Chapter 58: In Her Place
"Are you certain I cannot be the one to go?" Lydia whispered, casting a hasty glance in Onmund's direction to confirm the mage wasn't listening in on our hushed conversion.
I looked over my shoulder to observe him as well. If he was paying attention, he was doing a good job of hiding it, but I supposed that in being part of Giselle's web of confusion, he had grown used to hiding things.
After he had used a spell to make me look like one of his colleagues – the tall, elegant Dunmer girl I had seen earlier in the bar – he turned to give me some privacy while I changed my clothes. Since entering our room the easy, laughing student had morphed into a picture of tension, and time had not eased him. He stood rigid even now with his back to us, his hands on his hips and his eyes turned up, in silent conference with the ceiling.
I averted my temporarily garnet-red eyes and shrugged the long waistcoat over my shoulders. On my new body it settled just over hip-height, and I frowned at the less-fancy leggings and lanky feet poking out beneath it. My clothes were too small for this body.
"You needn't worry," I reminded Lydia. "I'm not going into battle; I'm going to a library to talk to a scholar."
"Yes, but-" Lydia clenched her teeth and glanced away, grinding out a small noise of discontent. "I wish Vilkas was here," she spat.
"Why?" I scrunched my nose as I fiddled with the ribbons, trying to weave and knot the front of the bodice together with fingers too long to control. "He could no more change my mind than you-"
"No, I mean," Lydia's frustration ebbed, and she motioned toward the ties. "Want some help?"
With a sigh of defeat, I let her take over.
Eyes fixed on the waistcoat and hands busy, she picked up where we had left off. "If Vilkas were here, he could – you know. Figure out whether we can trust him;" her last was sullen, and almost soundless.
"We can," I sucked in a breath as she gave a swift tug; shifted my feet to compensate and lowered my head to speak closer to her. "We have something he wants."
Lydia flickered me a guarded glance and shook her head. "Not yet we don't," left the corner of her mouth.
"But we will."
"You know what Giselle is capable of," she gave another sharp pull; her frown coloured her voice. "Backing her into a corner is a bad idea."
I rocked, cursing and closing my eyes to centre my balance as Lydia yanked the ribbons again, then resumed tying. I was beginning to hate this waistcoat. I had purchased it in Whiterun as part of a romantic bard costume; warm and fitted and gracefully longer, woven in shades of fiery reds and yellows with swirls of purple. I had thought it would be pretty, like a sunset, not painful, and while Lydia finished up preparing me, I looked longingly at the armour Alvor had created, hung over the back of a chair. It was worn in now, but just as fine as the first day I had seen it and assumed it was too beautiful to be functional. As my lute was an extension of my hands and a vessel for my songs, Alvor's armour now fit me like a second skin; it felt wrong to be venturing anywhere without it.
"It's okay to be scared for Vilkas," I murmured eventually. Divines knew, I was scared for the man I loved every moment he was away.
"I'm scared for you," Lydia patted down the final knot and placed her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes were bright with worry. "I don't like this. Vilkas wouldn't either. We don't even know who he is, short of involved with somebody I cannot trust," she hissed, eyes flickering toward the young mage.
I tried to offer a smile of reassurance, but managed only a grimace. "The best of the bad options, right?" I reminded her shakily.
"Can I turn around yet?" Onmund's voice came from the other side of the room; an uncomfortable, impatient yelp that only served to expose his nerves.
I considered telling him no, but the words were borne of spite; I had not forgiven him for presuming to know more about my own sister than I did – for daring to assume that I didn't love her – nor could I understand how he could claim to love her, but stand by as she bed another man. Something about their relationship, or whatever it was that Onmund and my sister were to each other, simply didn't make sense.
"Yes," I squashed my pettiness and sat, shirking on my boots.
Lydia was right to distrust him, and I wasn't going into this blinded by his heartfelt pleas. I was doing this because I needed to find out about Elder Scrolls, and Onmund would bring me one step closer to understanding where I might locate one.
Onmund turned; his ice-blue eyes looked me up and down. Guilt and fear flickered in his depths, but were gone in a heartbeat. His mouth flattened into a line as he snapped his eyes determinately closed. "Gods, I hope Brel hasn't gone back to the College," he mumbled.
I arched an eyebrow and closed the distance between us. "Now you have doubts about your plan?"
"It's your job to ensure she makes it to the library, and back again to me, regardless of whose face she wears," Lydia reminded, shrugging idly. "Unless you'd rather give up on seeing Giselle again."
"Is that a threat?" Onmund hazarded a laugh as he turned in plain, wounded confusion to my housecarl.
"It is a promise," I demanded his attention, because I had a feeling Lydia was trying to threaten him and everything about that made my skin crawl in discomfort. "Are you ready?"
In this borrowed form – Brel, he had named me – I was as tall as him, and when he met my eye, his focus grew more determined.
He leant a little closer, lifting his eyebrows. "Are you?"
"Always."
"You sound wrong. You'd better leave the talking to me," Onmund sighed. "I can't do voices. Yet, I mean."
Crossing my brows at the oversight, I wondered how I could ask questions of anybody if I wasn't allowed to speak?
"You'd better go and come back by the window," Lydia instructed before I could voice a reply. She threw aside the fine curtains and unlatched the frame. "I don't want the Stormcloaks to see you leave, or return."
"If you insist," I accepted. Flecks of ice swirled through the gap; the flowers ruffled and the bedding shivered as the gusty outside rushed in to disturb the plush interior.
Onmund stepped past me; placed his hand on the sill. "What makes you think the Stormcloaks will care what a couple of students are up to?" he muttered uneasily.
"Hey," Lydia caught his arm. Onmund's eyes flickered from her grasp, to her face. In silence, both seemed to weigh the another before Lydia lifted her eyebrows pointedly. "You be careful."
"Yeah. I get it," with a frown, he shrugged her off and let himself down into the cold night.
"That wasn't a threat," Lydia insisted through her teeth.
"Are you coming, Brelyna?" Onmund drawled, suddenly sounding a little drunker than he was.
"Yes," I stuttered and hastened forward, then smiled ruefully at Lydia. "This is ridiculous, isn't it?"
"A little bit," she fixed me with a sad smile, then hugged me – and it was so, so strange to be taller than her that I only managed to pat her gingerly before she stepped back.
"If you're not returned by noon tomorrow, daughter-dearest, I will come after you," she warned loftily.
"You will not, mother," I scoffed, easily falling into the play. "Gods, you're so embarrassing."
"I'll be subtle," Lydia tapped a fingertip to my nose fondly. "Lady Belamy would never leave her precious daughter in the hands of a dastardly college boy," she smirked.
I snorted as I placed a hand on the frame and looked out, considering the snowdrift below where Onmund waited, his hand outstretched. A flash of open vulnerability crossed his features, and I hesitated, blinking in surprise.
I had assumed that he and Giselle were so wrapped in their lies and complications that each face he wore and word he spoke would be as carefully orchestrated as my sister's were, each time we had crossed paths since our parents' deaths. Giselle's mask had slipped at the Embassy – and now, for a second – I recognised some truth in him – some care or concern I wasn't privy to – and understood how Giselle might have been taken by this face, this young man.
Then why would she go to Stormcloak? How can they bear it?
"I'll be back tomorrow," I promised, swinging my gangly legs over the sill to sit on the ledge. Once I had taken Onmund's hand, the jump to the ground was simple.
"Come on, or we'll be locked out."
To my surprise, Onmund kept a tight hold of my hand as he broke into a run. I fell into an effortless, loping trot beside him, baffled to be able to move through the snow so quickly – and envying all who had been fortunate enough to be born with such long legs.
Tiny flecks of new snow whirled around us and the old crunched underfoot; a predictable, well-known ensemble pattered-out in the dark night. For a time we ran in silence with the wind at our backs, urging us on. Onmund sidled along the buildings then jumped us through a spindly garden to join the main road. With gravel dusted in the freshest snow underfoot, Onmund slowed a little, though still did not let go of my hand.
I repressed the childish urge to tug it free. "I can manage, you know," I insisted, pulling a little against his grasp by way of explanation.
Onmund chuckled; cold, white breath misted before his face as he let go, only to lope his arm around my shoulders. "You're lucky Brel had an exam today."
I waited for him to explain, but it appeared the mage was done.
"Why? Does that give you license to cuddle me?" I prompted, crossing my arms and rubbing. The undershirt I wore was long-sleeved and warm, but the wind was biting, and while I didn't understand Onmund's closeness, I was grateful for his sturdiness because it didn't feel as though Brel had an ounce of fat on her.
"Shut up, you waif," Onmund cast me a sideways grin, so easily falling into familiarity that it unnerved me. "I doubt she's able to stand any more, but – she has a friend, over in the store, who she crashes with when she doesn't want to go home. And – look, this isn't the first time I've helped her back to the College because she couldn't walk."
Rolling my eyes, I glanced ahead and barely resisted another urge to push him away. "How kind of you," I deadpanned.
"It is kind of me-" the self-satisfied Onmund appeared; the confident, cavalier young man who'd bantered earlier with J'zargo. Was the person he showed his colleagues the real Onmund, or yet another front?
"Does Giselle know you regularly help another woman back to her room?" I managed to make the query nonchalant.
"Giselle introduced me to Brelyna," Onmund murmured as some of the mirth left his expression. "She knows we're friends."
I stared at him in wonder as he led us onward – because the Giselle I knew would have been jealous. Perhaps he did know the Giselle of today better than I did. "Where did you meet my sister?" I couldn't help but ask quietly.
The question was whipped from my tongue by twirling zephyrs, but Onmund caught the gist of it, for he shrugged and replied with a grimace; "Solitude."
Again, he declined to elaborate; his focus flickered back to the road and the College of Winterhold; a looming shadow beyond the whirling snow.
After a pause, I tried again. "When? I mean – I assume it was before she knew Ulfric Stormcloak, but I don't remember you at all-"
"No, I expect you wouldn't-" he cut in swiftly, then reconsidered with a wince. "Sorry. This is weird," he admitted.
"What's weird?"
"Meeting you," he adjusted his arm and flexed his hand; fingers arched then closed around my shoulder. There was frustration in his eyes – and again, a ping of recognition flared deep within me.
"Wait," I considered. "I do know you, don't I?"
"I don't think so," a sideways glance was sent my way; I wondered if I had imagined the flare of anger, for there was no trace of it left. "I'm really glad you don't look like her any more," he murmured thoughtfully, then glanced back to the path ahead. "We're nearly home," he said through the corner of his mouth. "Look guilty and lean into me, okay? Your line is 'greef', if you're spoken to."
I smothered a laugh and stumbled into the performance. I didn't trust him or understand anything about his connection to my sister, but somehow it was almost impossible to remain cross with him. We were too near the college to continue along our former vein anyway, and fell into a shamed silence as we climbed a few icy stairs to face a tall Altmer girl.
She was rugged up against the elements in thick furs and lowered her book with a glare when Onmund cleared his throat.
Onmund threw her a short wave, smothering a burst of laughter as he tucked me closer. The mer rolled her eyes and lifted her book again, taking a step to one side to let us through.
He loosened his hold after we had rounded a corner on the ever-ascending bridge.
"She looked pretty angry with you," I commented.
Onmund shrugged, unfazed. "She kicked me out of her class at the end of last term."
"Oh," I recalled he'd mentioned something about that to his friend. "Um – why?" I asked.
"You ask a lot of questions," Onmund gave me suspicious smirk. "Come on. We'll go to Brel's room - you can change there – then we'll make for the Arcaneum."
"Why do I need to change clothes again?"
"College rules," Onmund admitted. "Can't wear commons during school hours, and Brel wouldn't be caught dead in my robes," he lifted his eyebrows pointedly.
I let myself smile, just a little, because his cooperation, and this manner of forethought, was appreciated. No answer was required of me, so I took a moment to inspect the college courtyard.
Tall, dreary buildings ringed the open area with high windows set at equal distances, blackened like great, dark eyes, gloomily observing our every move. Whiteness covered the grounds with days-old snow tinted brown with dirt that clumped by the columns spanning a walkway encircling the courtyard. In the centre, the dirtiest snow betrayed the most common footpaths. The criss-crossing darker lines were offset by the freshest whiteness that blurred the sparse boughs and bristly leaves too stubborn to brown and fall in what must have been purpose-built gardens, though it appeared nobody had tended to them for a while.
Onmund guided me to the right along the column-lined walkway, then pushed open the first heavy door we came to.
I stepped into a dimly lit entry room after him, though my mind was still taking in the details of my brief glance at the College of Winterhold. I felt...saddened by it, somehow. It was lacking; too cold and uniform, though I supposed this college was never intended to inspire creativity, at least in the way that mine was.
"I doubt anybody will be up now-" Onmund began as he shed his coat.
"Assumptions such as that might get a lesser-man killed, Master Brandt," a stern, elegant voice interrupted.
Onmund froze, glancing up with eyes wide on the brighter, open area before us, and cursed under his breath. "Just helping my friend back to her room, sir," he said hopefully, flashing me an urgent look.
I crossed my brows in confusion but before he could convey anything of use, a form blocked most of the light from the central room, and both Onmund and I turned to him in guilt-fuelled unison.
He was Altmer, and if Onmund called him 'sir' he was probably a teacher – but I could deduce nothing else from the shadows of the blank expression set into the silhouette.
It unnerved me that I couldn't see the eyes that were so pointedly fixed on me properly.
"Miss Maryon, how nice of you to stumble home for a change after one of your post-exam celebrations."
"Greef," I tried a slur, lowering my eyes.
"Excuse me?" the mer bit out.
Onmund coughed a laugh and suddenly he was by my side, his arm resolutely around my shoulders. "We're back before curfew, Master Ancano," he laughed again; the shaky nervousness was back. "So, I'll just," he nodded toward the central room.
"You will just not, Master Brandt," Master Ancano commanded curtly. He nodded toward the door to the courtyard. "Go."
Onmund's shoulders sunk, then he released me. "Sorry, Brel," he whispered, conveying another icy-blue look of dread.
I offered him a lazy smile and a slow blink despite the hammer of my heart in my chest, and wavered slightly on my feet for good measure. When he turned and left me there, I prayed that his spell would last a little longer, or I might need Lydia to storm the college after all.
"Well?" Ancano dragged my feigned-sluggish attention back to him. "To bed with you, Miss Maryon."
"Yessir," I bumbled, sidling past the watchful, immobile mer as a surge of fear tore through me. Very suddenly, I understood what Onmund had been trying desperately to convey. I should have realised sooner!
Which room is Brelyna's?!
There was only one thing to do, and it was going to hurt. With a preemptive wince, I staggered into a table along the wall, tripped over my feet, and let myself fall. Stars exploded behind my eyes as I hit the cool flagstones, resisting every instinct to lift my hands.
"Urghh," I groaned as real tears of pain welled. My cheek and chest and knees had taken the fall; I bit my tongue to keep from crying out, because if Brelyna was this intoxicated, it would prevent her from feeling it.
The Altmer teacher bit out a curse and I heard the shuffle of approaching footfalls. I winced as I opened my eyes and found booted feet marring my vision.
I stared up foggily. "Sir?" I croaked.
"Get up," he snapped.
"Urghh," I tried again, burying my un-bruised cheek into the cool flagstones. It was mortifying to behave this way, and I wasn't certain what this performance would mean for the real Brelyna's future at the college, particularly if she had failed an exam today. Perhaps she would appreciate the alibi, as it appeared she had stayed away from the college tonight? At this point, I just needed him to leave.
Master Ancano gave a snort of disgust as he – thank the Divines! – started to do just that. "Then remain where you are, and freeze," he clipped. "I want you and Brandt in my office at eight, are we clear? I do not tolerate this kind of behaviour from any of my students."
I mumbled something unintelligible as the door closed behind him, and realised it had been an order, not a request. He didn't require a response.
With a wince, I pushed myself up so I could sit on the heels of my boots and take the weight off my aching knees. I tested my cheek, placing pressure on the hotness I found there, and frowned as I spotted a smudge of blood through the undershirt on one of my elbows. I must have snagged it on my way down.
It was nothing a healing potion wouldn't fix, and taking the fall had gotten me out of what could have been a very bad situation.
But – now what? Would Onmund come back once he realised that teacher had left, or was I on my own the rest of the way?
"Wow, Brel," an amused female voice murmured from across the room. "Just – wow."
I glanced up hastily and saw another Altmer, this time a girl dressed in a beautiful rose-pink and gold night robe standing in one of the open doorways. Pale blonde hair fell in smooth waves around her shoulders, softening the hard angles of her high cheekbones and pointed chin.
Her arms were crossed and she leaned as though she had been observing for some time, barefoot and casual, but smiled knowingly as she pushed off the wall to approach. "You know how to make a mess of yourself, I'll give you that."
Is everybody in this damned school awake, I cursed? I had to give her a response, so I groaned and turned my head down, shifting my palm to my forehead.
With a huff of laughter, the girl knelt before me. "Here, let me," she soothed, encouraging me to release my hand. My eyes flickered to her in alarm; surely, this close, she would somehow see through the ruse.
She inspected my cheek with slightly narrowed eyes, then sent me another small, consoling smile when she realised I was watching her every move. "You okay?"
I nodded dumbly; Onmund's insistence that I sounded wrong rung in my ears.
"Hold still for a bit."
I closed my eyes as the student's hand settled on my bruising cheek. The tell-tale sound of restoration magic tinkled around me and blissful warmth flowed through my cold, weary limbs. The dull, lingering pain dispersed.
"Huh."
The magic stopped suddenly.
I opened my eyes in time to see the Altmer sit back on her feet. She fixed me with a quizzical expression, tilting her head slightly. "Who are you?" she asked quietly.
With a flash of panic, I glanced down to my hands – my confusion doubled when I stared at the unchanged, dark-skinned, long-fingered hands of the woman whose identity I was borrowing. "You know who I am," I mumbled, hoping, praying that it was a joke.
"Okay then, who am I?" she quipped, crossing her arms stubbornly.
"The High Queen of Skyrim," I groaned as I closed my eyes. "Can't this wait til morning?" I pleaded, purposefully slurring my words.
With a hmph, I heard the mer shift, and then a too-close sound I didn't expect; sniff-sniff.
My eyes shot open as the Altmer girl pulled back. "Yeah, there is no alcohol on your breath. Who are you?"
I swallowed nervously, glancing around the room for help – or at least a hole to sink into. "The restoration spell must have-"
"Nope," the girl lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. Her hand whipped forward and slim fingers encased my wrist. "Why was Onmund sneaking you in here? What have you done with Brelyna?" her voice rose in accusation.
"Please calm down," I lifted my free hand imploringly, twisting my other in an effort to make her release me. I would have to tell her something – or Fus and suffer those consequences. But no – surely I could save the situation – somehow – I was a bard, for Shor's sake! "Can we go somewhere quiet? I'll explain," I whispered.
"What, so you can do away with me, too?" the girl narrowed her eyes. "If you won't tell me, I'll have to find out for myself," she waved her free hand.
At first I thought it had been in dismissal, but realisation flooded me as a pale, green mist gathered in her palm – and was swiftly fired at my face.
"No, wait-!" I coughed – but it was too late. My body shrank and when the glow faded, I was small and pale and me again.
The Altmer girl's green eyes widened in disbelief – then realisation. "Oh," all the fury was gone, to be replaced with an incredulous understanding.
"Oh?" I echoed in a small voice.
"Well," she let go of me and gave a little laugh of delight as she smoothed down her robe and stood. "I can guess who you are."
"Can you?" I winced, but my heart hammered so loudly in my ears that I was surprised it hadn't called every mage in the college to our location.
"Brel is definitely in on this," she laughed as her eyes met mine. "Onmund doesn't shut up about you," the green orbs shone cheekily. "Why did he bring you here, though?" she tilted her head again. "He's already annoyed Faralda – he could be expelled," she sounded far too amused by the prospect.
"I..." faltering, I glanced around the common area in desperation. She thought I was Giselle. Onmund had told them – something – about my sister. Enough for this student to recognise me - her. "Please, can you...take me to Onmund? That Master Ancano made him leave-"
"It's no wonder," she cut in smoothly. "And there are strict rules about fraternisation on college grounds," she nodded toward me; her fingers drummed against her arm.
"Are you going to turn me over to the headmaster?" I rushed; if she did I could possibly still gain what I had come for.
"What?" the mer's eyes widened. A laugh bubbled out of her, and she waved her hands in front of her. "Gosh, of course not. Who do you think I am?"
"I've no idea," I pointed out.
"Right," she fluttered, smiling as she extended a hand. "I'm Nirya. And, you're the fabled Giselle," she added with a flourish.
"Of course," I repeated, quietened as I took her hand; both an introduction, and to help me to my feet. "Onmund has...talked about me?" I tried to seem cautiously flattered.
"Incessantly," Nirya rolled her eyes. "Come on."
I must have betrayed silent concern, because Nirya laughed again. "There's a passageway. Leads to the men's dorms, if you take the right turns."
"Passageway?" I repeated dumbly. With a grimace, I remembered why we had come here before the library – I was not dressed appropriately, and I was supposed to get changed. "Can I borrow a set of school robes first?" I asked as I tugged at the waistcoat ties.
"Of course – that's a really good idea," Nirya commented with approval, then towed me toward a room. "He's told us of your cleverness. And your stubbornness – but," she waved her hand quickly, "you know, in a good way. And your irresistible beauty -" she groaned. "On and on and on with the dark, flowing hair and the eyes as blue as sapphires-"
I made myself smile and flush because I had to see this through appropriately, though truthfully I didn't know how Giselle in love might behave. If this was the first time she had met Nirya, I assumed the mer didn't either.
I glanced around the bedroom with feigned interest. It was barely a closet with a bed in its centre, a bookshelf full of books above the bed, and a wardrobe crammed into a corner. She deposited me on the meticulously-smooth bed and started considering the contents of the wardrobe. "Brel's robes will all be too tall, but I doubt you'll need it for long," she flashed me a cheeky look.
I sat on my hands and glanced to the rug covering the flagstones; swirling lines of tan and white, blackened – singed? – in places. "What exactly has Onmund been saying about me?" I queried uncomfortably, making myself look up to the mer.
Nirya selected a set of teal-and-tan robes and turned. She smiled, though I caught a sense of sadness, or pity, behind it. "Honestly?" she removed the robe from its hanger and held it out before her critically; her eyes flickered back and forth from it to me. "He talks of his regrets. That he didn't elope with you and start a new life somewhere else; that he let you come to Windhelm at all."
"Mm," I sighed non-committally, but once again, my heart began to race. Onmund's from Windhelm.
"This should fit, and there's a hood if you need to cast your face in shadow," she handed the heavy robes to me. The material was thick; it would be warm. I supposed all clothes had to be up here.
"At first glance, you'll look like one of us."
"Thank you," I stood and turned, placing the clothes on the bed so I could untie my outfit. I fiddled with the waistcoat ribbons as time ticked on between us.
"What else does he...regret?" I asked eventually; an effort to fill the silence purposefully. Perhaps I could learn something from this willing student, and she didn't seem to be worried about the fact that the Empire had declared Giselle a wanted fugitive. Perhaps that news hadn't reached the college yet.
Nirya sat on the bed. "Can you not guess?" she posed delicately.
I shrugged the waistcoat off and tossed it aside. "We have been apart for so long that I try never to assume," I replied sadly, grabbing the robes. A twinge of guilt tugged at my calm.
"Well," Nirya blinked a few times, taken aback as I turned to her and tied the sash. "His father, of course," she murmured. "It must have been...difficult, given your family's loyalties," a flash of uncertainty crossed Nirya's features; a reluctance, or remorse of her own. "But his deepest regret is...leaving you...in his father's care. Never imagined that he'd really make you part of his army."
"Oh. Right. Yes, of course," I murmured. I smoothed the robes down to give my hands something to do. I had to turn away from her, but made myself look busy as I suddenly understood why I kept thinking I knew Onmund. I didn't know him, but I recognised him because...
"Drunk bastard."
"Don't let me forget it."
The memory of ice-blue eyes seared through me, but they weren't Onmund's eyes, they were older and fiercer, and suddenly my legs were trembling. Reaching out for something – anything, I sat hurriedly on the edge of the bed.
I recognised Onmund because he was Ulfric's son.
My hands shook and I brushed them down my legs in a futile attempt to contain my fear, though I couldn't pinpoint which piece of information scared me the most, or why it scared me at all. I should have felt fury and indignation, but fear was the only emotion I could place, and the longer I sat, the more welled up inside of me, thick and syrupy, drowning all else.
"Giselle?" Nirya queried gently. "Are you..." she faltered. "When did you last sleep?"
I begged a moment around a thick tongue, then bit it so I wouldn't babble. I sternly reminded myself that Giselle and Ulfric's entanglement was not common knowledge. Onmund's regrets might have run deeper than those he told his friends, but Nirya was aware of nothing more than a conflict of loyalty that Giselle would have had to face in order to stand with Stormcloak against the Empire. Against our family.
But. How had Giselle replaced Onmund to rise through the ranks of the Stormcloaks and become Ulfric's...what exactly? Mistress? Eventual queen? Giselle had said she understood him better than anyone when I had questioned her outside of Rorikstead. Her soft expression had suggested she felt something for him; I had assumed it was devotion. Had she been a victim of circumstances – and over time, come to care for Ulfric? Or was even that face part of her act? When – and how had she moved from someone left in his care, to Ulfric's woman?
And – how could he do that to his son? How could Onmund have left her with him, and stood back knowingly as-
I covered my mouth with my hand as nausea churned and threatened to evacuate my dinner.
"Do you...need some water, or-?" Nirya tried again.
"Just a moment," I spoke through my palm, because I might still fall or vomit if I rose. Closing my eyes, I focussed on breathing – great, deep breaths designed to clear my mind and focus. I registered the feel of unfamiliar cloth against my skin; Brelyna's too-tall robes. The teal parts were soft, and the tan, scratchy. I focussed on the understanding that if I failed to find my calm, I might never complete what I had come to do, and none of the horrors anyone had endured would matter.
Later, I begged.
Finally, I felt something other than fear; a burning frustration at myself. Why was it always 'later' with my emotions, my family, my loved ones? Repress, lock away, deny, repeat, until the floodgates burst and drowned me with potent memories.
That must be how Giselle does it; she doesn't allow herself to think on it. My frustration shifted; deflated. My chest suddenly ached. Fear of my sister showed its second edge, sometimes dulled but never entirely blunted, shifting into fear both of and for her.
The how was still a hazy mire of unknowns and guesses, but a few pieces of information, while still speculation, began to knit together. Ulfric's attitude toward her must have changed when she told him she was descended from the Septims. That, I determined, desperate to glean some reason, would have been the turning point. I knew she had told him – but why? – from the letter Delphine had received from Ulfric questioning her claims.
I blanched as another question pushed its way through my tumultuous thoughts. Had Giselle's presence convinced Ulfric that he would succeed in becoming overlord of not only his Hold, but all of Skyrim? That he could risk deposing High King Torygg, because he had a Septim on his side? Could it...was it possible that Giselle's claims had resulted in the Civil War?
They had told me she dreamed of Septim and Stormcloak uniting. Ulfric had written this to Delphine at the end of that first term when we had assumed Giselle was at school – right here – learning how to become a mage. Ulfric must have seen Giselle as an opportunity to – what? Become ruler of Tamriel, if he could claim her?
And for some reason, Onmund had come here instead of her – she had insisted. He'd admitted that part himself. And whether they were in love or not, Giselle had given Onmund mother's ring. Perhaps, as with my gesture to Hadvar when I had assumed I was leaving him forever, she simply meant to leave a part of her with him; a part of her that she had to leave behind in order to remain with Stormcloak.
I tried, desperately, to put myself in her position; to imagine that I was in love with Hadvar but had to stand by – and be with – another man. I had been playing the role of Giselle, now and then when the occasion required, and I had been trained to pretend by making myself answer the questions my sister would have had to overcome.
But the notion was foreign and frightful and infuriating and completely ridiculous all at once. To choose as she had done would break me, break my mind – living such a lie each day. Nothing in this world would make me agree to such an arrangement.
Not even if it meant you could save Skyrim?
My stomach clenched as my sister's words rung heavy in my ears, thick with her - was it feigned? - emotion:
"All I have done, all I have endured, has been for the good of Tamriel."
Movement by the entryway to Brelyna's room caught my attention; my eyes, widened in fear and praying that it wasn't that Altmer teacher, snapped to it.
"Look who's finally decided to show up," Nirya drawled smugly; the faintest trace of a tremor marred her tone.
"Giselle," it was Onmund; the panic in his eyes appeased the second he sighted me. "Nirya, thank the Gods you found her," he stepped into the room.
Confused and scared, the edges of my vision began to blur. He wore such a soft, relieved expression – set with eyes too similar to his horrid father's – and I realised that Stormcloak had taken everything from him, his own blood. Were we all so defenceless against Ulfric Stormcloak? Would he never be satisfied in his desire to take, to conquer?
I burst into tears, startling everyone, even myself – for I hadn't been able to reign the surge of dismay back fast enough.
"What did you say to her?!" Onmund sounded more fearful than accusing.
"Me?!" Nirya fired back. The bed moved and the student strode across the room; stabbed a long index finger into his chest. "You left her here! You're lucky I hadn't gone to bed yet. Now," she waved her hand, hesitating to swallow and nod. "Go to her," she commanded quietly. "Get her somewhere safe," she flickered me a worried glance, and moved to leave. "I will pretend neither of you were ever here," she muttered.
Onmund cursed and inched inside, hands out in pre-emptive defence, as though worried I would lash out at him. Perhaps I should, perhaps that would make me feel better – but the despair was too thick and the fear too sharp to summon my focus, a thu'um – anything beyond these damnable tears.
I turned away and clenched my eyes closed; shielded my face in embarrassment with both hands. Why was I crying when I had felt so angry a moment ago? The sight of him hurrying toward me, understanding and giving in to the ruse that I was my sister and would comfort me – it had been the final straw. This revelation on the back of several days worth of disappointment was enough; apparently I was done suppressing.
I choked out a sob as I registered movement through gaps in my fingers. "You're his – and-" I couldn't assemble what I needed to say, and gave up, covering my face more securely to muffle the despair.
Onmund didn't respond. Perhaps, uncertain of what to say or do, he had snuck out and left me alone in my grief.
But within heartbeats, I felt the bed shift beside me again, then his hands were on mine, trying to uncover my face.
"Don't hide it," he urged in a murmur.
He pulled on my hands more insistently, and – baffled, I let him see my puffed-up face and watery eyes. The tears continued to track paths down my cheeks, and I squinted through the blur, wondering if he seemed so calm because he had done this before, with my sister. Perhaps he was used to seeing her cry.
"Does he destroy all in his path?" I blubbed, wiping my nose with the back of my hand.
"I want to say 'you have no idea', but that'd be a bit unfair," he was still too quiet, and sighed a shaking breath; his eyes not on me but my shoulder as a large, comforting hand settled there, so tentative and uncertain that it set me off anew. My eyes snapped closed and my hands gripped Brelyna's bedding as the wave of sadness shook me – and the hand left me swiftly, as though he had been burned.
"It's best not to overthink it," Onmund cut in, quiet but insistent. A joyless huff left him.
I leaned back to observe him and my brows knotted in confusion. I wanted to lash out at him – blame him for his weakness – for not protecting her somehow – but the high pink on his cheeks and tears in his eyes held me back. It was plain that he was, somehow, not in control of any part of my sister's situation, and he clearly blamed himself already.
Slowly, almost in defeat, he flashed me an uncomfortable glance, then hurriedly looked at his lap, though seemed to stare at nothing. "There is no point in asking why he does anything. I have been asking myself why he did this or that for my entire life. And, as for why I did it – why I allowed it," he shrugged helplessly. "Because your sister is my heart and soul, and she asked me to trust her."
That made no sense, and the wracking sobs retreated; tears continued to well but at least, for the moment, I could form words. I propped myself up to stare at him, but wasn't certain where to even begin trying to understand. Perhaps with a simple confirmation.
"That teacher called you Brandt," I sniffled quietly. "But – Nirya seems to know who you are. Does everyone know you're Stormcloak's son, or just your friends? Are you in hiding?"
"Not really," he tilted his head a little. "Brandt is...the name of my nanny, the woman who raised my half-brothers and I," he glanced away regretfully, shuddering as he regarded the ceiling.
My heart twisted in dismay; I was squeezing unpleasant details out of him. This wasn't why I was here; these truths wouldn't further my purpose.
"Why do you think everything is about being Dragonborn?" a memory of Farkas scolded me.
It wasn't. And, it wasn't like I had him at knife-point. He was speaking to me of his own free will. Perhaps he needed to get it out, as much as I needed to hear it, regardless of the pain it would dredge to the surface.
"Ulfric doesn't let bastards take his name," he confirmed his status in one swift sentence. "He kept us close, but he has to legitimise you and now that-" Onmund huffed bleakly; shook his head as he changed his mind. "As though I would ever want his name," he muttered.
I sat up a little further; regarded him a little more closely. "Can you tell me why she's been by his side for three years? I know you know that."
Onmund didn't try to deny it and gave a small nod. With another loud exhale – talking through the past seemed to affect his breathing – he closed his eyes; steeled himself. "Do you know about her nightmares yet?"
"I've heard she has them," I admitted quietly. "But – surely, they're just dreams..." I stuttered in a firm desire to dismiss it.
"I'm glad you know," he gave me a sideways glance – then blinked, glanced down; stared at his open palms again, as though I had startled him. "She didn't want to tell you. Been hiding them, since they started."
"When did they start?" I paled; guilt surged through my bones. The more important why didn't she want me to know rocked me, but I couldn't bare to ask it.
"Some time after she turned fourteen. Around the time she started taking lessons in magic after school, from that Altmer mage across the street."
"Melaran?" I frowned, confused. "She loved those classes. Did they cause her to dream?" I mused.
"I don't know. How did you find out about her dreams?" Onmund asked, suddenly a little wary.
I opened my mouth, but my mind spun back to five years prior, trying to remember if I had seen any change in my sister's attitude then that could have indicated she wasn't sleeping well. She had certainly become grumpier, but to be fair, so had I as my body had rudely shirked me from child- into woman-hood. And we had had little to do with each other as our interests had grown apart.
"Did your precious Legion tell you in one of their reports?" he prompted. "I assume they know everything-"
I shook my head swiftly, realising that I had to reply. "Delphine Comtois told me," I tested.
Onmund grimaced; his nose wrinkled distastefully. "Naturally."
"Before you assume the worst, I'm not working with her," I laughed bleakly; it sounded more like a sob, but was tearless. "I take it you don't like her either?"
"Does anybody?" Onmund grumbled.
"Ulfric trusts her," I pointed out unhelpfully.
"Well," Onmund's eyes finally rose and he pinned me with a shared glimmer of understanding. "All the more reason to not trust her."
Nodding once, I prompted, "What did Giselle see in her dreams? Did she tell you?"
"Yes," the hard edge to his eyes softened, and the frosty blue stared at me, glancing up and down. His brows crossed in anguish. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to look at you?" he swallowed. "I've dreamed of us attending the college together, just like we planned before-"
"I'm not her –"
"No but – you wear her face and-"
"Do you want me to stand outside while we talk?" I posed incredulously.
"Just –" he stood abruptly; strode toward the door. "I can't do this here."
I stood hastily but didn't move after him straight away. "Make me look like Brelyna again," I hissed; my frustration plain. We would get nowhere if he was immobilised by my appearance.
Onmund shook his head. "It was stupid of me to think that would work for long in a school full of mages," he misinterpreted my insistence. "At least Master Ancano wasn't the one to suspect you. Come on," he departed Brelyna's room and turned left. "Raise the hood," he added in afterthought.
I did as he bade, lifting the fold of teal edged in tan up and over my dark curls as I rushed out. I looked up to him in question, and realised just how tall he was now I was my own height again. Of course he's big, he's Ulfric's son.
Resolutely, I looked straight ahead. For a time I focussed on only keeping pace with the Nord and pushing aside the anxious questions bubbling within.
Onmund led me to a kitchen that smelled strongly of burnt toast and old coffee, but continued on into the storage cupboard, and further still as he flicked open a hidden panel at the rear of the shelves before some bags of potatoes. The wall parted and the mage summoned a small, spherical ball of white light that hovered in his palm and made the flagstones under our feet shimmer.
"Where are we going?" I whispered. I peered through the blackness, trying to make out what lay ahead.
Onmund stepped into the gloom, lighting up a close, bricked passageway. This must have been part of the tunnel system Nirya mentioned.
"The Arcaneum," he murmured. "As promised," he whispered in afterthought.
"Isn't it still closed?" I frowned, stepping after him. A shudder rippled through me as the shadows crept over me – Onmund could extinguish his spell and leave me in the stifling nothingness and I might never find my way out.
"Can you press the red button on the wall there?" Onmund asked over his shoulder.
Trust him; he wants to see Giselle. I hit it; the panel slid shut. The sound of wood scraping stone faded as Onmund walked forward. The Candlelight spell was only bright enough to light up a small area around him, so I remained a close footstep behind.
"Yes, it's closed until dawn," he admitted quietly; his voice was absorbed by the tall walls. "But we can't wait in the dorms – not together – and wandering college grounds after curfew is prohibited – and really dumb – it's too cold. Don't worry," he cast me a tentative half-smile over his shoulder. "I know a few good hiding places. Gro-Shub won't even know we're there when he opens up."
"All right," I shuddered again, biting back a wave of nausea that rose at the thought of being sprung by another teacher. "Just...don't abandon me again, okay?"
Onmund seemed to choke on incredulity. "Are you tormenting me on purpose?" he turned back, holding a hand up so I would stop.
I was so close to him that I didn't see the signal in time and bumped into his open palm.
He drew in a sharp breath; his hand on my chest suddenly trembled. "Gods, you have no idea how it pains me to see you dressed in mage's robes."
I glared and pointedly removed his hand, which he seemed to have forgotten about. "Stop it, Onmund. We might look the same, but I am not my sister."
"I know you're not."
"Then stop saying things like that."
He scowled and turned, and from that moment we proceeded in silence, both too frustrated with the other to be the first to break it. Eventually, after too many twists and turns to count, the passageway split in half, and Onmund took the ascending path to our left, which soon turned into a tight spiral staircase.
At the top it levelled out to a small landing before a simple wooden door, and Onmund pressed his free hand to the lock underneath the handle. The deep concentration on his features, half cast in white light and half in shadow, made him seem like a statue.
Yellow flickered in his hand; a soft click broke the silence. Dispelling whatever alteration magic had let him unlock a door, he glanced back to me, lifted a finger to his lips, and extinguished the Candlelight before I could acknowledge.
We were plunged into darkness and panic gripped my throat – but for no more than a second or two. Onmund pushed the door out, peering into the slightly less infinite darkness beyond – and I could breathe again.
Satisfied by what he saw, or didn't see I rather expected, he opened the door properly and stepped up into the Arcaneum.
I followed and took in the room as he closed and relocked the door with more magic. I had to bite back my gasp. In the still, quiet greyness I could just make out row after row of shelves, piled stories high to the ceiling – containing more books than my grandparent's expansive library in the Imperial City; perhaps more than the Arcane University itself. One of these books might contain the information I needed on Elder Scrolls, but I would need to speak to the librarian, this Gro-Shub, if I hoped to find the right book before the Divines took me. Ladders on rungs marked intervals between shelves as dense, linear shadows, and high above, faceted panes of glass knit together to form a crystalline dome, frosted with windswept snow and only showing a mere shimmer of aurorae where the glass had been recently blown clean. High aloft, the wind whistled and moaned mournfully as the flecks of ice on the dome scattered and were instantly replaced with more frosted white.
Onmund stepped past me; pressed his fingers to my elbow momentarily. The flare of anger I had seen in the tunnel was gratefully gone, to be replaced with solemnity. He lifted his fingers to his lips once again, then motioned for me to follow.
Our boots made little sound as we shuffled across the vast reading room and past the vacant loans desk in the centre of the colossal library. After alighting a few shallow steps, Onmund directed me to a gap between shelves where a deep azure curtain, fringed in gold thread, hung from roof to floor. Similar curtains speckled the landscape of books at sequential intervals, and when Onmund shifted the weighty material aside, a study nook was revealed.
The table and bench seats were built into the stone walls of the same uniform grey and a faceted window overlooked what I thought might be the sea, though the panes were a little too blurred to tell. As with the glass dome above, much of the vista was obscured by layers of ice stuck to the outer surface and snow pummelling into it. Onmund waved before him, indicating I should slide onto the stone seat.
It was mercifully padded with a long, navy-blue cushion. I shuffled along it, toward the window, grimacing at how hard and lumpy the cushion felt; it was clearly well-used. Onmund closed the curtain behind us, cast another spell that burned purple and made my ears pop, then joined me.
Only once the purple spell faded completely and the curtain stopped moving did the mage let out an audible sigh. "Gro-Shub shouldn't check these first thing," he murmured, placing his hands, palm down, to the heavy stone tabletop suspended in front of us. His eyes betrayed that faraway look again, staring beyond his hands, and I wondered what he was thinking about.
"Won't he open the curtains to let in the dawn's light?"
Onmund shook his head with a tilt. "Past librarians would have, but Gro-Shub thinks even the weak light we get up here damages the older books. No," he sat back; the distance I had observed was gone, and he cast me a rather wry smile. "We'll be safe here. Once he unlocks and makes for his desk, we'll skirt around the shelves on the eastern wing and make it look like we came in from the balcony to ask him your questions."
I arched an eyebrow at him. "Gro-Shub won't care that I'm not a student?"
Onmund's smile grew more amused as he shook his head. "Gro-Shub doesn't take much notice of anyone. Doubt he knows who I am, and I've lived here for three years."
I shrugged; I was in no position to doubt his knowledge of the Arcaneum or its surly-sounding overseer. He could offer any manner of suggestion, and I would have to trust him. "Okay. So it's safe to talk now?" I confirmed.
"Yeah," he grimaced; the amusement in his eyes was replaced with resignation. "The Muffle spell will last a couple of hours. You must have a lot of...yeah," he settled more quietly. "Go on, then."
I wanted to ask about Giselle's involvement with the Thalmor, her interactions with Delphine – if any – and of course, about her dreams and what they had inspired in Ulfric – but I held off as I took in the defeat writ plain on Onmund's face.
"You know," I shuffled; tried to get more comfortable. "I...saw Giselle," I told him, sitting back to fold my hands in my lap. The nook was surprisingly warm given the battering the glass outside was taking, but the cushion barely provided relief from the hard stone underneath. "Very recently, at the Thalmor Embassy," I added hastily.
I was pleased to see confusion inch onto his features, because anything was better than defeat. "Was...she all right?"
"She wasn't their prisoner," I assured. "No. This was a few weeks ago, before..." I waved my hand and left the rest unsaid.
"Oh."
I pushed on. "I thought she was their prisoner, though. That's why we went in," I explained, reluctant to mention Delphine's part in that disaster. "I was with Hadvar."
Onmund's confusion deepened with a tuck to his brow and a frown. "Your Legionnaire husband wanted to help you save her?" he asked dubiously.
"He's my fiancee," I corrected softly, leaving his doubts unattended. "But – before I could look for her, she walked into the ballroom on the arm of one of the Thalmor Emissaries, confident and charming. If Hadvar hadn't been with me, I'm not sure what I might have said or done," I owned, swallowing down a small surge of grief. Had I known what I now knew, could I have gotten her out of the Thalmor's grip then and there?
Onmund shuffled a little; wiped his palms against his trouser legs. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked quietly.
"Because," I laughed sadly, shaking my head in disbelief. "She was there to give the Empire false information that would trap Hadvar and his battalion," I watched him for response.
He grimaced. "Sorry. Gods, I hate this war," he grit his teeth.
"Hadvar's fine," I pushed on. "And despite being a spy for Stormcloak – she actually saved me that night at the Embassy. I did something stupid – really stupid – and she came to help me. I think," I wrinkled my brow. "That's the frustrating, confusing thing about my sister. She saved me, and not two minutes later, cast a spell on me to make me speak the truth."
Onmund groaned but I pressed on before he could try apologise for her again.
"When I told her we'd come to save her, thinking she was a prisoner, she...looked afraid," I met his eye; searched him, as though he could explain for her. "I mean – properly afraid. She insisted that I leave at once."
Onmund lifted a hand in doubt; the corner of his mouth curved up with it. "She...didn't want you involved-" he placated gently.
"I am involved," I cut in, glancing toward the windows speckled with frost and clumping snowflakes. "I'm the Dragonborn," I murmured to the glass. "And I know Akatosh should have chosen her. She's the one with the magic – she's the stronger sister. The useful twin," I admitted with a swallow. "I know that everyone looking for signs believed she would be made Dragonborn, when one...might be required."
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled; a question, fleeting as it brushed me, asked if Ulfric had known starting a war might expose the Passero line and force the Dragonborn within to surface?
When I glanced to the mage and found a flicker of guilt in his icy-blue depths, I knew it was true. I nodded. I had spoken the words; I must accept them. Everybody had assumed she would gain Akatosh's favour. Perhaps even...
"Did...she think she would be made Dragonborn?"
"She is dragonborn," Onmund reminded me in an earnest but quiet tone. "Just because she can't thu'um like you doesn't make her any less dragonborn than you."
"You know what I mean," I narrowed my eyes. "I'm the one whose been tasked with solving this Alduin problem."
"What's an Alduin?"
"He's the dragon in control of the other dragons. The one bringing them back to life. Sorry," I mumbled, remembering that only a handful of people knew about that. About him.
"Another dragon is behind-?"
"It doesn't matter," I waved it off; clenched my eyes closed a moment to focus. "What does is that – despite the task falling to me, Giselle has somehow been three steps ahead for this entire ridiculous journey, and I don't know why. If I'm to save Skyrim of anything," I opened my eyes, the point of my ramblings – my insistence Vilkas find her – suddenly clear. I faced Onmund with resigned determination. "I...think I need her help."
It was painful to admit.
"I need to know what she knows," I pressed hurriedly. "And I need to understand why she has done – all she has done."
Onmund shuffled again; crossed his brows. "Is that why you've sent someone to find her?"
"Sort of," I shrugged helplessly. "There's a lot more to it."
"There usually is," he murmured thoughtfully. "Okay."
"Okay?" I baulked.
"Yeah," he shrugged, as though it were obvious; his tone was more supportive than I had expected. "That makes sense to me, and – it will to her, too. What do you need to know?"
"Okay," I repeated dumbly, taking check. "Right. Um," I shook myself. "Thanks," I faltered. Where to begin?
"I could tell you about her dreams?" he offered with a saddened smile.
I hesitated and met his eye. "Does she dream about the future?"
It felt ridiculous to ask, but I had to know.
Onmund scrunched his nose in distaste. "Sometimes. It's – not that simple."
I arched an eyebrow and tilted my head. Really? My sister visions the future and you think anything about that is simple?
"I mean," Onmund blinked, then strived to clarify. "The dreams she fears the most are as symbolic as they could be called prophetic. They're not," he paused, waving his hand as though it helped summon the right words. "You know. Sequential series of events or anything. They're more abstract."
I pushed down a flicker of fear. "What exactly has she seen?"
When he frowned at me uncertainly, I hurriedly added, "Maybe I will be able to interpret the symbols in a different way."
"Oh," he muttered quietly. "Okay, sure," he closed his eyes; shuddered a deep breath. "I remember Ulfric had brought my half-brothers and I to Solitude for a gathering – the Burning of King Olaf..." he drifted off; tilted his head as the tops of his cheeks grew pink. "I – snuck out, to visit your sister, after the celebrations had died down, and...she asked me to stay. I couldn't say no to her – and planned to go out the window before dawn so your parents wouldn't find me – but –" he pressed on hurriedly, "she had a nightmare. I had to wake her, and she was in a panic – it was really scary actually-"
"What was it that frightened her?" I asked gently, a little spooked, and a little miffed at all that had gone on under my nose.
"She dreamed about...a colossal metal creature, looming above her," he shrugged helplessly. "And she was holding something – a little statue. It glowed, and the golem glowed, and she was tugged with this metal man, up into the sky, only it wasn't the sky?" he frowned. "It was nothingness. The golem turned her head and held her eyes open, making her watch the clouds far below as they churned and spat and their colours overlapped and merged and dissolved, out of existence. Then it spoke, in her head; You made this.
"She realised it wasn't clouds but people, places, mighty cities falling and others rising; mountains exploding and the air erupting into flames to choke civilisations. It was too small and fast to focus on one event, but there was a lot of death – and then the golem wrapped its arms around her and exploded as well."
"What?" I deadpanned, though my heart couldn't help but race at the prospect of so much destruction. But – how could something so strange be considered prophetic?
"I know," Onmund agreed in a dry tone. "I told her it was the product of the burning and too many spiced meads. But the dreams kept coming."
"The golem again?"
He tilted his head in dissatisfied uncertainty. "Sometimes. Other times, she was trapped in buildings while the sky boiled red and daedra broke through the windows – and she was paralysed, unable to help or even look away as hell-beasts spilled in and took the lives of everyone around her."
"That's – awful-" I managed thickly. I blinked hastily and swallowed down the lump in my throat. Why hadn't she told me?
"There were more but – she had trouble explaining because there was so much happening in them. Said it was like trying to assemble ten different messages into the one sentence, but that they couldn't be any bigger because none of them could exist without the other. She said the words would only blur, whatever that means."
A chill ran down my spine. "She couldn't just...write it down, or tell you in a paragraph?" I asked, baffled.
Onmund shook his head sadly. "I thought the nightmares a sign of stress, after a time. She was worried she wouldn't be accepted into the college, and her mind was inventing these...bizarre world-ending events as a way of preparing her."
"Did she believe in her dreams?" I frowned.
"Not at first," Onmund grimaced. "Not until she started...dreaming about people she knew."
"Who?" I asked eagerly.
Onmund reluctantly met my gaze. "Me."
I stopped myself from interrupting by biting my tongue.
His eyes grew more apologetic. "We wrote to one another, you see. We had hoped to attend the college together, but Ulfric wouldn't let me enrol;" a flash of bitterness. "Anyway. She said she dreamed of a war between man and mer, which was nothing new on its own," Onmund frowned. "But this time, she was able to focus on fragments, and she saw me fighting with a sword I could barely lift. She wouldn't say any more in her letter. She was due to start at Winterhold, and she told me she would come to Windhelm first. That she had to see me, warn me, and make sure that I was safe."
"Warn you of what?"
"Of my father's intentions for me. She was," he closed his eyes in regret, "convinced the dream was literal – that Ulfric was going to force me into his army and I would be killed."
The pieces were starting to knit together; with horrified certainty, I asked, "She confronted him, didn't she?"
"Yeah."
"And – told him about her dream?" my eyes widened in dread.
"Yes," he bit out, clenching his teeth. "She was used to the way your father did things. Assumed that my father would bend to her will, if she could make him see reason. She assumed that he cared for me. Told him what she hadn't told me; that she was descended from the Septim line, and was thus granted visions of Truth – and that if Septim failed to unite with Stormcloak, all of Tamriel would eventually fall to the Dominion. She was worried her dreams would...become real, if she didn't say anything - and she knew exactly what to say to him, to make him take action."
"Did Ulfric know that you were together?"
"Yes," Onmund scowled, and left it at that.
"And he still-" I gaped, then withdrew. "Okay. So – he believed her – obviously – and decided that he'd be the one to unite Septim with-?"
"Obviously, yes," Onmund groaned. "She made a deal with him," he seemed to back off; deflated into the bench; stared once again at his hands. His eyes brimmed with wetness, but I couldn't tell if the tears were borne of fear or anger. Perhaps a bit of both.
"She said – let me try remember her words," he tilted his head back; it thunked against the stone wall, but if he felt it, he didn't seem to care. "If Ulfric would send me to Winterhold to learn magic at the College in her place, she would remain in Windhelm in mine. That with the blood of the ancient Septims in her veins – the blood of Tiber Septim, I think she said – she would fortify his army against the coming storm."
"And he believed her-?"
"Yes."
"Why?!" I gasped, searching Onmund in horror. "How did she convince him she wasn't a raving lunatic?" I cried. "Why would any grown man listen to the nightmares of a sixteen-year-old and-"
"To punish me," Onmund's voice rose – his eyes darted to me in guilt and anguish. "I could go to the college, just like I'd always wanted," the mage swallowed thickly. "But she would pay the price for my defiance."
"No – that cannot be the only reason," I stammered; my voice left me in a tremble. "And you said she made you come to the college."
"She did," he groaned, leaning forward to place his head in his hands. "I was used to refusing Ulfric but – she begged me to trust her. Swore that she could manage him – no," he dragged his hands down his face, sat back and winced. "That she had been born to manage him."
For a time there was silence, and I found myself nodding shallowly as I attempted to take in and process all Onmund had revealed. There was still a small spark deep within my soul that was reluctant to trust a word he said, though it was weak, for I could not fathom why he would tell me this if he was working for his father.
"But couldn't you have...?" my voice cracked; I hesitated to rethink, and motioned toward him. "You made me look like someone else with a wave of your hand."
"Why didn't I use magic to change my appearance and go get her?"
"Yes," I breathed with relief; prickled that he had understood me at once, for it meant he had asked himself this question before.
He grimaced. "Why do you think there are so many Stormcloaks in Winterhold?"
I could see what he was coming to but still frowned in mute confusion. Ulfric hadn't wanted him to study magic – but now wanted to ensure he stayed here?
"Why do you think there is so much money in the town?" Onmund went on. "That despite my best efforts to fail, they refuse to expel me?" his eyes flickered toward me, backlit by ice-blue flames of deep-seated frustration. "He pays them to keep me in my place. To keep me away from her."
The fire in his eyes somewhat pleased me, as it was hatred for Ulfric that fanned it. Angry Onmund was far easier to deal with than sullen, hopeless Onmund.
"If I disappeared," he continued bitterly, "she would be blamed – she would suffer. Each time she has managed to come to me, he has found out-"
"But she's not with him any more-" I reminded hastily, for I did not even want to begin thinking that Ulfric had been punishing her. I placed a consoling hand on his shoulder – a reminder of the now we existed in – and attempted to locate hope in this thick, stifling terror clogging our corner of the Arcaneum. "You told me, he won't take her back, now the Empire have exposed her. Giselle is on the run, and Vilkas will find her, and hide her. What's to stop you from running away now?"
"You are, actually," he hazarded a sad smile and lifted his eyebrows. "Remember?" he murmured; his gaze fixed on me, but his mind seemed far away. "News of her...official status only reached Winterhold today. Most of the town doesn't even care," he looked in disgust at the window, toward the village I assumed. "These idiots are taken by the wealth Ulfric showers the region in. They're safe and well-fed, so what do they care that anyone risks their life for them?"
"They'll care when you disappear," the fire left me. I felt hollowed out in the absence of another strong emotion to fill the void, but dull worry started to itch at me. Onmund would complicate our departure if we meant to take him with us.
"Good," Onmund sighed, leaning back again to gaze at the ceiling. "I hate this place," he whispered. "I wish..."
I waited, watching as he glanced down to his hands. His fingers clenched briefly, and released.
"What do you wish?" I prompted gently.
Still focussed on his palms, Onmund huffed wearily. "Where does your friend mean to hide Giselle, if he finds her?"
"I don't know," I admitted freely. "But – it's okay," I smiled supportively when Onmund's worried eyes flickered towards me. "Vilkas is really good at keeping secrets, and hiding things."
"I hope so," once again he leaned his head back, blinked at the ceiling, and this time, his eyes stayed closed.
He remained that way for a time. His expression gradually relaxed, making him appear younger, and his breaths filled then left him in long, shuddering tremors.
He's trying to calm down, I realised. A pang of dismay resounded in my heart. "Tired?" I asked.
He shook his head, but remained otherwise motionless.
I arched an eyebrow, even though he couldn't see it. "You can go to bed if you want," I urged. "I'll be fine here. There's plenty of room for me to stretch out-"
"Don't be ridiculous," Onmund muttered tiredly, though didn't move or open his eyes. "Your housecarl would kick my ass if I left you."
I muffled a burst of laughter with my hand. "I'd tell her I made you go," I covered. "I can be very stubborn when I want to be."
"I'm sure you can. It must be a family trait," he cracked a half-smile but shook his head; his eyes remained closed. "I'm fine – I've slept in worse places."
"Who's being stubborn now?" I murmured and leaned back; shuffled as I arched to get more comfortable.
There was more to learn from Onmund, but what he had revealed so far had seeped all the emotion from me - including the drive to discover more of my sister's past for the time being. Seeing as I had not slept the night before and felt rather blank and hollow now, I was having trouble coming up with a reason to keep my eyes open, because if Onmund was to sleep, I would have only my freshest thoughts and questions for company.
A few hours, I promised as I let my body relax. My uncertainties settled onto the steadily-growing pile of information to speculate on later, and I wondered if the haze of tired nothingness had come upon me because my body demanded sleep to give my subconscious time to catalogue it all.
The sun will wake us when it rises, I assured myself blearily.
And I slept.