Author's Note:
Hello and welcome to the long-awaited conclusion to a most beloved fanfic: Stranger in a Strange Land by DeLyse / u/1324894/DeLyse
DeLyse requested I complete this for her, so I want to make it clear I have total permission to have written and post this. She will also be linking this in the original story somewhere as well. Before you read this, I highly and emphatically recommend you read its predecessor so, you know, you actually know where this is coming from and the story so far! The story so far: s/8004060/1/Stranger-in-a-Strange-Land
The work is complete, therefore I will be posting a chapter weekly. Every Weds at the latest, perhaps earlier. Please look forward to it! The chapters will be long, so make sure you grab a drink, grab a snack, and get cozy.
I want it to be known that I am not here for criticism; I am here completing a beloved story for a more-than beloved friend of mine, and posting it for those who loved the story and hoped to someday have a conclusion. I cannot stop you from posting it, but I hope you'll consider my feelings before commenting.
Favorites and comments are love! Thank you for considering reading this!
Lynette lied. The journey home was not easy, nor did they even make it to Riverwood. They arrived as far as Helgen before things took a turn for the worse.
Exhaustion burned like hot coals behind her eyes as she laid against the ethereal steed's back and let it take her where it may, which was behind Farengar, his prisoner, and his horse. Vilkas still sat behind her, the hum of a low tune escaping his barely parted lips.
The fact that Farengar could both conjure and control two steeds on top of keeping the Siren in dreamland was beyond baffling, but his pool of magicka was deep now. Lynette tried to ignore the pang of envy, hoping that someday, she might be half as powerful as him. Then perhaps she would escape the endless sense of failure.
It was shortly after these passing, spotty thoughts that darkness claimed her out of nowhere. It was like falling asleep; she didn't know when she fell, but when she did, it was hard.
And when she had awareness again, she found herself at a banquet table. At least, she believed it must be, even though this was far more grotesque than she would have expected.
When Lynette imagined one, she pictured an expensive wood decorated with gold intricacies and a table cloth of the finest silk. Crockery and cutlery would be made from the shiniest metals and the foods would be mouth-watering at sight and smell—savory meats, intoxicating sweets, cheek-reddening drinks. But this was the total opposite.
The wood was rotten and splintered, and Lynette feared the smallest of touches would break it, or splinters would pierce her hands. The table cloth was ragged and torn, so darkened with stains that the original color could no longer be determined. And the food… It wasn't food at all.
The cracked and aged pottery held writhing slugs and maggots, causing Lynette's skin to crawl as she jerked back. Roaches skittered about the table, flaunting themselves as if they owned it. But that wasn't even the worst of it.
There were body parts. Platters showcased arms and legs, dripping blood, some with bite marks taken out of them, others missing fingers and toes. Bowls held organs, eyeballs, fingers, toes… There was no one else present at the table, but there were plates with leftovers—partially eaten clumps of flesh, and some bones almost cleaned.
The smell was too much; Lynette was going to be sick. She thought of every bad smell she encountered and each and every one of them were lovely compared to this rancid death.
The nausea exploded in the back of her throat and she felt the burning bile rise up, but as she tried to leave her seat, hands found her shoulders and all but shoved her back down, keeping her rooted.
Lynette didn't know how she knew it was the Lady of Decay who stood behind her, but she did. The certainty of it made her tremble. Perhaps it was the bony fingers that reminded her of a skeleton, or the stench that was all-too-much familiar to a corpse…
And when she spoke, her voice was low and velvety, and yet it made her grind her teeth in dread.
"No, no, no. My child must eat. Consume." One hand momentarily left her shoulder to airily gesture towards the table, then returned.
"No." Lynette tried to squirm free of her grasp, but it was futile. Her body might as well have been weighed down by a ton of bricks.
Suddenly the same hand was again no longer glued to her shoulder; instead there was a spoon held between the bony fingers, too close to Lynette's face, full of a clump of decaying flesh and dripping brown liquid. The smell alone made her eyes water.
And then she brought it to her lips, achingly slowly…
"No, no, no–" Lynette grit her teeth and leaned as far back away from the spoon as she could. She fought harder, her breaths coming erratic and sharp as she put every ounce of might against the vice-like grip of the Daedric Prince. She even tried toppling the chair.
Again, all futile. Control over her own body melted away and as if it had always been so, her hands suddenly tied to the arms of the chair. Her whole frame seemed to be paralyzed; she couldn't even turn her head. Panic that was a simmer went to a loud boil and spilled everywhere, heartbeat roaring in her ears.
"Open your mouth."
Lynette tried to resist, but she couldn't so much as wiggle; her jaw muscles were not under her control anymore. Her mouth opened wide, obeying Namira without hesitation, even as her mind howled and wept and tears dripped out of the corners of her eyes.
The spoon came then. The outline of it brushed her lips, and the mere sensation of the liquid had Lynette's stomach churning. But now Namira was being forceful. The spoon was thrust into her mouth and the chunk of flesh was deposited on her tongue before she pulled it back out and all but tossed back onto the table.
It tasted far worse than it smelled. The chunk sat on her tongue, exuding the horrid liquid, mingling with her saliva. It wasn't just tears now; her eyes watered and burned. She started to sob again and almost choked on it, but she refused to chew or swallow.
"Chew."
She couldn't speak; the unseen hands that forced her mouth open wouldn't allow it. But her mind sprinted with hysterics. Please, please, please don't do this. Please, I'm begging you.
But if Namira heard her thoughts, she paid them no mind.
Against her will once more, her jaw contracted and her teeth ripped into it, tearing it into swallowable pieces. The liquid and chunks seemed to expand and fill her entire mouth, and the whole time tears streamed her flaming cheeks.
Her throat would have tightened, were she reigning over her own body. She coughed and sputtered and yet still, she chewed it thoroughly, as if Namira wanted the memory of it imprinted in her mouth.
Again did Lynette imagine every horrible thing she tasted or smelled—as if searching for some way to console herself in the memories—and none of it came close to the torture that was eating this. Not even when she ate a piece to save herself was it this bad. This was older—tougher, more rotten, but still oozing. Her only blessing was that it wasn't infested with maggots.
"And swallow~!"
She did. Chewed to absolute mush, the horror had no issue sliding down her throat and settling heavily in the pit of her gut.
Only then did the Daedric Prince's hold loosen, and gone with it was the dream entirely.
Lynette roused almost as horribly as she left her dream. She threw aside whatever covered her and rolled on her side, fingers digging into the hard dirt as she coughed and spluttered.
She couldn't seem to gather air quick enough; her chest burned as she hauled in sharp, painful breaths. Nausea churned her stomach. It was as if a dark presence had taken her lungs in its claws and squeezed them as tightly as it could. Her back ached, but it was starkly separate from the pain in her chest.
There was an actual presence, though, and it wasn't nearly as dark as the claws in her chest. He helped her sit up, one hand to the small of her back and the other steadying her at her shoulder. He did not speak, not at first, only planted a firm palm between her shoulders and pressed it there. It was a silly thing to notice, but his hood was up.
Almost instantaneously there was a trickling sensation seeping through her clothes, entering her skin, and igniting straight through her insides until it wrapped around her lungs. Warm and cool simultaneously, both relieving and uncomfortable, but it cleared her airways rapidly and soon enough she was no longer struggling. Healing magic. The magic didn't depart after tending to her lungs; it sought out the aches in her back and assuaged those as well.
As if sensing he wouldn't pose her any further pain, Folkvar all but jumped in her lap and pressed his wet nose against her cheek, giving it an energetic lick.
She giggled. Despite the storm brewing inside, it was impossible not to be soothed by her hound's affection. She drew her fingers in a scratch between his ears until he too calmed down and curled up on her thighs. The weight wasn't comfortable by any means, but she was glad for his companionship.
"You were so exhausted you fell from your horse," Farengar remarked dryly after giving them their moment. To Lynette's dismay, he moved away from her. Though he continued to face her, he wasn't modest about putting a generous space between them.
She winced, but not from his words. "Sorry."
That was probably why her back ached. Though she couldn't recall when she had drifted off. Horseback—even ethereal horseback—was quite uncomfortable since she wasn't used to it. She had been extremely sleepy, yes, but she doubted her ability to sleep through falling.
But…with a Daedric Prince's influence involved…
Farengar's voice drew her out of such thoughts. "I'm not sure why you're apologizing to me, when you were the one who fell and therefore harmed." He elevated a singular eyebrow, which Lynette couldn't resist thinking was quite the skill, and strangely suited him. "Perhaps it should be the Companion who apologizes, since he failed to catch you."
Was it her imagination, or was his tone extra icy when he spoke of Vilkas? But it wasn't his fault!
Realizing she was staring too long into his face without saying anything, she flushed. "Vilkas isn't to blame, and I'm not harmed. A bit sore, but you took care of the worst of it."
"I should hope so." If his voice wasn't so apathetic, she might think he sounded cocky.
Unable to bring herself to meet his eyes again, she continued to pet Folkvar and looked around their makeshift campsite instead. They were in a small clearing and a fire crackled at the center. Although the trees grew around them thick, she could see the sun approaching the horizon's line through the foliage.
Did Vilkas make it, or did Farengar use magic? It felt too trivial to ask, so she didn't.
Vilkas wasn't in sight and the ethereal horses were gone, temporarily she assumed. The Siren was bound at her wrists and ankles, left on her back and slumbering so deeply she looked almost deceased. They'd left her only so close to the fire that she wouldn't freeze to death—though here it wasn't as deadly cold, surrounded by forest instead of snow.
The Siren hadn't even been given any sort of blanket, which caused Lynette a pang of pity. With the hand that wasn't petting Folkvar, she unconsciously latched onto the edge of the fur cloak in her lap. Farengar would keep the Siren alive, she knew that, but clearly there was no concern over her comfort.
She felt Farengar's eyes on her, even without seeing. They were heavy and inquisitive.
"She will be fine," he said, as if he read her thoughts.
Lynette started. "I-I know. I just feel bad. She's probably cold." She wanted to believe he couldn't read her mind, but she wasn't so sure.
"She tried to kill you. Us. Her comfort is none of our concern." He was brisk and presented a front that brooked no argument, but why did her heart quiver when he said 'us'? There was no extra meaning behind it, and yet… That kiss…
She opened her mouth to speak, but Farengar clearly knew her intent at disagreeing, and swiftly cut her off before she could begin. "Your breathing attack wasn't from any injury. The fall wasn't hard enough for that, I checked. And you were clearly suffering from a nightmare."
Not a question to be found in his words, at least not on the surface. Lynette chewed the inside of her cheek.
She could tell he was giving her space to confess what haunted her on her own, but how was she supposed to? Namira still had a hold on her, that much was obvious, and it was getting stronger. Deadlier, more terrifying. The dark edges of the Daedric Prince's influence teased the back of her mind, a predator waiting for the prey it stalked to become too exhausted and weak so it could pounce and devour it. Or Lynette's case, puppeteer her into consuming…consuming…
She couldn't even think of it. Despite how tiredness wore down her body, the prospect of sleeping made her gut clench and her insides crawl with revulsion. She couldn't experience that nightmare again. Couldn't. She would rather never sleep again.
"Lynette, you can talk to me."
Again his voice coaxed her from the dreadful thoughts and she lifted her head, which she hadn't realized she dipped. He was close again, inches apart, and she almost jumped. How had she not sensed him move closer?
"I… I don't know what to do," she blurted, her voice cracking with a sob, though she tried to suppress it. Moisture welled in her eyes but she did not let it drip.
With unfamiliar tenderness, Farengar lifted his hand and brushed the rebellious hair out of her face. The simple act caused her heart to falter and sputter.
Close as he was, his breath tickled her cheek. He used a finger to curl a strand of her hair around it, then drifted his fingers towards her face, touched her cheek, and cupped it softly but resolutely in his palm.
"I've got you."
Unfortunately Vilkas chose that moment to return. The noise of his boots tramping through undergrowth scared Lynette so badly she all but leapt away from Farengar, like a teenager whose parents caught her in the act of something forbidden. Whatever Farengar's reaction was, she didn't see, as she stared straight at the forest floor, wishing to bury her head there.
Folkvar was none the wiser. He perked up, ears pricked and tail wagging so aggressively it stirred the dirt. Lynette let him go so he could trot over to Vilkas, tail wagging all the way.
"Aye, you're awake!" Vilkas announced cheerfully as he spotted Lynette, giving a tiny wave with his free hand. Then he gave Folkvar his due attention, patting the top of his head, which caused the hound's tail to vibrate faster.
If she harbored any doubts over the integrity of Vilkas's character, Folkvar's acceptance and fondness of him put it all to rest.
A hesitantly warm smile upturned the Companion's mouth, but as far as she could tell, he didn't seem aware of how close she and Farengar were only moments before. Two strung up rabbit corpses hung from his arm, which he set on the ground near a pile of sticks. They weren't plump, but they clearly hadn't gone hungry. And now they were dead so the three of them could regain strength. Guilt and sorrow for their taken lives welled up in her chest, tightening it.
Whatever affection Farengar possessed was long gone, replaced by a stony expression as he regarded the Companion. "Was that all you could find?"
Lynette cringed internally on Vilkas's behalf. Shouldn't they be grateful he found any food at all?
But if Vilkas was offended by Farengar's demeanor, he didn't show it. "Afraid so. Those berries you saw are poisonous, I think."
"What did they look like?" she piped up, unable to help herself.
"Bright red with green leaves. They looked tasty, but I don't trust a pretty berry farther than I can throw it, if you know what I mean."
A grin poked his cheek, but if it was meant to charm Lynette away from her unquenchable curiosity, it failed miserably.
"Was the stem thin? And were the leaves green with spikes?"
"Aye on both accounts."
"Sounds like they're snowberries. They're pretty good and perfectly safe. I could go gather some, if they're close—"
"Absolutely not," Farengar cut her off, though when she gazed at him with a hurt expression, he softened.
"You need to rest if we're going to make it back to Whiterun in the morning. Furthermore, I can sense Namira's influence lingers in you. I fear you're becoming a danger to yourself as well as the people around you."
Lynette's throat tightened again, the truth barbed and unwelcome as it tore into her chest. But it was the truth. If she no longer had control over her own dreams, how long would it be until it leaked into the waking world? What if she hurt herself? Or Arcadia, or Vilkas? Or, Divines forfend, Folkvar or Farengar? She wouldn't be able to live with herself if any harm befell them because she couldn't seem to keep out of trouble.
"You can…sense it?" Vilkas wondered with raised eyebrows.
"Yes, but as it's magic, I don't expect you to understand." Farengar crossed his arms.
Somehow, seeing him sitting in the dirt beside her made him less an unapproachable, powerful mage and more of a…person? The mighty court mage, reduced to putting his rump in dirt, forced to feast on roasted rabbit instead of Dragonreach's fine cuisine, and share space with a Companion, the unluckiest girl alive, and a mutt… It was humbling, and worth a long laugh were the situation better.
Vilkas snorted and rolled his eyes but didn't challenge Farengar's haughtiness. The wiser course of action, really.
He sat down in front of his catch and began the process of skinning the rabbit's fur from the flesh. Folkvar seated himself nearby, watching with big, round eyes and a dollop of drool dripping out of his maw.
As soon as his knife dipped into one of the poor rabbits, Lynette felt sick and had to turn away. Perhaps eating them when they were cooked would be easier, though she wasn't sure she could eat meat whatsoever after that nightmare, even if it was only an animal.
"I don't know much about Daedric Princes, but even tots know they're bad news. How has Lynette gotten herself mixed up with one?"
"Markarth," she muttered. Damnable Markarth.
"What happened in Markarth?" he pressed.
She was in no hurry to relive that, but she knew she needed to give them something. Or rather, Vilkas. She suspected Farengar knew the whole story already. He seemed awfully quiet and without questions.
"It's a long story," she said with a weary sigh, bringing her legs to her chest and hugging them. "One I don't care to experience again. But in summary I had a…run-in with some followers of Namira. They were going to eat me, but I somehow convinced them I was one of them and escaped." She gnawed the flesh of her cheek again, pressing her chin against her knees. "I heard Namira's voice in my head then, but I thought since I vomited she would be gone… But I was wrong. I've had nightmares since and…and urges that are not mine."
"So you ate flesh and now Namira's got her claws in you." A statement, not a question.
Her eyes burned. "Only because it was the only way for me to survive." Her voice quaked. "I threw it up. I thought I would be fine… I didn't want to. But I also didn't want to die, and…and…"
"I'm not judgin'!" Vilkas amended hastily. She wasn't watching him closely because of the skinning, but in her peripheral vision she saw him raise the hand holding the knife in surrender. "I've done things to survive that I wouldn't write home about."
Lynette could only nod, words failing her. Asking him what things would be extremely inappropriate, but she didn't want to delve further into the topic on her end. She dug her fingernails into her knees, missing the feel of Folkvar's hair between her fingers and its solace. He was still totally enamored with the food preparation.
Done with the first rabbit's skinning, Vilkas laid it across some twigs and started on the second. "So… What's the plan then?"
"The same. We bring the Siren back to Whiterun, and then we deal with Lynette's ailment," Farengar answered.
This satisfied Vilkas, who resumed his whole focus on preparing their meal, but Lynette was anything but content. If they were lucky, they could easily make it back to Whiterun tomorrow, but there was no way it would be without any hitches. Not with her abysmal luck.