Chapter Twenty-Eight
The courtyard of High Hrothgar was almost deserted. After Gerhild left for the summit, Serana had gone back inside without another word. Vorstag, however, had remained outside, pacing back and forth across the courtyard, threatening to pack the snow into ice. Every so often he'd look up at the very peak of the mountain, so high that the summit was lost to sight behind wind and clouds. If willpower alone could have done so, he would have moved the mountain to stand beside her.
But he wasn't Ysmir, the Dragon of the North, Dovahkiin, Dragonborn.
He was merely Vorstag, formerly of Markarth.
He caught himself several times trying to stick his knuckles between his teeth, his gauntleted fist banging into his helmet. Gods, but the weight of responsibility on Gerhild's slender shoulders had to be staggering. Aye, she'd spoken of it often, and he tried to understand what she said, but climbing this mountain with her… meeting Master Arngeir and hearing his voice rumble with the Thu'um… seeing they were only halfway to the summit… hearing the pain and longing in her voice as she gazed at Helgen…
He wondered, if Alduin went to Helgen already knowing who she was, intending to kill her before she discovered the truth. And instead he interrupted her execution—he helped to create her. Gods, that had to gall him.
He heard a distant rumble, but never having been up so high before, he thought it was thunder, that the sound of a distant storm would echo strangely, almost supernaturally, when high above the clouds…
"Vorstag," Serana was suddenly at his elbow, "Come and get something to eat. It's midday, and you never broke your fast."
He shook his head. "I'm not hungry." He remembered how he had acted in the Skaal village, and had to give a short laugh at himself. "Don't mind me, Serana, I didn't mean to snap at you." He looked up at the summit for the hundredth time. "I don't like this, her having to face these things alone. When we were on Solstheim, she had to go into Hermaeus Mora's plane of Oblivion, and battle Miraak, the First Dragonborn. It was strange, like her soul stayed behind, but her body disappeared. I couldn't go with her then, either. All I could do was keep a vigil over… what little of her remained behind. I don't even have that this time."
Serana set a comforting hand on his shoulder. "She's not battling Daedra, Vorstag, only reading an Elder Scroll, something she's done with some success already."
"Aye, I know," he sighed, "But you don't know her talent for getting into trouble…"
The thunder roared again, closer this time, low and angry and full of power. Vorstag lifted his eyes to the approaching storm, only to find one small cloud flying faster than possible directly towards the summit. "Stuhn's Shield," he whispered, "That… that's… ah, gods, no…" he moaned.
Serana had been distracted by the approaching oddity. Her sharp eyes told her the same as Vorstag's instincts had told him: it was a dragon. A large one, as black as death, with a face older than time and a cavernous mouth filled with insatiable hunger. Powerful limbs ended in jagged claws, and a mane of bony horns crowned its head. It had to be Alduin, the World Eater.
The End of Time.
It was Master Arngeir's voice that brought her out of her thoughts. "Stop him!" he shouted, and she brought her gaze down from the sky to see Vorstag, sprinting for the archway that led from the courtyard to the trail further up the mountain. She practically flew to him, catching him just beyond the archway, before he could get lost within the swirling snow and gusting wind.
"Let me go!" he cried, struggling though he knew his strength was no match for Serana's vampiric powers. He had to try, even though he knew he'd never reach her in time.
"No," she said simply, dragging him back to the archway.
"She's up there, alone, with only some old Greybeard to help her fight Alduin. I've gotta reach her. I can help!"
"No."
"She's facing him alone…"
Serana finally wrestled him back into the courtyard and the protective circle of the Greybeards. "That was ever her doom, you know that. You cannot interfere with her fate. All you can do is be here for her, be something for her to live for, for her to come back to."
"But…" he felt compelled to argue as he finally pulled out of her grasp, "She's just one girl, one girl and some old hermit against a dragon!"
Arngeir stepped up to him, laying a hand on his shoulder, and offered cryptically, "Perhaps they aren't as unevenly matched as you think."
Vorstag pulled away, unwilling to be consoled. "I thought you wanted her to fail! I thought you wanted the world to be destroyed! To let Alduin win!"
The Greybeard shook his head sadly. "As ever, the ignorant do not understand," he sighed. He lifted his face for a moment to look at the summit, to watch the lights and listen to the supernatural echoes of the Shouts. "If it is time for the world to be destroyed, then who are we to gainsay it? Even Dovahkiin cannot stand against the will of Akatosh. But," he looked back to Vorstag, "If it is not Akatosh's will to end the world today, then perhaps she will prevail. We must accept it, whatever the outcome. That is our fate," he nodded towards the summit, "Just as that is her's."
Vorstag swallowed thickly, his eyes flying towards the peak. He thought he could hear at least two different voices Shouting, so Gerhild must still be fighting, and maybe the Greybeard leader was fighting, too. Standing there, so far removed from the fight, he couldn't help but feel small and insignificant. What was his worth, when all he could do for her was stand and watch?
"You keep her grounded," Serana said softly, for his ears alone. She continued, as if she could read his mind, "You are what she lives for, whom she lives for. No one else has given her hope, has shown her love, has made her want to have a dream of her own. She told me so, during our journeys." Serana paused to give a little laugh, "She says it upsets her, sometimes, the effect you have on her, but she loves you. She understands that now."
"Aye, I know," he all but moaned. "She is the same to me. I would die for her."
"Would you live for her?" Serana asked. He was shocked enough by the question to pull his eyes away from the near-heavenly battle to stare at her. "That is what you need to do, Vorstag. Live for her. Live so she has someone to return to. And after all her battles are over, if she is unable to find a cure for her… condition, you will have to live the life she can never have." Her hand touched his helmeted cheek. "Do you have the strength to do that?"
He was thankful he still wore his helmet, feeling the hot and unmanly tears slip past his eyelashes. He couldn't speak, not right then, but he understood what Serana was trying to say. Gerhild needed him. Her fate was doom-driven, but it would help her chances of survival if she had something or someone to return to. That was his fate, to be her anchor, her guiding star, her Eye in the Warrior constellation… to guide her back home when she was through.
And if she could never fully come home, if she could never again be the woman she had been, it would be up to him to complete her life.
At last he managed a nod. As bitter and painful as it was to admit, he would do anything for her, even if it meant he had to leave her, dying of old age while her immortal vampiric body lived on.
Because he loved her.
They waited as time slipped past, as Shouts and Thu'ums shook the very mountain, as the skies cleared and clouded. When everything grew quiet, a fist of dread clenched his heart harder than Norilar had ever managed. He didn't dare breathe as a dark and menacing figure emerged from the hidden summit and flew off towards the east.
"What does it mean?" Serana asked. "That was Alduin. He wasn't defeated, but he wasn't victorious or he would have stayed. Was he… retreating?"
Vorstag didn't give a fuck about the dragon just then. "Can we go up there now?" he asked, grabbing the front of Arngeir's robes. "Can we find out if she's… if Gerhild…" he realized what he was doing, grabbing hold of the Greybeard and threatening him. Shamefaced he let go, stalking away from everyone, unable to even utter an apology. He reached the ledge around the building and sat down, weary to his very bones. There was only one thing left for him to do. "Stuhn, hear my prayer, preserve your Champion…"
The wait was excruciating for him. The Greybeards seemed confident that there was nothing they needed to do, and went on about their lives, mostly meditating. Serana, as much as she wanted to return inside, kept a vigil beside Vorstag. He seemed unreachable, sitting and staring at the ground before his feet, his lips moving with barely a breath behind them, but she could hear his words, his unceasing prayer, even from within his helmet.
It was near evening when they heard it, a Shout ripped away by the wind, and in turn ripping the wind away from the mountain. Vorstag lifted his head, like a wolf sniffing a scent, and stared at the archway. The blizzard-like condition beyond began to clear, and in a heartbeat he was on his feet and running, fully intending to ignore any warning Master Arngeir or Serana might say. He passed the archway just as she came into view.
Gerhild staggered, almost all her strength used up on that final Shout, but she had reached High Hrothgar at last. A familiar form came to her through the mist threatening to drown her vision, and she sank gratefully into Vorstag's arms.
"Gerhild…?"
She heard him call to her, and she followed the sound of his voice, moving away from the abyss that wanted to claim her. "Aye," she answered with more strength than she thought she had left. "Vorstag, get me inside, please."
"Of course," he murmured, lifting her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing more than a feather. He saw the damage to her armor, some parts melted as if by an intense heat, other parts shattered like glass. She had been limping, and there were several punctures in her armor, one of which left a large hole through her upper chest and shoulder. He tried not to notice the glimpses of the snowy ground he could see through the bloodless wound as he carried her through the courtyard towards the castle.
"I will show you to a room you may use," offered Arngeir, actually sounding gracious for the first time. Vorstag didn't bother to dwell on it, his focus on doing what he could for Gerhild. She didn't notice it at all, her senses filled with the heartbeats of those around her, especially the one closest. Stuhn's Shield, she wanted to feed! But she was cold, so cold, and it would be just as easy to sleep…
The abyss was calling to her again, but Vorstag's arms around her kept her from tipping into it. She felt the softness of a mattress beneath her body, and the gentleness of his long fingers as he began to carefully remove her damaged armor. Something caught her shoulder, tugging her body, and she heard Vorstag mutter a curse. "It's alright," she assured him, "I don't feel it. My trick worked; Alduin couldn't kill me, because I'm already undead. No pain. No blood. No death."
He had tossed his helmet and gauntlets aside after setting her on the bed, wanting a clear look and unhindered hands as he tried to remove her damaged armor as painlessly as possible. By the Nine, but it made his skin crawl, to see cuts that didn't bleed, burns that didn't ooze. The armor on her leg had melted under intense heat, but the dead flesh beneath it was like dried, over-cooked meat. At her side the cuirass had shattered apart, the Ebony weakened by an icy freeze. Her flesh beneath it had gotten so cold it burned, looking dry and leathery and brown.
Then there was that damned hole straight through her shoulder. And she had acted like it was merely a scratch, a minor inconvenience. He looked to the other side of the bed to where Serana sat and watched impassively. "Do you think you have enough of that potion…?"
Her amber eyes blinked once. "We have more than enough, Vorstag, don't worry about that. The problem will be getting her to drink it."
…cold. That was all Gerhild felt now. The coldness of ice and earth and the grave. Not death—death would not be hers—but sleep eternal. Or at least until something weaker than her came within reach…
"What do you mean?" he asked, stripping her completely. He didn't like the way her face was changing again, becoming more bat-like, her skin gray, like she had looked when they finally left Blackreach.
"She's too weak," Serana answered, her voice sounding sad. "She's been injured so severely, that her body is going into a deep sleep, preserving what little energy it has to work on healing her wounds. It's a very slow process, and it means she won't feed on her own. We will have to force feed her, at first."
"What do I do?" he asked, swallowing thickly, instilling as much determination and endurance into his expression as possible.
Serana passed over a small red vial. "She'll need all of this, perhaps more, but this should be enough for her to recover to the point where she'll wake up. Then she can decide how much more she'll need, if any. Start with a few drops, into the back of her throat, then stroke her neck like so, coaxing her to swallow."
Vorstag followed her instructions, dribbling the potion, his fingers moving over her corpse-like skin from just beneath her chin to the base of her neck, over and over, until her larynx bobbed as she swallowed. He gave a small cry of triumph and tipped the bottle again, watching her lips, lifeless and still, passively allowing the dripping potion to spill into her mouth. Serana discreetly left the room, allowing them privacy, knowing Gerhild was in the best of hands.
Gerhild was so cold. It wasn't painful or upsetting, it wasn't even mildly irritating, it was simply cold. Her body registered it and acted accordingly. Cold this deep meant sleep. A long, slow sleep. A peaceful, dreamless sleep. A timeless, ageless sleep.
Something warm dripped into her mouth. Hot and bright red. She could hear a heartbeat nearby, forceful and steady and only a little fast, but it wasn't blood that coated her throat. It was something akin to blood, something a little less satisfying, but a reasonable substitute. Another drip fell onto her lips, onto her tongue, trickling into her throat. Then fingers were at her neck making long strokes, and reflexively she swallowed.
Stuhn's Shield, that little bit was heavenly. So warm. So full of life. So energizing. And all she had to do was lie there, let it drip into her, let it rejuvenate her body, her mind, her self. She felt the souls of dragons stir within that place deep inside, her own soul trapped with them, and knew she would not be sleeping that deeper sleep just yet.
That was perfectly fine by her.
Vorstag kept a constant vigil over her, practically spoon-feeding her the potion, cooing to her and murmuring encouragement. He couldn't be sure if she heard him, but some part of him simply wanted to talk to her, wanted to believe that she knew he was there. It took over an hour, but at last the vial was empty, her wounds looked to be closing, and her color was almost flushed. She was still asleep, however, and though he was reluctant to admit it, he was beyond tired himself. He set aside the empty bottle, stripped down to his loincloth, and climbed into bed beside her. Pulling the covers up over both of them, his arms held her close and he drifted off to join her in slumber.
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Gerhild shivered. There was something firm and familiar before her, and instinctively she burrowed deeper within its warmth. A hand stroked her hair, brushing an errant lock back behind her ear, but she kept her eyes closed. She was tired as well as cold, and since she was obviously in bed, she figured she'd just stay there for a while and sleep.
That hand was back, tender and caring, and nudging her closer to wakefulness.
"Lemme sleep," she moaned, maybe a little grumpy, pulling one leg up a little, tucking her body against another's yielding muscles. Her cheek was resting on skin dusted with hair, and a steady heartbeat thrummed in her ear, soothing her.
A familiar chuckle—sounding greatly relieved—came from outside her cocoon. A hand stroked her shoulder beneath the blanket, and lips pressed into her hair, kissing the top of her head. She felt something twitch, something outside her body, and realized she was being held by someone.
She was being held by Vorstag.
Sleepily she blinked her eyes open and lifted her head just far enough to register the underside of his jaw, the small curling end of his tattoo swirling in front of her vision. Vorstag, holding her, in bed, his neck so close…
Instantly she was awake and pushing herself to sit up, backing away from him. "No! Vorstag… ah, gods!"
"What is it?" he asked, sitting up, his alarm apparent. "What's wrong?"
"I… oh, please, tell me I… I didn't…" Words failed her. She knew she had been injured, severely, and shouldn't have been able to recover this well this quickly, unless… She pulled her lip out from between her teeth and forced herself to ask, fearing the answer, "Please, I didn't feed on you again, did I?"
That charming smile spread across his lips, flashing his white teeth, softening his brown eyes even further. "No, Gerhild, you and Serana have plenty of that potion, remember?" he asked, a relieved tone in his voice as he relaxed against the pillows and waited for her to remember.
Memory was coming back to her in bits and bobs, a little at a time and all of it disjointed. She knew she had been greatly injured, but her fingers at her shoulder found only smooth skin, not a gaping hole where Alduin's teeth had pierced her through.
Serana had refused to leave her side, once they had the bow, feeling like a sister to her after all they had been through.
She had learned a new Shout, but Alduin had tried to get there and stop her.
She had fed off of Vorstag once, but that was months ago, not recently. This last time…
Her eyes flickered around the room, searching, only stopping when they found the empty red vial on a nearby table.
"You alright now?"
Simple question; complex answer. She shrugged her shoulders, a hand reaching up to push a few loose strands of hair away from her face. She was going to have to re-braid it before they left High Hrothgar. "As… as well as I can be. You?"
He nodded, looking at her intently. He lifted a hand, palm upwards, and held it out for her. She took it, somewhat sheepishly, and allowed him to pull her back into his embrace.
Already her body had cooled without constant resupply of heat from his body. As she lay next to him, her form was unresponsive, but his was patently reacting to her presence, to his stifled desire. His discomfort had to border on painful, yet he didn't so much as shift to try to ease the strain.
She sighed, her fingers playing with the short strands of chest hair, knowing she was making things worse but unable to stop herself, "Oh, gods, Vorstag, this is messed up!"
"Sh…" he whispered into her hair, "Don't worry. I'm here. It's over now."
"No…" she moaned, "It's not over. It didn't work. I… I don't think I can do this…"
He didn't try to speak or try to soothe her; he simply held her and let the words tumble from her lips and spill across his chest. She told him how she had reached the summit, and read the scroll within the time wound, and immediately upon learning the Dragonrend Shout, Alduin was there, attacking. She and Paarthurnax had fought him, and she used the Shout, and grounded him, and beat him, and then…
"I didn't…" she mumbled, her lips brushing his skin as she spoke, "I couldn't defeat Alduin."
"I know. We saw him fly away…"
"He escaped, somewhere to the east, to the source of his power." She looked up at Vorstag, her eyes full of despair. "I don't know where he went, but I have to find a way to follow him, like with Miraak. Maybe, I can defeat him there, if I cut him off from the source of his power. Paarthurnax is going to think about it, try to figure out a solution, while we…"
He nodded with understanding, "While we go deal with the vampire threat. Sounds like a good plan."
"You think it'll work?" she asked, looking at him with such need for reassurance.
"Aye," he said with all the confidence he could muster, "Even if it's the only thing we can do, that doesn't make it a bad plan. Now, if you're rested, we should probably get ready and get dressed. By the way," he tapped the tip of her nose, "Your hair's a mess."
"Everything's a mess," she agreed, "But you're right. We should get going." She didn't want to—she'd much rather stay in bed for, say, an hour or so—but there wasn't anything they could do during that time except make his torment worse. She kissed his tattoo and pulled away, scooting to the edge of the bed where she could sit up.
Immediately her hands were at her hair, lithe fingers working quickly without mirror or reference, pulling the ends of strands loose and allowing braid after braid to fall down her back. Vorstag shifted until he sat behind her, his fingers taking up a braid to unwind the locks, fully intending to help rather than hinder. She allowed it, even closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of his fingers picking at a snarl, draping an unbraided lock over her skin, massaging her scalp. When he could run his fingers through the full length of her hair, she sighed and opened her eyes again.
She started at the front, just to one side of the middle, gathering up more hair as she went towards the back. At the top of her scalp she stopped taking in more hair and finished braiding out what she had. Then she started another braid, a mirror image to the first. She continued, working her way down either side before coming across the back, adding more and more braids, their lengths dangling down to brush against Vorstag's chest. He sat behind her and watched, his hands on her hips, fascinated by her efficiency.
She took the two highest braids and wound them around a few times before tucking the ends inside. Two more braids were pulled from the sides to behind her head, criss-crossing each other just beneath the first two, before their ends were tucked underneath as well. The next pair of braids were double-looped in the middle, before entwining with another set, thickening the loop. They were also tucked inside the previous braids… and that's as far as he could follow. She continued with the rest of the braids, looping and twisting and tucking them into that intricate maze he knew so well, yet could never fathom.
Just like Gerhild herself.
"I'll never understand how you do that," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her after she had finished.
"You just saw me do it," she protested, but didn't pull away.
"Aye, I saw it," he agreed, nuzzling at her ear, "Doesn't mean I understand it."
She shook her head slightly, but not too much, in case his stubble undid some of her hard work. "You need a shave. And I need new armor," she sighed, having just spied her ruined Ebony armor lying in a destroyed heap near the wall.
Vorstag didn't want to think about how strong Alduin truly was, if he could bite so cleanly through the hardest armor on the face of Nirn. "You thinking another set of Ebony?" he asked, rubbing at his stubbled cheeks as she stood and gazed forlornly at the battered cuirass. He supposed he had enough time to shave. After all, they had two weeks to reach the rendezvous, and if they were really pressed for time, Gerhild could always find a dragon and coerce it into giving them a ride.
She hummed a little, thinking out loud more than answering him, "Something harder…"
"What's harder than ebony?" he asked, thinking he was being rhetorical.
"That which broke it."
"What?"
"It's an idea I have," she started, looking like she had forgotten he was in the room. "Something… well… not sure if it would work… if it could work… I wanna talk with Eorlund about it first, but…" she would have blushed if her body was alive, "What about dragon armor?"
He blinked at her, standing and holding his sack, one hand still inside. "Dragon armor? You mean, armor made from the hides of dragons?" He shook his head, going back to rummaging for the small blade he used for shaving, "Gerhild, you know that the dragons sort of cremate themselves, after you kill them. How ya gonna get their hide off of them to make the armor?"
"Not their hide," she turned to her own pack, thinking that she might as well put on her Daedric armor. She hadn't intended to until they were at Castle Volkihar, but now she didn't have a choice. "Their bones, scales, whatever is left of them that doesn't get burned away. Those things have to be hard enough, to protect against other dragons, against swords," she smirked when it looked like Vorstag remembered the time his own sword had bounced harmlessly off the head of a dragon. "That's what I want my armor made out of. But… I don't know if it can be done. Don't think anyone else has tried it…"
"Not like dragons have been around long enough for anyone else to think of it," he gave in, walking up behind her to give her a kiss on her cheek. "But we'll find out. After the vampires are taken care of, we'll head to Whiterun and speak with Eorlund. You'll probably want it before you try facing Alduin again, anyway, right?"
A tiny crease formed on her brow, but her face was turned away from him so he didn't notice. "Right," she sighed, lifting out a spare tunic and leggings. She wasn't sure if she should go there before or after Alduin. It would be awkward, going to Whiterun as a vampire, trying to convince Eorlund to make her armor out of dragon bones and scales…
But did she dare face Alduin again without the dragon armor?
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10th Mid Year: 4E 205
"How many are left?" Thorald asked, tying a quick bandage around a slowly oozing wound on his upper arm.
"Us or them?" Vorstag asked, his focus on the last gargoyle. He and several others were spattering it with arrows. While it was distracted, a Dawnguard raced up to it and hammered into it with his shoulder. It took a step back, lost its balance, and toppled over the edge to shatter on the rocks below. Vorstag resisted the urge to cheer with the others, knowing they still had a lot of battle left to go. "Their side: no one's left on the bridge, but we should find a score or more in the castle. It looks like we've gotta handful of casualties, but so far I think everyone will make it." He craned his neck, but the other cove of the island was out of sight. "Can't tell how Ralof and Avulstein are doing."
"They'll be fine. We'll trust them to do their job," he grunted as he gained his feet, "Just like they're trusting us to do our job."
"You alright?" Vorstag asked, taking his elbow.
"Aye," Thorald muttered, "It's only a scratch. There are other bastards worse off than me," he nodded his head behind them towards the boats by the pier, where a few mages skilled in Restoration Magic were doing what they could for the wounded. It was difficult to heal throats that had been nearly ripped out, even with magic. "Come on, let's get going. Dragonborn!" he cried, charging the gates with his crossbow raised.
Vorstag shook his head, thinking they were supposed to be rallying around the Dawnguard, but considering almost all the men and women here were current or former Stormcloaks, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. He raised his sword, the Dwarven blade he had brought with him out of Blackreach, and charged with the rest.
The inside of Castle Volkihar was no better than the bridge; in fact, it was worse. The vampires in residence knew where all the nooks and crannies were, all the traps and pressure plates, and the mortals were stumbling in blind. Vorstag tried to regain some sort of order or control over them, but he lost another score of soldiers before they were able to regroup.
"This sucks."
"Aye," he answered Thorald, the two of them crouched behind a pillar. "Can't anyone call that armored troll back to us?"
"I've tried," answered Gunmar from nearby, "But the damn thing has his head. He's not gonna stop until the death hound that bit him is dead."
Vorstag swore softly, Gerhild's ebony bow in his hands, a Nordic arrow ready to fire. Thorald stood at his side, a crossbow lifted and ready to aim. But there was nothing to aim it, the vampires either waiting in the darkness or worse, flanking them unseen from the surrounding shadows. "Isran!" he called, "We need Vampire's Bane. Now!"
"Don't give me orders…" he growled, not realizing how well his voice carried through the cavernous hall, or perhaps he did know. In a louder tone, however, he commanded, "Dawnguard! Second rank, cast Aura!"
As one, half of the Dawnguard that were with them cast the spell Stendarr's Aura, encasing themselves in a sphere of light, warding off the darkness and hurting nearby undead. And revealing all those hiding in the shadows.
"First rank, cast Bane!"
The rest of the Dawnguard began to throw Vampire's Bane, a projectile made of light that did damage to any vampire it touched similar to bright, full sunlight. There were several angry screeches as the balls of light found targets, now revealed by the others' glowing auras. Thorald lifted his crossbow and fired several bolts into the closest revealed vampire.
"Just like shooting slaughterfish in a barrel!" he laughed, taking aim on a new target.
"Aye," grunted Vorstag, letting loose an arrow into his own target, too worried to join in the rush of adrenaline the other was feeling. So far he hadn't seen any sign of Gerhild or Serana, but he knew the two women were somewhere in the castle, and he wouldn't feel right until he found them. The Dawnguard had been warned not to fire at anyone in Daedric armor, and that there was a female vampire on their side, but in the heat of battle, he didn't trust them. "How're you doing for bolts?"
"Plenty!" Thorald answered, firing again. "You?"
He reached behind to finger through the arrows in his quiver. "Enough to last until we start engaging them one-on-one."
"Why wait?" he asked, beaming. With one hand he let go of his crossbow to hang from its strap, and unsheathed his sword with the other hand. "Dragonborn!"
The cry was taken up again, and the soldiers started moving, spreading out, cheering and firing and swinging as they pressed further into the dark and shadowy hallways of the castle. Vorstag raced with them, glad for the chance to bleed off his anxious energy while making progress towards Gerhild and Serana.
He knew approximately where to find them, as Serana had been fairly certain her father would be in the cathedral, and Gerhild had been able to give him directions to the room. He raced there now, not caring if anyone came with him, or if any vampires spotted him or chased him. He needed to be with Gerhild during this final confrontation. For once.
He heard a shout from behind him, but he didn't bother to look. He turned a corner and nearly ran into a lowered portcullis. With a snarl for the wasted time, he lost several precious seconds searching for a way to open it. When he pulled the chain, he felt someone—or something—grab his shoulder. He turned his head and saw, out of the corner of his eye, glowing amber orbs and white fangs marred and glistening with gore. He didn't think but acted, spinning the rest of his body around to pull the vampire off balance, and used the momentum to add force to his other arm as he brought up his sword and lopped off the hand gripping him. It roared in pain at him and grabbed his wrist with its other hand, pulling it high above his head, lifting him off the ground and pushing him back against the wall. He fumbled at his waist, finding his dagger and jabbing it into the vampire's neck before its fangs could reach him.
There was the sound of three bolts fired in quick succession. Vorstag grunted for the pain as two passed through his hand and into the vampire's throat, the third bolt passing through the empty finger in his glove. Both he and the vampire collapsed to the ground.
"Shit!" Ralof came running up the passage, the crossbow still in his hands. "Is it dead?"
"Aye," Vorstag pushed himself to his knees, dropping his sword to do so. He looked down at his hand, tacked to the undead's throat, and swore softly. His blood was too heated from the fight to allow him to feel the pain. "You got your knife handy? Mine's trapped."
Ralof nodded grimly, without wasting time on apologies. They both knew he hadn't intended to shoot Vorstag; and at least he was alive to recover and not dead with his throat ripped out. "What were you doing, running down this passage alone? If I hadn't seen you and the vampire following you…"
Vorstag calmly watched him saw through the wooden shafts of the bolts just above his hand, still wondering when he would start feeling the pain. "Gerhild's down this way. I wanted to get to her as soon as possible."
"You never did say for certain, but she's the one in the Daedric armor, isn't she?"
"Aye," he allowed, "Don't bother with that third bolt; just cut off the glove."
"Forgot you lost the finger," Ralof commented, tucking away his dagger. He grabbed Vorstag's wrist and looked him in the eye, "On the count of three."
"Three!" Vorstag gasped, jerking his hand up and off the bolts.
"Fuck," muttered Ralof, "Give me a bit of warning next time." He rummaged around in his pack and brought out a potion of healing. Vorstag waved it aside with a shake of his head, and reached beneath his cuirass to tear off a strip of cloth from his tunic. "You still going after her?" Ralof asked.
Vorstag nodded, wrapping the cloth around his bleeding hand, knowing it would hold until Gerhild could heal it with magic. Ralof took the ends from him to tie it securely, then took hold of his forearm to help him to his feet. "I'm coming with you."
He thought about what waited beyond the opened portcullis, and gave his head a small shake, "Ralof…"
"I think I know what we'll find," he cut him off. "And I wish I could say I am surprised, but after some of the things she's done…" his voice trailed away, trying hard not to remember Markarth. "Well, I suppose she was doing what she thought she had to do. Even if it was stupid."
Vorstag took a deep breath, accepting his sword from him. "You know, you can't speak of it, of whatever we find through there."
Ralof nodded. "We've kept a lot of her secrets through the years, haven't we. What's one more?"
Vorstag didn't answer; in his heart he knew that eventually the weight of all these secrets—all the minor discrepancies of all her separate personas—would grow too much for her to carry and would crush her. She needed… they needed a new life, a fresh start, without the extra bullshit that had grown like weeds, choking the life out of her. He silently turned from Ralof and walked through the portcullis.
On the other side, he pulled the chain to lower it again, not wanting anyone else to stumble across whatever was happening. The fewer people who knew about Gerhild's condition, the better. Then side-by-side, the two men climbed the stairs that led towards the cathedral. The din of a fierce fight reached their ears, growing in volume the higher they went. At the top of the stairs, Ralof opened the doors, thinking that Vorstag had only one good hand. What they saw inside took their breath away.
The cathedral was dedicate to the Daedric Prince Molag Bal, an altar in the very center of the room filled and perpetually flowing with blood. Ralof only vaguely registered this, as he had become distracted by the gargoyles and skeletons swarming the room. Not to mention the lone vampire woman who seemed to be fighting them. "That the one on our side?"
"Aye," Vorstag gave everything else the merest glance, his eyes searching for and finding Gerhild. Gods, he wished he could un-see what was before him. Large and gray, like hairless bats, wings without membranes, strangely formed heads with horns for manes. Two full vampire lords were fighting, hand-to-hand, fang-to-fang, grasping and snarling and ripping…
"Fuck!" The expletive dropped from Ralof's mouth as the two battling vampires moved away from the side and towards the altar in the center. "That's… that's…"
"Aye," Vorstag repeated himself. He stepped forward and with his sword chopped off the head of a skeleton.
"You're early," scolded Serana, "But thank you for the assist." She blasted a gargoyle with a lightning spell. "Who's your friend?"
Ralof took up his crossbow and began firing. "Ralof! Of Riverwood!"
"Serana," she answered, flashing him a timid smile before commanding, "Duck!"
Ralof crouched, her lightning spell barely missing him as it hit the skeleton that had been sneaking up behind him. "Thanks!"
"What's the plan?" Vorstag asked, swinging at a gargoyle this time. His other hand was throbbing, and he kept it pressed closely to his chest.
"Take out the gargoyles and skeletons," Serana answered, taking a brief respite, "Leave my father to Gerhild."
He could hear the emotional pain in her voice, bitter and angry, and he wisely dropped the conversation. There was enough going on, they didn't need to speak, other than the occasional call for assistance or cry of triumph.
The battle raged on, Harkon managing to summon more and more minions to fight for him, though never enough to distract Gerhild from her goal of ripping out his throat and tearing off his head. Their battled moved throughout the room, sometimes coming close to where the others fought, sometimes disappearing as both Harkon and Gerhild became invisible. Never could Harkon get away from her, either a claw or a fang holding him close.
Eventually, however, even those two—even so absorbed in their death match—realized that there were others in the room. Harkon saw an opportunity, when a skeleton almost got the drop on Vorstag and Gerhild paused to cast a fire spell to save him. He carefully worked over towards him, and in a sudden burst of speed, pulled far enough away from Gerhild to reach Vorstag. He wrapped his limbs around him, pulling Vorstag around to stand in front of him and before Gerhild.
"Stop!"
Harkon's voice echoed around the cathedral, the vaulted ceilings catching the sound and rattling it around only to blast it down, amplified, at the startled combatants. Gerhild roared in rage, her fangs gleaming in the dim light, her eyes a pair of soulless black voids. "Let him go!"
Harkon laughed, thinking he had the upper hand, feeling his triumph already. "No," he drew out the word, sadistically enjoying the anguish twisting her features. "Give me Auriel's Bow, or I rip his throat out." He pressed the tip of one long talon into Vorstag's neck, drawing blood, though thankfully not cutting into the artery. Yet.
Vorstag was amazingly calm. By all rights, he should be terrified, facing death, knowing his last sight on Nirn would be the look on Gerhild's face, distorted by her vampiric powers, as his blood spurted out and drenched her. But he and Gerhild both knew something that Harkon either didn't know, or had overlooked.
"Finish it!" Vorstag managed to croak around the clawed hand choking him.
It was a strange sight, no matter how familiar. Standing there as a vampire lord, Gerhild straightened up a little, pulled her shoulders back, and took a deep breath. Vorstag recognized the actions well, and held her gaze confidently as she Shouted, "Yol Toor Shul!"
Fire. Fire was everywhere. Fire as bright and as hot as the sun. The stream of fire burst forth from Gerhild's mouth with the Shout, a spurt of flame that flew straight towards Harkon and his hostage. The amber tongues embraced their victim, wrapped around and fed hungrily on the undead flesh. There was barely time for one scream, before the clothing and meat were consumed leaving behind only the brittle bones.
After she ran out of breath, the flames stopped. There was a clatter of bones and heavy armor as Harkon's remains fell to the floor and turned to ash. Vorstag, too, fell to the floor, tired and hurt and scared. And alive. Alive and unharmed by her Shout. He didn't even glance at the pile of ash behind him as he pushed himself up to his knees.
Sucking air back into his half-starved lungs, he blinked to find Gerhild kneeling before him, changed once more into her more human form and wearing the Daedric armor. She ripped her helmet off to get a good look at him, one hand reaching out hesitantly to touch his shoulder. "You're hurt."
He had to laugh a little, whether from relief or exhaustion he couldn't care to discern. "Not from the Shout, thankfully. Just my hand."
She looked at the appendage, the soaked bandage dripping onto his lap. Without asking she cast a healing spell, closing the wounds and restoring the damaged muscles and nerves. The wound in his neck also healed, the cooling sensation rippling through his body and easing pains he didn't know he had. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, bumping his helmeted head against her forehead. "I love that feeling…"
"Vorstag," she moaned softly, gripping the back of his neck and holding him close, "You stupid Nord. What are you doing here?"
He shrugged, leaning away to reach his feet. "I hate it, ya know, every time you have to do one of these final battles to the death without me. Thought for once I'd come and help."
"Don't you mean, come and get yourself used as leverage against me?"
He shook his head, pulling off his helmet to reveal that shit-eating grin. "No, I helped this time. You and Harkon were at a stalemate. He thought holding me as a hostage would make you give in, but he didn't know your Shouts won't hurt me. So, you see? I helped you defeat him."
She opened her mouth to protest, but couldn't think of anything to say. She snapped it shut and tried again, and again had the same result. Finally Ralof's laughter broke through her stymied thoughts. "Give up, Gerhild, he's got you there."
She would have responded with a biting comment, but saw the look on Serana's face. No, this wasn't the place for laughter and celebration, not when a daughter had to face her father's death—even a father who had been bent on sacrificing her. Gerhild let the men have their little victory and cleared her throat. "We should get back and make sure the others are alright."
They put on their helmets, sheathed their weapons, and two-by-two filed out of the cathedral and down the stairs. Vorstag held Gerhild's hand, unwilling to let go, and it seemed she was just as unwilling. Though they were silent, Serana and Ralof carried on a quiet conversation behind them, getting acquainted, exchanging brief biographies. It would have been kind of touching, if Gerhild didn't know the hopelessness of such a thought. Even she and Vorstag were facing nearly unsurmountable odds.
They entered the dining hall, where Isran was standing next to Avulstein, the two men talking and nodding their heads as they compared notes. Gerhild walked up to them and asked, "Are they all dead?"
Isran eyed her suspiciously, but Avulstein answered, recognizing her voice, "Aye, Dragonborn. We've done the tally twice. Every room except that cathedral you mentioned is cleared, and every vampire we found is dead. There are some men searching outside on the rocks, but so far nothing's been reported. We found the thralls, too, and are loading them onto the ships. You still think they can be cured?"
"In time, perhaps," she allowed, "All we can do is try. Where's Thorald?"
Avulstein thumbed over his shoulder, "Outside, back with the mages. He got scratched a couple of times, nothing serious, but he was bleeding all over the place so I sent him outside."
She nodded, not caring about Isran's surly attitude. She led the small procession out through the main doors, the castle nearly empty of Stormcloak and Dawnguard soldiers, and completely empty of vampires now that she and Serana were outside. Gerhild stopped at the highest point on the bridge, Avulstein and Isran continuing down to the boats, both probably more than eager to leave the dreary castle behind them. She felt Vorstag standing beside her as she looked down over the men and women who had risked their lives to help her defeat Harkon and his insane plot to block out the sun. If they only knew of the sacrifices she had made…
Well, she knew of the sacrifices they had made. Faces had begun turning towards her almost as soon as she had left the castle, more as Avulstein and Isran reached them. She drew her ebony war axe and held it above her head.
"I am Dovahkiin!" she cried, her voice empowered with her Thu'um, carrying out over the cliffs and rocks and sea.
The answering cheer of over four hundred voices was nearly as cacophonous.
As the ovation continued, Ralof leaned over and said softly into Serana's ear, "So, what are you plans now?"
She gave a little shake, like she was coming out of a trance. "I… hadn't thought about it. This place has always been my home, for as long as I can remember, but…" her voice faded away, her thoughts returning to her father's ashes.
"You… you can't stay here," Ralof protested. "The other vampires are dead. You'd be all alone."
Serana sighed, turning to look at him, "I've been all alone for most of my life, or un-death, if you prefer to call it that. This will be no different. Perhaps I will sleep again. Or join my mother in the soul cairn."
"Maybe," Vorstag began, but wasn't sure if he could or should continue. Serana had always been touchy about her vampirism. When Gerhild nudged his shoulder with hers, he tried again, "Maybe you could be cured."
She looked at him, anger flaring in her amber eyes.
"It's a possibility," Gerhild added, speaking softly and lowering her weapon, "One we're going to look into soon."
"Next," affirmed Vorstag. When Gerhild's helmet twitched towards him, he pressed his hand. "It's over, Gerhild. Harkon is defeated. And the vampirism didn't help against Alduin. Aye, I know he couldn't kill you, but it made you too reckless, allowed you to let yourself take too much damage. If you hadn't made it down the mountain back to us and the potions, you would've failed. It's time to give this up. Morthal isn't that far away; let's go and get you cured. Now. Tonight."
Gods, it was tempting—too tempting. And though Vorstag had just seen her at her worst, he hadn't give up on her. He stared at her now with his soft, puppy-dog brown eyes, begging her to give in to his plea. "Aye," she breathed, taking his hand in hers, "Tonight."
The four started for the boats, intending to join the others and leave the island. Serana, however, had one more comment. She stopped Gerhild and held them back from the others to ask, "Gerhild, if… if it works… if you find a cure… would you… would you let me know of it?"
Vorstag and Ralof turned around to look back at them. "Aye, I will," Gerhild nodded. "Where will you be?"
"In Riverwood," Ralof answered, "With me. That is, if you'd like to come see it. I've got some leave I've been meaning to take, and thought I'd visit my sister there, in Riverwood, for a little while. You could come with me."
Serana looked at him for several heartbeats, until he started to squirm and shift from foot to foot, before she finally answered, "I'd like that."
A/N: special thanks on this one (again) to Bugs for unwittingly defining Gerhild's intricately braided hair. I could only dream of it vaguely, but she brought it to life! I hope my humble verbal description does justice to her hard work. (I know, Bugs, you didn't intend to recreate her hair, but what you did looked so good, I had to steal it) ;D *hugs*
