A Bard's Tale

by gabbicav

Bards spin words to win the hearts of men and mer, and Celeste Passero studies with the best at the College in Solitude. But when Ulfric Stormcloak uses his voice to murder the High King, forcing Skyrim into war with the Empire, Celeste finds herself the subject of a legend to inspire the greatest bard's tale ever told; if only she could find her voice to sing it. A Skyrim story.

3. Truths

Chapter 3: Truths

Preparations for the journey south consumed my time for the next four days. When I wasn't keeping myself occupied with where I was headed, I warred over whether I should be going at all.

I glanced over my parent's belongings, only for some keepsake for myself or my grandparents, to remember their son by. Giselle had done a remarkably good job at putting together their precious personal items that solemn day we had said farewell to them. All that remained were items that, while expensive, had little to no sentimental value.

The exception was my father's ring, which had been passed down the Passero line for generations. It was large and gold with a small ebony dove carved in its centre. It had been left to me in their will, just as my mother's signet ring had been left to Giselle.

My sister hadn't seemed to care that I had been given the Passero seal, but then, she had always seemed to identify more with our Breton heritage. She would have kicked up a fuss if I'd been given mother's ring, to be sure.

Father's ring was far too large for me to wear on any of my fingers, so I slipped it on one of my necklaces and hung it around my neck, under my clothes and out of sight.

As for Proudspire Manor? I could not bear to board it up to be abandoned, but I had no idea how long I might reside in Cyrodiil. Giselle certainly intended to remain in Wayrest for the indefinite future. So it was left to me to ensure that the kitchen and larder were empty, to deter skeevers, and that the house was protected from thieves before I left.

Lord Erikur's Melaran assisted with the latter. I had repaid him for the service with several bottles of wine from father's cellar. The mage cast runes on all the windows and doors, with the exception of the main door which I would need to stay clear, until I was gone.

Watching the skilled Altmer as he systematically drew symbols with a piece of chalk on each window and door, and then brought them to fiery life with a wave of his hand and a whisper, made the journey very real. With the wards in place, there was no turning back for me now.

After escorting Melaran to the front door and bidding him farewell, I decided I would leave the following morning on the coach bound south for Falkreath.

I had packed the largest backpack I could find, and in it were my journals and sheet music; pieces of me that I did not want to be without. I had decided that I could get by in a single outfit, for despite the chance that the journey would take longer than two days, I could buy clothes in the Imperial City. I didn't want to waste the space in my bag on dresses and socks when I might bring another of my books with me instead.

The last job I had turned to was the most difficult to face; my broken lute. I could not bear the thought of leaving it behind to rot, even if I never played it again. I wrapped the pieces in soft hide, and tied it to the outside of my pack. There were plenty of craftspeople in the Imperial City who would be up to the task of repairing it.

With my lute secured, I descended to the kitchen for my last supper alone. I had sold a lot of our stored food at the markets, but had kept enough for that night, and the next morning.

My socked footfalls made no sound as I crossed the cavernous chamber between my bedroom and the staircase; a sitting and reading area that everybody in my family had once enjoyed relaxing in before bed. I stared at the empty chairs as a memory of my parents, sitting close to one another and reading from the same book, and my sister, perusing one of the bookshelves with a thoughtful crease in her brow, formed there for a second, before their images drifted away.

Swallowing the fresh lump in my throat, I turned swiftly and descended the stairs.

It's so quiet, I shuddered for the hundredth time. The sudden lack of music and conversation in my life was a little staggering at times. Whenever the loneliness clamped down on my throat and threatened to choke my sobs out of me, I would remind myself that before the week was out, I would be with my grandparents in a city where I would never be alone again, even if I wanted to be.

Before I reached the kitchens, there was a knock at the front door.

I hesitated and stared down the hall to the blue steel at the end of it. My mind ticked over my arrangements, searching for who I might have asked to call at this hour.

I opened the door a crack and spied the tall Redguard man dressed in a long, dark blue coat, cream leggings and brown boots. His dark hair was cropped short against his scalp, and the edge of a grey scarf tucked under the collar of his coat poked out. His back was to the door, as though he was about to leave.

Recognition flared within the dull lifelessness of my mind; it had taken me longer than it should have to recognise Ataf, my colleague from the College. I opened the door properly as the bard descended the steps into the garden that would lead him back to the main street.

"Ataf?" my voice was a weak croak to my ears. He was leaving. I must have taken longer than I thought to open the door.

The Redguard spun around, startled - but then I saw relief writ plain on his face. A chilly breeze swept over the sea-side wall, fluttering his coat, and I held my arms and shivered as it pushed through me.

"You haven't left," he grinned, bounding back.

Shaking my head, I stared up to the man, feeling suddenly dwarfed. "No."

Ataf fidgeted with his hands on the landing, then doubled his smile. "I'm pleased to hear it," he revealed. "Master Viarmo told everybody that you had deferred and left for the Imperial City!"

There was something awkward about Ataf. He seemed to strive only to please those around him. Even now it was evident in the way he couldn't stand still, and the abundance of cheer to his tone.

But there was no wrongness to him; at least, none I had ever felt, and I admired that quality in him. He genuinely seemed happy to simply be with and of service to his teachers and peers.

Realising why he had come, I frowned. "I haven't left yet; that is all."

Ataf's smile faltered. "Oh. Then it's true?"

"Yes," I took a step back from the entryway, dimly recalling that there were such a thing as manners. "Won't you come in? I was about to take supper, if you would like to join me."

The bard flashed me a more weary smile in return. "Sorry, I didn't realise you hadn't eaten. I should leave you to your preparations, and meal," he took a step back.

"Please?" I asked hurriedly, catching his arm with my hand before I could stop myself.

There was no disguising my despondency. Hearing my own earnest voice brought heat to my cheeks, but Ataf just crossed his brows in concern.

I lowered my eyes, unable to bear the embarrassment. "I'm sorry – it's just been. Difficult," it seemed I couldn't form a complete sentence, without changing my mind. I gave up, and let silence reign between us.

"Are you...have you been by yourself in here?" Ataf asked haltingly. A large, consoling hand rested over mine. "All this time? Since they-?"

Pull yourself together, Celeste.

"No, of course not," I made myself lift my head. "My sister was here when it happened."

"That's what we thought – I mean – your sister," Ataf cast a worried, furtive look beyond me, into the house. "By the Gods, Celeste. We thought you were grieving with her, not alone. If we had known-"

"She was here," I repeated swiftly. It seemed that everybody at the Bard's College had been keeping their distance out of respect for what they assumed was Giselle and my time of private mourning. "She left a few days ago, bound for Wayrest," I added.

The corner of his mouth, which I was so used to seeing lifted up in smile, turned down. An inkling of a thought drifted through my mind; frowns didn't suit him.

"Of course I'll join you for supper," he accepted in an undertone.

Nodding, I withdrew my hand from his, and indicated that we should move indoors.

The entry was dark, and now also cool from the time that we had spent talking with the door wide open. I closed it behind Ataf as he hung up his scarf and coat on the pegs, then I wordlessly led him to the warmer kitchen. Had this been any other visitor from Solitude I would have led them to the dining room, or at least the sitting room, but I felt familiar enough with members of the Bard's College to dispense with formalities. These were the people I had spent late nights and early mornings with as we argued over historical texts, then blearily stumbled with into our lectures the next day after little or no sleep. Ataf and I could take supper in the kitchen.

"Did you figure out those trills in A Mother's Nursery Rhyme?" I asked, finally locating a topic that wouldn't lead to the High King or my parents' murders, or my imminent departure. I didn't even try to fool myself that both wouldn't eventually come up.

"You heard about that?" I could hear his wince.

I smiled knowingly over my shoulder at him.

"It's...a work in progress," he sighed wryly.

The smile was uplifting, and I yearned to maintain it for as long as possible. "What has been happening at the College? What's Illdi up to this week?" a topic I knew would divert Ataf from rawer subjects.

"Well," he sighed elaborately as he lifted his eyebrows. "As Skyrim is apparently on the brink of war, Illdi has decided she's going to shift her major to percussion, and is telling everyone that she wants to be of use to the Imperial Legion, should they have need of her."

Snorting, I scrunched my nose up. "That's Jorn's plan." The woman never seemed to have an original idea of her own, much to the exasperation of the rest of us. I often wondered why she had bothered joining the Bard's college in the first place, though she'd probably plucked that idea from somebody else and for some reason, had needed to follow through. "She can't be serious - her, marching into battle-?"

"Oh, I'm sure she's not serious," Ataf threw me an amused half-smile. "I'm expecting that by tomorrow, she'll have deferred and be on her way to Cyrodiil."

Entering the kitchen, I shook my head in bemusement and motioned for Ataf to take a seat behind the large wooden island as I moved around the other side to assemble supper. I hadn't cooked anything – I hadn't seen any reason to dirty the pots and pans when they were already stored away. There was a bowl of jazbay grapes that needed to be gone before tomorrow, some leftover buttered crab meat from my lunch, and a few honeyed nut treats that mother had made, that I hadn't been able to sell. There were far too many for me to eat though, so I was pleased that Ataf had arrived to share them with me.

I slid the platter and a fork to him, and turned away to the teapot. I'd been keeping it warm all day above the fire. The ginseng tea smelled very strong and earthy, and while not piping hot, was warm enough to be acceptable, given the hour.

"Speaking of which," again, his voice seemed to carry a trace of a wince. "How long do you think you'll stay in Cyrodiil?" he asked conversationally.

I stilled, grateful that my back was turned to him. Truthfully, I had no plan.

I could have spun some answer for Ataf, but opted instead to evade. "It depends on how long this conflict lasts for," I turned around and poured two cups of the warmed liquid, then slid one of the mugs across to him. "My grandparents were worried about Giselle and I being trapped in Skyrim, which is why we both decided to go to them," that much, at least, was true.

Ataf nodded slowly as he accepted the cup and took a sip, and I moved back around the table to take a seat beside him, sipping my own. The silence crept over me as I drank, and I searched for another topic to break it.

"I am hoping to conduct research there into some ancient magic, this Way of the Voice that Ulfric used on the High King," I stammered. "My grandparents have an extensive library with several centuries worth of books that..." I trailed off, realising that the books, estate and apartment in the Imperial City, that all should have been passed to my father over time, would now become part of Giselle and my inheritance, quite sooner than we had expected. I shook my head to dislodge the thought. "Plus, the Arcane University is close by. Somebody there will know more about it."

I speared a small piece of crab meat with my fork, berating myself for rambling.

Ataf sounded thoughtful after he'd swallowed. "So, it's true then? The High King was challenged to a dual by Ulfric Stormcloak, and the Queen and his housecarls just sat there and watched while he was Shouted at and cut down?"

I spluttered, choking and coughing on the crab.

"Are you all right?" Ataf sounded panicked.

I placed my fork down on the table with a shaky hand and stared at Ataf. "Wherever did you hear such a story?" I whispered over a trembling lower lip.

Ataf placed a consoling hand on the middle of my back, his brows knit in confusion. "It's – what folk are saying – is that not what happened?"

The white-hot fury that had emerged during that fateful evening shot through me. I closed my eyes and focused on my breaths.

He was not there, it is not his fault. He is only repeating what he has heard.

"Celeste?" I could hear Ataf asking, but the call seemed far away, as though he was speaking from another room. "Do you need a drink of water or-?"

"And the Legion," I cut in quietly. "They allow this – take on events?"

"The Legion have said nothing, as usual," it sounded as though he was rolling his eyes.

"Come with me," I squared him and stood. I was teetering on a precipice, uncertain if I wanted to cry or scream. Ataf deserved neither response, and neither reaction would change what had happened, or stop the warped tale from being circulated.

I would set the record straight, at least for Ataf. And he was a bard; he would spread the word further, to all who would listen to him, while I was away.

Grasping Ataf's hand in mine, I towed him behind me. After a brief exclamation from the Redguard he allowed me to drag him, perhaps sensing my storm cloud of spiralling emotions. I darted up the staircases, into my room, and deposited Ataf in the chair at my desk.

"What's going on?" he asked cautiously.

"You need to – just - no. Wait there," I managed. I flew to my pack and dug through my books, withdrew my most recent journal and placed it down in front of him. "Read," I ordered. After a beat, I added a belated, calmer, "um. Please."

Ataf cast me a wary glance before his eyes settled on the pages.

I waited, my eyes glued to him. My breaths came shallowly. I watched until consternation crossed his features, and then I could bear to watch him no longer.

I fled to my bathroom so I would not have to live through his reactions, making my own excuses; it was late, and I would have to be up early if I wanted to make the coach. I prepared for bed; washing my face, donning my night dress and robe, then brushing my hair out of its braid.

I stared at myself in the mirror as my hair smoothed around my shoulders and down my back. Ataf was a brilliant wordsmith, and a small part of me felt nervous that he was reading my private thoughts. I had written from the heart many times before at school, and had accepted his help, his criticism, and his suggestions, all while I argued to keep portions that I believed were important. But I had never written something that had made me feel so raw, so exposed. I'd never written anything that had properly mattered before.

Don't you want the world to know what happened?

I cast my reflection an unimpressed glare. Of course I did.

My skin seemed pale in the wan light of the bathroom; some time in balmy Cyrodiil would at least do my complexion good. I emerged from the bathroom feeling slightly more composed.

Ataf was hunched over my desk, his eyes still flickering back and forth across the text. His brows were still crossed, but his eyes were wider now.

As I approached the desk, he sat back with a heavy sigh and closed my journal. His warm brown gaze located and then searched me with what seemed to be thick confusion, but then his expression levelled, and he rose.

"I'm so sorry, Celeste."

In two strides he was before me, enveloping me in his arms.

I stilled, startled, but the hug was over before I realised what had happened. Ataf's hands fell to my arms as he stepped back and fixed me with his sympathy.

It was a look that I had been trying to avoid, I realised with a thud of dread to my chest. I rifled through my thoughts to find something, anything, to divert whatever he was about to say.

"I swear to you," a trace of a flush crossed his cheeks as his hands drifted back to his side. "I will use everything I have to ensure Skyrim hears the truth."

I hugged my arms, feeling cold and small, and - despite my friend standing before me - somehow, I felt alone.

I shook my head impatiently. "What does it matter?" I asked, alarmed by the thickness to my words. I cleared my throat hastily. "The truth won't change the past. It won't bring them back."

Ataf tilted his head and gave me a small, bittersweet smile. "It matters because it is the truth," he broke eye contact, glancing around my room. "It matters because they were your parents, and he was our High King. They deserve to be remembered."

I stepped past him to retrieve my journal, to give myself something to do. There was silence between us but I felt Ataf's eyes follow me closely while I carefully placed my journal back in my bag, then closed it again.

"There's nothing I can say to make you stay?" he asked in a strained voice. "We could write their song together-"

I shook my head and whipped to him. "I do not wish to sing it," my reply was quiet, but harsher than I had intended.

Ataf closed his mouth and nodded in defeat. He faltered, then managed; "I'm...truly sorry, Celeste. I - I wish I had been a better friend to you. I wish you had not endured it all alone," he sighed, shaking his head in regret, and his uncertainty was plain. "I wish you weren't leaving."

I am alone, aren't I, I realised, knitting together the truths he had spoken. I had avoided going back to the College; from being swept up by my colleagues, my friends, whose music would have just as readily brought forth the grief I was running from as my own.

Ataf glanced to the door. "I should go," he murmured with a shake to his head, as though he was trying to dislodge some thought. "It's late, and you...have a long journey ahead of you."

Alone again.

"No - Ataf," I took a step closer to him. "Wait."

He hesitated - seemed to collect himself - then turned back to face me. "What do you need?" he asked in his familiar, obliging tone.

For the first time, I had the notion that the tone was forced.

What do you need, Celeste, I asked myself? Another hug? Grow up. I stared up at him and bit my bottom lip, teetering on another precipice.

"Can you stay?" I tried not to overthink it; how small it made me feel to ask. I simply did not want to be left alone again in this enormous, cold manor that had, for almost all of my life, been so full of warmth and comfort.

"Stay?" he frowned, taken aback and suitably wary. "I don't understand."

Don't – don't do it, I warred with myself. I was leaving Solitude tomorrow, and while Ataf did not want me to go at all, I did not want him to go now. My frantic mind could come up with only one way to ensure he stayed.

I closed the space between us and wound my arms around his neck, maintaining his alarmed gaze all the while.

I just - don't want to be alone.

"Celeste – what-?" he whispered; his eyes wide and unblinking. His shoulders tensed, and his arms seemed rigidly locked to his sides.

"Please stay," I heard myself cut him off as I curled my fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck. I felt distanced - somehow separated from myself, as though a different Celeste standing behind me had spoken.

His hands fell to my arms, holding us gently, firmly, apart. "You are grieving," he murmured. I had the thought that he was reminding himself more than me of the fact. "I would be a beast to take advantage of you, and you would never forgive me," he added. "I will stay if you wish – but you don't have to-" his quiet exasperation bore a trace of irony. "Perhaps you can help me with A Mother's Nursery Rhyme. Can I borrow your lute?"

No. No music. Anything but that.

I stood on my toes, leaning up as I pressed my lips to his, silencing whatever else he might have said. Ataf froze. My mind was foggy with conflict, so I concentrated on the feel of his lips grazing mine in an effort to forget everything else.

Gradually, his grip slackened and his bottom lip grazed mine in restrained, but evident response.

I squeezed my eyes shut tight in both victory and panic, but had committed to banishing this fear, this loneliness. I was a bard. I would spin my way through what I had started. I doubled my efforts, drawing flush against him.

He gasped and withdrew to look down at me as his hands drifted to rest on my waist. With regret thick in his throat, he muttered; "Don't tempt me."

It was the voice of a man at war with himself.

"I know that you do not love me, but you are too easy to love in return," he continued quietly. His eyes searched mine, pleading for something I couldn't identify. "You will break me if I stay."

There was nothing but truth in his plea. I saw in his eyes what I'd failed to see during his entire visit, absorbed by my own thoughts. The nervous looks, the desire to cheer me up, the repeated requests to stay in Solitude.

But it went back further than tonight, I realised. The willingness to help me with my studies; the smiles and ready companionship.

He had come to Proudspire Manor because he felt something for me – did he love me? - despite knowing that I didn't return his feelings.

And I had thrown myself at him, tried to take something from him to give myself a fleeting moment of distraction. I was a villain; I was abominable.

I paled and searched him with wide eyes, horrified. Had I grown so selfish that I would use my friend who had only ever helped me?

"Oh, Gods. I'm sorry," I managed, easing myself back. I lowered my arms, and his drifted back to his side. "I'm so sorry."

It was all I could say, but I was sorry - about everything. I was sorry for what I had done; sorry that I was leaving. Sorry that I didn't love him.

He nodded briefly, then found a smile. "It's fine. No harm done to this old heart."

I huffed at his forced optimism. How had I missed this? I had so frequently appealed to his better nature, had asked for his help knowing that he was always ready to drop whatever he was doing for me. I had wounded him, again and again.

You must never do this again. Never use anyone the way that you have used Ataf, I commanded.

Grow up, another voice within me snarled. He's not dead. Fix this.

"Please," I motioned toward the door, uncertain of how to repair anything when I was leaving in a matter of hours. There simply wasn't time, and the air between us was too awkward to discuss it for the moment. Your fault for kissing him.

"Let me see you on your way. I have kept you long enough and - my behaviour..." I trailed off.

A flash of disappointment crossed his face. "Of course – you have a long journey ahead of you," he stammered, turning toward the door and motioning for me to precede him.

I stepped past. As you keep telling me, I wanted to say. Instead, I let silence reign as I saw his nervousness for what it was. I flushed scarlet as I descended the staircases to the entry level; to the only door that he would be able to leave Proudspire by. The walk to the front door was an endless chasm of discomfort.

I passed him his coat and scarf, turning away from his wounded eyes and lingering hands to open the blue steel and let the frigid night in.

"I suppose this is good bye, for now," Ataf said evenly, shrugging on his coat.

I faced him on the landing, grasping my arms about me as I stared - and then nodded as, with a mental shove, I made myself speak.

"Thank you for...everything," I mumbled. Was this good bye? If I returned to my studies some day, Ataf would have graduated and left the College. Where might his life lead him? Would I ever find out?

"Don't mention it," Ataf replied in that overly obliging tone of his, turning on the landing to descend. He raised a hand in farewell, and glanced back over his shoulder. "Enjoy Cyrodiil, Celeste. And, maybe write us a letter if you have a chance; let us know...how you are getting on."

He stopped short and shook his head, descending the stairs at a jog.

"I will," I called after him.

He didn't look back. After a few more hurried steps – because it's cold; he's running because it's cold – he was on the main street, and gone.

Despite the cold of night leeching through my night dress and thin robe, I stood for a moment in the doorway, staring at the point where I had last seen him.

You couldn't have possibly managed that any worse than you did.

I winced and watched as my breath puffed before me in a little white cloud, then stepped back and closed the door; locking it for the night. Melaran would be by after dawn to seal it, to complete his task of securing Proudspire, so I would have to be gone before then.

That won't be a problem, I thought ruefully as I cleaned up the kitchen. Ataf's visit, and the truths that it had unearthed, had left me feeling incredibly drained. But I did not wish to sleep. I was full of worry over the looming journey, and mortification over what had just passed between Ataf and I.

It is a good thing that you are leaving Solitude, then.

I retreated to my room, insisting that even if I didn't sleep, I must try to calm down.

It was not easy. About an hour before dawn, I dressed in my travel clothes, shouldered my pack, and made for the front gates of Solitude, where the coach would be waiting to take me away. While the anxiety over what lay ahead still filled me, its effects were ebbed by a somewhat grateful but unexpected sense of relief that I was not going to spend another cold, quiet night in Proudspire, with only my thoughts for company.