Snippets of Destiny

By Leoni Venter

Based on Oblivion by Bethesda Softworks

Part 2: Lark

Lark sat down.

He glanced nervously around the office, waiting for Captain Jauffre to finish reading a dispatch. The office, little more than a cubicle in the wall of the Imperial Palace, nonetheless had a window affording a view over Green Emperor Way. Outside people walked purposefully or conversed in low voices so as not to disturb the Emperor or the Council in the Chambers. Inside, every surface was cluttered with papers, maps and dispatch cases - sources of information that the Blades analysed and acted upon in their duty to protect the Emperor.

Jauffre finally set the dispatch aside and studied Lark for a long moment. "Blade Silas," he acknowledged.

"You sent for me, Captain?" Lark asked, wondering if he had erred in answering the summons. Privately he suspected that someone had made a mistake in calling him, as he had not been a Blade very long and had never been asked to report to the Captain before.

"I did," Jauffre confirmed. "I have a special assignment for you." He searched for a particular piece of paper on his desk, found it and handed it to Lark. "I want you to go to Chorrol and find the farm of Beran Retienne. He's a milk farmer with a wife and 15-year-old son. I want you to befriend the boy and teach him all you know about combat, self defence and survival in general."

"A boy?" Lark asked incredulously, and mentally kicked himself as Jauffre fixed him with a disapproving look. "Sorry sir."

"I am aware of your background, Blade Silas," Jauffre continued. "I know you are well qualified for this task."

Jauffre was right, Lark reflected. He had grown up in a band of mercenaries who had taught him to fight since he was old enough to hold a blade. But what had attracted the attention of the Blades was not his skill as a fighter, but as a minstrel. Lark was named for his voice, and when Captain Jacques had found him he was teaching some youngsters the history of Cyrodiil with a ballad he had composed himself. Captain Jacques had asked him to join the Blades because he could travel incognito as a minstrel, but Lark had a nagging suspicion that Captain Jauffre did not altogether trust him.

"With respect, sir," Lark said after a moment's hesitation. "I joined the Blades to protect the Emperor..."

Jauffre sighed. "I know, Blade. But this task is more important than you can know. The boy is the Emperor's son. I entrust his safety to you, in the hope that you will never need to defend him, and in the hope that he will live his life never knowing his true legacy."

Lark sat speechless. He was to protect the Emperor's son? Guess they trusted him after all. He realised that he was staring with wide eyes at Jauffre, and cleared his throat. "I understand, sir. How long should I remain there?"

Jauffre leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, all trace of formality gone. "For as long as necessary." He sat back. "Go be a minstrel, Lark. Teach the boy to defend himself, keep an eye on him and live your life." He smiled. "You have far too fine a voice to waste it on a bunch of soldiers."

Lark was shocked. He had only just become a Blade, and now he was being exiled from that Brotherhood. "I am no longer a Blade, sir?"

"You will always be a Blade, Lark." Jauffre replied. "Just deeply under cover, if you will. You know the signs to identify yourself to other Blades. You need only ask and Blades will assist you, and you will always be welcome in our safe houses. I will arrange with Count Valga of Chorrol to pay your Blades salary as well. The Count will know your true status but not the reason why you are stationed there." He handed Lark a scroll. "Give this to the Count when you arrive."

Lark got up and stood at attention. "Yes sir! I will not let you down!"

Jauffre laughed. "I know you won't, Lark. But you had better lose the military manner."

Lark shrugged, relaxing. "I'm no good at it anyway."

"You are good at what counts," Jauffre told him. "Now go get that fat white horse of yours from the stable and get going."

"He's not fat," Lark protested. "He's just well-padded."

"The better to sit on," Jauffre agreed. "Good luck, Lark. Drop in whenever you can."

"Thank you, Captain," Lark replied. He saluted, turned briskly and marched out of Jauffre's office. Outside he dropped the military manner, this time for good.

The sun rose.

Lark was again dressed in his minstrel's garb of green leather pants, green-and-yellow striped shirt and knee-high leather riding boots. His sword hung from a loop on his saddle and his throwing knives were hidden about his body as usual. His armour was securely packed in a bundle behind him on the horse. The nice thing about Pavan, his admittedly fat horse, was that he did not mind Lark letting the reins hang loose while he played his lute as they plodded along. Pavan kept to the way of least resistance - the road - and Lark fancied that the horse even liked his playing and singing.

As they crested a hill, a magnificent stag bounded across the road ahead of them. It stopped for a moment to regard Lark with surprise, ears twitching at the sound of the lute. Then it startled and disappeared into the woods. The beauty of the moment inspired Lark and he started to pick out a new tune, using what he saw around him to fill in the details.

"Where are you going?" he sang. "Alone there in the misty morn."

He looked between the trunks of the old forest to see where the stag had gone. "The trees have been growing before your ancestors were born." The rising sun supplied the next line. "Sunlight is peeking through the golden leaves of fall." He remembered the stag's reaction to his lute. "And you seem to be seeking the direction of some silent call." A squirrel chattered at him as his passage disturbed it, so he wrote it in. "Small creatures are working to gather food against the cold." The road was strewn with autumn leaves. "And sylvan load is lightening as fallen leaves turn gold." Time to finish it off, he decided. "Oh, where are you going? Poised there in primordial might." What rhymes with 'might'? Ah. "With merely a sense of knowing that dawn will follow after night."

"That was beautiful," a voice said. "Won't you play it again?"

Lark looked down to see a youth step from the wood unto the road. About fifteen years old, Lark thought, wondering if this was the boy he would come to know so well. No need to rush anything.

"Certainly," he said and sang his new song again as the boy kept pace with the plodding horse. When he was done he introduced himself. "People call me Lark, and this is Pavan." He indicated the horse.

"I'm Martin Retienne," the boy said, confirming Lark's hunch. "What does 'Pavan' mean?"

"The wind," Lark replied.

Martin regarded the fat horse for a moment, politely trying not to laugh, and Lark rescued him from making an unfortunate remark. "In his young days, Pavan was indeed as swift as the wind, young master. But now that he's old and dignified we don't hold that against him."

Martin grinned. "Of course not." He considered something for a moment. "Have you had breakfast yet, Mister Lark?"

Lark laughed. "Just Lark will do. And yes, I did nibble on some dried rations an hour or so ago."

"Then perhaps you might like a real farm breakfast by now," Martin said. "I live not far from here."

It seemed to Lark as if the fates were arranging this meeting to go smoothly, which, knowing about the Septim bloodline, did not surprise him too much. "I would be honoured," he replied. His stomach growled in agreement.

Martin giggled. "Follow me," he said, and lead the way.

The kettle sang on the hearth.

Sathna Retienne stood up to set the tea steeping, and Martin gathered the used dishes from the table and carried them outside to wash them in the tub next to the well. Lark sat back. The 'real farm breakfast' of fresh bread, eggs and sausages left him replete, and he doubted he could move much for the moment.

"My thanks, Ma'am," he said. "That was a fine meal."

She smiled in reply and busied herself clearing up the kitchen.

"So you're a minstrel," Beran Retienne stated. "Where from?"

Lark considered his reply carefully, as Beran had been watching him rather intently during the meal. "Well, I grew up near Anvil," he said. "My father leads a band of fighters. Not bandits!" he said quickly as he saw Beran getting upset. "They do contract work for Count Umbranox, clearing goblins from mines, that sort of thing." Beran nodded. "Ever since I can remember, I could sing, and I could play the lute since I was seven. My real name is Silas, but pretty soon everyone just called me Lark."

"I see," Beran said. "So you decided to leave Anvil?"

"I wanted to see more of the world," Lark explained. "The Gold Coast is beautiful, but it is only one part of Cyrodiil. I left Anvil when I was eighteen, travelled to Kvatch, through Skingrad and on to Bravil. I stayed there for a few months, singing in a tavern, and then I moved on to Leyawin. I didn't stay there for long; I guess I'm not suited for the tropics." He grinned. "Then I did a long haul up the Nibenenay Valley, looked at Cheydinhal, and finally reached Bruma. It's very cold up in the Jerall Mountains, but those Nords tell the most amazing tales. Someone in Bruma told me to go to the Imperial City next, so that's where I ended up for almost a year. It's taken four years all told of singing for my supper in wayside inns, ratty dives and royal parlours to get here."

"You sang for the emperor?" Beran was sceptical.

"Not exactly," Lark grinned. "I sang in the emperor's parlour, but he wasn't there. I entertained some of the ladies of the court."

"From the court to Chorrol," Beran mused. "Quite a come down."

"Perhaps," Lark agreed. "But I haven't been to Chorrol yet, so here I am."

Beran suddenly laughed. "How about singing for your breakfast?"

"Of course," Lark said, getting up. "I'll just get my lute."

"No, no!" Beran stopped him. "I'll send Martin." Lark settled back into his seat. "Martin!" Beran yelled. "Fetch Lark's lute, please."

A few moments later Martin appeared with the lute, and they all settled down to listen. Lark adjusted the tuning. "What would you like to hear?"

"Play your song about the stag," Martin said quickly.

At nods from Beran and Sathna, Lark did so. He tried more intricate chording and fingering patterns this time, turning the simple tune into a more complex work with a counter melody worked in against the lyrical line. He did not look at his audience until the last note had faded. Sathna sat with her eyes closed, a smile on her lips. Beran was nodding in time with the music as if he still heard it. And Martin was sitting with his mouth open in awe.

"It didn't sound like that this morning!" he finally said.

"No," Lark said. "I was still working on it, after all. This is only the third time I've played it."

"You have a marvellous gift," Beran said.

"Can you teach me to play like that?" Martin asked at the same time.

All laughed.

"I'd be happy to teach you," Lark said. "But it will take a lot of practice, you know."

"I know," Martin said. "When can we start?"

Lark laughed. "At least let me get settled in Chorrol. Then we can work out when and where your lessons can take place."

"Wonderful," Martin said. "Oh! The dishes!" He stood up. "I'll be right back." He dashed outside and his mother smilingly followed to help him.

Lark noticed that Beran was watching him intently again. "What?" he asked.

"You remind me of someone," Beran said slowly. "Fifteen years ago a man brought Martin to us. He asked us to raise and protect him. At the time, I thought that it was chance that brought him to us, but now…"

Lark quailed inwardly. It seemed that his cover was blown and he could not think what he had done wrong. Beran was incredibly perceptive. Lark knew without a doubt that if he denied Beran's speculations, the man would sense his lying and would never trust him. And Lark needed Beran's trust if he was to have access to Martin.

"Now?" he asked gently.

"Now you've come, and you instantly charmed my Martin, and he doesn't take to people quickly. And there is something in your manner… Are you of Martin's real kin?"

"No," Lark replied. "But I, too, have been asked to look out for him and protect him."

"By his father?" Beran asked. "The man who brought him?"

"I've never met his father," Lark said truthfully. "But yes, the man who brought him sent me."

"Who is he?"

How much to tell, Lark wondered. "His name is Jauffre," he said. "He serves in the Order of Talos in the Imperial City." That was true enough. The Blades have always been connected with the Order of Talos.

"Jauffre," Beran repeated. "Where did he get Martin?"

"I don't know the whole story," Lark said. "I'd guess someone left the baby with the Order, and Jauffre found him a home."

"And will he want him back?"

Lark realised that Beran was desperately afraid that he would lose Martin, although he was hiding it well. "He told me to teach Martin to defend himself, so that he could live his life in safety without knowing his true legacy, whatever that may be." He looked Beran in the eyes. "You do not need to fear for your son."

Beran held his gaze for a while, then nodded and slowly smiled. "No, I can see I do not. You'll be staying, then?"

"For as long as necessary," Lark said, and they both knew that it was a lifetime commitment. What Beran guessed about Martin's origins, Lark could not tell, but he felt certain Beran would keep it to himself.

"Well," Lark said. "I'd better get to Chorrol and find a place to stay."

"I'll ride along," Beran said, surprising him. "I have business in town."

So it came that Lark entered Chorrol accompanied by Beran, Martin and three cows on their way to market. Somehow, he had become part of the family, and when he took his leave of them he missed them immediately, as he had never missed his real family. It felt right to know that he would see them again soon.

To be continued...

Disclaimer: All of Oblivion belongs to Bethesda Softworks. I'm just letting my mind wander through time a bit... Lark's songs are mine though...