A/n: I shared this with my brother, and now I'll share it with you all so you can join in on the misery: If Erich and Mehra ever had a song, it'd be Digital Love by Daft Punk. Missing each other by a thread, together only in their dreams. #feels #readanddespair #hashtag
Massive chapter here. I hope it makes up for the delay in getting it out! I've had some medical issues lately that have interfered with being able to write.
Chapter edits here are some dialog and flavor changes, as I didn't really convey the feeling of some things in this chapter as I originally intended. Still, it didn't wildly change.
Also, I want to note here that Sheogorath literally invented music. In the lore. In canon. In the real games. The lore book is "Myths of Sheogorath".
By superhuman effort, you can avoid slipping backwards for a while. But one day, you'll lose a step, or drop a beat, or miss a detail... and you'll be gone forever.
Kodlak's Journal.
It appears that we have a dragonborn in our midst, tiny though she may be.
Njada does not like this woman. Though she is strong of heart, Njada has a lot to learn on the way of patience. Ria, however, seems fond of the newcomer.
Her name is Mehra. She's clearly been starved, whether from prison, or from poor luck, I do not know. But Farkas tells me that she was excellent when aiding him in retrieving the fragment of Wuuthrad from the cairn. And, she did so with honor and protected him against the Silver Hand.
So, we inducted her into the Companions officially. She knows our secret, but she is the one I saw in my dreams.
Mehra will save the Companions from our curse.
My heart is conflicted tonight. Mehra returned from a journey to Solstheim and said that she spoke with a former contact. Said contact berated her for her current unfortunate condition. She revealed that she is an esteemed wizard from Morrowind.
We do not fight in this manner, however, her skills with a sword are admirable. Mehra has shown nothing but honor since her arrival, and her comments to me that being a werewolf does not make one an abomination were heartfelt.
It is with these thoughts that I agreed with Aela that she join the College of Winterhold. I have grown fond of this girl and her heart. It seems that the Circle – even Vilkas – approves of her as well.
Skjor is dead. My dearest friend.
I am old, and people that I know and love are continually dying around me. I never get used to it. I think about death often.
I dream of Sovngarde. My time is coming soon.
Skjor and Aela inducted Mehra into the Circle without my knowledge or permission. Their Silver Hand hunting trip led Skjor to his death.
Mehra has been keeping secrets. She is the reincarnation of an ancient dark elf hero – the one who ended the blight on Morrowind and cast down their false gods. With the revelation that she is this, as well as Dragonborn, it is clear that her duties are innumerable. She told us this tonight when she claimed responsibility for Skjor's death – saying that she was the eldest, and therefore, responsible for the actions of her younger peers.
Though untrue that it was her responsibility, I greatly appreciate the honor that she showed in opening up, especially such a deeply kept secret. If said secret were to get out, she would have politicians and charlatans on her heels.
And while I am loathed to admit it, encouraging her to join the College of Winterhold may have been a good decision. She has blossomed under their instruction. And clearly, she is keeping up with her swordsmanship.
I am beginning to think that perhaps, my dream did not point to her as the Harbinger who would save us and succeed me, but as one wizard whom we can trust to carry out our mission of healing our lycanthropy. I cannot ask her to be our Harbinger, not with the possibility that she may be called to end the blight of the dragons as well.
I believe I may consider Aela as my successor, if she can warm up.
When Eorlund and I were talking tonight out by the forge, I asked him to keep an eye on the kids for me when I'm gone. He laughed about it, but he knew what I meant. I raised some of the current Companions, and watched Aela grow up.
And I fiercely love each one of them, stubborn, young, and full of fire as they are.
I am amazed that Aela thinks she can keep a secret among this drunken rabble.
Aela and Mehra have been sneaking around on us, seeking revenge against the Silver Hand for Skjor's death. I fear the counterstrike of retaliation that is coming if they do not stop.
Mehra shows valor, though, even in this underhanded time. I have not had cause to speak with her recently, and I regret it. This evening, we spoke on these matters, and she has shown to be a capable and willing listener. Her strength and maturity are quite apparent in conversation. There is much that the Companions can learn from her, if they open their ears and hearts to listen.
Given her experience with magic and the daedra, I believe it was wisest to send her alone to slay the Glenmoril witches. I did not tell the others of her task, for fear that they would want to accompany her and find themselves in trouble. Mehra is a seasoned warrior, more so than myself, even. If anyone is to do it, it is Mehra.
I also spoke with Aela. The amount of understanding, openness, and maturity she showed reminded me of her mother. She would have been so proud of the woman she's become. I certainly am, and I know her father is.
I think, despite this revenge setback, that we can keep counsel over the next few years, so that I can impart the wisdom of the Harbingers of old to her. She has opened up to Mehra, and in time, I believe that she can learn to open up enough to be an approachable and capable leader.
He sat in a cluster of floor cushions and sighed as the brush ran through his hair. It was spring today because he wished it so; the coming of spring to the mortal realm inspired him to make it so in his realm. The scent of daffodils, hyacinth, and all things spring drifted through the courtyard on a gentle breeze, bringing the tinkling sound of wind chimes with it.
Though the modest courtyard had quite a few people in it, the place was quiet. His company walked patiently about the garden holding each other's hands, picking flowers, dipping their toes into the stream, and watching fish in the pond.
Everyone was tranquil today, a rarity on the island. Sometimes, a gentle change in the weather was all that was needed.
"Children, Lord?"
Erich opened his eyes and turned to see Vivec behind him.
"Yes," he replied. "You know that illness doesn't ask for an age before attacking. If I didn't take them in, nobody would."
Vivec nodded slowly. No, Sheogorath wasn't all cruelty and danger. Madness was a complex thing.
The girl brushing his hair slowed in her task. "Mr. Vehk, you should join us. Lord Sheogorath is going to tell us a story."
"Yes!" a boy chimed in. "Daddy tells the best stories."
The corner of Sheogorath's mouth twitched as he fought to hold back a smile. No, he wasn't the child's father. But the delusion was a sweet one, and he couldn't help but let the child think as he pleased.
Vivec caught on to it immediately. "I believe I will," he said, "that is, if I am permitted."
And not a word to the boy about his delusion. Good.
"Of course," he replied. As Sheogorath motioned to the seat to his left, the children playing in the small courtyard ran toward the seating area and plopped down on the silken pillows. Vivec sat next to him and quickly found a child on both of his knees. Unfazed by this, he wrapped his arms around them.
Others brought the flowers they picked and joined the girl behind Sheogorath to fuss over his hair. He'd be decorated for spring in no time.
Even little Billy sat in the back with his gag on, his black eyes staring intently in his direction.
Vivec must have seen him and leaned in to Sheogorath with a frown. "I see Hermaeus Mora's influence in his eyes," he murmured. "But what's the gag for?"
"Foul blasphemies," Sheogorath mumbled. "Kid got tangled up in a Black Book. That gag can't be removed in the presence of other mortals."
The once-god nodded slowly in understanding. It was good that he got it. Sheogorath didn't want to harm the kid, and permitting him to say dirty, awful words that could cause great calamity would be most harmful.
And even Sheogorath liked saying a good blasphemy every now and then. But there was a time and a place for such things!
"Alright, children!" he laughed. "What story will it be today?"
"Can you tell us about Ricky the Squirrel?" one called out.
"No!" another protested. "Martin the Dragon!"
"Oh, yes! Martin the Dragon!" others awed.
Erich laughed. "Does everyone agree then? Is it the story of Martin the Dragon?"
"Yes!" they cried, each excited to hear the story for the umpteenth time.
"Alright then," he said. "It's my favorite, too. Is everyone comfortable?"
The group of children nodded.
"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom!"
A lone voice penetrated the silence.
Ah. Lakia was there. He scanned the crowd of children, and sure enough, the little girl was in the back again, hugging her knees and rocking herself. She was a tiny girl, but certainly old enough to have known at one point how to carry a conversation.
"Mom! Mom! Mom!"
The other children were surprisingly patient with her. Likely, she seemed normal to them. But the sane mortal next to Sheogorath clearly found the sight disheartening.
Sheogorath held his arm out and motioned for her to come to him. Lakia bounded over to his side, mumbling 'mom' the entire way. As she buried her face into his chest, he wrapped his arm around her tiny shoulders.
"Lakia," he murmured, "let's have stillness for a few minutes. Let's forget your mother getting raped and eviscerated before your eyes, hm? I'm going to tell a story. You can hold my hand. Just watch out for the claws, alright?"
The girl sat down on shaky legs and slowly, her 'moms' tapered off into a quiet whimper, followed by silence. A simple touch of his hand put her mind to rest, if only temporarily.
Part of him wanted to rip the memories out of her head, but if he did it, he was quite certain that he'd turn the poor thing into a vegetable. It would be an experiment, if it happened, and she wasn't present enough to provide consent, nor was she capable of comprehending the consequences of failure.
It was better to leave her as-is.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vivec's shoulders hunch in defeat.
"My heart breaks often," Sheogorath admitted. "I keep the little ones separate from the adults, and my Saints watch them. They deserve paradise, yes?"
"Absolutely," Vivec agreed.
He sighed and looked out at the children who waited eagerly for the story. As a mortal, he always promised himself that he'd find a good woman to settle down with and have a gaggle of children, but it never panned out.
After knowing her for a while, he thought that maybe, Mehra could be the mother of his children. He loved children, and most especially, he loved her. But, it turned out that they both thought too similarly.
Erich was always torn between being a selfish, violent ass and desperately wanting to do the right thing to help those who needed it. He always told himself that he knew who deserved what:
That Glarthir fellow needed to be put out of his misery. Rufio deserved his head caved in. The Guild Hall leader's daughter needed a good lay – from him, naturally. Everyone at that party at Summitmist Manor deserved a cleaver to the skull, a spinning kick to the face, being choked during a moment of passion. Sinderion deserved more Nirnroot than his arms could carry. Corvus Umbranox deserved to be reunited with his wife. Lucien deserved more than a single Sigil Stone given as a shy gift. And Martin Septim–
"Martin deserved more than he got," Sheogorath began. "You see, Martin was a dragon. Born as one, in a human skin, so he didn't know he was one. He lived most of his life not knowing he was so special."
He began his story the same way every time:
"Martin deserved more."
Mehra stretched and cracked her eyes open. The sight of a timber and stone ceiling above reminded her that she wasn't at home.
She slept in Jorrvaskr with the Companions, the whole lot of them crammed into the newbie bunkroom like a den of wolves. If the Silver Hand decided to come back, they'd be ready; Mehra slept with her sword by her side and prepared to shout the intruders to shreds if they dared to return.
Sitting up, Mehra peered around the room and saw that Aela and Vilkas were absent. In the bed across from hers, Farkas yawned and stretched.
"Morning," he murmured. The smile he gave her reminded her more of a schoolboy than a warrior.
"Morning," Mehra replied. Slowly, she stood, hoping that she wouldn't wake the rest of the sleeping Companions. She shifted her armor and sword as best she could and left the room. Farkas followed close behind.
As soon as the door clicked behind them, a pair of strong arms enveloped her from behind. Mehra fought the urge to bristle. This was the touchy one. He meant nothing by it. Farkas communicated with all of his feelings.
"Don't listen to my brother," Farkas mumbled. "More than likely, he's angry at himself that he couldn't protect Kodlak. He's quiet and keeps to himself, except for his anger. I – I'm so glad you're going with him. Sometimes he acts without thinking. You'll be there to get him to think."
Mehra twisted in his arms to return the hug.
"I was like that when I was younger," she admitted. "Difference is, I was a thug and a serial killer. I'll keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't do anything rash."
He tightened his arms around her. "I'm glad."
Farkas let go and stepped back, his eyes brimming with tears. "Kodlak was my dad, in a way," he sniffed. "None of us do anything bad with this werewolf thing. They're wrong about us."
"I know, Farkas. They're dead wrong."
He sighed, grabbed a nearby chair, and placed it next to the door that led to the bunks. "I'll stay here. You go get my brother and give em hell. When you return with Wuuthrad, we'll put Kodlak to rest."
Mehra nodded and peered down the hall toward the Harbinger's quarters. She was too late to save his soul, but if the rest of the Circle wanted it, she'd find a way to cure them. And maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to work things out with Hircine and bargain for Kodlak's soul.
Sighing, she turned toward the door the led upstairs. There was too much to do, and she was running out of time.
Mehra made her way down the hall, opened the door, and pulled it to close as quietly as possible. Vilkas was likely waiting for her, and Aela was always up early. They were probably right upstairs, waiting for –
"Aela, I waited too long to let you know," Vilkas murmured. "I – Aela, I have to tell you: I most passionately and ardently love you. I love you, Aela."
Mehra froze on the stairs, torn between wanting to go back down to leave them in peace, and wanting to make her presence known to avoid awkwardness. They sat facing each other in the hall, both turned away from her enough that it was likely that they couldn't see her.
But they were werewolves.
It was likely that they'd soon know she was there.
Aela swallowed. "Vilkas, you are a noble warrior, and the best friend I could ask for. And I love you, too, in my own way. But I cannot change who I am: I am attracted to women, exclusively."
He slumped in his chair and put his head in his hands. "I suppose that's my fault, being too private and keeping my feelings to myself. I ought to have said something much earlier."
"And mine as well," Aela sighed. "I fear I am more cat than wolf, sometimes."
"Let's make a promise, then," Vilkas said. "For Kodlak's sake, let's try harder to be better Companions to each other and the others."
Mehra bit her lip and moved a shaking leg down to the lower step, thinking a quick prayer of sorts to Erich, her new catchall patron saint of sneak, that she wouldn't get caught accidentally eavesdropping.
Down one step, no sound.
"You're rather animated with Mehra," Vilkas noted. "Do you have a thing for her, then?"
Down another step, and her heart was in her throat.
"She's pretty," Aela admitted, "but, no. I've got nothing for her other than friendship."
"Aye, she is pretty. Never seen a Dunmer quite like her before."
Mehra's feet landed back on the basement floor silently and she breathed a sigh of relief. The feeling of friendship was mutual.
"You're going to be alright, then?" Aela asked.
"Yeah," Vilkas replied. "It'll sting for a while, but I'm glad that I at least know–"
Mehra backed into the closed door behind her, sending a loud crash ringing throughout the hall.
"Morning!" she called.
"Good morning, Dragonborn," Aela replied.
Swearing under her breath, Mehra jogged up the stairs, hoping that they were none-the-wiser. Vilkas pushed his chair back, its wooden legs scraping against the floor.
"You're ready to go, then?" he asked.
Mehra took in the dark circles under his eyes and pursed her lips. "Are you?"
"Aye," he nodded. "I won't sleep well until Wuuthrad is back with us."
With a heavy sigh – so many sighs, it seemed, these days – Aela grabbed the straps of a bag sitting next to her, stood, and handed it to Vilkas.
"It's a long way to Driftshade Refuge," she said. "No inns in between; you'll have to make camp. I'd recommend against staying in Dawnstar; don't know how many of them go there for supplies, so it's best to just avoid it."
Mehra nodded. Aela always gave the right amount of information. And while she wasn't partial to camping out in the cold, it was warm enough, this time of year. Smirking, she turned to Vilkas.
"Think I can handle the Northern Pass?" she drawled. "You know, with my weak and delicate nature?"
Vilkas' face fell. "I –"
"Relax," Mehra chuckled, "I'm messing with you. And you were correct at the time."
He breathed a sigh of relief, then motioned toward the door. Together, they made their way out of Whiterun, turning onto the road that led to the far north of Skyrim.
They traveled in relative silence, each keeping their attention on the mountains that loomed ahead. Unlike his brother, Vilkas wasn't much for talking. But what he lacked in the way of conversation, he made up for in the occasional thoughtful question.
Mehra shared what knowledge she had with him, though she admitted that she was imprisoned for two centuries, and had the practical life experience of someone his age.
Vilkas peered up at a hawk in the sky, then turned back toward her. "But that's a lot of time to think," he noted.
"I thought a lot about my mistakes," she said. Mehra turned her gaze down to the path and kicked at a rock. And two hundred years in jail hadn't taught her much other than the fact that she had to calm down and quit killing people all the time.
Mehra chuckled quietly to herself. Alright, that was a big step, given where she came from.
"Were you around for the Oblivion Crisis, then?" he asked.
"Kind of," she replied. "I was stuck on Solstheim – there was a travel embargo – and Dagon didn't bother with the place."
"And afterward?"
"I went to the Imperial City to gawk at the mess," Mehra admitted. "Being a Telvanni Master got me invited to one of the Chancellor's parties, and there, I met the Champion of Cyrodiil."
Vilkas kept his attention to the road. "And, what kind of warrior were they?"
"Nord, actually," she replied. "Talented left-handed swordsman in light armor. Great horseman, too. He was extremely athletic and very nimble. Huge guy; would have towered over Skjor, even. I distinctly remember a very sociable and charming man."
He was also impulsive and had a murderous streak, same as her. And apparently, he kept at least three lovers in every city in the province at a time. Partially screwed his way to the top at the Arcane University, a secret he readily divulged to her. It didn't seem so strange that he told her, given that his ultimate secret was that he was the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood.
But, no – she'd say nothing but compliments about Erich. She was still a sucker for him.
Vilkas sighed. "Fellow's probably rolling in his grave with all that has happened to the Empire. So much good that man and Martin Septim did, undone in a few generations. So much good you did, too, undone."
Mehra swallowed thickly. He was right.
"But that's why we're here," she countered, "right now, on this road: to do some good."
"Aye."
Vilkas cracked a rare smile, the sadness he felt in his heart clearly resting below the surface of his expression.
"I – " he sighed, "I'm not good at talking about these things, but I'm glad you are with me. And I am sorry for how I treated you in the beginning, not because of who you are, but because it was simply the wrong thing to do."
"We all do the wrong thing sometimes," Mehra replied. "What gives you honor is admitting it. Joining the Companions was one of the best things that's happened to me. And that includes meeting you."
"I appreciate that."
They continued on in silence, focusing instead on making their way north. Within a few hours, the mountains came into view. Quietly, they made their camp in the shade of a cluster of reedy, budding trees, avoiding the massive, dripping pines nearby.
The sounds of a crackling campfire, crickets, and an occasional lonely owl filled the clearing as they ate their dinner in silence. After a quick night's rest, the process repeated with breakfast to the sound of early morning birds. Packing and leaving was quick and uneventful, and they continued on their way into the northern mountain pass.
With each passing hour, the terrain changed, until they found themselves surrounded by rocks and sparse brush. Stubborn patches of snow and ice clung to the path and the rocks ahead, resisting the coming of spring.
Hours later, they reached their target, just as the sun began to set. Mehra and Vilkas stopped to the side of a boulder on the path and crouched low.
Driftshade Refuge lay hidden among a nest of pines and boulders, backed up against the mountains nearby. The crumbling wall of the fortress that it used to be was covered in archers who kept watch over the path below.
"How do you want to go in?" Mehra whispered.
"Hard and heavy."
She snickered and nudged him with her arm. "Typical man. I've got the archers; you get the ground."
"Aye."
Clapping him on the shoulder, Mehra ran out from cover toward the archers up top. They immediately raised the alarm, but –
"Fus ro dah!"
The shout sent three of them tumbling backward off the high wall to land with a sickening crunch. As Vilkas ran past her with his sword raised, Mehra blasted the remaining two with a fireball, incinerating them on impact.
"Front clear!" Mehra called. She ran forward into the courtyard of the rundown fort, prepared another fireball, and threw it at the closest cluster of archers on the inner wall. Another shout cleared them out, just as Vilkas finished with those on the ground level.
A few Silver Hand lay dead; soon, more would follow.
Mehra stepped forward and scowled at the sight of werewolf heads on pikes outside the entrance to the fort. She nodded at Vilkas as they met up at the center of the courtyard. They'd repay Kodlak's death many times over.
Mehra whirled around at the sudden movement out of the corner of her eye. One of the archers she shouted off of the wall struggled on the ground. Shaking her head, Mehra stalked over to him – Orc, full of scars.
"Your taste in décor leaves much to be desired," she drawled. "Heads on sticks are for lawless brigands."
His head jerked at the sound of her voice, but the rest of him lay still. He had a broken neck, most likely. Sighing, Mehra drew her blade and stared down at him.
"You're just on the wrong side of history." Quickly, she put him out of his misery.
Vilkas made no comment. Instead, the pair split up to ensure that the outside of the keep truly was secure. Once they were certain, they met in front of the main door to head inside.
There was a pattern to everything, and the Silver Hand was no exception. The labyrinth that was Driftshade Refuge was full of torture victims, angry mercenaries, blood, and death, the same as all the other Silver Hand hideouts.
Predictably, the fragments of Wuuthrad lay haphazardly on a table in a heavily guarded room. Mehra picked up the fragments and placed them in her bag with reverence. She hoped that Ysgramor wouldn't be too put off that his fabled axe lay next to artifacts of Sanguine, Azura, and Sheogorath.
With that, they left the last hideout of the Silver Hand behind and made their way back toward Whiterun in relative silence, speaking only when necessary. After another night of camping, they finally caught sight of the ancient, wooden city, just as the sun sank below the horizon.
Vilkas looked up from the road to peer at the city – the first time he lifted his head in earnest the entire way back.
"This revenge feels hollow," he murmured.
Mehra nodded, her eyes following his to look at the large, wooden profile of Jorrvaskr against the setting sun.
"That's because it is hollow," she replied.
There were just more dead bodies, even if they did have to get rid of the Silver Hand in order to have peace. Would the Silver Hand have left them alone had she and Aela not gone after them?
Doubtful. It may have bought Kodlak some time but –
"Had Aela and I not taken most of them out," Mehra sighed, "and this is not meant to say anything bad about Kodlak – I think they would have attacked in force and killed more than just one of us."
"Aye," Vilkas nodded. "I know that my brother would disagree, of course."
They turned at the fork, approaching the stable outside Whiterun.
"You balance each other well," Mehra shrugged. "That's why you're both part of the Circle, and you both will contribute to the legacy of the Companions."
"I hope so," he mumbled. "Because I feel like a failure."
"It won't be the last time. Allow yourself to be a person."
Vilkas didn't have anything to say in reply to that. Perhaps, he disagreed and didn't find it polite to say so. Or, perhaps, he was thinking about what she said. In either case, they were silent on their way up to Jorrvaskr.
The somber mood inside the hall hung like a cloud, spoiling the Companions' enjoyment of dinner and rest. Mehra fell asleep in the bunkroom to the smell of preservation herbs down the hall.
When the morning dawned, the servants quietly served breakfast before leaving to prepare for Kodlak's funeral.
The Companions committed Kodlak to his final resting place under a clear and bright sky, to the sound of children laughing and playing in the streets.
Jarl Balgruuf stood silently next to his steward, along with the priestess of Kynareth from the city temple, as the Companions recited the ancient rites that were meant to usher Kodlak into Sovngarde to be with the Harbingers who passed before.
Aela leaned over to light the flame to Kodlak's pyre on top of the Skyforge and Mehra closed her eyes.
He was going to Hircine, but if there was anything that could be done, he wouldn't stay there. She'd make sure of it.
One by one, the Companions and guests left, until only Eorlund remained with her.
"Do you have the fragments of Wuuthrad?" he asked.
Mehra blinked and shook herself out of her thoughts. "Yes, I do."
Shrugging her pack off her back, she dug the fragments out of it, sparing a longing glance at the Fork of Horripilation.
Erich. She wanted to see him. He'd seek her out again, right?
Mehra shook the thought from her mind. It was selfish and shallow to consider gallivanting around with Erich when the Companions were in mourning.
Eorlund nodded as she handed the fragments to him. "There was one more fragment," he said. "One that Kodlak kept close to his heart. I don't feel that I have any right to search his quarters for it. Would you find it for me, Companion?"
"Of course," she said.
"Thank you."
With that, she turned on her heel, jogged down the stairs to the training yard, and made her way into the ancient building. As Mehra took the stairs down to the living area and walked down the hallway to the Harbinger's quarters, she thought about the strange request.
Weren't Kodlak and Eorlund close friends?
She sucked in a breath and opened the door to Kodlak's quarters. A quick glance around told her that everything was tidy as it had been the day they had their conference.
Who was she to Kodlak? She was a newcomer. Surely she wasn't suited to this task.
Mehra pursed her lips and made her way into the private area of his quarters. She never had a place of her own long enough to keep personal items in a hidden location. Where would someone put something so special?
Her gaze landed on the nightstand next to the bed. Maybe someone would keep something there.
"I hope you'd trust me to do this," Mehra murmured.
She reached forward and pulled on the knob to the top drawer of the nightstand. Inside lay a book, and next to it, a distinctive glowing metal shard. Mehra grabbed the fragment, but her gaze lingered on the book.
What kind of book was this?
Curious, she picked it up and unwound the leather cord that bound the cover shut. She opened it to the first page to see the slanted, jagged handwriting typical of an elderly person.
Oh. This was his journal.
Mehra quickly shut it, bound it, and placed it back in the nightstand. She had no business reading it. Turning on her heel, she left the room and jogged the rest of the way back up to the training yard, passing the junior members on her way.
She stopped at the top of the stairs to the forge and watched as Eorlund stared at the dying pyre.
"You have it?" he asked, not turning his gaze away from the fire.
Silently, Mehra approached him and handed the fragment to him.
"That's a good lass," the smith sighed. "The rest of the Circle is meeting in the Underforge. You should join them."
She nodded then turned to trudge back down the stairs. Opening the door to the Underforge, she heard voices echoing through the cavern.
She was late to something important again, it seemed.
Mehra shuffled forward and quietly took her place around the altar at the center of the cave. Farkas turned to give her a nod of greeting.
"The old man had one wish before he died," Vilkas frowned. "And he didn't get it. It's as simple as that."
True enough. But there had to be a way to save his soul.
"Being moon-born isn't so much of a curse as you might think," Aela sighed.
"Does that matter?" Mehra interjected. "I think we all know that he wanted to go to Sovngarde, not Hircine's hunting grounds."
"You're right," Aela nodded. "And we should respect that. And I do. I didn't mean to make it sound otherwise. I'm sorry."
Farkas put a placating hand on her shoulder. With a sad sigh, Aela put her hand on top of his.
"Kodlak used to speak of a way that the soul could be cleansed," Vilkas said. "Even in death. You know the stories of Ysgramor's tomb."
If it were as simple as going into an ancient crypt, then she'd do it. Talking to Hircine directly could have disastrous results.
"I'm going," Mehra said. "Who's going with me?"
Aela frowned. "It's not that simple. Without Wuuthrad, you couldn't even get in there. And it has been in pieces for a thousand years."
Footsteps sounded behind them. Mehra turned to see Eorlund enter the Underforge.
"And dragons were once stories," he said. "And elves once ruled Skyrim. Just because something is, doesn't mean it must be."
"I agree with that," Mehra nodded. "Saw it happen dozens of times. So, what are we going to change?"
Eorlund's face hardened. "I'm going to reforge the axe. And the flames of a hero will reforge it."
"We do have all the pieces!" Farkas laughed. "Why not?"
"Damned good idea," Vilkas agreed.
Aela cracked a rare smile. "Thank you, Eorlund. We'll await your word for when it is complete."
"Take your time to mourn," he sighed. "It may be a while."
The Circle went their separate ways, each to mourn as they best saw fit. Mehra promised that she would stay within a few miles of the city before it was even asked of her.
She couldn't leave, not when they needed her to help them cleanse Kodlak's spirit.
Keeping her duties in mind, Mehra trudged through the grass outside the city of Whiterun, and approached a smooth, flat boulder that jutted out from the grass. She stopped in front and scrambled up the side to sit and think.
What was this process that could heal Kodlak? Why hadn't Vilkas mentioned it before?
Perhaps, he didn't dare hope that they'd have all the fragments of Wuuthrad. Perhaps, it was assumed that the blade couldn't be reforged.
Mehra sighed and lay back against the stone. Whatever the case, she was there to help. As a group, they could withstand anything. Failure simply wasn't an option.
Closing her eyes, Mehra relaxed as much as possible.
The sound of a lute drifted to her ears, and she didn't have to look up to know who it was. She expected Erich to show up at some point. She hadn't seen him in a while, after all, and he didn't seem capable of leaving her alone. Mehra supposed that were she in his position, she would do likewise.
Opening her eyes, she saw that it indeed was Erich. He stood next to the rock with a lute in his hands, swaying and playing one of the most intricate melodies she ever heard.
"Don't remember you knowing how to play a lute," she frowned. And she certainly hadn't taught him any useless spells of how to summon one. Mehra sat up and shook her head. Still, she appreciated his company.
Erich tossed the instrument aside, and it evaporated on impact with the ground. The spell was strange, but she noticed with a start that he dressed up as a human today – normal eyes, hands, teeth. Maybe he intended to blend in with mortals.
Her silly side hoped that he did it for her.
"But I was good with my fingers," he chuckled.
"That I do remember." She couldn't forget that one.
Smirking, he jogged over to her and leaped up onto the boulder in a single bound. For a man so large, his agility always amazed her.
Erich sat down next to Mehra, bringing the scent of flowers with him. Glancing over, she saw dozens of tiny flowers of all sorts woven and braided into his hair, and a crown of yellow orchids resting on top of his head.
She raised a brow at the new look. "Celebrating spring?"
"I am!" he laughed. "The kids did it. I've got a hair crew of about twelve or so who take turns doing it during story time."
"I guess that makes sense that there'd be kids there," she mumbled.
Insane kids. She hadn't thought of it before, but of course it happened.
"Some of them think I'm their father," he shrugged. "Or their older brother, or some variant on that. I let them do it. In fact, I encourage it. Is that something you'd think is wrong?"
Mehra pursed her lips and lay back against the rock to stare up at the sky. Even before he became a daedra, Erich had difficulty with telling the difference between right and wrong, in certain circumstances. If there was a possible good that could come out of it – especially for himself – then he was likely to go with that decision, even if it was technically 'wrong'.
She was like that, too. It was part of why she broke it off with him so many years ago. And it was one of the biggest mistakes of her life. It absolutely broke her.
And Azura – maybe Akatosh, too – took those broken pieces and made something spectacular of them.
"Do you love them?" Mehra asked.
Erich lay back against the stone and closed his eyes. "I do."
"Then maybe it isn't wrong," she said.
"I feed their delusions."
Mehra sighed, nodding in agreement. "But, maybe the world they live in – the one where they have a dad or a brother or an uncle –"
His hand crept across the space between them to hold hers.
"Maybe that world is better than what it would be otherwise," Mehra said. "Maybe the real world is unimaginably sad and scary."
"You don't mind it, then?" he asked.
Mehra abruptly let go of his hand and slapped him on the arm. "Why the hell do you need my approval anyway?"
"Damn good question!" Erich laughed.
He scooted toward her and rolled onto his side to get a better look at her. When he was like this, she could almost forget that things weren't the same anymore.
"The day I met you," he admitted, "you were so beautiful that I could barely think straight."
"Oh?"
"That was when you were really tough and angry looking." Erich chuckled. "Almost said a few things out loud, looking at you."
She rolled her eyes and laughed along with him. "Like what?" she snorted. "Couldn't have been that bad."
Erich leaned over, bringing his face close to hers. He stared into her eyes, looking so normal that she forgot herself.
"Fuck me up," he whispered. "Please, please, fuck me up."
Her face heated up. When they first met, she was so struck by his handsomeness; it didn't take long before he was the subject of her desires. And even now, Mehra couldn't help but think of it as she stared into his eyes – as she leaned in against her better judgment to brush her lips against his.
His breath hitched at the fleeting contact. Still, Erich lay completely still and stared into her eyes in fear. Foolishly, Mehra leaned in again in an attempt to kiss the look away from his face.
With the soft press of his lips against hers in return, the dam broke on their restraint.
The lust they never acted on consumed them after a long and lonely two hundred years. Mehra melted against him as he drew her into his arms. With each second they kissed, the memory of the last man she kissed – Sanguine; not really a man – dimmed in her mind.
And although Sanguine was fun, she wanted, needed, to fill herself with Erich as much as possible to ease the sting of regret for all the things she said and did to hurt him.
Her hands wove into his hair, fingers tangling against knots and braids filled with flowers and ribbons. His gasp against her mouth sent her heart racing.
Erich sat up, pulling her with him.
"We shouldn't," he breathed. His hands snaked under the hem of her shirt.
"We shouldn't," she agreed. Still, she swung her legs over him to straddle his lap.
Too far. Too fast.
He grasped her thighs, punctuating every kiss with a quietly whispered, "no".
They–
They had to stop.
Mehra gave him one, final kiss before pulling away and standing. Panting, she looked down to meet his eyes and jumped at the sight that greeted her.
The Void stared back at her; he appeared as daedra once more. From those brief seconds of passion, his control – his mind – slipped.
Her past self would have reveled in the fact that she did that to a god. Now, she took no pleasure in it; she wanted –
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "It's my fault."
Mehra didn't know what she wanted. A do-over was impossible.
"Takes two to do it," he grumbled, slowly standing.
Erich hopped off the rock and extended a clawed hand to help her. Swallowing a sudden wave of fear, Mehra took his hand. He gripped her gently, his other arm wrapping around her thighs to lift her and allow her to slide to the ground.
She didn't need help in the least, but the sentiment was appreciated, nonetheless.
"Maybe some time," Erich mumbled, "sometime when I feel like maybe – maybe my mind is thoroughly, completely in mania, we can try, um – something. Whatever that ends up being."
Oh?
If it was anything like Sanguine, she'd be in for a fun time. With Erich, though, and his incredible size, she supposed it would be quite different. She never had a Nord before.
But they had to ensure that it was safe, first.
"You'll have to let me know when that is," she replied. "I'm not committed."
She hadn't been for her entire life; Erich was the closest she got, and even then, they never had a conversation about their relationship at the time.
"You're my favorite mortal, you know," Erich said. "Absolute favorite. I love you so much I could just squeeze the life right out of you."
The L-word. That was one hell of a thing to hear from Erich – from Sheogorath.
She cleared her throat. "That's an odd way to express it."
Erich shook his head and sighed. "You really don't want to know some of the things I'm thinking."
Mehra took a step toward Whiterun, both hoping and fearing that he'd follow her.
"You're uh," he mumbled, "you're not going to ask?"
She turned toward him and furrowed her brow. "I want to know, but I don't, if that makes any sense."
He nodded and gave her a sly smile that made her want to ask him. Shaking her head, Mehra wrapped her arm around his waist – didn't reach very high on him – and leaned into his side.
She shrugged. "I'm sure that I'll ask for the graphic details later. After all, I'm masochistic and love the feeling of being lonely and horny at night."
Erich burst out in laughter. "You have a whole city of mortals up there!" he cried. "What about the werewolf twins? Both at the same time, maybe?"
"Erich, no!"
He doubled over as his laugh broke out into a cackle.
"They're babies!" Mehra gasped. "I cannot believe you just said that. And how do you even know them?"
"I can see them all from a glance up there," Erich replied. "I know their names and their relationships. They're like seashells on a beach – many in number, but each one so unique."
Mehra peered up at Whiterun and shook her head. "City guard is probably disappointed they didn't get an eye-full of us."
"If they're so sad," Erich laughed, "I can walk down the street completely naked. Problem solved."
"I'm not going to dare you on that because I know you'll do it." she replied. Though part of her wanted to have a peek – just a little one – because she cheated herself out of seeing him undressed, among other things, years ago.
Together, they walked toward the city. Maybe he did want to visit with her for more than his usual brief stop.
"By the way, why would you bless the mortals with your divine nudity?" Mehra teased.
"Good question," he mused. "They're lucky enough to see me in disguise."
She turned to him and gave him a sad smile. "They really are. Myself included."
"Oh, you're being silly, now," Erich grumbled. He blinked and his eyes were those of a human once again.
"Well," Mehra sighed, "I like you a lot, alright?"
"Alright. I like you too. A lot."
He wrapped his arm around her shoulder as they walked toward the city.
"I feel a bit guilty," Mehra murmured, "we had a funeral for the Harbinger of the Companions but maybe an hour or so ago, and here I am cracking jokes and messing around."
"Why?" Erich chuckled. "Did he not like having fun?"
She sighed and looked down at the ground. Mehra remembered Kodlak's smile – wrinkled and old behind a near-white beard; a smile that always reached his eyes.
"Kodlak smiled often," she murmured. "More than you'd think someone with such a title would. I've never seen people so sad before. It's upsetting."
Erich squeezed her in a quick hug. "Ever been to a funeral before?"
"This was my first one today," she replied. "Made it through without crying and that was damn tough. I expected it to be sad, but–"
"You're never ready for that kind of stuff," Erich said.
"Yes, exactly."
She peered up at the city, toward Jorrvaskr where Kodlak's pyre lay. Surely, it was down to embers by now; the Skyforge was so hot that she couldn't imagine it taking long.
"There's no such thing as a great funeral," Erich shrugged. "They're all uncomfortable and awkward. Martin – Martin was given a royal sendoff. Would have embarrassed the hell out of the guy. He wasn't like that. Regal, of his own right, but not into ceremony or excess."
Mehra leaned into his side as they walked past the stable that lay at the bottom of the hill on which the city resided. She hoped – desperately hoped – that Erich was able to finally find peace over Martin's decision to die in order to save everyone.
But she had no idea how to even begin asking him. She wasn't good at these things. She was getting better, yes, but she had a long way to go.
"Kodlak was the same way," she replied. "We gave him the traditional ceremony of the Companions. It was a closed funeral; just the Companions, Temple, and Jarl came. But the whole city is in mourning – lots of people in black, today."
"I can feel their sorrow," Erich murmured.
She found herself tangling her hand in his hair as they trudged up the hill toward the city. His connection with the world – even though she knew who he was – always astounded her.
"Does that ever bother you?" she asked. "Knowing so much about so many things."
Erich sighed and looked down at the ground. "It burdens me, sometimes. Attachment makes it worse – always worse."
Mehra didn't know what to say to that. He chose to be with her, and chose to pursue some sort of relationship – some form of attachment – with her, despite the fact that doing so would cause him distress.
But wasn't that what relationships – platonic and otherwise – were all about?
At the very least, Erich would understand why she went back to Neloth after he berated her, and why she created a staff for him. She was starting to get the hang of it, after all; relationships of any kind were either worth the discomfort, or they were not. But one had to put in the effort in order to find out.
"Don't worry about it," Erich chuckled. "One step at a time. Those steps add up."
"They do," she replied.
As they passed through the gate of the city, the guards greeted her with a sympathetic look. While they walked up the bustling street of Whiterun, Mehra couldn't help but notice the amount of stares Erich received, regardless of his mortal appearance.
Mehra wasn't used to making a scene anymore. Yes, her dragon armor attracted a lot of attention, but not nearly as much as she did with Erich on her arm.
It shouldn't have surprised her; they made quite a pair when they traveled around Cyrodiil some time ago. While it had been her way to threaten to get what she wanted, in contrast, Erich preferred to use his looks to his advantage: a bit of a roguish smile, leaning in a certain way – seducing shopkeepers into the best deals or buttering up certain guards to get them to do what he wanted. If they weren't inclined for attraction toward him, he became instant friends instead. People fell all over themselves to do things for him, long before he became a Daedra, and long before he became a Champion.
A loud whistle sounded off to the side, followed by a loud, "Damn, I'd take a bit out of that ass!" from one of the women washing clothing in the stream that ran through the city.
Erich cleared his throat and tugged on Mehra's arm, ushering them quickly through the street.
"Don't get that where you're from anymore?" she asked.
"Nah," Erich replied. "But, something about that felt – correct, in an odd way."
"Well, you do have the ass of a champion," Mehra snickered. "Literally."
He laughed and nodded in agreement. "I – am not completely certain, but I recall liking getting catcalled. Which is not normal. I need to have a think about this."
"Don't remember everything?" she asked.
He nodded.
"I don't either," she admitted. "Probably much more than you do, though, given that I wasn't – transmuted, or something. Maybe don't force it and just let it come when it does."
Erich gave her shoulder a squeeze. "I think you're right."
They climbed the stairs up to the wealthy district and stopped at the top. The area was as crowded as usual, though the mood was much more somber. Citizens – some dressed in black – milled about with their heads down. Occasionally, one broke out from the crowd to leave a flower or two at the base of the stairs that led to Jorrvaskr. Eorlund's hammer rang out, shrill and steady over the dull murmur of the crowd.
Mehra wasn't sure if she ought to go back up, or wait at home.
"Do you want to meet the Companions?" She asked. She wasn't sure if he'd even care about such things.
"In a few minutes, sure," Erich replied. "I want to do something first. Go on ahead, though."
She nodded and furrowed her brow. The last thing she wanted was to bring him into the city so he could cause trouble, but there wasn't much she could do about that. She'd have to trust that his intentions weren't harmful.
Trusting Sheogorath's intentions. Perhaps she was losing it.
Shaking her head, Mehra gave him a quick hug then turned to see Farkas and Vilkas standing at the top of the stairs in front of Jorrvaskr. She smiled at them as she jogged up the stairs. Reaching the top, Mehra steeled herself for the inevitable questions.
Farkas regarded her with a strange look, then turned his gaze back to Erich.
"So," he mumbled, "Is that – is that your guy or something?"
Mehra cast a glance back to Erich and watched as he knelt down to talk to a pair of children. He looked like a beautiful prince of the forest, with those flowers woven throughout his hair.
The children gravitated toward him, as they always did. Erich was the type who always treated kids like they were worthy of the same amount of time and attention as adults.
"No," Mehra replied. "Not like that."
He tilted his head to the side and peered at Erich. "Well, someone's got you grinning, lately. Ain't him?"
No, the three thousand year old wizard was responsible for that, and he did a damn fine job of it. In Erich's current state, she'd be lucky to walk away from a night with him with a limp.
"Shut it, bonehead!" Vilkas hissed. "That's dirty talk. What's the matter with you?"
Farkas turned to his brother and rolled his eyes. "Didn't know we were a court.
"It's called decorum," Vilkas scowled. "And you wonder why you're single. She's probably thinking something flowery and poetic, not the filth you're thinking, Farkas."
"There's nothing wrong with me! And besides, women can be equally dirty."
Mehra pursed her lips. She was loathed to admit that Vilkas was correct, in this case. Her thoughts on Erich were soppy, at best. He was one of the loveliest creatures she ever laid eyes on.
Yuck. She was too old for stuff like that.
Vilkas peered past him to look at Erich and the growing crowd of children circled around him underneath the dead tree in the center of the courtyard.
"Who's the pretty boy?" he asked.
Farkas turned to him and narrowed his eyes. "I was trying to figure that out before you scolded me, nanny."
Mehra fought the urge to laugh. "That's Erich. I've known him for a while. He's just visiting with me. I suppose I can wait in the training yard for him to finish – whatever he's doing. Looks like story time, to be honest."
She turned on her heel and left, knowing that Erich heard her. The twins lingered for a moment, watching the newcomer. Quickly, Vilkas turned and jogged to catch up with her.
"He's quite tall," he called. "Taller than Skjor was, even. Nice light armor he's got there; goes well with the sword he'd use with his left hand. Looks like an interesting friend."
Mehra continued walking and pursed her lips. She needed to quit opening her trap to people about her past life.
Vilkas caught up to her and grabbed her forearm to make her stop. Sighing, Mehra turned to face him.
"You said that you've known this man for a while, then?" he asked, his steely eyes narrowed. Vilkas saw right through her.
"I have."
He shook his head. "Incredible."
"Please Vilkas," Mehra murmured. "Please keep it quiet."
"Why?" he grumbled. "The world needs help! The people need help. And you may even need–"
"He's not right in the head anymore," she pleaded. "Please, let him be retired in peace. He lost so much. I'm going to do everything in my power to do what I can, so please, trust me. His mind just isn't there, Vilkas. Once you talk to him, you'll understand. He's doing what he can for me, in his own way."
Erich deserved his retirement. He did terrible things, yes, but he lost so much. He loved and lost Lucien and Martin. Daedra killed his parents. He got hurt in the fight against Mehrunes Dagon. A long time ago, he told her that meeting her was the first time he'd been happy since Martin died. She didn't believe it when she first heard it – pretty lies that men always told, she figured – but now, she most certainly did.
Vilkas turned to look back toward the city and sighed. "Alright, Shield-Sister. Alright. And I am sorry for insisting. Seems that I must apologize much more, lately."
"You're fine," she shrugged. "Just try to be careful with him, alright?"
His shoulders slumped. "I suppose I ought to retrieve my brother before he gets any more ideas. He's got a 'type'."
Mehra cleared her throat and stared up at the sky. "Yeah, that might be a good idea. Could be dangerous."
Vilkas sighed in frustration, then trudged off to retrieve his brother. Shaking her head, Mehra walked over to the shaded awning that overlooked the training yard, pulled a chair out from one of the tables, and sat down. Her eyes slid shut to the sound of Eorlund at his forge and the gentle, spring breeze that drifted through the city.
As the minutes passed, inevitably, her worries came to the front of her mind.
There was so much to do. She owed it to Kodlak to cleanse his spirit of lycanthropy. Then, there was the matter of the mysterious orb at the College, and Ancano studying it night and day. Her House was in ruins and needed to rebuild.
And, over all of those things was the looming threat of Alduin and his growing strength. She had yet to find so much as a lead on an Elder Scroll. And though she appreciated Neloth's assistance, she worried that it wouldn't be enough. What if she didn't get it in time?
"Shh."
Her eyes slid open to see Erich kneeling in front of her.
"You're thinking too much," he murmured. "Shh." He reached forward and grabbed her hands.
"Erich, I need –"
"It will come to you in time," he replied. "But for now, shh. Be present here. Be present now."
Erich blinked, the pupils of his eyes turning reptilian and otherworldly as he flashed a wicked smile. In the next second, the look was gone and his disguise returned. Mehra squashed the flicker of fear in the pit of her stomach and pursed her lips.
"I have a feeling that you know something I don't know," she grumbled.
"I'll never tell," he teased.
He helped her to her feet as she rolled her eyes. Of course, he wouldn't share. And while Mehra usually liked a challenge, she wanted some reassurance that she wasn't about to mess everything up by waiting on this Elder Scroll.
Figuring she ought to take his advice, Mehra quieted her worries as best she could and allowed him to hook his arm with hers. She led him into Jorrvaskr – a sin against the Companions, she knew – and introduced him to them.
The group caroused and told tales of Kodlak and his virtue well into the dinner hour while Erich sat off to the side with a constantly refilling mug of ale and a lute. He played the most complex and resonating music she ever heard, each note perfectly timed and placed.
If he wasn't Sheogorath, then she would have been astounded.
From across the hearth, Vilkas regarded Erich with a strange look. "Well, Erich Heartfire, do you have any tales of adventure?"
He looked up from his playing to look at Mehra. Quickly, she nodded in encouragement; maybe the Companions could grow from hearing about his adventures.
Erich tilted his head to the side in thought. "Yeah. Let me think of one."
"That many adventures?" Farkas laughed. "I'm sure any one of them is bound to be good, then."
Erich chuckled. "A lot of them are rude. I was a dirty boy, back in my adventuring days."
"I don't mind a dirty story," Farkas coughed.
Vilkas turned to level his brother with a glare, who rolled his eyes in response.
Erich slowly nodded to himself. "Ah! I've got a good one for you. So, there was this Argonian whose friend got involved in some unsafe magical practices. He created an amulet where he could explore his dreams at will."
"It always starts out with a wizard causing trouble," Aela chuckled. "No offense, Mehra."
Mehra snorted. "Well, it's usually true."
"The guy forgot the astral posies," Erich sighed. "They're essential to a safe and orderly dreamwalk. So he ended up stuck in a nightmare. And, ah – the amulet? Not enough prongs."
A few of the Companions looked at Mehra in concern, and she shrugged in reply. Yes, she was well aware of his 'issues', if they could be called such a thing. Perhaps the things he said about this particular story were true.
He knew a lot about all sorts of things, now.
"Um," Farkas mumbled, "that sure is – interesting."
Erich nodded. "I didn't know about it at the time. And looking back on the whole thing, I'm lucky that I made out alright without onion leaves. Just the leaves; bulbs are bad luck."
A silence fell over the table and Erich shrugged. "Anyway, the guy's name was Henantier, from what I remember. His friend had me put on his Dreamwalker amulet and sleep in order to save the guy from himself. He totally lost his mind in the process and I cobbled it back together through a bunch of tests."
The silence continued, until Vilkas looked up from his pint. He quickly glanced over at Mehra with pursed lips.
She was right about Erich's mental state, and Vilkas heard enough to confirm it for himself.
"Sounds like quite an adventure," he said. "Have you done any beast slaying?"
Erich's face fell and Mehra cleared her throat. This was going to be about that unicorn, wasn't it?
She watched as he put his head in his hands and took a deep breath.
"I, uh," he murmured, "I was sent to hunt a very specific animal. When I met him and found out he was tame – when he rested his chin on my shoulder and then knelt down in front of me to invite me for a ride – I nearly didn't do it."
"It's not a hunt if the animal is tame," Njada drawled.
Erich nodded. "Yeah, and I totally agree with that. But if Hircine tells you to kill a unicorn, you do it. I mean, Hircine is generally an alright guy – and he certainly isn't the strongest one of the Princes– but he's got this thing about order and fairness and especially keeping one's word. Collects spring flowers for his rack, by the way – mostly azaleas."
Vilkas regarded him with a thoughtful look and crossed his arms. Pursing his lips, he looked down at the table, then back up to Erich.
"I've a thought," Vilkas said. "And maybe you know something about these things; you seem deceptively knowledgeable."
"Got a question?" Erich smiled. "About Hircine, maybe? I can do my best; I'll admit that I haven't spoken to the fellow in quite a while. I know more about the likes of Sanguine and Sheogorath, to be honest. And Mehra's your true Tribunal expert."
"I understand," Vilkas replied. "Or, I believe I do. Regardless, how do you think one could theoretically be posthumously cured of lycanthropy? And do you think that this would infuriate Hircine?"
Mehra sucked in a breath. She didn't want to get Erich involved in this; Daedra Lords had enough politics, intrigue, and fighting among themselves without mortals meddling in the whole thing.
But Vilkas certainly was on to something by asking him. She couldn't begrudge him for trying.
"Depends on how one does it," Erich shrugged. "If it were mortals slaying said werewolf spirit in combat, then I suppose it might delight Hircine. Hunt, combat, and cycle are important to him. Kind of boring, but I suppose it could be exciting at times. Bloodlust is fascinating, at least. And I can understand a bond to the wilderness; it's quite inspiring."
Aela looked up from her tankard of ale to level Erich with a serious look.
"Erich," she said, "I assume you're a wizard of some sort? Neither you nor Mehra have explained how you know each other."
He gave her a wry smile. "I'm not the best at wizardry, but we do go a ways back, to the end of the Third Era. I'm glad to see her back on Tamriel. What I can say is that I have nothing but good intentions toward you – or, what you'd consider good, at any rate."
"Any friend of Mehra's is a friend of ours," Aela declared. "Just curious about it. You seem knowledgeable."
"Read books," he smiled. "Read lots of books. Especially forbidden ones. Especially forbidden ones with dark auras. You'll learn some of the most fascinating swear words from those. Red book might help you in bed, too. Watch out for the ocean ones, though."
Ria shifted in her seat and leaned forward on her elbows. "Any easy-to-find recommendations?"
"History," Erich shrugged. "Read one of each account. If it has been banned and burned at one point, then it's all the better. But don't put too much stock into any of them, because everyone's a liar."
"Damned right on that one," Vilkas agreed. "I'm glad that this place is full of people I can trust."
Erich lifted his pint and looked across the table to Mehra. His stare was so serious that it unnerved her, and it certainly wasn't from the fact that he was who he was:
When Erich was serious about something – a rare occurrence – he was unflinchingly, dead serious.
"A toast, then," he announced, his gaze not leaving hers. "To those we trust."
Oh, Erich.
She didn't do anything to deserve such an honor – not with how she stormed out of his life centuries ago without listening to him.
Mehra raised her pint and prepared to return the toast with the rest of the Companions.
"And I am sorry I lied to you."
Erich's voice reverberated loudly in her mind, making her wince and forget to say something. His mouth hadn't moved when she heard it, and judging by the complete lack of a reaction from the Companions, she was the only one who heard it.
"Later," she murmured, "now's not the time to talk about it." Mehra tipped her mug against her lips and downed the mellow ale.
"Later, I know," the astral voice agreed.
The toast set off the night's festivities as they sat around the hearth and continued to tell stories of Kodlak. All the while, Erich sat off to the side and played his lute.
Later, as the evening began to wind down, Mehra looked over her mug of ale to shake her head at the Companions seated around the great table in the hall. They had a private concert from Sheogorath, the inventor of music itself. And yet, none of them had an inkling of it.
From what Mehra knew, that was how he worked; he was secretive, and preferred to appear as a mortal – a gentleman with a cane, most times – to lull the mortals into a false sense of security.
The tone of his music shifted to something soft and slow that blended perfectly with the crickets chirping outside. One by one, each Companion yawned, pushed their chair back, and thanked Erich for playing for them before excusing themselves to bed. It took all of five minutes, with Aela the last one to fall under his spell.
While Mehra was loathed to admit it, she felt his lullaby stirring the urge to sleep deep within her. She watched as Aela sleepily shuffled down the stairs to the basement. As the door closed behind the final Companion, Erich's soothing melody stopped immediately.
Drowsy, Mehra stood from her chair and padded over to him. Erich stood as she stopped in front of him and looking down at her with a smirk. He quickly dropped his mortal disguise.
His eyes glowed in the light of the fire, the otherworldly gaze captivating her and drawing her in.
"That's an interesting way to get a girl alone," she murmured. Mehra wrapped her arms around him and leaned in.
The lute fell to the floor and vanished in a puff of golden magic as his hands found her hips. He drew closer to her, capturing her lips roughly, his gaze boring into hers.
He – they –
God – the devil; she didn't know anymore – was kissing her.
Terrified, she backed away from his claws, fangs, and eerie eyes.
"Not tonight, then?" Erich murmured.
"Tonight?" she repeated, unsure of what he meant.
He chuckled. "Why do you think I was playing music for so many hours? Doesn't change that you're terrified."
Mehra swallowed and glanced at his eyes for a brief second before hastily looking away.
"Is it even possible?" she whispered.
"Yeah."
Mehra glanced up at him and huffed. "No explanation?"
"I may have had an encounter-of-sorts with my predecessor," he shrugged. "Let's just put the idea on the shelf for now and get you to bed, alright?"
Mehra nodded and Erich extended his arm to her.
"May I walk you home, Lady?" he asked.
She sighed in frustration at her continual failure to return his dependability and took his arm in hers. Together, they climbed the short set of stairs that led to the front door of Jorrvaskr and slipped outside into the dark streets of Whiterun.
As they passed through the courtyard in front of Jorrvaskr, Eorlund's hammering slowed. Mehra peered over her shoulder to see him watching them from a distance. She gave him a lazy wave as the haze of alcohol and drowsiness from Erich's lullaby spread through her mind. Eorlund – a man of few words, and even fewer gestures – raised a quick hand and gave her a nod in return.
Mehra turned back to the quiet street, her steps faltering when Erich leaned down to plant a hasty kiss on her cheek.
The guards flanking the archway that led down into the market area gave her a nod as she approached with the strange man on her arm.
"Evening, Companion," one said. "I am very sorry for your loss. Sovngarde is graced to have Kodlak in their presence."
She leaned heavily into Erich's side. Kodlak wasn't in Sovngarde; he was with Hircine, against his will. Still, Mehra appreciated the sentiment for what it was.
"Thank you," she murmured, hoping that her voice hadn't slurred too terribly.
"Have a good evening," he nodded.
"And you as well."
Erich led her down the stairs toward the market district, glancing over his shoulder and smirking. In the next second, he quickly cast a spell with a pale, green light – one she identified as an amplifying spell.
He meant to eavesdrop on someone, and was forcing her to be complicit in it. Mehra opened her mouth to protest –
"Great Dibella's flower," one of the guards above said. "Such a beautiful warrior woman."
She closed her mouth and pursed her lips as Erich snickered. Perhaps it was good that when he was a mortal, he cast most of his alteration spells by accident during high stakes encounters. As it was, he would have been a total shit with his arcane abilities, much in the same way that she had been.
"Very much so. Could probably crush a man with her thighs, that one. I'd love a chance," the other guard said.
He snorted. "If you could get her away from that guy she's with. What on Tamriel did his ma feed him when he was a lad?"
"Hah!" the other laughed. "Probably got a high elf papa. Has that groomed look about him."
The guard seemed to consider this for a moment. "Nah. His face is strongly Nord. Other than the hair and lack of beard, there's nothing soft about the guy. Probably a dandy."
"Wouldn't want to test how much dandy with those fists," the other mumbled.
"Aye, me neither. Fellow's got that strong warrior woman for a reason. Lucky."
"Aye. I'll agree to that. Shame about Kodlak."
The other guard sighed deeply. "Were I on duty at the time of the attack, I'd never forgive myself for letting those brigands in. Can't imagine the guilt everyone feels over the whole thing – Companions included."
Scowling, Mehra cast a muffle spell to counter Erich's spell.
"Rude," she hissed. "I don't want to be eavesdropping, Erich."
Erich unhooked their arms and wrapped his arm around her waist to give her a gentle squeeze. "But you waited a while to cast that spell. Everyone likes to hear nice things about themselves. You're quite a catch. I was always too – groomed, I guess – for here."
They shuffled through the empty market and Mehra pursed her lips. Damn if he wasn't right about that one. It was nice to hear that she didn't look much like a scrawny beggar anymore.
"Yes," she admitted, "but that doesn't mean that I need to be casting spells in order to hear them."
Erich shrugged as they approached Breezehome. "I can and I will."
"Oh, I've heard that one dozens of times," Mehra drawled.
They stopped in front of the house and Erich turned to her with a smirk.
"And I will have you one day," he murmured, leaning over to capture her mouth in a passionate kiss.
He parted from her as suddenly as he kissed her, leaving with a lingering touch to her hand and a longing gaze.
"I can, and I will."
Mehra knew that he would, and when it happened, she knew that she'd foolishly let him.