ilornias answered.
That set ideas sparking into being inside Veldarion's mind. What about other branches of magic – those that were harder to discover?
It was a few days after that they met Reyleth. They were on the island of Solstheim, investigating rumours they'd heard about Hermaeus Mora having particular interest in the place. And while they scoured an area of shoreline for heart stones, they noticed a young Dunmer dressed in orange robes heading towards them, carrying a bulging backpack.
Veldarion and Ilornias had just found a heart stone by the time he reached them, so they had more important things to worry about than some strange Dark Elf. They didn't so much as glance at him. But they soon became aware that he was watching them intently, and so eventually Veldarion turned around. 'Will you stop staring at us?'
The Dunmer shrugged. 'Sorry. I just wanted to know why you were so interested in that heart stone.'
'We're going to study it,' Ilornias explained. 'It's said that heart stones have powerful magical properties that could allow us to – '
'Leave it, Lorn.' Veldarion waved a hand. 'He wouldn't understand.'
'That's where you're wrong.' The Dark Elf nodded towards the towering shape of what looked like some kind of tree that was silhouetted against the distant horizon. 'I work at Tel Mithryn. I spend my whole life studying this kind of thing.'
Veldarion was on his feet in a second. 'What do you know about heart stones?'
'My master taught me.' The Dunmer held out his hand. 'Name's Reyleth Hathil. If you're interested in all this stuff, you should come up to Tel Mithryn and have a chat with my master. I should warn you, though, he's never in a good mood.'
They gained a lot from their visit to Tel Mithryn. While Reyleth's master was absolutely ancient, and viciously rude, he did know his subject. A few invisibility spells and a little lockpicking allowed them to examine his staff enchanter. And once they'd sufficiently flattered the old man, he allowed them to read some of his research notes. And at the end of the day, they told Reyleth about their plans, about how they intended to travel Tamriel until they knew everything there was to know about every existing branch of magic, and eventually use it to achieve any kind of power they could.
Reyleth's eyes lit up. 'Then take me with you,' he said. 'I didn't choose to work here, but I never left because I didn't see another way to learn so much. But if you let me go with you…'
It took them some time to decide. Veldarion wasn't keen, initially. Yes, Reyleth was clever and ambitious, but it had always been just him and Ilornias. But then, there was strength in numbers. And Reyleth knew so much about some of the most intriguing branches of magic…
At dawn, they left together, without saying a word to Reyleth's former teacher. 'He won't miss me,' Reyleth assured them. And they set off to Raven Rock and took a ship to Morrowind, studying the books they had stolen from Tel Mithryn along the way.
Reyleth was the first. And others came after. Seeta-Na, an Argonian girl they met in Black Marsh who had an uncanny knack for Daedric summoning. Ushad, a Redguard who had been disowned by his House for practicing necromancy. Cylwen, a Bosmer who was unmatched at Illusion. And others. They learned from each other. They fought together. And as the years passed, they became stronger.
A skilled mage can enhance his lifetime, even his youth. And so the group changed little, though two centuries passed. A few left, a few died, a few joined them. And they gave themselves a name: the Bloodcallers.
They were in Skyrim, the place where it all began, when Veldarion first became truly fascinated by dragon magic. It was something they saw that did it. Veldarion knew that dragons existed, or had, long ago, in the time that, according to the myths, someone called a Dragonborn had walked Tamriel. He knew that some people were beginning to doubt that it had ever happened, but those doubts vanished the day he witnessed a red-scaled dragon kill a giant with a single jet of flame, and carry off a young mammoth without, seemingly, making much effort.
That was when he started examining the legends. The Bloodcallers went to the old monastery that, apparently, had once taught the Voice, but finding it in ruins, they quickly left. Reyleth suggested using it as a headquarters, but it was too impractical, lugging themselves up and down the mountain all the time. So Veldarion led them into Nordic ruins, because he knew that the Draugr had once served the dragons in the days of old.
It took him a month to find his first Dragon Priest. It had no interest in talking, to Veldarion's displeasure, but once it had been disposed of, they had the mask to examine.
'I'm going to learn the dragon language,' he told Ilornias, as he worked at the mask over his arcane enchanter. 'That way, perhaps, we can actually talk to the next Priest, learn something from it.'
It wasn't an easy task. Books about dragons were hard to find, and books about their language practically non-existent. But Veldarion had never let a lack of resources stop him from doing anything. He deserved power, and he would have it. And this was the way to power.
The more he learned about the dragons, the more he became convinced that their magic was the strongest of all. Wasn't Akatosh himself the creator of the dragons? And wasn't a single word in the dragon tongue powerful enough to kill?
And at last, he managed it. He delved into an ancient ruin. He found a Dragon Priest. And he spoke with it.
He was surprised at how willing the priest was to talk. Volpraad, his name was, which meant horror awake, or perhaps horror awakening would be more accurate. He freely imparted information on dragon magic, and about the leader of the dragons, the great black wyrm known as Alduin. And he at last confirmed that the Dragonborn had existed, but that she – it was a she, contrary to popular belief, and a Khajiit, of all things – had not fulfilled her destiny, that Alduin had never been destroyed.
And that he could be brought back.
For the next few months, it was all they could talk about, practically all they would even think about. Could it be done? How could they do it? And once they had done it, what then?
To Veldarion, at least, the answers were simple. Of course it could be done; magic could accomplish anything. They could do it easily, by combining dragon magic and mortal magic to restore his body and control his mind. And once they had done it, they used Alduin to control all the surviving dragons of Skyrim. And then they led them against the leaders of Tamriel, and they destroyed anyone who stood in their way.
It took them a year, to prepare the magic they needed. There was no way, exactly, to experiment, but Volpraad seemed eager to help them. He even told them the location of dragon lairs so that they could test their mind-controlling spells on them.
Looking back, Veldarion knew that he should have suspected something, that he should have realised that the Dragon Priest was not trying to help them out of kindness or consideration, because Dragon Priests did not feel such things.
And finally, the Priest told them where to go to find Alduin himself, within the mortal body that his soul was clinging to. And so they began the ritual to bring back Alduin.
They failed. Yes, they brought back Alduin. But they could not control him. He broke free. He butchered Veldarion's followers, and left him lying bleeding, alone, barely breathing.
He found the bodies. Most were scorched beyond recognition. But Seeta-Na's chest had been ripped to shreds by Alduin's talons. Veldarion was never able to get her blood out of his robes. And Reyleth, Veldarion's friend for two hundred years, his skull shattered from where he had been thrown against the rocks. And Cylwen, her flesh torn and bloodied and still freshly dead. But the worst of it was that two were missing.
At first, Veldarion had dared to hope that his brother might have survived. But he knew that he had either been carried away by Alduin or that he was one of those blackened bodies. And if Ilornias had been alive, he would have come back. Veldarion waited in the place the others had died for a week.
Ilornias didn't come. And Veldarion knew his brother would never be coming, that he had lost the only person on Nirn he had ever loved.
On the eighth morning, he finally left the place where the Bloodcallers had been killed. He walked until he found a stream, and at last he washed the blood and dirt from his face and hair. He did what he could to remove the stains from his robes, but on that front he was forced to admit defeat. And finally he cast a healing spell that mended the wound that Alduin's tail had torn in his face. If he had healed it before, it wouldn't have scarred, but Veldarion had felt too empty, too numb, for too long. Now there was a thin red scar marring the pale gold of his skin, a scar that would remind him forever of the sacrifices that sometimes had to be made in the name of power.
And then he headed south, towards the Nordic ruin where he had found Volpraad.
'You lied to me,' Veldarion snarled, as the Priest hovered in front of him. 'You told me Alduin could be controlled. You said that our spells would be enough. You lied.'
The Priest let out a low, hollow laugh. 'Drey hi zent vahzen nol Dovah Sonaak?'
Veldarion translated his words mentally - 'Did you expect truth from a Dragon Priest?'
'I should have expected treachery,' he spat. 'You killed them. My friends and my brother. It's your fault they're dead. You just wanted to have your masters back. The dragons you served. You wanted Alduin to unite them again so that you could be a Priest the way you used to be.'
'Aalkos hi fend lost genun osos do daar koraazen us hi togaat wah imaar rah.'
This took longer to translate. 'Perhaps you should have shown some of this insight before you attempted to control a god.'
Before Veldarion could growl a reply, the Priest spoke again, this time in the common tongue. 'It makes no difference. My attempt failed. I did not foresee that the Dovahkiin would stand in the way of my master.'
'The Dragonborn?' Veldarion shook his head in frustration. 'What does she have to do with anything?'
'Alduin los dilon,' the Priest replied. 'He has already been slain. Another Dragonborn was chosen, and she has vanquished my master. For good.'
Veldarion found that he could do nothing but laugh. So, his brother's murderer was already dead. And Volpraad… well, perhaps he should have shown some insight himself.
'Well, we're both failures.' Veldarion ignited a spell in each hand. 'But you're a failure who led my brother to his death.'
'And now you seek nahkriin?' The Priest laughed again. 'Stay your hand, elf. Take your revenge, and your chance of power is gone. Alduin is not the only means by which the supremacy of Dragonkind may be restored.'
'I don't want a restoration of dragon power,' Veldarion hissed. 'I want an installation of my own power.'
'And you shall have it. Go to the place known as Darkbriar Hall. There you shall find a ruin similar to this one. And in the depths you shall find a book. You shall know the book when you see it. That is your path to domination, and the dragons' path to rule.'
Veldarion didn't want to obey the Priest. Volpraad had killed Ilornias just as much as Alduin had. But he wanted to grasp at any chance that could give him a way to fulfil the destiny of power that he knew he deserved.
And so he did as he was instructed. And he found the book, where Menethil had left it five hundred years ago. There was nothing left of the long-gone necromancer now, not even bones, but his work remained. And Veldarion knew as he read it that this was his second chance, his road to rule.
Everything he needed was there. The instructions, the story, the science of the magic that would create a three-headed-dragon.
'That is the book,' Volpraad said, when Veldarion returned to him. 'Do as Menethil did, five centuries ago, and you shall have a dragon with power beyond that of any other dovah. And through him, you can control every other. And the dragons shall be supreme once more. I shall be a Priest again.'
This time, Veldarion knew he was telling the full truth. If Menethil had been successful, why shouldn't he be? Still, he decided to check.
'There's no catch this time, I trust.'
'Do not trust.' Volpraad didn't laugh this time – it could only be described as a cackle. 'Do not trust a Priest. But believe me. There is only one possible obstacle. A weapon. It was used to destroy the creation of the elf Menethil. It could destroy any creation of yours. The book shall reveal all.'
Silently, Veldarion resolved to find the weapon and destroy it at the first opportunity, but he was soon to forget his promise amid his preparations. It would be twenty years until he chanced upon the passage in the book that spoke of the weapon, and remembered the danger.
'Is that all I need to know?' Veldarion asked.
'The only secrets hidden from you lie within those pages.'
'Thank you,' Veldarion said, and hurled a fireball at him.
Volpraad saw it coming and conjured a ward that sent the flames shooting uselessly to the side, but Veldarion followed it up with a relentless barrage of spells. With every ice spike and lightning bolt he fired, he unleashed all the rage and grief he felt for Ilornias's death, and there was no resisting. It was inevitably that he would finally hit, and hit he did. Volpraad let out a last, eerie scream and collapsed into ashes. Just like the thralls that Veldarion had summoned back in Windhelm as a child, with his twin by his side.
Veldarion left Volpraad's tomb that evening with Menethil's book tucked under one arm and a small smile on his face. Alduin was dead. Volpraad was dead. Ilornias's death was no less painful to think of, but at least it had been avenged.
Whatever lay ahead would be harder, without a brother by his side to support him. But he had never exactly needed Ilornias. Yes, he had loved his twin. But he could still cast spells without him. He could do everything he had done before, and do it just as well, even on his own.
He had sacrificed so much already. He had left the safety of the Windhelm orphanage, and the knowledge offered to him by the College of Winterhold. He had abandoned any chance he might have had of an ordinary life, or a family. Now Ilornias was gone. Just one more sacrifice. One more lesson that taught Veldarion something new.
Sacrifices had to be made, if you were going to achieve power.
Twenty years passed before Veldarion was ready to risk another sacrifice. But this time, he lost nothing, and he gained a servant, a monster, a creation that would obey him and lead him to conquest. Except now his plans lay in tatters. It was becoming clearer and clearer that he had no control over Qoyoliiz. The three-headed-dragon was his own creature, and he intended to take Tamriel for himself. Not for Veldarion - for himself, and for the dragons.
Maybe Volpraad had been lying, after all. Maybe this was his final trap. Maybe the Dragon Priest, from beyond the grave, was having the last laugh.
But Veldarion knew something that Qoyoliiz did not. Just because his mind-controlling spells had not worked on Alduin, it didn't mean he had forgotten how to use them. At first he had believed that he would not need them, since Qoyoliiz had seemed keen to obey him. But now, at the slightest sign of betrayal, he was ready to do what he had to do. To enslave the mind of his creation.
He had asked, after Auguste and Lurag and Morri and Torndir had been killed, why he was still alive. Qoyoliiz laughed in his deep, cold way. 'You are mortal, yet you have learned the magic of dragons. I am dovah, but why should I not be able to use the magic of mortals? You will teach me. I will be the only one of my kind with this power. And I shall truly be the mightiest being on Nirn.'
Well, Veldarion had no intention of teaching him anything. Not now he knew that Qoyoliiz could not be trusted. Qoyoliiz did not deserve that power.
But Veldarion? He did deserve power. He always had. He'd fought for it and bled for it. He'd thrown away so much for it. Where were the others who had shared his dormitory in the Windhelm orphanage? Probably working in the docks for a handful of Septims and a rickety bed. Where were his fellow mages from Winterhold? Doubtless still learning from pathetic elders, always destined to be ignorant of the true abilities they could hold. Where were the other mages with drive like his? Dead through lack of talent and inspiration long ago. Only an elf like him, determined and cunning, could have come this far.
And he wasn't going to give up now.
This battle would be won. The Dragonborn would die. And then, once the Dragonhearts had been eliminated, the rest of Skyrim. Then all of Tamriel.
Qoyoliiz's wingbeats quickened. Veldarion could see her now, his enemy, his only true rival, seated on the back of her weakling of an Elder Dragon, an arrow already nocked to her bowstring.
He'd been waiting for this for so long. He'd lived his life for this. He'd lost so much for this. He leaned down to murmur to Qoyoliiz.
'Kill them all,' he said.
The three-headed dragon let out a bellowing roar.
They drew nearer, and nearer, and nearer still. Everything in the world seemed to fade into silence and nothingness as the distance two flights of dragons closed.
Veldarion reached for his magic. Drew it up from within him. Ignited a blaze of flame in each hand.
Closed his eyes. Remembered. Imagined an invisible hand tracing his scar.
It was time, at last.
'Veldarion!'
His eyes snapped open.
'Veldarion, stop!'
No.
Impossible.
Just his imagination.
'Veldarion, listen to me, please – '
Almost no space between them now.
'Vel! For the Gods' sakes, it's me, it's Ilornias, it's your brother!'
Veldarion's breath left his body in a strangled gasp, and with the last wisp of air left in him, he gasped, 'Stop-'
But Qoyoliiz did not hear him.
And with a thundering crash like a mountain splitting open, the two armies met.
END OF PART TWO