A/n: Ugh. Sorry guys. I'm so bad at updating frequently. This chapter was half done about a month ago, until I realized that a side-plot I was going to put in here would have put a hole in my main plot, so I have had to ax about 6k words and make stuff up and I lost a lot of steam.
Also, I have started doing edits. While most are minor, I am adding a few more details to things like chapter 2 where descriptions of characters are sparse. I think Ch2 is the only place where a larger overhaul was warranted.
BIG NOTE: If you want to save the fic in its unedited form, now is the time to do so. I will begin posting edits soon. Other than the stuff mentioned in ch2, I believe that all other edits will be negligible.
(Also, none of y'all caught the omg 2004? "meme" in the last chapter smh am I really that old? Memes were not memes back then.)
ALSO TES VI HYPE! My prediction is either High Rock or Hammerfell, leaning more toward Hammerfell.
Corrections are the usual.
I say Tiber Septim changed the world. Caius says that Tiber Septim was a product of his time, and if he hadn't lived, some other person would have served his function. -Hasphat Antabolis
3E 427. Vvardenfell.
Mehra prided herself on being a cut above the rest in terms of intelligence, but she admitted that she made a small mistake, this time. The sores itched, so she scratched them. They opened up, bleeding and oozing into the robe she wore and causing stains.
She got used to the smell a week ago. The people she walked by, however, hadn't. Mehra did her best to keep the damn things clean, but fighting against incurable gangrene wasn't working. At least she had a decent crust over them; they only oozed when touched, now. And it didn't appear that the infection went down to the bone, so everything seemed intact.
If she didn't have pressing matters to attend to, she'd sell the corprus weepings to a local shop.
Mehra stepped up from the water and onto the vacant docks of Tel Fyr. Apparently, the Council pestered Master Fyr enough times about joining them that he cut off all transport to his stronghold, except the occasional supply delivery, which one of his daughters always scheduled.
She couldn't blame him. It was a hell of thing to be so important.
Her arm jerked at the sudden, violent itching on the patch of pustules on her thigh. Damn this corprus!
Mehra stomped her foot in an attempt to ease the itching without touching the sores. She made it another few steps before giving in to the urge. A shiver ran down her spine at the relief, and she bit back a moan. The itching was indescribably awful, and the sharp parts of the gauntlet she wore felt amazing.
She had to stop, eventually. Mehra gave the itch one last good scratch, then quit. She glanced at the knuckle joints of her gauntlet and swore under her breath at the sight of the muck the gauntlet picked up. Quickly, she wiped it off on her threadbare robes and trudged up the worn path toward Tel Fyr.
While the walk across the water from Sadrith Mora was miserable, Mehra found herself grateful that Master Fyr allowed nobody on his island except a few temporary visitors every now and then. The screams and disgust from people who saw her on the street became nearly unbearable, and she didn't want to go through it again.
Something would change, here, though she couldn't say what. Whether it meant that she lived the rest of her life insane and in a cave or left the island cured, she wasn't sure.
The odds were against her, however. But if anyone could cure Corprus, it was Master Fyr. The Gods and Daedra sure as hell didn't give a shit enough to look down upon the suffering, diseased mortals and pity them with healing. It was why men like Master Fyr became Gods among mortals.
Before she came down with Corprus, Mehra was certain that she was destined for the same heights.
She choked back a wave of tears and stormed up to the tower door. Like hell she'd have a cry about it; she was made of tougher stuff than other people.
Mehra rapped the tower's large, brass knocker and waited. Within a few seconds, the door opened, with Beyte on the other side.
She gave Mehra an odd look, and before she could say anything, Mehra pushed up her sleeve to reveal a cluster of corprus welts.
"Oh my," Beyte said. "This is very unfortunate, Master Dreloth. Do come in. And you need not wear your hood and scarf in the tower. We are not frightened."
Mehra nodded, shuffled inside, and kept her face covering on, regardless. The warm welcome was unexpected, but surely, it was based on pity rather than any sort of caring.
Her foolish side wanted to indulge in it, but she squashed the thought immediately. Mehra barely knew this woman, and Beyte's reaction was social propriety and nothing more.
Beyte cast a glance down to the Dwemer Coherer tied to the strap of her bag, then motioned toward the tunnel in the ceiling off to the side.
"The Master is up in his study," she said. "I shall be down here, should you require anything."
Mehra gave her nod, walked over to the hall that lead to the study, and cast levitation. The strong spell carried her up in the air, and within seconds, she peered into Master Fyr's study.
He looked up from his desk immediately, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"A cloaked visitor in the middle of the summer?" he mused. "And here I thought I was the eccentric."
Mehra levitated upward and stepped into the study. "It's me: Master Dreloth."
He perked up at the mention of her name, stood, and walked over to her. If she weren't horribly infected, she would have latched on to the fact that he seemed to like the fact that she visited him.
Master Fyr was ancient, powerful, and rather handsome, after all. And while he technically had four wives – or something – Mehra was wholly different from them.
"Master Dreloth!" He said. "It's a surprise and a pleasure. I figured you'd be busy putting your tower in order for some time."
She probably wouldn't see Tel Uvirith again. Swallowing the bitter thought, Mehra shrugged.
"It is mostly in order," she replied. "I can't keep still for long, though."
Master Fyr smiled. "Ah, I remember those days. Dwemer ruins were some of my favorite places."
He glanced to the side, eyeing the artifact that Caius gave her to use as a bribe.
"Say, that's an interesting Dwemer piece you have there," he said. "What can you tell me about it?"
Mehra untied it from the strap of her bag and handed it to him. "It's a gift, actually."
"For me?" he chuckled. "How thoughtful. And shrewd. Is something the matter, Master Dreloth? Why have you tried to butter me up?"
Mehra knew he'd catch on right away. Shaking, she reached up and tugged her headscarf off of her head. Master Fyr immediately sobered at the sight of the sores on her face.
He placed the Dwemer artifact to the side and shook his head.
"Yes, that is a problem," he frowned. "How did it happen?"
Mehra sucked in a breath. "I raided a Sixth House base and killed everyone. Dagoth Gares cursed me with his dying breath."
Master Fyr put his head in his hands and massaged his forehead. With the Empire breathing down her neck, she didn't feel she had any option other than to do as they asked. She had freedom in exchange for her occasional cooperation.
But this – this was one hell of a way for them to execute her. Maybe, she ought to have chosen the noose instead.
"Dagoth Gares called me Lord Nerevar," she said.
Master Fyr nodded in thought. "Haven't heard that one before. Did you know that corprus makes you immune to disease? Have you ever heard of the prophecies of the Nerevarine? The Nerevarine is supposedly the reincarnation of Lord Nerevar. Ashlanders say the Nerevarine will be immune to disease. But, why were you there in the first place?"
Mehra didn't expect him to take such an interest in how she got infected. As she walked over to his tower, she thought of potential conversations they could have, all centered around the disease itself. She wasn't prepared to answer this question at all.
"I had it handled," she lied. "I was doing some work for– for–"
"Certainly not Aryon," he groused. "Don't lie to me about it; I'm far too old to believe any falsehoods you attempt to tell me."
Alright; he had her, there. If anything, he could bring this up with Aryon, if he felt it to be a power play by the Empire. Then, the Council would decide what to do with it.
Mehra nodded. "The Emperor thinks I'm the Nerevarine. I'm – I was the Daggerfall Slasher. I had a choice to do some errands to avoid the noose."
Her voice sounded small to her own ears.
Technically, she was giving him leverage over her, but Mehra knew damn well that she was as good as dead thanks to the corprus.
Master Fyr nodded in thought. "Fascinating. So, you might be the Nerevarine. Surely, you know that the Emperor is known for his visions, all of which have a high likelihood to turn out to be true. But, as far as you are concerned, we can't be certain. Corprus victims have all sorts of delusions. Then again, you can never tell if something is a superstition or a prophecy when Azura is concerned."
Mehra viciously squashed the flicker of hope she felt at his words. The disease was a death sentence and this was a way for the Empire to get informants across Vvardenfell, then execute the evidence. They wanted to stir up issues against the Tribunal so that they could look better to the natives. It was simple as that.
"I have a potion," Master Fyr said. "In theory, it should cure corprus. Doesn't work, though. It'll probably kill you, the same as it killed all of my test subjects. But you've got nothing to lose in trying it. Before I give it to you, I want you to go down to the Corprusarium to know what's in store if you don't take the potion. And while you're there, I want you to pick up a pair of boots from a victim named Yagrum Bagarn."
Mehra knew what the potion meant:
It was a graceful way for her to choose to commit suicide rather than go through the rest of her days living with Corprus. It surprised Mehra that one of her fellow Masters offered such a thing.
Caius thought it could work, but Mehra had her doubts. Master Fyr was accomplished, but even he admitted that it was likely to kill her.
"That's fair," she said. "I will retrieve the boots."
Master Fyr nodded. "Good. Oh, and by the way: While I know you generally do the opposite of what you are told, do not harm any of the inmates in the Corprusarium. Do not test me with this; the consequences for such a thing are dire."
"Of course, Master," Mehra replied. "I will not harm your property."
"Yes, 'property'," he drawled.
With that, she gave him a bow, turned toward the hall, and cast levitation. Perhaps, it was better for her to not ask. She respected him for his station as the oldest Telvanni Master Wizard, and tolerated all the eccentric thoughts and habits that came along with thousands of years of life.
Mehra headed down the hall, landing in the foyer below. Beyte perked up at the sight of her and stood to give her a short bow of respect.
"To the Corprusarium, Master Dreloth?" she asked.
Mehra nodded. "Yes."
Beyte motioned for her to follow, and escorted her through the massive tower toward the dungeon. She was odd for a Telvanni woman, given the bonemold armor she wore, but Mehra bet that she was a spellsword of some sort. Come to think of it, all four of them were spellswords, as far as she could tell.
Perhaps, Master Fyr had a type. Mehra was also a spellsword, but she'd never have the chance to find out if there was anything to her hunch.
She squashed the thought. She was there for business. Beyte led her through the tower, greeting one of her sisters in the room at the end of the Onyx Hall. Mehra ignored their small-talk as Beyte crossed the room and opened a heavy door at the far side.
This had to be the Corprusarium.
"Yagrum Bagarn is different from the others," Beyte explained. "He rides in a four-legged cart, and you can find him in the area through the gate, and through the door just beyond the gate. He won't cause you any trouble."
Mehra never heard of something like that before, but perhaps, this Yagrum Bagarn person wasn't as far along as the others. Then again, there was something naggingly familiar about the foreign-sounding name, and she couldn't even begin to place why. There was nothing remotely Breton about it, after all, and she grew up with that lot.
"Vistha-Kai," Beyte called, "our guest is to retrieve boots from Yagrum. She is not here for the treasure."
Mehra smirked. She wasn't so sure about that; she was always on the lookout for treasure. If it weren't Master Fyr's treasure, she certainly wouldn't mind getting her hands on it. Even If she wasn't dying, he was one of very few people she respected enough to not rob.
She followed in behind Beyte and glanced around. The small room before the gate to the dungeon didn't contain much, aside from a few creature comforts afforded to the Argonian warden.
"Then I will leave her to the task," it replied, regarding her with a guarded look.
The warden said nothing to her, even as it glanced down to see her Argonian-skin boots. It lazed its way over to the gate, unlocked it, and opened it to let her inside. In fact, its only quick action was to close the gate behind her and lock it.
"A friendly reminder to you," it said. "Do not harm the inmates. You are their guest, and I will not tolerate you adding to their suffering."
Mehra rolled her eyes. "Master Fyr made this clear to me already."
"Excellent. I appreciate your understanding."
She trudged forward and cast the most powerful chameleon spell she could muster. From what she remembered, the warden used to be Master Fyr's slave, before he freed it. It was a pity that he said that he 'evolved' on the matter of owning the beasts as property, but it was his choice. Perhaps, there was some small value in earning the creature's loyalty by teaching literacy and providing it with a salary; nobody made it out of the Corprusarium alive.
As she crossed an intersection and approached the door Beyte spoke of, Mehra scowled. The lizard probably delighted in her predicament.
Thankfully, she wouldn't live to become one of these shambling husks. The potion would kill her, and that would be that. These were likely her last moments alive. If it weren't so dangerous to transmit Corprus, she would have liked finding a few handsome men to have some fun with before she went out. Maybe, she'd try out one of those Nords if he looked clean enough.
Being responsible was a bitch of a chore.
Mehra opened the door that led deeper, cast chameleon again, and crept forward. She saw dozens of blighted victims throughout, some more deformed than others. They shambled around on impaired legs, burbling and growling.
A less-maimed victim shrieked and ran by her at an impossible speed. Mehra winced, hurrying along as quickly as she could. What a horrible thing that wide-eyed creature was!
Yes, the potion was a great mercy. And part of her felt humbled by the respect that Master Fyr afforded her in such a vulnerable time.
Mehra choked back a sudden wave of tears and stormed through the dungeon. This wasn't fair! She just found success, and it was ripped from her grasp almost immediately.
A light up ahead drew her attention. Mehra tossed her feelings aside and walked toward the light. A ramp led up to a ledge – the first sign of advanced intelligence she saw within the Corprusarium. Quickly, she made her way up the ramp, just as her chameleon spell wore out.
Mehra was as startled by the creature before her as it was of her.
Though bloated, full of sores, and balding, there was something familiar about the clammy-skinned thing on the modified Dwemer spider in front of her. Its glassy eyes squinted at her, and it took a cautious step forward.
This had to be Yagrum Bagarn. Unlike all the other Corprus creatures within the dungeon, this one appeared to be very much lucid.
"Hm," he mused. "Another one with this disease. Poor thing; you're so young."
He glanced down at her boots and backed away slowly.
"Do not harm me," he rasped, "or you will be very sorry. I warn you. Leave me alone, and I will leave you alone."
Mehra smirked. Her boots were great at getting the appropriate reaction out of people.
"What makes you think I'll hurt you?" she asked.
"You're the one Uupse was talking about," Yagrum said. "The new Master. I know what you're about. I know damn well that you'd kill me just to brag about it."
She shrugged. "I'm a dead person walking. I'd gain nothing by that. What are you, anyway?"
Mehra glanced around at the hovel that made up Yagrum's home. There was a workbench full of tools and odds and ends of Dwemer machinery. A small seating area lay in the corner with a few sad, worn pillows.
It looked like a miserable existence.
"I am the last living Dwemer," he replied. "I do not know for a fact that I am last. But in my travels thousands of years ago, I never encountered another. And since I have been here, I often ask Lord Fyr, but he says he has never heard a credible rumor of another Dwemer."
A Dwemer? How odd that his name was familiar to her. Perhaps, it was similar to something she overheard around Vvardenfell.
Mehra crossed her arms. "You're a treasure, then. A Dwemer is similar to my kind, in a way. You're not a mindless thing like the superstitious creatures I've come across in my travels."
He gave a bitter laugh. "Since my people disappeared, I have been alone in this world, trapped in this grim prison. I can scarcely move, and my fellow inmates are poor company. The risk of corprus disease deters most visitors."
"Being alone can be good," she replied. "You don't have to waste your time on the foolishness of others."
It was part of why she traveled alone.
"The tough act you put on is the definition of foolishness," Yagrum said. "But it is no matter. With those sores, you'll be company down here soon enough."
"I'm trying the potion," Mehra admitted.
He seemed to think about this for a moment, then nodded. "Good. Do it on your own terms, at least. Though you are no Lord Fyr, the waste of a mind of one of you Masters is a tragedy."
Mehra nodded quietly and glanced out at the bleak cavern beyond. He was right, and this was the only way that she could do things on her own terms.
Yagrum shook his head. "I know you're here for the boots."
He turned, the spider legs of his cart thumping against the wooden floor of his home. The cart was slow, perhaps from the immense weight of his overgrown, bloated body. Grabbing a pair of brassy boots from his workbench, he turned once again and handed them to Mehra.
Mehra swallowed the revulsion she felt at the sight of his pudgy hands and took the boots. She had the damn thing, herself; it wasn't like she'd get it a second time.
"Please tell my gracious keeper that I have done what I could," Yagrum said. "Only a Dwemer magecrafter could have done so much, but only idiots could have created these boots. It shames my race that we must be judged by the works of such lack-wit blunderers."
Mehra snorted and secured the boots to the side of her pack.
"Smart people come and go," she said. "But idiots? Idiots are forever."
Yagrum chuckled. "Indeed. Go in peace, young Master."
She swallowed the knot in her throat, nodded, and turned to leave. Mehra traveled back through the Corprusarium in a daze, avoiding looking at the victims of the disease for longer than necessary. Even as she arrived at the gate, she stayed silent.
The warden opened the door promptly and gave her a short bow of respect.
"I heard nothing in there," it said. "I appreciate your care for my charges. Beyte says you'll try the potion. Best of luck to you, Master-Wizard. If a patron God watches you, may they look kindly upon your bid for healing."
Mehra nodded mutely as Beyte gently motioned toward the door to the living quarters. Whether the warden was sincere or not, she couldn't tell, and it irked her terribly. Surely, every Argonian creature she encountered despised her.
It wasn't too personal with her boots, nor her ownership of slaves; both slave and boot were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that was that. The boots sent a good warning to anyone who might cross her, and Argonian hide was unmistakable. The impact would be lost with skin of man, mer, or Khajiit, given that they all potentially looked like other leathers and furs available.
Her boots didn't matter, now. Mehra didn't care what happened to them when she died, and supposed they'd probably burn her corpse, clothing and all.
She followed Beyte through the tower, and back at the entrance to Master Fyr's study.
Beyte stopped and regarded her with a look that Mehra couldn't quite place.
"If the potion doesn't work," she said, "I wanted you to know that it has been a privilege to see you transform into such an esteemed wizard. We shall all remember your bravery during this time."
Mehra nodded. She wasn't really good at this stuff.
"I – thanks," she mumbled, before casting levitation and making her way up to the study.
Master Fyr stood when she arrived and grabbed a bottle full of a bright green liquid which sat on top of his desk.
"The boots first, please," he said.
They were really doing this, right here, right now. Mehra swallowed and clumsily untied the boots from her pack. With shaking hands, she handed the boots to him.
Master Fyr placed the boots next to his desk and walked back over to where she stood.
"Alright," he said. "I shall give you the potion on the following condition: you must drink it here, before my eyes. It should act immediately, and I need to observe you very carefully. Agreed?"
Mehra swallowed. She wasn't going to be left alone to drink it and kill herself.
"I – I can't take it by myself?" she asked.
Master Fyr shook his head. "No. On the off chance that it works, I want to observe it. If it does not, then I will announce your passing to the Council."
Mehra nodded quietly and shed the outer robe she used to cover the sores. If he wanted to observe it, then he needed to see as many sores as possible.
Still, she hated that he had to watch her die.
"Look," he sighed. "You shouldn't be dying alone. I see right through your tough act. You may take the potion here, or you will go down into the Corprusarium. I won't let you leave with that disease; it has progressed enough that you will soon become a public danger."
Mehra stared at the potion in his hand.
"I – yeah," she murmured. "I'll take it. I want to die on my own terms."
Master Fyr handed the potion to her. "Such is our way, Master Dreloth. Go ahead and drink it."
She uncorked the potion, stared down at it, and exhaled. Here it went.
Fuck this awful world. She wasn't ready!
Mehra cursed her false start and scowled. She wasn't a coward. Before Master Fyr could comment on her fear, Mehra poured the potion into her open mouth and swallowed. She bit back a gag as the potion's acrid taste hit her tongue.
This thing was very likely a horrible poison rather than a potion. Mehra doubled over and clamped her hand over her mouth. This was better than dying of Corprus.
Master Fyr gasped. "Good grief! It's – it's working!"
What?
Mehra looked down at her arm just as Master Fyr grabbed her wrist. Sure enough, the sores were gone, and in their place lay a faint scar.
He leaned over and grabbed her face to peer into her eyes.
"Film is gone," he murmured. "Open."
He tapped her chin gently, and Mehra opened her mouth. Come to think of it, she didn't feel any of the canker sores she developed.
"Tongue is a normal size," he remarked. "Proper coloring. Gums intact."
Without warning, he pulled her lip down and pressed his thumb against the line of her gums firmly before letting go.
"Blood refill rate is perfect," Master Fyr mused. "No signs of shock. Remarkable. Amazing. I think it worked; no sign of the disease at all."
He let go of her face and stepped back. Bewildered, Mehra blinked and glanced around the room.
"It didn't make you mute, did it?" he asked.
Mehra shook her head. "No, I – I'm shocked. I'm not –"
Tears welled up in her eyes before she could stop them. Despite her best effort, her chin quivered and she barely held back a sob.
"Ah, her first near-death experience," Master Fyr said. "It's quite a thing. Take your time to gather yourself. I should note that you do still have the disease; the potion merely rids you of the negative symptoms. I believe I may try it on some of my more desperate inmates."
She nodded mutely, and he pulled a chair over from the desk for her to sit. Mehra flopped down, her legs weak from the terror and sudden relief she felt.
"Theoretically," he continued, "this means you are immune to all other diseases. And as far as I have seen, all my inmates live indefinitely, barring accidents. So I suppose this saves you some effort on the way of necromancy, Master-Wizard."
Mehra nodded again. She couldn't think of anything to say; to be permanently permanently youthful on top of being immune to disease was amazing.
"This disease is remarkable," Master Fyr said. "I am persuaded that it is in some manner the curse or blessing of a god. Perhaps, both a curse and a blessing."
She finally found her voice.
"Dagoth Ur," Mehra said. "He made it. One of his leaders called me 'Lord Nerevar'."
Master Fyr nodded. "And now, I believe that. Corprus makes the victim delusional, so I wasn't entirely sure that what you said was in any way true. Perhaps, you are this 'Nerevarine' of whom the Ashlanders speak."
She was. She had to be, after surviving such an odds.
Mehra was special, and destined for greatness. This was only the beginning.
She would have her revenge against Dagoth Ur for frightening her, and use the advantages of his disease against him. And if it served the Empire for her to kill him, it didn't matter:
Once she gained more power, nobody could do a damned thing to stop her.
4E 201. Skyrim.
She should have known what happened to Helgen, but Mehra's naive side hoped that perhaps, Falkreath fixed the place up as best they could and put a small patrol there.
Mehra found, much to her dismay, that Helgen was overrun with bandits. While she didn't expect people to rebuild the place as if nothing happened, it was still a gateway settlement – right in the middle of the road, even – between Cyrodiil and Skyrim.
An archer in an ill-fitting woolen gambeson stood at the top of a scorched stone watchtower. He peered down at her with his hand over his brow to shield his eyes from the sun.
"Whaddya want?" he scoffed. "Unless you're joining, you'd best be off, ya damn elf."
Mehra rolled her eyes. "I'm joining, clearly. You seem so welcoming that I can't pass this opportunity up."
He turned from the tower and peered down into the ruins behind him.
"Hey!" he shouted. "Do we take gray-skins?"
"What?!"
With his back turned, Mehra stepped closer.
"Do we take gray-skins?" he repeated.
"Gray-skins?"
"Girl gray-skin," he yelled.
"Nice tits?" the person inside asked.
The man in the tower crossed his arms. "Yer ma's got enough tits for everyone."
"Very funny, asshole," the person inside shouted. "I'm serious. Big ol' grayskin titties or she can get the fuck out of here."
Mehra took in a deep breath, just as the man on the watchtower turned to appraise her looks.
"Fus Ro Dah!"
The shout erupted from her mouth, blowing the bandit off the watchtower. The makeshift thatched roof above him burst into a cloud of leaves and straw as its wooden supports snapped with the force of her shout.
Mehra waited for the crunching thud followed by swearing before preparing her fire spell in her hand. The bandits did a halfway decent job of remaking the city's gate, if nothing else. She trudged forward toward the gate and slowed her breathing. Her dragon blood raged against her restraint, urging her to shout and destroy once again.
Mehra sucked in a breath. Patience.
Shouting and running sounded from inside the walls. When Mehra felt she was close enough to the repaired gate, she let loose the shout that her blood craved.
"Fus Ro Dah!"
The wooden gate snapped like tinder. Thousands of wooden shards flew in all directions as her Thu'um destroyed the gate and tore up the ground in its wake. Mehra watched on in horror at her own power for a brief moment before throwing her fireball in through the destroyed gate.
There were no screams. There was only fire.
She continued onward toward the ruined city. Had it been a real gate, her shout would have only damaged it. Still, her power grew stronger, and Mehra wondered where her limits rested.
Crossing into town, she saw the carnage her Voice and spell left. Ashes littered the ground, and the only mark of where any of the bandits once stood were various metal fasteners and weapons, each faintly glowing orange. The entire path her fireball took was blackened from the heat. With everything she was capable of, her sword felt redundant, but she knew that it was ideal to keep it for when her magicka and Voice rested.
She didn't feel the urge to laugh, so there was that. Hopefully, instantaneous incineration was one of the less painful ways to go. Though fire was the element that called to her, it was one of the crueler destruction magics.
"By the Gods."
Mehra turned in the direction of the awed whisper she heard to see a trio of bandits emerge from a building on the edge of the path her fireball took. She stared them down and waited to see what they'd do.
"What – what are you?" the one in the front asked.
"Dragonborn," she frowned. "I have no desire to kill you. Repent. Pray to Azura or the Nine – I don't care who. You know what you've done."
Mehra continued onward, turning her back to them. Behind her, she heard them run out of town, likely toward Riften. She hoped that they would do as she said, but had her doubts.
Following the road out of Helgen, she trudged down the path she followed so many months ago. Remembering what it was like to crawl her way out of rock bottom was a bit difficult; so much of it seemed like a bad dream. Mehra made so much progress in such a short amount of time.
While it was easy to say that her re-mastery of magic came by instinct and determination, it wasn't so easy to provide a reason as to how she became so physically strong in a short period of time. After all, she was malnourished for two centuries.
The only thing she could think of was that the corprus made her recover quicker. It made its victims much stronger, and perhaps, it had some way of protecting her body from lasting damage. Either that, or some unknown entity blessed her body into building muscle fast.
Mehra didn't think she was as strong as she used to be, but it wasn't too much of a concern for her. Most of her fights used magic or the Voice; in fact, magical fortification more than made up for the smaller amount of muscle.
When she finished taking care of Alduin, Mehra wanted to train her body more. She was done with dragging her feet on being the best version of herself that she could be.
She needed to ask Erich how he got himself looking the way he did when he was mortal. It would be a good start, at least. In the meantime, she could load her pack up with heavy things and maybe – maybe – put weights in her gauntlets and boots once again.
Mehra winced as Riverwood came into view. She put those weights in her armor so that she could brutally cave peoples' faces in when she beat them. The benefits of added strength were secondary to their original purpose. Maybe she just wouldn't punch people unless she absolutely had to.
Of course, this was assuming that she defeated Alduin and was able to return home.
She sighed and shuffled into town, her mood suddenly gloomy. There was no point in planning for such a wildly uncertain future. She was probably better off assuming that she would be stuck in Sovngarde to prevent the possibility of a strong disappointment.
It was probably nasty to think of what many people thought of as paradise as a disappointment, but Mehra doubted very much that she'd fit in.
Mehra resolved to think on the matter later as she walked through town. She had a letter to write, and it wouldn't do to be distracted.
A glance to her left revealed that Alvor was busy at his forge and hadn't noticed her. Quickly, she ducked into the tavern in avoidance.
As the familiar sight of the interior of the Sleeping Giant Inn greeted her, Mehra wondered why she cared so much about avoiding Alvor. If the man saw her and greeted her, then it wasn't her problem, was it? Mehra bore many burdens and someone else's marital arguments shouldn't be part of them. She wouldn't go out of her way to be overly friendly with him, but intentionally avoiding someone who helped her out was rude.
"Wow! Is that really you, Mehra?"
She shook the thought from her mind as Orgnar called out to her. Turning, she reached up, unstrapped her helm, and pulled it off of her head.
"Sure is," she replied. "I had some business in Ivarstead and decided to come back around here."
He furrowed his brow in confusion and dropped the towel he held. "Last I heard, there were bandits holed up in Helgen."
"There were, yes," Mehra said. "Not anymore, however."
Orgnar rubbed his chin in thought. "Falkreath wouldn't have done a thing about it. I wonder what happened to them."
She winced as she remembered the way her shout tore up the ground and how her fireball incinerated everything in its path.
"Um," she mumbled, "I happened to them."
He quirked a brow, then shrugged. "Well, someone's got to be bothered to take care of it. I'm glad you did. Need anything while you're here?"
Mehra breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't going to ask how she did it all by herself.
"Does Delphine come around?" she asked. "I need to write her a quick note."
Orgnar nodded, crouched, and searched through the cabinet in front of him.
"Should be back for some supplies, soon," he called. "Don't see her much, anymore. I know she does something. Looks like she's gotten you caught up in that 'something'. Odd because she didn't want me getting caught up in her business. 'For your safety', she always said."
Mehra approached the counter and put her bag and helm down next to her. "She's right; you don't want to know. I can tell you that it's not anything immoral."
It sure as hell was illegal. In fact, Delphine's mere existence was technically illegal. While Delphine was abrupt, impatient, and downright sour at times, she still didn't deserve to have to hide like that. She was trying to do the right thing – more than anyone Mehra met with a political agenda aside from Balgruuf.
Orgnar stood and placed a sheet of paper on the counter, along with a wax seal and quill.
"I suppose that means it's illegal," he sighed. "I'll just turn my back while you write."
True to his word, Orgnar turned and busied himself with tending to the cooking behind the counter.
Mehra glanced down at the paper and sighed. Maybe, there was a way she could word this to make it sound entirely harmless. She wasn't really trained in this kind of thing, and it was bad enough that she had to write. Figuring she ought to get it over with, Mehra dipped the quill into the ink and began her letter:
Found out how we can fix our rat problem. The big one has a hidey hole somewhere, but we can lure out a small one. Maybe the small one will show us how to get to the problem rat. My boss has a trap made specifically for this type of rat. It's a very old trap, but I'm sure he will let us use it. He knows what damage they are causing. I've got the perfect rat call. We just need to use that trap.
-A friend
She pursed her lips and read the note twice before shrugging, folding it, and sealing it with an imprint of the Moon-and-Star.
"I don't think anyone will know what this is about," Mehra said.
Orgnar turned from the counter, looking somewhat relieved. Grabbing the letter, he put it underneath the bar and sighed.
"It's the dragons, isn't it?" he asked. "They said the Thane of Whiterun is Dragonborn. You fit the description perfectly."
He leaned in and squinted at the medal clipped to her cape. "Yep, that's you."
Feeling a bit defeated, Mehra nodded. "I can't promise that I can fix it. What I can promise is that I'm doing my best."
"Your best will be more than enough," Orgnar smiled. "I'm sure of it."
Part of her believed it was actually possible. After all, Alduin fled in terror from their fight. But if he strengthened himself with the souls of the dead, failure was possible.
"I'm cautiously positive about it," Mehra said. "There are a lot of things that could go wrong, but I'm feeling hopeful about stopping all of this. I wasn't before. The past has taught me a lesson in arrogance, so I feel the need to be cautious."
He nodded. "Well, you saved Whiterun from a dragon, so you know what you're doing. I'll pray for your success."
Mehra thought about it for a moment as she grabbed her bag. If the world was meant to end, then no amount of prayers would stop it.
"If there's any one of the Gods that this is riding on," she said, "it's Akatosh. The dragons are his children. If he wants me to punish them, then it's on him to let me do it."
Orgnar sucked in a breath. "Agreed on that one. Still, we'll be praying for you."
"I appreciate that. I'll take any help I can get. Thanks for the letter, also."
He wished her safe travels as she secured her bag and helm where they belonged. Mehra left the inn, hoping that Delphine would get her letter in time. It was very much out of the way to go to her, but she needed to be informed of what was going on.
Well, technically, she didn't. Mehra got almost all of her information from Paarthurnax. It was still courtesy enough for them getting her the information she needed from the prophecy – calculation, really – as well as telling her about Dragonrend in the first place. If she came across any more blocks, she knew that Delphine and Esbern would help in any way they could.
She had a lot of help in getting herself to where she was. One of the first was Alvor, who –
Wasn't at his shop anymore. Figuring she shouldn't bother him if he was taking a lunch break, she continued down the road toward Whiterun. She would probably need to pass through Riverwood again in the future, so she knew she'd see him again.
The rest of the walk toward Whiterun was peaceful, even as she camped out to the side of the road for the night. As the sun rose, she wound her way down the foothills that led toward the plains surrounding Whiterun. It was a relief to see the city; she didn't have to be alone with just her worries as company.
It wasn't as if she could just call on Erich to chat. Though she was sure he would love to keep her company, it was a gross abuse of a daedric artifact to use it in such a manner.
Mehra approached the city, her mood surprisingly light for the gravity of the situation in which she found herself. Convincing Jarl Balgruuf probably wouldn't be too difficult, given everything he experienced with the dragons and her new calling.
As she drew closer to the city gates, the guards bid her welcome.
"Ysmir's beard!" One swore. "Got in a duel with a dragon? You armor's all scratched up!"
Oh, no. There was that, too.
Knowing she was a horrible liar, Mehra opted for a half-truth.
"Tangled with a daedra," she said.
Not tangled enough, in her opinion, but she couldn't complain about what she got.
The guard shook his head. "Amazing. I hope you got him good, then."
"Me too," she replied, picking up her pace when she realized her reply didn't make sense.
Before the guard had a chance to ask her what she meant, she slipped away. Mehra walked through the street, returning greetings and vague replies in regards to questions about her armor. Finally, she arrived back at her tower and discretely levitated up via a secret passage to the top.
All non-levitating visitors had to go through Lydia. Given that her tower was in a bustling city, it was a necessity to have a gatekeeper.
Mehra dropped her bag off in the living quarters of her tower, then headed back down. She'd check in on the Companions, then go see the Jarl.
The streets were busy, but not too busy to impede her walk. She ended up in the Cloud District relatively quickly and caught sight of Farkas crossing the courtyard. Mehra picked up her pace, catching up with him at the bottom of the stairs to Jorrvaskr.
He turned to her before she could call out to him. With the crowd and all the noise going on, she found it incredible that he even noticed her in the first place. Maybe, he smelled her first.
"Well!" Farkas chuckled. "Madame Fancy remembers us normal guys."
Her stomach clenched in worry. "I – I'm sorry?"
"I'm messin' with ya'," he laughed. "No worries. Did your wizard guy come along? He should drink with us sometime."
That was an awful idea.
"He's not, sorry," Mehra said. "Though I do need to go catch up with him."
Farkas nodded. "Well, that's a shame. We liked Erich, so I'm sure we'd like him, too. In fact, I was kind of hoping you'd–"
He stopped, blinked, and leaned in to give her a very obvious sniff. "Your armor smells like – well, I don't know honestly."
Alright, she could keep getting embarrassed by it, or she could own it and call peoples' nosy bluff.
"I don't know, what does it smell like?" she asked. "I don't have that sense of smell so I am very curious."
He shrunk back, his face turning bright red. "Uh, d-don't worry about it," he stammered. "It's um – nobody will know. You can say a dragon did it. I don't really – is that guy a vampire?"
"No," Mehra said.
Farkas leaned in again to smell her, and people turned to stare.
"I smell him," he confirmed. "Smells like – well, I ain't good at being poetry-like. That's for Vilkas. Happened over a week ago. What in the world is that smell, though?"
Daedra. He smelled daedra.
But times were so peaceful with the daedra that it was possible he hadn't met one in person – at least, knowingly. It was possible that Aela would know from her worship of Hircine and maybe encountering his other worshipers, but Farkas wasn't someone in the know about that sort of thing.
She needed to scrub her armor with vinegar before she saw Aela.
Mehra pursed her lips. "Have you considered that you may be smelling more than one person?" she asked.
His wry, slightly sleazy grin made her almost regret her lie.
"I am now," Farkas chuckled. "Nice. By the way, you coming for dinner?"
She nodded. "Sure am. I've got a heck of a story."
"Looking forward to it," he said. "I'll let 'em know you're coming by. You headed to the Jarl?"
"How did you know that?" Mehra asked.
Farkas shrugged. "Only reason you'd be up here is for us or for him. Anyway, good luck."
"True. Thanks."
He gave her a wave and headed toward the stairs in front of Jorrvaskr. Mehra turned and walked across the courtyard, noting that the Gildergreen had shed its flowers.
She couldn't help stopping to look. Even without the flowers, the tree looked impossible, with leaves ranging from all shades of green, to purple, striped, and a pale, silvery sage. Mehra peered up at the uniformly heart-shaped leaves and sighed.
It was ridiculous. Sappy. Too much.
It was exactly the sort of thing she expected from Erich.
Knowing there was nothing she could do for the defiled landmark, Mehra headed toward the stairs to Dragonsreach and began to climb. She hoped that it wasn't crowded in the great hall; this plan was dangerous, and the last thing she wanted was the city to find out about it before they finalized the details.
When she arrived at the top, the guards greeted her and ushered her inside the keep immediately without asking her to state her business. There were definite perks to being a Thane.
Stepping inside, Mehra listened as she crossed the foyer. The clatter of dishes and cutlery throughout the hall made her wonder if she entered at an inopportune time; it sounded like it was the end of breakfast. It wouldn't do to propose this plan in front of company.
Mehra trudged up the stairs and sighed in relief at the sight of only the usual attendees of court, as well as Hrongar. Perhaps, this would go well. From everything she heard and saw of Hrongar, he'd agree to this plan. He was a man of action and fighting, after all.
Jarl Balgruuf saw her approaching and held a hand up for his advisers to be silent.
"Thane of Whiterun!" he called. "How goes your fight against the dragons?"
Oh, that was a perfect opening if she ever heard one.
"Great!" she replied. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that."
Jarl Balgruuf motioned for her to come closer. He looked intrigued, if anything.
Mehra increased her pace, then stopped in front of his throne to give him a small bow.
Hrongar crossed his arms and chuckled. "Well, whatever this is, it'll be good, eh, brother?"
The Jarl nodded. "Speak freely, friend."
She should have thought over how she was going to talk to him about this, in hindsight. Mehra wasn't the best negotiator. But, at the same time, they trusted her. It had to count for something.
"Alright, well," Mehra said. "You're my Jarl. And I think the rest of you here – influential as you are – deserve to know this, too. The dragon who destroyed Helgen was Alduin World-Eater."
Balgruuf paled. "You – you've confirmed this? Doesn't this mean the end times?"
"Not if I have anything to do with it," she frowned. "I learned a very old, forbidden shout that makes dragons experience mortality. It makes them fall to the ground, and in Alduin's case, makes me able to harm him."
"I know this because as soon as I learned the shout, he attacked me," Mehra continued. "We fought at the top of the Throat of the World. Had he been grounded for a second longer, I would have killed him right there. Turns out that magic was the key to getting to him – an enormous fireball. And, um, the daedric blade I have is strong enough to cut him. He ran off to Sovngarde to gather strength by devouring the souls of the dead."
Hrongar swore loudly and Balgruuf winced.
"That is very troubling," the Jarl said. "Is there any way to confirm this? Our ancestors deserve better."
Mehra nodded. "Alduin bragged about it on his way out. The head of the Greybeards said that it is exactly like Alduin to brag about something before he does it. I hate to say that we're being conquered by a thick-headed fool, but it sure sounds like it. You deserve to know the truth of what's going on, given that I'm the one heading off the effort to stop it."
Jarl Balgruuf put his head in his hands and nodded in agreement.
"I wonder," Hrongar mused."Perhaps, he boasted since he knows you cannot go to Sovngarde."
Balgruuf sighed. "And with the war going on like it is, there will be plenty of souls for him to feast upon."
Proventus and Irileth both looked very concerned, but said nothing.
"I learned something else," Mehra said. "Dragons follow the strongest among them, and all of their names are shouts. If Alduin is as boastful as we think, his retreat makes him look very weak to the other dragons. I've learned the name of one of his allies, and can call him to challenge him."
Hrongar smirked. "Defeat all his allies, until he is alone. It's as good a plan as any."
She winced. That wasn't at all where she was going with this. Mehra pointed up to the second floor of the keep.
"Alduin can raise the other dragons from the dead indefinitely," she said. "But I have an idea. Does that trap up there still work? With Dragonrend, we could get that ally stuck right where we need him."
"What?!" Irileth shouted. "You can't be serious! Especially for a Thane, that's – "
Jarl Balgruuf held his hand up to silence Irileth and shot Mehra a strange look. "That's – not a very good joke, sorry."
"I doubt that it was!" Hrongar laughed. "You're daft, Thane; the keep's made of wood. Ha! Do it after a big rainstorm, then?"
Mehra shrugged. "Well, that's a very good idea, actually."
"It's completely insane," Balgruuf said. "We – we can't do something like that."
Hrongar shook his head. "There's a time to make peace, and a time to fight, and –"
"You're always wanting to fight!" Balgruuf hissed.
He threw his hands in the air. "This time I'm right! What good is it if we don't act? Will we hide as the end times come upon us? Or will we fight as true Nords?"
Silence echoed throughout the hall and Hrongar turned to Mehra.
"And, as elves, I guess," he mumbled.
Mehra nodded in agreement. She was just happy to be included.
Proventus sighed and crossed his arms. "Can we move the trap?"
"No," Balgruuf said. "It's built into the keep. And building a new one would be outrageously expensive."
Mehra stood in silence and waited for someone to speak up. Finally, after some time, Jarl Balgruuf sighed and shook his head.
"You are correct this time, brother," he said. "As are you, Dragonborn. While I have no doubt that you can hold off a dragon, can you hold off an army or two at the same time? Even your power has limits."
Proventus scowled. "Ulfric has coveted our prosperous Hold for some time."
"We agree on that," Hrongar grumbled. "And the Empire is far away for reinforcements. Would those mongrels really attack us as we attempt to save the world?"
"I wouldn't put it past them," Balgruuf said.
He sat in silence for a moment then looked up at Mehra.
"Alright, Thane," he said. "This plan is – unconventional, but it will honor our dead. But I need a favor, first. If you are able to negotiate a truce, then we can set this plan into action."
That made sense, though the idea was highly unlikely to be successful without her opting to cheat her way through it. She didn't want to do it, but she would if she were left with no alternative.
Cheating, of course, involved Erich and his powers.
"What's my angle with these people?" she asked.
Balgruuf pursed his lips. "Ulfric will detest the idea of Alduin devouring souls in Sovngarde. Tullius will see the value in saving the continent. Perhaps, you can arrange with the Greybeards to hold a peace council at High Hrothgar. They are highly respected among all of us."
"And maybe, Ulfric will remember the Way of the Voice by being up there," Mehra grumbled.
"Doubtful," Balgruuf said. "Regardless, those are my terms."
Mehra nodded. "I agree with it. If I'm not able to convince them on my own, I have a – wildcard, of sorts. Not that I'd kill anybody over it, of course."
"That's a shame," Hrongar mumbled.
Balgruuf silenced him and he rolled his eyes.
"I'll have to trust your judgment on that," the Jarl said. "I know you wouldn't do anything to endanger Whiterun intentionally. This plan sounds like it's your last resort."
Mehra looked down at the floor. "Yes," she mumbled. "It is. I could end up stuck in Sovngarde, which – well, I'm not ready yet. But I'm going to have to put my affairs in order, just in case."
"Proventus," Balgruuf said. "Would you help her with that and notarize it?"
Proventus nodded. "Certainly. Honestly, even if you do return, it's good to have this in order. I know you're a young lady, but –"
"Neloth can have everything," she said. "Put my gems and coin in the treasury. My Skyforge steel sword will come with me, so I can't return it to the Companions."
Her stomach clenched as a sudden realization hit her:
"Gods, what if he eats Kodlak?" she gasped.
"Oh, hell no!" Hrongar shouted. "We're stopping that nonsense. Damned dragon! He's already had Helgen!"
Jarl Balgruuf nodded. "I understand that time is of the essence. Do whatever you need in order to get this done quickly and safely, Dragonborn. Whiterun stands behind you."
"I will," she replied. "Thank you for considering the plan in the first place."
Mehra bowed quickly and began her walk back through the great hall. She didn't have to turn around to know that someone followed her; their footsteps were quite noticeable. When she reached the foyer, they called out.
"Lady Thane," Proventus said. "Would you like to set up an appointment for your will? We can go over financials, items – anything you need."
"What I said is what I want," she replied. "I don't want anything complicated."
He nodded slowly. "Alright; no problem. I will have the gems and coin willed to the treasury, and the rest to Master Neloth of Tel Mithryn."
"Let Lydia have the house," Mehra added.
"Certainly," he agreed. "She's a wonderful – well, you're both wonderful young ladies. I can't tell you to not worry about it; goodness knows that your anxiety is well-founded. Forgive me, but you don't seem the type to whom Sovngarde would appeal."
She chuckled under her breath. "You've got me. Just don't tell anyone, alright? Sovngarde is a huge deal to a lot of people. If I'm allowed in, it will be an honor to my skills, at least."
"I understand," Proventus said. "Your secret is safe. In the meantime, I can draw up a draft and have it at your tower by tomorrow morning. If you approve of the draft, you can sign it and I will notarize it immediately. Should be relatively quick and hassle-free. I know you have much more important things to worry about."
Mehra looked down at the carpet beneath her feet. "I don't want to say it that way, but yeah."
"You worry about the big stuff, and I'll take care of the small details. I am a steward, after all."
"Thank you," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."
"Certainly. I hope you have a pleasant evening."
"And you as well."
With that, she turned and made her way to the front door of Dragonsreach, intent on getting back to her tower to get a start on cleaning up her armor.
Mehra overheard gossip every now and then about Proventus. People said a few unflattering things, and many thought him to be a shill for the Empire. And while she didn't know too much about him, she knew for a fact that the rumors about him were untrue. If nothing else, they assumed these things on account of his race and not much else. He clearly had Whiterun's best interests in mind.
They'd come around to understanding Proventus eventually, the same as the Companions warmed to her. All they had to do was find some common ground with him, and the defense of Whiterun would surely ingratiate them to him.
With the Companions, some honest work gained their trust, and her tales of various creatures and people she fought fascinated them. She found herself eager to tell them the story of how she fought Alduin alongside Paarthurnax.
Mehra winced as she walked down the stairs of Dragonsreach. She hadn't told them about Alduin specifically, and couldn't really tell them about Paarthurnax. Maybe, she could mention a vaguely friendly dragon who helped her – the same as she told the guard from Ivarstead.
Sighing, she trudged through the crowded streets and made her way to the front door of Breezehome. With all these secrets she had to keep, she was becoming a rather adept liar.
While she wasn't keen on spreading rumors of the pending apocalypse to the general public, she felt that it was time for some people in her life to know about the full truth of the dragons. If she failed against Alduin, then the people who knew what she was doing would have to decide what to to with the knowledge of the end of the world. She trusted Jarl Balgruuf and the Companions to be wise with that information.
Mehra stopped in front of Breezehome and knocked. It technically wasn't her house, anymore. And while she could just levitate up and be done with it, she owed Lydia a check-in.
She heard shuffling inside the house, then a shout.
"No tours!"
Mehra blinked. Tours? Confused, she knocked again.
"Go to Morrowind if you want to see a Telvanni Tower!" Lydia shouted. "Or help out the starving Dunmer in Windhelm with your free time! This is not your vacation spot!"
Mehra laughed. "Lydia, it's me. I'm back."
"Oh!"
Within seconds, the door opened to reveal a very flustered Lydia. Quickly, she ushered Mehra inside, her face growing redder by the second. Lydia bustled around, scrambling to tidy the minute amount of mess in the house.
"I am so sorry," she said. "I would never do that to you on purpose. People keep coming here and they think they can just walk around the place like it's a public park! I get that some people might want to get in touch with their heritage, but –"
"Are you alright?" Mehra asked. "We can figure something else out if people are bothering you."
Lydia shook her head. "No, it's fine. I have no problem turning people away for –"
She turned to Mehra with wide eyes. "My Thane! Were you hurt?"
Mehra shook her head as Lydia stepped forward to fuss over the marks in her armor. She got a pass on asking; Lydia was supposed to protect her. Knowing that Erich would eventually meet her, Mehra knew that she couldn't tell her any specifics.
"Not hurt, no," she said. "This dragon armor is remarkable."
"So, what did you do?" Lydia asked.
Truthfully, the answer to why her armor was scratched up was much less important than the pressing issue at hand. It was time for Lydia to know about Alduin. While it was a bit manipulative to answer her question with something entirely unrelated, it at least would turn her attention away from the armor and on to something much more serious.
She owed Lydia the truth as to why she traveled all the time and left her in Whiterun.
"Alright, I'm going to tell you something," she said. "But you need to keep it quiet. If the public found out, there would be a huge panic. And I don't really know how much people should know, for the time being."
Lydia nodded, her expression somber.
"So, you know about the dragons," Mehra said. "And that only a Dragonborn can absorb the souls of dragons who are slain in order to ensure that they can stay dead."
Lydia nodded again.
"Alright," Mehra sighed. "Well, there's a reason why they're back. They're being brought back to life through a special shout."
Lydia nodded much slower, this time. "So, I wager you're out to take care of this person?"
"Yeah, about that," she mumbled. "That person is Alduin World-Eater."
"No."
Mehra pursed her lips. "Yes. I'm sorry."
Lydia looked ashen. Quickly, Mehra led her to a chair, made her sit down, and dragged another chair over so she could sit closer.
"You – you can't stop something like that," Lydia mumbled. "I – I'm not ready. I'm in love and I can't stand the idea of –"
She stopped, unable to complete her sentence. Reaching over, Mehra grabbed her hand.
"There's hope," Mehra said. "I'm going to tell you some things that sound utterly ridiculous, but they're all true."
Lydia shrugged. "The fact that Alduin has come to destroy the world is probably the most shocking part."
Mehra nodded in agreement. That was true. Still, Lydia's reaction to the news was exactly why she didn't want the public knowing about Alduin's return.
She was foolish to tell the guard at Ivarstead what happened, but honestly, the fight was plain for everyone to see, and she gave herself away the moment she shouted Alduin's name to the sky in challenge. Mehra just wanted people to behave rather than riot and loot as the world fell down around them.
"Long ago," Mehra said. "During the time of the Dragon War, a dragon at the Throat of the World taught mortals how to speak in power. There were many more Dragonborn back then; they were extremely talented with their Voice. These mortals created a shout that made Alduin mortal. They challenged Alduin there on the mountain, using this shout against him. When they realized that they were about to lose their fight, one of them committed a blasphemy."
"It was a risk that he was willing to take," she continued. "He used an Elder Scroll and an incantation to cast Alduin out of their time. If nothing else, they were able to delay the apocalypse for thousands of years. Unfortunately for us, Alduin was sent to our time, where we only have one Dragonborn."
Lydia shook her head and a tear spilled down her cheek.
"That's not fair," she whispered. "Couldn't they have picked a better time?"
Mehra sighed. "I think it was random. And the prophecy I encountered while trying to piece this together seemed more like a calculation than a guarantee."
Lydia nodded.
"Alright," Mehra said. "Now, for the hopeful part. First of all, I learned the shout that makes Alduin mortal. Without that, there is no hope of harming him. The second part is a bit – well, it's both good and bad. The Daedric Princes seem a bit concerned about this. Hermaeus Mora gave me his Oghma Infinium to read. It filled in some big gaps in my magic skills."
"From what I saw when I looked into the past with an Elder Scroll," she continued, "the Tongues who fought Alduin needed ranged magic – very powerful magic – in order to defeat Alduin. They relied on their shouts and weapons alone. That's not enough to take him down. By myself, I have the right skills to get the job done."
"No offense," Lydia said, "but how would you know that?"
That was an entirely fair question. In fact, Mehra wondered the same thing until she fought Alduin.
"I'm not going to tell you that I've got this without question," she said. "But what I can tell you is I fought Alduin at the Throat of the World, and he flew away in terror. We have a plan to capture one of his allies in Dragonsreach and have him lead me to Alduin so I can finish the job."
Lydia appeared slightly hopeful. "Do you have any idea where he is, right now?"
Mehra winced. "Um, in Sovngarde."
She slumped in her seat.
"I know," Mehra mumbled. "That's bad. I need to talk to General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak to see if they will hold a truce while we capture this dragon. I could see someone using the opportunity to attack the city."
"That makes sense," Lydia sighed. "I hate this. It's not fair to anyone, but I suppose that's the way life is. If nothing else, we have the absolute best person to save us."
Mehra squeezed her hand. "I can't say I know what's going to happen, but I'm as ready as I'll ever be. I've been speaking to a friendly dragon, and he has complete confidence in my abilities."
"I can see why you've been so secretive," she replied. "Daedric Princes being on our side, a friendly dragon, Alduin in Sovngarde. If I didn't know you better, I'd be concerned for your sanity. Aela tells me you've done some amazing things. I'd like to see for myself, one day."
Mehra couldn't help but smile. To have Aela speak so highly of her was an incredible compliment.
"If I succeed," she said. "And if I'm able to return from Sovngarde, we should travel together. I'll have to get a Steward for the tower, of course, but it looks like we might need one, with tourists stopping by."
Lydia shook her head. "We'll get a Steward after you do whatever you need to do. I will manage the household until then. Honestly, I might as well become your Steward; your abilities are well beyond my own, and if anything, you'd end up having to protect me from danger."
Mehra thought about what she typically encountered while traveling – bandits, draugr, cultists, and an occasional dragon.
"Unless I'm looking for trouble," she said, "there's nothing I run into that you wouldn't be able to handle. I'm certain that your training and skills are exceptional. That's why you're my Housecarl."
Lydia chuckled. "That is, if you actually stay out of trouble."
"You've got me there," she admitted.
Lydia stared at the vacant hearth in thought, then turned to Mehra.
"Speaking of stewards and the like," she said, "A parcel came for you. Looks like it's from Neloth. I left it up in your quarters."
From Neloth? She hoped nothing bad happened at Tel Mithryn.
"You look worried," Lydia said.
Mehra nodded. "I'm always suspicious of anything abnormal, including gifts. Would you like to come up with me? I need to get my armor cleaned and wouldn't mind some company."
Lydia looked excited at this news, making Mehra feel guilty. She wasn't meant to be housebound constantly; she had to go out and do things.
To be fair, a Thane typically stayed within the Hold they protected, but they traveled, and at a minimum, left their homes. And yes, Lydia was seeing Aela. But she wasn't really being a proper Thane by having Lydia become a steward with a sword.
Now that she thought of it, the High Hrothgar meeting was a perfect place to take her. Given that it was an official meeting, she did Lydia a great dishonor if she didn't bring her along. That, and Lydia was key in helping her communicate with the Nords.
Mehra couldn't do everything alone.
It figured that Hircine's realm was more lovely than his. It was a sprawling expanse of nearly endless forest and open plains, inhabited by all sorts of wildlife both mundane and exotic. Hircine set his realm's seasons in time with the mortal realm, creating a nearly seamless manner in which he could entrap new prey and hunters as he desired.
It was late afternoon in the final days of spring. Malacath trudged through the shaded forest toward the place where Hircine's followers said he spent his time. None of them dared to lead him there; they all seemed frightened by his appearance.
Malacath couldn't blame them. He was a hulking, mismatched creature of hideous proportions. Being the creation of one of the loveliest Daedric Princes didn't help, either; everyone compared him to Boethiah.
He had the serpent fangs – sort of. They were on the wrong jaw, and crooked, and they protruded from his jaw in a horrible underbite. Malacath was also a serpent-green, but not the beautiful shade that Boethiah had. No; he was a sickly green.
Malacath frowned as he caught a glimpse of a clearing through the brush up ahead. This had to be the place. Hopefully, Hircine would be kind to him.
He trudged through the tangle of underbrush and saplings and stepped out into a large clearing. A brook ran through the clearing, with a large oak next to it. Moss-covered rocks and various wildflowers dotted the forest floor.
The peacefulness of the place made him uneasy. Malacath wasn't sure what made him so wary, other than the fact that it was just his luck to end up harmed in some way by trespassing in another realm.
"I heard you coming for some time. You made quite a commotion."
Malacath closed his eyes and sighed. "That was my intention."
There was no use in sneaking up on the Huntsman, after all.
He turned to see Hircine sitting on a rock at the top of a short set of rapids in the stream.
Hircine wore the form of a man with the head of a deer. He was dressed for the late spring with wisteria blooms tied about his velvet-covered antlers in clusters. Deep purple leg wraps and a purple skirt made of linen completed his look. Hircine was effortlessly handsome. He didn't need much of anything fancy to look regal.
Malacath wasn't as lovely, which was fine; he didn't need any of them, even though the longing to belong bothered him sometimes.
"Halfling," Hircine said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
He fought the urge to cringe at the nickname. Unlike many of the others, Hircine typically didn't discriminate against his cousins, but the word stung nonetheless.
Pain usually brought truth with it, after all.
"I wanted to catch up," Malacath said. "I have information to share, and I trust that you will know what to do with it."
Hircine smiled – as much as the head of a deer could, at least. He stepped down from his perch and crossed through the brook to meet him on the shore.
Malacath liked him at this time of year. He was generally mild mannered and pleasant in a mirror of nature awakening in abundance.
"I certainly have the time," Hircine said. "Let's sit together and have a drink."
He motioned toward the base of the oak in the center and headed toward it. Each footstep was light and graceful, making Malacath feel like a plodding ox alongside him. Without a word, he followed Hircine over to the shaded tree and sat down next to him.
"I have news," Malacath said. "I'm not sure if it's good news or bad news. I'll let you judge that. Personally, I am always suspicious."
Hircine nodded. "You are correct to be cautious. The proper amounts of caution and bravery are the key to success."
He supposed that was true, though he didn't have the best of luck. If the others let him into their circle more, perhaps he wouldn't have to be so cautious.
Malacath didn't even like the idea of asking for help, but he was sure he couldn't do this alone. From being around Mephala long enough, he knew he needed to build up to his request rather than asking it outright.
It typically wouldn't have occurred to him – another one of his long list of shortcomings.
"I'm sure you know," he said, "but the Greymarch happened not too long ago."
Hircine nodded slowly, his expression suddenly solemn. "A hell of a thing with all of that. Painful and cruel, but necessary to the cycle of things. It is still a shame nonetheless."
"After what he did to my son, I have to disagree," Malacath grumbled.
"Fair enough, cousin," Hircine shrugged.
Malacath sucked in a breath and prepared himself. This was going to be bad.
"A mortal saved him," he said. "The cycle broke. Jyggalag is free, and a new Madgod was crowned."
Hircine closed his eyes and set down his mug. Still, he clenched his jaw in a show of barely-controlled rage.
"I see," he said. "This is important news, Malacath. Thank you. Who was this mortal? Do you know?"
Malacath nodded. "The one named Erich Heartfire."
"A shame that it had to come to that," Hircine sighed. "Then again, with all the times he touched our artifacts and stepped foot directly into the Deadlands, something was bound to happen to him. I'll admit that I thought Sanguine would snatch him up."
He wondered for a moment if he ought to tell Hircine about how Mephala hid the mortal's proclivities from Sanguine, but opted against it. That was between Mephala and Sanguine. He didn't want to get in between them. Regardless, this wasn't about Mephala; it was about Sheogorath.
"There's more to it," Malacath admitted. "He takes his mortal form and wanders the mortal plane. He has seduced Azura's chosen. I know you favored the girl at the time of your Bloodmoon hunt. This is a friendly warning, I suppose."
Hircine nodded then shrugged. "It is technically Azura's business. While I enjoyed her participation in the hunt, I know who owns her. I have no problem with struggling over the souls of mortals, but taking her would result in an all-out war. I am not so foolish."
"I haven't forgotten what he did with that devil-weapon," Malacath scowled.
"I understand," Hircine said. "I miss my weredaedroth. Now that I think about it, this seduction act – it has to be a way that he's trying to steal Azura's child. What's Azura going to do, all on her own?"
"I don't know," Malacath admitted. "Mephala seems permissive of it. She had a thing for the mortal he once was. It seems she's trying to influence Azura toward leaving it be. That's not my business, however."
Hircine leaned back against the oak tree and sighed. "So, what is your business, then? You hide so frequently that I'm certain you didn't come all this way just to tell me about Sheogorath."
"I know where the Savior's Hide is," Malacath said.
Hircine sat up immediately. "Really?"
"Sheogorath has it," he replied. "I'm sure you want it back so you can strengthen your ties to the mortal realm by gifting it. Sheogorath – well, let's just say that he's got a handful of his artifacts on Tamriel. That damned Crescent is the only artifact present in his kingdom."
Hircine swore under his breath.
"Don't worry," Malacath said. "I have a plan. Let's talk business."
Hircine nodded next to him and leaned in. "A game? I like this idea. Certainly, the two of us can craft a most excellent plan."
He was an absolute piece of shit for doing this, but Malacath knew the time was now. He wasn't to be messed with, even by the crafty Madgod. It didn't matter that Sheogorath was technically different; mantling made him the same, and this one would have made the same decision to betray Malacath.
With that in mind, he began to outline his plan to Hircine. The Huntsman was incredibly clever, and with this help, Malacath doubted they'd fail.
