Guide:
Dwemeris
Thoughts
"Speech"
"Dovahzul"
Warnings/Disclaimer: see chapter 4
Chapter Warning(s): Detailed gore and blood, bloodbath, Potema Septim, death.
CAUTION! I DID NOT HOLD BACK WITH DESCRIPTIONS!
Last time…
With the Daedric Prince being hopefully still busy with Marcurio – not killing or injuring him, preferably – that scream can only mean one thing: Potema has come.
Chapter 45 – Potema Returns
Despite knowing that I will have to deal with the resurrected Queen myself, I'm torn between remaining here, in the hallway, to wait for Marcurio to return safely and going to face the music together.
But that scream means my time to wait and collect myself has already passed.
I force my feet back underneath my legs shakily, finding purchase against the wall for the first few steps before moving down the stairs and towards the main hall at a carefully measured pace, using the precious seconds to gather my wits, self-preservation and battle instincts out of the shattered mess that is my mind at the moment.
I can barely think straight, the mountain of problems that has been growing for months now finally toppling over, threatening to crush me under its weight.
Still, I have a duty, if not to Astrid then to the innocents who will die by Potema's hand, should I not act right now.
I leave only the disturbed dust in my wake, the wizard's absence at my shoulder driving the knife in my chest in deeper.
I cannot die. I still have to get rid of Alduin – I suppose High Hrothgar is next on the list of destinations, though I'll drop by Markarth briefly to appease Calcelmo. And Ondolemar has to be carted to Winterhold. But there's no time. No time at all. I can't afford to think further than today when I might well not live to see the sun set.
I straighten in front of the door heading towards the rest of the Blue Palace with a grim determination. Having a concrete plan, something to cling to, always did help me gather myself in front of hardships.
I push open the door to be met with an unexpected sight. And not a pleasant one.
There's been a massacre.
It's all I can do not to puke over my boots that very second. But Sithis' balls if I didn't wish I could afford to do just that.
The stench assaults me before I can even process the view – it's heavy, the unmistakable smell of undead – like month old mould and decay – mixed in with the heady scents of bodily fluids.
Ammonia and shit and stomach acids, along with something akin to iron, which I know to be blood.
When my lips part in shock, I taste ozone in the air, the hair-raising sensation of a finger of ice crawling up my spine.
Magic. Necromancy. The foulest of all.
My eyes catch up with my nose and tongue –
I feverishly wish they hadn't.
The main hall is a bloodbath – the gory crimson is splattered across the dark stone arches and the walls in long streaks and arterial sprays, on the chandelier and the vases – the floor is covered in puddles of red, flowing like tiny, macabre rivers into the small seams between the tiles. It's seeping into my boots as I stand frozen, and I dare not think of who it belonged to – the fates of the guards is all too apparent.
In a strange, almost detached way I look upon the ruined uniforms – ruined not because they are torn to shreds, no, but because there is not even a gleam of steel visible underneath the gore and tattered skin and the yellow of piss near what were once legs.
It's almost as if the skin and hair were a parts of the uniform – empty, like fabric, if not for the blood vessels and remaining pieces of a skull and some odd bones, if not for the blood and the pieces of muscle and the open-jawed terror of a bloodied, skinless skull with an empty, wide blue eye. A broken helmet, supposed to have provided protection, dangles from the chandelier.
An arm, the remains of it, like an empty, worn sleeve, is extended towards me. It's pierced with tiny white fragments like shrapnel made of bone. There is no hand in sight, but as I shuffle away from the place instinctively, my heel taps noiselessly against a severed finger, pale and unbelievingly tiny amongst the smear of blood it's lying in. As I make the mistake of glancing down to do a double-take, it twitches.
I can't breathe.
Stepping back through the door of the Pelagius Wing, closing it so as to avoid unnecessary noise, and managing to stumble over to a vase before hurling - I throw up as if I'm able to throw the memories of what I just saw, burned onto my retina, along with my last meal. The sour taste that remains is heavy and filthy in my mouth as I shake all over, every blink of my eyes conjuring horrific images onto the closed eyelids.
I'm not sleeping soundly for the next two months.
Stubbornly, I keep my eyes wide open, blinking rapidly as they flood with tears. I allow myself a single heartbeat to get myself together before trying again.
The scene is no less grizzling, but at the very least I will not throw up a second time – gag, at most, I concede grimly as a single blue eye, nerves still attached, stares at me unseeingly, unblinkingly, between the shredded leaves of a potted plant.
The thought of what had happened to the guards is something I push down as deeply as I can before it can fully take form. I don't need my imagination to provide me with more reasons to become an insomniac.
Up on the balcony, a maid has been speared to the far wall with solid ice through the chest. She must have been the one stupid enough to scream. A mercy kill, compared to the others. I can only feel pity for her corpse now, before suppressing even that, the ringing in my ears alerting me to the fact that I'm probably - certainly – in shock.
I don't even know her name.
…I owe her my thanks, in a twisted way, for alerting me to death-inducing trouble.
Something wet drips onto my cheek when I step forwards at last, taking cover by crouching near the stairs.
I swipe at it without thinking, only for my fingertips to come back into my vision stained with red.
There's a lump in my throat that refuses to leave even after swallowing. Don't look up.
Nearly making the amateur mistake of holding my breath in terror, I crawl up the stairs to watch the proceedings. I would be anything but surprised if this place is to be renamed the 'Red Palace' in the near future. The quip is laced with hysteria, and my expression must be truly ugly.
I adjust my grip on the hilts of my axe and dagger, quickly analysing the scene unfolding right ahead.
Jarl Elisif is the first person I notice – her back ramrod straight and her lips pursed into a near-invisible line. There's a glower on her face, but I can read the fear in the tautness of her features, the line of her shoulders.
The effort to keep herself together is admirable, and honestly, after what I've heard of this particular lady, I'm pleasantly surprised at the backbone she possesses.
In front of her, in a half-hearted circle, stand three people: two men and a woman. A blonde is trying to sneak away via a side corridor, but nobody else seems to be paying him much mind, and therefore neither do I. Let the coward flee.
One of Elisif's protectors I recognise as Falk Firebeard – I wonder absently what he think he can do, holding only a measly dagger. The one next to him, taking centre spot, carries an orcish blade.
Promising. I'm guessing he's her personal guard… a Housecarl, shall we say.
But by far the person I'd rather be protected by, in my humble opinion, is the stone-faced woman on the far left. The ice spike and lightning bolt that light up her hands remind me of my own wizard – though I'm rather sure Marcurio is no vampire.
It's none of my business.
In fact, the reason why I'm here commands the full attention of all four people in the hall.
The woman, for it is female, even though every move it makes has her appearance shiver like a mirage, showing the bare, white bone underneath, smiles.
It's not a pleasant sight, and a shiver runs down my spine, unbidden.
It's a good thing, in a terrible way, that the guards are in such a state. She can't use them for her amusement… or flesh shields.
The crown on her head glows with a powerful Magic enhancing enchantment, twisting alternately around luxurious curls and resting upon a bleak skull. The Wolf Queen is clad in an elaborate gown, awfully reminiscent of the dress Nocturnal 's statues are seen to wear, if leaving more skin covered – replacing an open back with a long, luxuriously furred cape dyed in red.
It's not the dye of the fabric.
She was beautiful once.
I shift deeper into the shadows, thanking Sithis that I haven't been discovered yet. I had to get myself together. Just for today. Just a little longer.
Well then. Without reliable back-up, how am I going to deal with one of Skyrim's most feared former monarchs that rose from the dead? An infamous necromancer and cruel woman, no less? Damnit! If only she was away plotting with the Daedric Prince Vile, and not here attempting to overthrow the government in such unstable times.
I grit my teeth and remain still as a statue, waiting with bathed breath for what is to come next. Whatever it is, I'm sure a fight to the death will be included. If only I had Meridia's artefact!
Whatever. My orders are to kill Potema, and since she's a mage and I'm at a disadvantage, I guess I'll have to catch her off-guard.
"What in Oblivion do you think you're doing, wraith?" The Housecarl bites, clutching his weapon tighter. Elisif's grip on the armrests of her throne tighten, her fingers trembling ever-so-slightly.
The undead queen turns to him, and I can see the blood draining from the man's face as that terrifying smile under empty eye sockets is aimed at him.
"Miserable worm," She hisses, and her voice holds an echo, a sense of the cold grip of death's seduction flowing through the air thick enough to cut, "I am your rightful Queen. The child on my throne is unworthy of cleaning my shoes, compared to my power!"
As if on cue, a magical wind sweeps through the room, the undead woman's wispy, dark hair dancing upwards like a black fire, the wind pulling roughly at the clothing of the others in the room. Potema lifts a single finger at them imperiously, the image flickering between supple pink flesh and dead, dead, white bone.
"Bow, and your death shall be swift." She allows graciously, and I can almost see Firebeard trying to bite back hysterical laughter. For a wraith without vocal chords, her voice is surprisingly strong, if raspy. Gods, why am I analysing her VOICE, when I should be checking for ways to kill her?
If I was the type of person to think themselves better than the rest of the common rabble, now would be the moment to call out some sort of witty remark and blow my cover prematurely – Looking at you, Marcurio. Since I'm not, I just do what I must to avoid a world-destroying crisis - no biggie, I can be done by dinner. I snarl mentally, changing the angle I'm pointing the dagger and preparing for the backlash.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Throw.
My heart nearly gives out on me when rather than in the neck vertebrae, the dagger sinks deeply into her back, slightly off-mark, yet still up to the hilt.
Were the damn woman human, she'd be dead.
But my aim was off – Marcurio's absence surely cannot have this big an impact on me? – and thus the Necromancer 'lives'.
And now those empty eye-sockets are trained on me.
Slowly, since staying when there's no cover is useless, I step out of my hiding spot, glancing briefly to gouge the shock levels of the Solitude court before keeping my gaze firmly on the disturbing skull-yet-face visage of the Wolf Queen. She seizes me up, tilting her head to the side slightly.
The gesture might have been charming once.
"Queen Potema," I greet cordially, as if unaffected, acting strong for the sake of my own sanity.
I keep my axe firmly in my hand, though I don't yet dare to raise it against her. Even so I am ready to jump into action in a blink, keeping my expression stoic and facing the walking corpse with as much dignity as I can muster, though I can feel my knees trembling in fear.
My phobia of the undead never really leaves me, despite of how many draughr I kill.
"Ah, finally." The Queen smiles coldly, "I have been waiting for you. I'll admit, I'd not expected an… elf. No matter, for your physical form is not why you are feared. Isn't that right, little one?"
My insides freeze and I force myself to take a calming breath and not start yelling just yet. Her suddenly almost friendly tone throws me off, but I can't let my guard down. Then her full statement comes through to my brain, and I snort.
"Nobody ever expects an elf."
Her gaze narrows, dark amusement playing on her lips. "Oh? Were you wronged, little thing?" She glides closer, not touching the ground, approaching me. She laughs, and it sends more shivers down my spine, not in the least from the shroud of cold that seems to cloak her.
Behind her, the Housecarl shifts.
I can't afford to keep looking – not when the Wolf Queen gently, but unyielding, lifts my chin between her fingers, forcing me to look her in the eyes, not that she has them, other than the unearthly purple light emitting from the black holes where eyes should have been. Shuddering at the sensation of bone on skin and the idea of having the mage's most powerful weapon at my vulnerable throat, I squirm.
"I can ensure you are never wronged again, little thing." She croons, caressing the side of my face. I lean away from her touch, but her other hand keeps me rooted to the spot, her grip bruising, impossibly strong through the illusion of gentleness.
If she were alive, her tone might have been seductive.
Unbidden, she continues. "Join me. My army needs a general, and you are truly perfect, little one. To serve at my side eternally, as the silly mortals bow before us, where none shall ever raise a word or blade against you. This I promise, little thing. Your power is -"
I never get to find out what honeyed words would be used to describe my powers, since a loud cry interrupts her spiel, the Housecarl in plated armour bringing his orcish blade down upon the dead Queen's head.
Potema screeches like a harpy, the sound making my sensitive ears ring painfully as she releases me and whips her head around to face the other man, enraged. The blade has only nicked her head, a small chip of bone falling to the floor as if in slow-motion, before the white-hot glowing corpse waves her hand in a wide arc, sending a wave of raw, Daedric power towards the warrior, sending him flying backwards into the wall with a sickening thud.
I use the split-second distraction to roughly pull my dagger out of her back.
Marcurio isn't stepping out of that accursed Pelagius Wing, nor are any soldiers arriving to help. We're on our own.
The necromancer queen notices my desperate glance towards the doors as I back away quickly, coming to a stop next to the others protecting Elisif, and cackles evilly.
"No help will come, little one. Our army is outside yet." The thought of serving under this wraith is enough to make me swallow back acid at the back of my throat, so revolting. I refuse to be her thrall.
I meet the eyes of the vampiric court wizard with a growl. "If I die, turn my body to ashes." I order her, and a small smirk pulls at her lip before she nods and we face the threat to Solitude, and all of Skyrim, side by side.
How I wish Marcurio was here. I think bitterly, before allowing the battle lust to drown out any thoughts unrelated to the death of the wraith in front of me.
"Allow me to give an answer to your proposal." I purr darkly, inhaling deeply as Potema cries out in anger, preparing more spells.
Thank Sithis for detours on the road.
"KRII LUN AUS!" I Shout, allowing the dark purple energy to burn through my throat – though since the last time I was at Riften, the burning sensation has lessened, allowing for more Shouts without tearing my vocal chords to pieces – and it hits the Wolf Queen dead on.
Potema Wolf Queen.
Once more, she shrieks, this time charging as the doors bang open and draughr start to flood the room at a running pace, coming to their queen's aid.
On this day.
The Court Wizard raises her hands and fires the first spell even as the Housecarl takes up a defensive position in front of Elisif, who somehow got her hands on a bow while I wasn't looking. From other parts of the palace, people begin to yell in alarm.
I grimace, hefting my axe and blocking a strike from Potema before a well-aimed Ice Spike sends her to back off.
You will find your death in me.
From here on, all bets are off.
A/N: Pretty sure this warrants an M rating, so I'm glad I changed that early on. I am also pretty sure that as far as graphic violence goes, this wasn't as bad as it could have been (as I wanted it to be) because of my inexperience at writing battle scenes and/or violence. If you've got tips or tricks, they'd be very much appreciated!