Half-drawn curtains and strategically-placed candles provide gentle illumination, which creates a soothing, tranquil atmosphere in the room. Only two Altmer are present – one lies in a chaise, while the other is seated in a chair just an arm's length away. All is quiet, though the serene air is half-steeped in simmering tension as Sielaire stares up at the ceiling in exasperation and paranoia. Shadows cast over marble seem to move ever-so-slightly before her eyes, and Sielaire's heart beats faster against her better sense, when she spies the edges of a claw pushing out of the darkness…
"And how do you feel about–?"
The calm voice snaps the final thread of patience in her, and she lashes out, "Gods, I am so sick of hearing that question!"
Regret washes over Sielaire as her voice fades, and she screws her eyes shut, swallowing against the lump in her throat as she sits up in the chaise. Covering her face with a hand, Sielaire takes controlled breaths to smooth over the hitches, and whispers, "I'm sorry."
"It's quite alright, Sielaire," Niralyne assures her. "It is normal to feel agitated in your situation. Would you like to lie down before we continue?"
"There's no use," Sielaire growls, though the threat in her voice diminishes as she curls up on the chaise, hugging an arm around her knees. Her mind detaches when Niralyne explains the slow process of healing, and Sielaire clutches at her head, wallowing in a dark haze before she forcibly pulls herself back to the present. She discovers she has missed the bulk of Niralyne's explanation, but it is one she's heard many times before; so she keeps quiet, and allows Niralyne to continue.
"No one can stay strong every day of their lives, Sielaire. No one has to – not even you. And yes, I understand," she adds when Sielaire looks on the verge of a protest. "It is in your nature, and it is essential for your career. But you are in no position to put up such appearances now – not where you are standing. And this is nothing to be ashamed of…"
Niralyne's voice trails off when Sielaire rises from the chaise, shaking her head blankly as she struggles to breathe through a constricted throat. She falls into habitual pacing in the healer's office, tracing that same circuit as she wrings her hands tightly. She has arrived at the edge again – where any argument she makes will crumble and expose her weakness, and she recoils in fear at the prospect. It's a losing battle, but as always, Niralyne offers her an escape before she works herself into a nervous breakdown, as in their first session.
"Why don't we end here for today?" Niralyne suggests, already knowing Sielaire's answer – which comes in a nod. She gives Sielaire some time to recollect herself, then asks, "Have you considered what we discussed in the last session?"
Sielaire's pacing stops abruptly, as her breath catches. "I cannot," she utters.
"Sielaire, I know it is difficult for you to open up. To appear weak, and in need of help. But denying the state you are in, trying to hide it, will only hurt you even more." Niralyne pauses to let her words sink in, and the only acknowledgement Sielaire gives, is a frustrated shake of the head as she resumes pacing. "This is the most important step you need to take – to share what has happened to you in the war. You will only continue to shame yourself if you try to rationalise it on your own."
"I deserve it."
"No, I am confident that you don't. And I believe you can see my point now," Niralyne continues. "You need someone whom you trust, whose words you will believe. So that someone else will understand your pain, even if you won't reveal to me what exactly had happened to you."
"I cannot…lay my own burden on someone else," Sielaire says, quiet and uncertain.
"You have to, Sielaire. Or you will break under its weight…even more than you already have."
A sober reminder, and Sielaire takes a slow breath to steady herself. She has already hurt a colleague in her obstinacy. And she has woken many times in bed, arms alight with crackling magicka, dream-addled mind consumed with the intent to kill. How long will it take before she hurts her beloved as well?
Sielaire's heart wavers, and her pacing slows to a stop. She wrings her fingers, then nods. "I'll…try."
"That is all I ask," Niralyne replies with a smile. She stands and walks to Sielaire, clasping her patient's hands in farewell.
Sielaire glances at the healer as their hands part, but can't find it in herself to return Niralyne's smile. With a bow of the head, she excuses herself from the healer's office, walking through the barracks with her head shrouded in fog. She moves on instinct – heading to the palace with a vague idea of knocking on the door to Ayrenn's office, but decides against it. Instead, she makes a turn towards the Queen's bedchamber, thinking to grab some shut-eye before mustering her courage to ask Ayrenn…
But it seems she won't have the luxury of time, when she walks into the room and finds Ayrenn sitting at the reading desk, looking up at her entrance. Sielaire's gut twists when a loving smile greets her, but she holds her ground and returns her wife's embrace. Sielaire buries her face in Ayrenn's neck, taking a deep breath to calm herself, before lifting her head to receive a peck on the lips.
"How was it?" Ayrenn asks.
"It was…" Sielaire's voice dies, unable to bring herself to describe her own dismal performance. Her gaze drops to the floor, heart beating fast as she steels herself. "Renn?"
"Yes?"
"I…need a favour," she says slowly.
"Of course, dearest," Ayrenn replies without hesitation, cupping her cheek. "Anything for you."
When Sielaire returns to Niralyne's office with the Queen in her company, the healer is taken aback – Sielaire has sent word about her partner, but failed to mention who it is. Niralyne stares at Ayrenn in mute surprise, before regaining her senses and sweeping into a bow.
"Your Majesty. I wasn't aware that you would be coming…"
"Well, now you are," Ayrenn replies, an easy smile on her lips. "And I trust you will be discrete about this?"
"Yes, of course." Niralyne bows again, then gestures for them to follow. She leads them to the back of the office, where two cushioned cots are pushed together. She pauses and turns back to them sheepishly, glancing at Ayrenn. "I do apologise, Your Majesty. Had I known, I would've prepared something more…"
"It's alright," Ayrenn laughs when Niralyne waves at the cots. "These will work just fine."
Niralyne gives a graceful smile amid her abashment, and bids them sit down as she explains the process once more. This is a very intimate experience that Ayrenn and Sielaire will share – with Niralyne's aid, Sielaire will be guided into an induced sleep, followed by Ayrenn, who will join Sielaire as she relives the memory of her trauma in a dream. Nothing will be hidden from Ayrenn; everything Sielaire had seen, every emotion she had felt, will be shared with Ayrenn as well, if not in the same magnitude. It is a complete baring of the soul, and that is why Sielaire's consent is of the utmost importance before they begin.
Ayrenn looks to Sielaire, who has gone paler during Niralyne's explanation. She cups her wife's cheek gently, the unspoken question answered with a nod and a nervous smile. Sielaire lies down in her cot first, hand seeking and clasping Ayrenn's tightly – betraying the slight trembles of fear. Ayrenn places a kiss on Sielaire's knuckles, then lies down in her own cot, leaving her hand in Sielaire's as Niralyne rests her fingertips on each of their foreheads.
Ayrenn clears her mind, and braces herself when Niralyne weaves the spell, whispering an incantation as a soothing sensation flows into her head, lulling her into a sleepy haze. Sielaire's fingers relax between hers, and Ayrenn is quick to follow her into the dreamscape.
Chaos rages around Ayrenn the instant she opens her eyes, and recognises Imperial architecture – which is crumbling around her. Ayrenn darts to the side to avoid a large chunk of falling stone, but pauses when the subsequent shower of dust and rubble passes right through her. She reaches experimentally for the stone, and her hand slips through the solid material as if it were air.
Useful, Ayrenn muses, glad that she is immune to the dream's happenings.
A figure sprints past her then, and Ayrenn turns her gaze to find Sielaire weaving through piles of broken stone, trying to find a way out. She becomes aware of a slight throbbing in her chest – a second heartbeat beside her own, pumping the ghost of adrenaline through her veins.
Sielaire. She remembers Niralyne's words, and realises it is Sielaire's urgency that she is feeling. Her own heart beats in time with Sielaire's, as she watches the battlereeve conjure barrier after barrier, deflecting heavy stone that would've crushed her under its weight. But Ayrenn can tell she's tiring, and soon Sielaire conjures a barrier too weak to withstand a particularly large stone slab. The faint green barrier shatters under the impact, and the falling stone hits the side of Sielaire's head, sending her to the ground, unconscious. Ayrenn steps forward as the world around her dims, and she watches helplessly as Sielaire is buried under a mountain of rubble.
Darkness fills her vision, then vanishes with disorienting speed. Ayrenn feels belatedly the resonance of Sielaire's shock, from being splashed with a bowlful of water. The battlereeve is now held in a cell, with shackles on her wrists and neck that chain her to the wall, arms suspended to prevent movement. Sielaire shakes her drenched head, while a Pact spy paces before her, uttering a spiel about Sielaire cooperating, giving information that shall secure her freedom…and spare her from unnecessary pain.
Sielaire doesn't react, merely fixing her eyes on the cell door behind the spy, ignoring demands to reveal the Queen's plans, and information on the Dominion's invading army. When it is apparent that simple interrogation won't yield results, the spy turns to uglier methods – both physical and magical. Sielaire endures numerous blows from the spy's fists, and grits her teeth under the lash of whips – slave whips, Ayrenn recognises, as are the shackles on Sielaire's neck and wrists.
Her blood quickens with anger, but she is distracted by a faint tug on her soul. A second presence that Ayrenn recognises as Sielaire's, though it carries a consciousness that the mere memory of her lacks. It wraps around Ayrenn's being, warm yet cold from fear, trembling with uncertainty – Sielaire is trying to pull her away, stop her from watching. Ayrenn can feel the tinge of shame, and her heart squeezes as she reaches out to Sielaire, steadying her.
She can feel Sielaire's hesitation, before the tug on her relaxes, replaced by warm wisps curling about her body – Sielaire clinging onto her. Ayrenn looks back at the memory, which has changed in their quiet moment together. The spy is injecting a sickly-green liquid into Sielaire's arm, and the battlereeve starts writhing in place, biting on her lip to stifle any sound that betrays the agony coursing through her veins. She endures this insidious torture for hours, never once swayed to reveal Dominion secrets, and the spy seems to give up – though the cold, still-satisfied glint in his eyes sparks Ayrenn's misgiving.
'Tell the mages they can have this one,' the spy tells his lackey, and the memory turns to black.
When the light returns, Sielaire is bound to a wooden platform, where she kneels with her head bowed, eyes closed. Ayrenn feels a ripple of anger from present-Sielaire when cloaked mages enter the dark chamber, their Nord leader's hands coming alive with a vicious red glow that appears on Sielaire's chains. Her arms are drawn apart, and she is pulled to her feet – though not fully, so she is forced to bend awkwardly at the knees. Dread from Sielaire fills Ayrenn's chest as the mages take position around her, hands glowing an identical shade of red. Ayrenn's vision turns black amid Sielaire's ragged cry, and a chill stabs her heart as cold wisps tighten around her body.
Ayrenn 'holds' onto Sielaire as best she can, soothing her wife's quivering soul as another memory unfolds. A slap on the cheek, and the chamber comes into focus – Sielaire is still kneeling on the platform, now with her head gripped roughly in a Nord commander's thick hand. A Dunmer general stands beside him, watching with disdain as the Nord brings a bowl of water to Sielaire's cracked lips. Ayrenn feels the battlereeve's indignation at the necessity of being fed, but it's soon overshadowed by an instinct for survival, that forces her to gulp down as much water as she can.
Water spills down her chin, but she catches enough to sate her thirst, before the bowl is pulled away. When the Nord steps aside, the Dunmer takes his place, lips curving in a sneer as he brings the back of his hand across Sielaire's cheek, gauntleted knuckles slicing into grimy skin.
'Not so high and mighty now, are you,' he snarls, bending down to Sielaire – whose eyes are blank. 'Don't worry. I'm sure I can find a place in my estate for a prized slave.'
The past-battlereeve's shame washes over Ayrenn, mixed with an acute fear, and the Dunmer raises his hand for another blow – only to be stopped by a grip on his arm. He glares at the Nord warrior, who stares back at him with simple resolution.
'Show respect,' he rumbles, and the Dunmer yanks his arm away, spitting on the ground before stalking out of the chamber.
The Nord lingers, eyes resting quietly on Sielaire, before he turns around and makes a discrete exit. But Ayrenn pays him no mind, suppressing her growing anger to focus on Sielaire, who remains kneeling with her head bowed. Ayrenn worries – Sielaire's past-emotions has become…duller to her senses, drawing close to a dangerous blank. The battlereeve was detaching herself, and Ayrenn hates her inability to help–
She's taken aback when the cold presence about her grows warmer, in urgent reassurance. Ayrenn's heart aches at Sielaire's need to care for her, even in such vulnerability, and her throat tightens as the memory changes again.
They are on the outskirts of the Imperial City, and the wooden platform is being rolled into position. When it comes to a stop, the lead mage smirks and yanks the heavy chain in his hand – which is connected to Sielaire's neck collar, causing her head to snap back with a strangled gasp. Fear in Ayrenn swells in tandem with present-Sielaire's dread, as the battlereeve is pulled to her feet once more, her head falling back to give her a clear view of the dark clouds swirling above.
Ayrenn can almost feel the rapid, desperate beats of Sielaire's heart, and tears well in her eyes when she hears an echo of her name in Sielaire's clouded mind. Wisps tighten around her body once more, and Ayrenn braces herself as a single bolt of lightning falls from the sky. Its lethal energy strikes Sielaire at her very core, and the agony is amplified tenfold as her own magicka is expelled from her body in a deadly lightning storm, ripping through the battlefield of soldiers and crushing the stone of the Imperial City's walls. Sielaire's scream echoes in Ayrenn's ears, and the concentrated nexus of energy within her erupts, the world exploding in a burst of white.
Ayrenn jerks awake with a gasp, and she falls back onto the cot, panting heavily as she tries to catch her breath, shivering from the sensation of having her body torn apart from within. She clutches at her chest, piecing her senses back together, and she wonders how Sielaire–
Sielaire.
She whips her head to Sielaire – who has woken with a hoarse scream, and is huddled on her own cot, shaking visibly as Niralyne steadies her with both hands on her shoulders. Ayrenn pushes herself up and moves to Sielaire's cot, grasping at her arms, then cups her face in both hands.
"Sie," Ayrenn says clearly, to cut through the chaos in Sielaire's mind. "Sielaire, love. We're back. Look at me."
Sielaire chokes on her heavy breaths, but looks up with Ayrenn's guidance, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. "I–, I'm sorry," she breathes, and Ayrenn shakes her head in disbelief.
"Just what are you sorry for?" Ayrenn wipes the tears with her thumb, pulling Sielaire closer. "Sie, what you've gone through – no one could've survived unscathed. You have nothing to apologise for, Sielaire. Nothing to be ashamed of."
Sielaire breaks, shaking her head as she weeps freely. Ayrenn guides Sielaire's head to rest on her shoulder, and holds her wife tight as Sielaire finds release in tears, clutching onto Ayrenn in the wake of bitter memory.
Sielaire takes a long time to recover from their shared experience, passing numerous days without much activity, other than cleaning and feeding herself, before lying back in their bed. Ayrenn spends more time with her, concerned about Sielaire's lack of will to engage in anything, but finds little assurances in her wife's steady – if dull – gazes when they are together. She takes the initiative, coaxing Sielaire out for short walks in the garden, or to lounge by the fire as she recounts her day over cups of hot tea. Ayrenn accompanies Sielaire to her sessions with the healer, and though progress is slow at first, Sielaire starts responding to Ayrenn more, little by little.
Her faint smile at Ayrenn's joke is perhaps the first sign of healing, and Ayrenn takes heart – though she takes care to guide Sielaire slowly through the process. Sielaire gravitates back to her, and becomes quite like an attention-starved kitten, often finding a place next to Ayrenn, leaning into her with both arms wrapped around her waist. Ayrenn relishes the renewed connection between them, and is more than happy to have an arm around her wife while reading reports, or settling into bed for the night. Sielaire still sheds a few tears over the weeks, though she doesn't try to hide them from Ayrenn anymore, curling up against her wife while Ayrenn sings and rocks her gently in comfort.
Humming the last notes to a lullaby, Ayrenn grazes her fingertips through Sielaire's tresses and glances down at her wife, who has fallen asleep nestled up to her. She smiles and presses her lips to the top of Sielaire's head, then leans back into the pillows they are propped up against, breathing a sigh of relief. Sielaire has woken in the early morning, shaken from a nightmare and rising from bed to pace about the floor. Ayrenn wakes just in time to pull her away from the couch – where Sielaire has taken to sleeping so she won't disturb her partner. After a brief argument, Ayrenn manages to lure Sielaire back to the bed, where she settles into Ayrenn's arms, and is thankfully able to find rest again.
Ayrenn's heart aches at the thought of her wife – an indomitable soldier, whittled down to such a state for her sake. She still regrets giving the order which had sent Sielaire to Cyrodiil, believing it's a mistake – albeit a necessary one. But Ayrenn knows Sielaire will protest the very notion she harbours, and it only makes her ache even more, from being loved so. To be loved beyond reason.
With the both of them at an impasse, refusing to allow each other to bear the blame for the past, Ayrenn can only turn her eyes to the future, and prevent history from repeating itself. It is a certainty that the Dominion will return to Cyrodiil in the future. And when Sielaire sets foot in the mainland once more, it shall be at the Queen's side.
Ayrenn yawns as she enters the bedroom, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to loosen tense muscles after a long and stressful day. She takes the crown from her head and tosses it carelessly onto her study desk, looking around the room to find it empty. Brows furrowing slightly, Ayrenn walks into the bathroom for a look, then makes for the terrace behind her bedchambers – where she's relieved to find Sielaire sitting on the floor, beside the coffee table.
She joins her wife outside, kneeling down to kiss Sielaire atop the head, before sitting on the floor beside her. Sielaire is dressed comfortably in tunic and pants, her hair flowing freely in the gentle breeze. Her mellow expression softens, and she gives Ayrenn a smile, looking away from the little project she is working on. It's a hobby she's taken up to occupy her time, while she is still barred from work; it comprises a set of silver-painted magnetic sticks as thin as, but shorter than a regular matchstick. They snap easily into place wherever one sets them, and it makes sculpting a fun activity with no fear of damaging one's creation – not when simple recreation is the core purpose of this toy kit.
"Hm." Ayrenn regards the bare-bones structure Sielaire has erected on a wooden base. "Looks like the palace."
"It is the palace," Sielaire replies, pointing at the sculpture. "These are the towers…and these are the hallways. I'll work on them later. Here's our room." She points at the only room that is defined with support beams.
Ayrenn smiles, leaning against the table as Sielaire snaps a few more sticks into place, completing the bedroom's ceiling. As she pieces together one of the palace's numerous wings, Ayrenn says, "This seems to be helping."
Sielaire shrugs. "It's enjoyable. If…only a distraction."
Touching her arm, Ayrenn asks, "How did it go?"
A long moment of silence, as Sielaire's gaze drops from the sculpture, turning dark. Even though she has made significant progress in healing her soul, Sielaire still faces another problem – her magicka. Since her time in Cyrodiil, Sielaire has found it increasingly difficult to channel magicka as she once did. In the few demonstrations she has given Ayrenn, she's had to focus greatly on establishing a connection, and the result is always a violent discharge of destructive magicka – usually in the form of lightning.
It's a severe ailment for one who used to wield magicka as easily as she breathes, thus Ayrenn sought the service of a Sapiarch from the Crystal Tower, who has traveled to the palace to investigate the source of Sielaire's trouble.
"He says there are two possible causes," Sielaire recounts flatly. "The first is purely psychological – after what I've been through in Cyrodiil, being used as a conduit – I may have developed an aversion to channeling magicka as before, or feel a compulsion to use only destructive magics to protect myself."
Ayrenn nods. "And the second?"
Sielaire stares, then averts her eyes, taking a deep breath. "The second is physiological. Being used as a conduit to channel such raw power, it might have…damaged me." Her voice has fallen into a hushed whisper. "So that I cannot feel the flow of magicka unless it is highly concentrated. He's not sure if this is permanent, but suggested that I continue with my therapy, and keep an eye on myself."
"That's…helpful," Ayrenn says with a lilt in her voice, hiding her dismay at Sielaire's diagnosis – and the lack of a solution. She forces a smile when Sielaire takes her hand gently.
"Renn, if I never heal… Please, just listen," Sielaire cuts in before Ayrenn can voice her protest. "Even if I never heal, I still have my blade, and I will serve you until my dying breath. If you will have me."
Ayrenn's heart clenches at her wife's weak, gentle smile. "Sie, of course I'll have you," she says, clutching Sielaire's hand to her chest. "How can you ever think otherwise? I would never dream of moving on without you."
Sielaire's face scrunches up briefly, and she blinks the tears from her eyes. She smiles when Ayrenn gives her a kiss, and she leans into her wife gratefully, answering with a deeper one of her own. Ayrenn's breath is stolen with the simple exchange, and she parts from Sielaire to compose herself. She gazes up into verdant eyes, feeling that singular beat of her heart, inspired by the affection in Sielaire's tender gaze.
What have I ever done to deserve you?