Ever since the Dominion wrested full control of the Imperial City, the White-Gold tower has been empty, avoided due to the cold touch of residual echoes left behind by powerful Daedric magic. Whatever foul spell the Worm King had woven within the tower, no one shall ever know – no trace of him or his cultists can be found. All they are left with, are the broken remnants of the tower, and guesses at the horrors that had taken place inside. The stories themselves are enough to keep the soldiers away – all but one, who is willing to brave the cold, oppressive air in darkened passageways, and find a spot between its crumbled walls that affords a moment of quiet.
Sielaire's body is wound tight – it has been since her escape from Pact captivity – but she forces her muscles to relax, leaning back on charred stone covered in a layer of dust. Idly caressing the circlet in her hands, she stares out at the ruined city, abandoned but still standing beneath a red-tinted orange sky. The sight is poignantly beautiful – it had captivated her when she stood atop the tower weeks ago, the only survivor of a three-way battle, with broken shackles weighing on her wrists. But as mesmerising as it was then, Sielaire's senses have long since been dulled to its novelty. She can no longer appreciate a beautiful sunset, not when she can smell blood, brimstone, and rot in the air.
Darkness creeps into the edges of her consciousness, but Sielaire forces it back with a glance down at the silver circlet in her hands. She reads the inscriptions in ancient Altmeris, feeling the latent protective energy within the metal. This gift, which has given her comfort and safety in the war, raises a sudden torrent of questions that agitates her. Why is she even there, in the Imperial City? A city abandoned by its citizens, torn apart by violence, inhabited only by Daedra and soldiers who saturate its once-pristine grounds with blood and decay.
Pointless. It is pointless. The Dominion has control of the city now, but their spies have reported activity in the sewers, as the other two alliances regroup and prepare to strike once more; to claim that which they desire, only to lose it again in a matter of days or weeks. It is a vicious cycle with no end in sight, and Sielaire is tiring, aching. Ready to set down this weight from her shoulders, if not for the one reason she is here in the first place.
Running a thumb over the single nick in the silver circlet, Sielaire's heart wavers dangerously like a flickering flame, when she thinks of her wife. It is for Ayrenn's sake that she is here, to turn the Queen's dream into reality with her own hands. But the desire to stay and fight disappears in this moment, and she wishes dearly for her wife's warmth on her skin, to be safe within the protected walls of the royal palace, instead of this…damned pit of destruction and death. Danger lurks in every shadow here, and Sielaire can scarcely turn her back or close her eyes without feeling vulnerable…
Her eyes briefly fall shut, as memories of chains and sneers and agony flashes through her mind, and she forces herself to take deep, calming breaths, ignoring the prickle of magicka about her arms. Her fingers grip onto the circlet, and she clutches it to her chest protectively, drawing strength that she cannot find in smooth silver warmed by her own touch.
Ayrenn.
As always, the mantra ghosts over her tongue, rising with the surge of intense fear, fighting the guttural sneer that haunts the back of her mind.
Ayrenn. Where are you? I need you. Please. Please…
Sielaire gasps when she hears the sudden scrape on stone behind her. Adrenaline rushes into her veins as she turns around, hands glowing stark green, but pauses when her panicked gaze lands on the soldier walking up to her with both hands raised.
Earilas meets her nervous gaze steadily, stopping for a moment to let Sielaire regain her wits. Instinct gives way to thought, and Sielaire forces herself to breathe easy, lowering her hands and dissipating the magicka with difficulty. She turns away from Earilas, and feels a spike of irritation when he sits beside her, but she bites down the rebuke that has risen to her lips.
"Just checking on you," Earilas says. "You left camp without a word to anyone else, so…"
"I'm–" Sielaire's throat clogs before she can say 'fine', and she falls into defeated silence, not bothering to finish her reply.
"It's alright. I imagine you've suffered much in Pact hands. It will take time to heal."
If it ever does. Sielaire bites her lip, focusing on the circlet again, its featherlight weight in her hands just enough to anchor her in the present.
"If you need someone to talk to, I'll be here. Provided I don't get killed, that is."
Sielaire sighs at his flippant remark, and looks her lieutenant over. Earilas has been fighting by her side ever since they stepped foot in Cyrodiil together, and he has not once lost his sense of humour in the long months since, even if it takes the occasional morbid turn. But for all his lighthearted mien, Earilas does look the part of a soldier trapped in war. His luscious silver-blonde locks have been shorn away, leaving bare the healing head wounds that had necessitated the haircut. Scars cut angry lines all over his skin, the most prominent one carving its way up the side of his neck. His face is gaunter, like Sielaire's, but she is glad he's still here to look so.
Earilas gives her a smile, then nods at the circlet. "That's the Queen's, isn't it?"
Sielaire hesitates for a moment, before admitting, "Yes."
"I knew it," Earilas huffs under his breath, leaning back on his hands. "Thought I'd seen it around somewhere. You two are…really close, huh?"
"You could say that," Sielaire whispers, thumb rubbing idly over the circlet. Earilas doesn't really have to ask – he knows full well that Sielaire had started sleeping in Ayrenn's chambers long ago. And though he knows of their affair, he has never asked the question outright.
"I know there are plenty of rumours and stuff, but…" Earilas leans in conspiratorially. "Just how close are you?"
Sielaire's lips part in a rare smile. She takes a breath, but stops before saying anything. Glancing at Earilas, she thinks it over, then pulls the glove from her hand, revealing the golden wedding band on her finger.
Earilas's eyes grow wide, then wider still. "I–, you're–, you're not–?"
Sielaire nods, thoroughly amused by his growing skepticism.
"You're married to the Queen?" Earilas whispers, voice hushed, as if afraid to be overhead in the empty Tower. "She's your–? You're her–, wife?"
She nods again.
"I–, since when!"
"Couple of months before we set sail to Cyrodiil," Sielaire says quietly. "We had a small ceremony…"
"And you didn't invite me!"
"I didn't want to implicate you in a…risky move."
"But after all we've been through, Sielaire?" Earilas looks utterly heartbroken. "And you just…leave me out when you get married to the Queen–?"
"You'll be there for the next one, okay?" Sielaire huffs, enjoying but quite done with his mock hurt. She looks down at the circlet again, and the faint smile falls from her lips. "If there will be one."
"Oh, you bet your scarf there will be one," Earilas says, shuffling onto his knees. "Trust me." He knocks a fist against his chest. "I'll see you back home safe, even if it kills me."
"If it kills you? Then you won't be at the ceremony, will you?" Sielaire points out, and Earilas blinks.
"Oh, right." He grins sheepishly.
Ayrenn shakes her head, poring over the numerous reports laid out on her desk. "Our hands are tied. We have the Imperial City for now, yes. But our forces have occupied it for nearly a month, while their numbers and supplies dwindle rapidly. If they stay in the city, they will be overwhelmed by the other alliances – it is inevitable. But if we pull out of the city, we will lose our ground completely. There's no telling when – or even if – we can take it back."
"Then the choice is quite simple, yes?" Alwinarwe says, head cocked in thought. "Either way, our soldiers will lose the Imperial City. Better to do it on their own terms, than to be slaughtered while they are weak."
Ayrenn's mind goes blank as Alwin's words sink in, and she gives a tired smile. "How right you are, cousin. You know, you're pretty good at this. Are you sure you don't want to be involved with the military?"
"No," Alwin says simply. "I believe my…inexperience is what helps you here."
Ayrenn nods slowly. "A detached opinion does help. Not that it means you don't care," she adds quickly. "It just gives you a clearer head."
"Compared to you, I'll always have the clearer head." Alwin's lips curve in a near-imperceptible smile.
Ayrenn accepts the assessment with a laugh, knowing her cousin speaks the truth. She looks down at the reports, scattered over a small, annotated map of Cyrodiil. She reaches for the one she knows by heart, which details the return of the commanding battlereeve, who was thought to have been lost in a disastrous encounter with Daedra. Her fingers rest heavily on the parchment, eyes lingering on a single name.
Misgiving twists her heart. Sielaire's last projection had been months ago, and since then, Ayrenn has only communicated with the commanders leading the army in Sielaire's absence. Even after her return, Sielaire has yet to speak with Ayrenn directly – and after such a long time of silence, Ayrenn can only assume that it is Sielaire's choice. The thought troubles Ayrenn deeply, and she has spent countless nights wondering why her wife would want to avoid her. Has something happened to Sielaire? Ayrenn knows she'd been captured by the Pact. What if Sielaire…has done something she regrets–?
No.
Ayrenn shakes her head in self-reproach. Nothing will ever turn this battlereeve against the Dominion and its Queen – Ayrenn knows this more surely than she knows her own heart. Something must have happened to her. Something that holds her back from her own wife.
Damn it. Ayrenn curses herself. She should've gone with Sielaire to Cyrodiil, instead of acting the part of a wise, cautious Queen.
"Have you heard from Sielaire?" Alwinarwe asks, and Ayrenn heaves a sigh.
"No. She hasn't spoken to me, nor has she sent a letter. Not even a note to tell me she's alive." Ayrenn's foot starts tapping at the floor in discomfort, and she straightens from the desk, wearing a frown. "I'm worried, Alwin. It's not like her to stay away when she can contact me."
"She might be busy."
"Yes, but it has never stopped her before." Ayrenn paces behind her desk, as she wrestles with the urge to fly off to Cyrodiil. "I have a feeling, Alwin. I don't think she is well. Gods, I'm so worried about her, yet I'm stuck here instead of–"
"Well then, remedy the situation," Alwinarwe cuts in gently, before Ayrenn can ramble. "Pull our soldiers out of the Imperial City. Allow them to regroup…or even come home, should they need it."
Ayrenn nods blankly at first, then with more purpose as she forms a plan to bring her wife home. "Yes. That is wise, Alwin. Expending ourselves in a futile endeavour is not worthy. We'll save our soldiers for future victories."
Alwin's gaze softens in understanding as she clasps Ayrenn's hand, and gives a comforting squeeze.
The Queen's order comes as a surprise, a lash of shame, and an immense relief all at once. They hadn't expected to withdraw after their unprecedented feat of occupying the entire city, and aren't quite willing to, with all they'd sacrificed for it. But reality weighs upon them, day after day, and it is fact that they are slowly crumbling under the sheer pressure of keeping themselves together. Their numbers grow ever thinner from battle against the alliances and Daedra, and with their supply caravans being constantly ambushed, they are running low on basic necessities and healing caches required to keep them alive.
To withdraw from the Imperial City, is to give up the very prize they have suffered months for. In exchange, they are afforded a chance to save their lives. While many are grateful for the Queen's mercy, their pride stings – retreat is perhaps the greatest show of weakness in their position, and it is a bitter pill to swallow.
Be that as it may, Sielaire passes the order down to her soldiers, who pack their camp with all haste, and remove every sign of living left by their troops – a precaution to avoid leaving any information for their foes to learn. In the dark of night, the Dominion marches through the sewers that leads them to the countryside, from which they move south into Elsweyr. Back in Dominion territory, they find a Mages Guild hall, and travel to Senchal by way of portal, where they set sail back to the Summerset Isles.
Sielaire dreads her return home for the whole journey, piecing together an explanation for her inability to keep her troops in shape, and the Imperial City under control. The Queen slips into her nightmares where Daedra and Pact shackles already torment her, and Sielaire gradually loses her ability to sleep through the night, while on the voyage home.
When she finally sets foot in the royal palace, Sielaire is dismayed to learn that Ayrenn is holding court. Custom dictates that she reports immediately, and Sielaire paces by the throne room's doors, heart pounding in her ears as she waits for the herald to announce her presence to the Queen. He returns much too quickly, and asks her to wait for a moment – during which Sielaire hears footsteps streaming from the upper floors. When the noise dies down, he bows his head and pushes the doors open for her.
Sielaire squares her shoulders and walks in with all the dignity she can muster, even as her heart dies inside. She tries to meet Ayrenn's eyes, watching the slight smile fall from her wife's face, and she lowers her gaze to the floor. Both Ayrenn and Alwinarwe are waiting on the dais for her, and only a few Thalmor councilors are seated within the chamber – for which Sielaire is grateful. Ayrenn has had the presence of mind to dismiss her subjects before Sielaire exposes her shame.
Falling to one knee before her Queen, Battlereeve Sielaire bows her head low, and in a steady voice reports her return upon the Queen's order – which was necessitated by Sielaire's failure as a commander.
Her words echo through the closed chamber and back to her ears, almost in chastisement. Sielaire takes a breath at the end of her report, and says, "I will accept any punishment you deem fit, Your Majesty."
A heavy silence follows, but it isn't long before Ayrenn moves down from the dais, to stand before her. Sielaire steels herself as Ayrenn grasps her by the shoulders, and she doesn't dare resist when Ayrenn guides her to her feet. She keeps her eyes respectfully lowered, and hears Ayrenn speak.
"It was an impossible battle," the Queen says. Compassionate, calming. But Sielaire only wants to fold into herself. "You have fought four armies, mortal and Daedra alike. Yet you have kept your soldiers standing, and lived to fight another day. To serve the Dominion. That, in itself, is a victory, Battlereeve."
Sielaire's lips part slightly, but she is winded, and can find no words to speak against the Queen's declaration. So she stays her tongue, and salutes in a tired motion. Never making eye contact, Sielaire utters a brief 'thank you' when Ayrenn grants her troops a weeks' worth of rest, then bows low to the Queen. She walks out of the throne room when she is dismissed, weight lifting off her chest, leaving her alone with wounded pride, and the desire to curl up and hide in a dark corner.
Sielaire avoids her for the rest of the day, and Ayrenn gives her the space she needs. But when the second and third day passes, and Ayrenn hasn't gotten a single glimpse of her wife since the throne room, she decides to make the first move. With Razum-dar's help, Ayrenn tracks Sielaire down in one of the palace's many hallways, and yanks her wife through a hidden entrance into the secret passageways. Sielaire tries to dig her heels in, but when the Queen's grip on her wrist only tightens, she stops struggling and follows Ayrenn to the royal chambers in silence.
When the wall panel slides back into place, Ayrenn turns around to look at her wife – aching at the sight of her gaunt cheeks, the half-hollow stare at the floor, the new scars on her face. Sielaire doesn't move at the call of her name, but as Ayrenn starts probing for the source of her troubles, she backs away. Step after step, each meant to put more distance between her and Ayrenn, who follows with questions on her lips.
Weak protests and warnings are all Sielaire gives, before she seems to shut down, no longer hearing Ayrenn as she paces agitatedly around the room, frowning and squinting at the floor, hands reaching up to her head, sparking erratically with magicka. Ayrenn stops and curses herself when Sielaire hunches over, hands clutching tightly at the sides of her head, trembling breaths loud enough to hear.
"Sie," Ayrenn whispers, moving cautiously towards her wife. "I'm sorry. Sie, it's okay. It's–"
She grasps Sielaire's arm gently, but freezes when Sielaire seems to lock up at her touch. Ayrenn hesitates, and moves closer against her better sense, then stops again when Sielaire's head whips towards her.
"Sie?" Ayrenn asks, while the glare burns into her worried gaze. "I'm here. I can help. Just tell me what's bothering you."
She takes another step forward, and it sets Sielaire off. A primal flash of anger – and something deeper – crosses Sielaire's eyes, and before Ayrenn can even take a breath, she feels a painful grip on her own arm. Surprise, then confusion overtakes her when she is shoved against the wall, back hitting cold marble, before lips crash into hers with no care or tenderness. Teeth clicking together in the rough kiss, Ayrenn feels a sting on her bottom lip as Sielaire slips into her mouth.
She yields to Sielaire's roughness, only regaining enough sense to sling her arms around her wife's neck, as Sielaire tugs her impossibly closer. Teeth pinch at Ayrenn's lips, and she takes a quiet gasp when her feet leave the ground, Sielaire hitching her up onto her hips. Ayrenn tries to kiss her again, but is tossed to the bed carelessly, immediately joined by Sielaire, who doesn't wait for her to recover. Lips and teeth burn over Ayrenn's body, nails digging and raking hard over her flesh, stoking a desire that soon overshadows her concern. Ayrenn loses herself and gives in, arching into Sielaire's mouth, and a reflexive whimper escapes her lips when Sielaire's teeth breaks skin on her chest.
Sielaire halts abruptly, and Ayrenn forces her eyes open to look at her wife, who is staring at the bite in mute horror. Ayrenn touches the wound, feeling drops of blood on her fingertips, and weaves a quick healing spell that knits the flesh together. She caresses Sielaire's cheek, and when her wife doesn't respond, she slowly guides Sielaire's head up to meet her eyes. Sielaire's gaze locks with hers, filled with dismay, rapidly growing blank – further away.
"Sie. Sie, stay with me," Ayrenn says before Sielaire can detach completely. "Sie, love. Look at me. Me."
Sielaire doesn't respond, so Ayrenn pulls her head down, bringing their lips together in a kiss that Sielaire barely reciprocates. She gives another soft kiss, then pushes Sielaire onto the bed – her wife oddly pliant to her urging. Ayrenn kisses her lips once more, then trails down her jaw, neck, and farther down her body, making sure to press against Sielaire's skin with enough force to anchor her wife in the present. She smiles faintly into Sielaire's chest when fingers reach into her blonde tresses, and her restraint eases under her wife's touch.
Ayrenn unties the drawstrings of Sielaire's top without looking, going through familiar motions as she kisses along fair skin revealed to her. But when she takes the shirt and starts pulling it down, Sielaire's hand clamps around her wrist, stopping her. Ayrenn glances up at her pleading expression, and discerns the unspoken plea when she notices an angry red scar peeking from beneath the fabric. Putting on a comforting smile, Ayrenn takes Sielaire's hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles, before proceeding to pull her wife's shirt down.
Sielaire grips onto her shoulder, as Ayrenn takes in the litany of scars – the most prominent of which spans across her abdomen, down to her hip. They are too wide to be inflicted by a whetted blade, too parallel to be different strokes. Claw marks, Ayrenn guesses, probably from a Daedric creature. She runs her fingertips up the ridged flesh, then notices Sielaire's chest jerking in irregular spasms. Ayrenn looks up, and finds Sielaire covering her eyes with a hand, hiding tears as she swallows her sobs with gritted teeth. She fights against Ayrenn, who tries to pull her hand away, and Sielaire only relents after a few murmured coaxes.
"It's alright, Sie," Ayrenn whispers, her own throat tightening at Sielaire's silent tears. "You look just fine."
Sielaire starts shaking her head, and Ayrenn holds her in place with a soft kiss to her lips. She gives little pecks until Sielaire returns them – perhaps as a distraction, because her hand reaches for Ayrenn's in an effort to pull her away. But Ayrenn clasps onto her, staying in place.
"Relax, dearest," Ayrenn murmurs against Sielaire's lips. She strokes damaged skin with her knuckles, before her fingers roam lower. "I'll take care of you."
Sielaire's face scrunches, but she doesn't tear her watery gaze from Ayrenn's. She yields under Ayrenn's kisses, answering each one with her own, and threads her fingers through blond hair. Ayrenn gladly deepens the kiss when Sielaire pulls her closer, and she gives her wife all the reassurance she needs, everything.
Ayrenn strides through the hallway briskly, too impatient to slow her pace for the attendants hurrying behind her. Heart pounding in her chest, Ayrenn is focused on one thing only, and doesn't acknowledge a single soul who bows to her, as she sweeps through the hospital wing of the barracks. She enters the officer's ward without ceremony, and finds two healers tending to their patient – an unconscious battlereeve who has been stripped of his armour, leaving bare the cracked and bleeding patches of charred skin. He is the victim of a devastating lightning spell – of that, Ayrenn has no doubt. She knows Sielaire's work all too well.
A captain waits at a respectful distance from the bed, and beside him is Sielaire, who salutes to Ayrenn along with her colleague – though she doesn't stop staring at the injured battlereeve.
"What happened?" Ayrenn demands, and the captain hastens to reply, for fear that the Queen's impatience will soon turn to anger.
"It was a routine field exercise, Your Majesty," he says, bowing his head. "We were practicing troop maneuvers in an ambush, but when the trap was sprung…" He glances at Sielaire uncertainly, then gestures at the bed. "An accident occurred."
Ayrenn nearly snorts at his attempt to downplay the severity of the situation, and cover up any blame. Everyone present damn well knows what has happened – and that it's been waiting to happen for a long while. Ayrenn looks to Sielaire, whose eyes are still fixed on the patient. She has tried to persuade the battlereeve to rest, to abstain from her duties until she has recovered. But Sielaire – even with shadows hanging persistently beneath her eyes, and a complexion that seems to grow paler with each passing day – insisted on working despite her exhaustion, her pain. And Ayrenn – fool that she was – had allowed Sielaire to do so, if it meant making her wife happy for a brief moment.
And now, it has come crashing down upon their heads.
Ayrenn takes a breath, and steels herself. "Battlereeve Sielaire."
Sielaire squares her shoulders instinctively, turning to face the Queen.
"You are hereby relieved of your duties, until a healer deems you fit to bear them once more."
Sielaire's eyes widen by a fraction, bearing a dangerous glint which is soon smothered by a heavy look of defeat. Her expression grows placid as the silence drags on, gaze dropping to the floor before she salutes, and marches out of the ward.
Ayrenn sighs to herself – Sielaire hadn't even glanced at her on the way out.
It is habit now, to check on Sielaire at regular intervals throughout the day, and offer simple touches or conversation to soothe her wife's nerves, which have frayed in her absence. Even in the night, Ayrenn watches over Sielaire – periodically stirring from her dreams to reach sleepily for her wife. Tonight, she finds an empty space beside her again. Ayrenn's eyes fall shut in exasperation, before worry pushes her to rise and shake off the heavy threads of sleep. Her feet meet the cold floor, but she doesn't bother with slippers, walking out into the balcony barefooted.
As always, she finds Sielaire pacing under the night sky, nervous fingers wringing together while magicka crackles around her arms unpredictably. Green eyes turn to her for a second, before Sielaire averts her gaze to resume pacing, looking more frustrated when Ayrenn walks towards her.
"Nightmare?" Ayrenn asks, and Sielaire doesn't reply. She waits, then tries again. "What's wrong, love?"
Sielaire doesn't stop pacing, but she shakes her head, agitated.
"Sie, you'll have to talk to me eventually," Ayrenn says. "You can't keep going on like this. You're hurting yourself."
Another shake of the head, sharper this time.
"Talk to me, beloved. Please." Ayrenn tries to touch her arm, but Sielaire pulls away. "I can help you. If you would just tell me–, just stop for a moment–"
"I can't. I can't!" Sielaire whirls on her suddenly, shout taking Ayrenn by surprise. "I can't stop, I can't tell, I can't–"
Her voice breaks, and she clutches at her head briefly. "I can't stop. I can't control it. I can't control myself. I can't!"
"Sie." Ayrenn takes a step forward, which makes Sielaire back away. "You cannot force yourself to heal. And you definitely can't force yourself to ignore what you've been through."
"You don't understand!" Sielaire pounds a fist against her chest. "I can't… I'm not here." She hits herself again, and again. "I am not here. All here. I shouldn't even be here!"
Ayrenn quickly reaches for Sielaire's fist, before she can hit herself again. "Sielaire, it's normal to feel…different. After–"
"No. I am not…right," Sielaire hisses, face scrunching up. "Not whole. I can't–" She breaks then, tears falling from her eyes as she squeezes the words through her throat. "I can't do this anymore."
Feeling weak herself, Ayrenn grasps Sielaire by the nape, and guides her close to rest their foreheads together. Sielaire sobs roughly, turning her head down as she grips onto Ayrenn's shirt.
"I can't take anymore…"
"Then share it with me," Ayrenn whispers, though she doubts Sielaire is listening, weeping as hard as she is. "I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you."
Sielaire doesn't react to her, even as Ayrenn guides her wife's head to rest on her shoulder. Fingers digging desperately into fine cotton, Sielaire leans heavily onto Ayrenn, who bears her weight with ease – though not so much in heart. Ayrenn aches deeply, rubbing and patting Sielaire's back as tears dampen her shirt. She searches, but doesn't find the right words to say. How can she, when she is the reason for her wife's suffering?
Ayrenn's lips part, tremble, then press back together in a thin line. She holds her wife firmly, sharing the strength Sielaire sorely needs, giving refuge to her lover who has broken in her arms.