Chapter 37: Falkreath

The rain refused to fall on Falkreath, which made Frieda uneasy. In her mind Falkreath was always drowning amongst the cacophony of a thousand shards of water shattering against stone and wood, the barking of hungry dogs and the laughter of the townsfolk who left her out in the cold.

Just as it was that terrible night, before Wynn's kiss released her.

Frieda and Florentius passed beneath the old stone archway marking the town's entrance, the guards giving way with a curt nod and an almost unconscious step back once the priest displayed his amulet and stated his identity. Frieda had observed that the people of Skyrim seemed to maintain a healthy fear for these 'Vigilants of Stendarr' – or at least, what was left of them. It wasn't too distinct from their attitudes towards vampires, however these zealots generally weren't attacked on sight. It seemed these killers had managed to convince the cowering peasants that they were benevolent.

Frieda tried to appear as if seeing her home town again meant nothing to her, but she couldn't help casting an eye towards Dead Man's Drink, the smithy and the other familiar sights, all imposing themselves unbidden on her thoughts. Frieda was aware that Florentius appeared to be watching her, small glances when he undoubtedly thought her attention was only one dimensional.

Normally Frieda wouldn't be bothered by this – to the contrary, tormenting the man with the occasional brush past, or holding her face close to his when talking had given her much pleasure over the past days. She was certain he would break eventually. But this time… it was like he was observing her reactions. Frieda already had her suspicions.

"Remind me then priest, why we had to bother coming back to this dung heap?" Frieda asked acidly.

"Because the road leads this way Frieda," he began, showing enough lenience towards her at least not to publicly refer to her as 'vampire'. "Not to mention it seems likely that our Moth Priest would have stayed the night, Falkreath is the closest settlement to Pale Pass, or at least the only one that's still standing, and clearly in Imperial territory."

"Right. Sure." She replied with a pout. Shortly after departing Helgen, the two travellers had heard from an imperial patrol that Pale Pass, the gateway to Cyrodiil, had been buried in an avalanche. Personally, Frieda found the whole thing slightly suspicious – considering the waves of crises afflicting Skyrim. As for who could have been behind it… well the list of possibilities was too long to bother thinking about,

"Of course, Arkay wouldn't be content if I neglected to visit his temple while I'm here." Florentius continued.

Frieda just rolled her eyes. "Whatever makes you and your delusions happy priest. As long as we leave well before sunrise."

Florentius stared at her directly for a moment, a strange look in his dark eyes. "You won't burn in the morning to come Frieda. I can promise you that."

Frieda felt the oddest urge to shiver.

As they turned down a street Frieda would have given anything to avoid, she caught a scent she had thought long forgotten. A young woman, clad in a simple green dress with curly waves of brown hair perpetually falling into her face stepped out from behind the front door, locking it. She looked tired. Frieda watched as her former sister turned away, looking nervously in both directions before striding back towards the tavern road. Frieda turned away, pulling her travel cloak over her head as confused emotions flooded over her. Iliana's blood still sang to her, but the familiarity of it seemed wrong somehow. Though her blood had mixed with her new kin, she still felt a bond with her former sister – years of hardship shared. But she never came after Frieda was cast into the streets – kept under father's thumb no doubt.

A thought crossed her mind then, growing as she mulled it over. She could turn her – give her the freedom Frieda had enjoyed these past months. She could bring her into the family. Perhaps this homecoming might be worthwhile after all.

Florentius noticed her odd behaviour of course, but Frieda was grateful he had the wisdom – or the fear - not to inquire further. She was glad to see that he had learned how to keep his throat from being torn out, for the moment at least.

Frieda took the lead from Florentius once they reached the edge of the graveyard, almost unconsciously drawn to a particular hollow below a small ridge.

"This is where I was reborn" Frieda whispered reverently, in answer to her companion's silent questioning as she placed a hand on the earth.

Florentius shook his head solemnly. "Where you died vampire. Where your soul was stolen from Arkay's embrace."

Frieda stood, gracefully spinning to face him with a smug grin. "Lucky for me someone else embraced me, and she was far more alluring, trust me."

Florentius merely turned away from her without another word, before disappearing behind the creaking door into the temple.

Frieda's thoughts lost her for a while, drifting through times past and present. Mutual interest had kept Frieda from leaving the priest to his mad quests thus far. Shortly after the slaughter at Mara's Eye Den, they had both agreed that finding this Moth Priest seemed to be the key in throwing a spanner into Harkon's works. Florentius' past as a vigilant meant the mortals were far more likely to answer his inquiries, and his not inconsiderable power was just a bonus. Either they would reach the Moth Priest first and Frieda would kill him, ending or at least delaying Harkon's plans right there, or Harkon's lackeys would get there first and she could use Florentius to barter her way back into Harkon's good graces. If he has any that is. One of the last Vigilants may well be enough to smooth over the more…. awkward details of what happened to Fura and her former coven. Either way – her future was secured. Whether Florentius lived or died depended on him finding the priest in time.

Suddenly, a bright light and an unnatural, resonant hum imposed upon her heightened senses. Frieda froze for a moment as an almost liquid, transparent wall of force rose around her on all sides. Reacting like an ensnared beast, she instinctually threw all of her vampiric strength against it.

Frieda cried out as the ward scorched her claws and shoulder. It felt as though she were slashing at the sun itself, the pain forcing her to fall back to the ground with a thud.

Through the barrier, she saw the grim-faced Florentius, one arm outstretched, channelling florescent magical energies, whilst the other grasped a strange, dark crystal. Behind him, a figure Frieda recognised as Runil, the aged Altmer priest of Arkay stood, his eyes widening at the sheer power unfolding before him.

The beast in Frieda hissed acidly at the betrayal, exposing her fangs in a predatory grimace.

Unphased, Florentius began to speak:

"I call on Arkay, one spirit among our greatest ancestors, he who guards the portal between life and death! Accept my offering, and cleanse the demon's blood from this woman – purify her in your image!"

Frieda screamed.

It felt like every vein in her body was burning, scorched by a fire she couldn't see. She ripped off her gauntlets, beginning to tear at her own flesh in a vain attempt to quell the agony. It lasted for what seemed like an eternity before beginning to fade. Frieda fell to the ground writhing, the magical ward falling with her.

The crystal in Florentius' hand shattered.

Frieda inhaled forcefully, shocked at the unfamiliar reflex, before immediately needing to exhale the air from her suddenly demanding lungs. It happened again and again, before she felt a terrifying thumping deep within her chest. Frieda ran her hands over her face, over her unseeing eyes and her blunted teeth, beginning to tremble as the realisation of what Florentius had done sunk in. She clasped her hands to her breast, as if desperately trying to stop the constant beating, to reverse what this insignificant man had dared to do to her. Her heart beat on, indifferent.

Filled with unholy fury, Frieda lashed out wildly at the tombstones all around her, failing to smash through one with her boot before recoiling in agony as her fist faltered against another. Frieda stared unbelieving at the mortal blood dripping from her battered knuckles, as tears of shock, pain and betrayal began to rain in Falkreath.

Her heart continued to thunder in her ears – the peace within her shattered by the promise of weakness and mortality. She'd thought Florentius a fool. She'd let her guard down, let him lead her to the place she was most vulnerable. And it had cost her everything.

As the two priests left her alone, weeping and pleading, rain began to fall on Falkreath once more.