It was her least favorite day.
It was the day they wrapped her in fox pelts and sprinkled snowberries and red Mountain flowers in a circle around her. It was the day that the goddess, Dibella, filled her soul and spoke to the Forsworn.
It had been a long ten years, and not a day went by where she didn't loathe them all.
They had taken her from her family, kept her locked in a cell as child—in the dim light of an ancient fortress. She forgot what sunlight had felt like in those early years as their prisoner while her complexion paled and her dark-sight grew. She was eventually presented to the Hagraven matriarchs and their briar-hearted warriors. They told her she was touched by a Divine, and they needed to call upon her. For what exactly, they never explained but she had felt a growing presence within her, too foreign to put in into words.
She was no longer Fjotra. Fjorta was who she had been before the abduction, and now was just a cherished word she kept close to her heart. They had given her a new name – Fireile - the 'fire beauty.'
On this Day of Dibella, she had awoken early and the women bathed her in the frigid water of the spring—had scrubbed every inch of her skin until it was pink and clear of any dirt. The Hagravens had brushed her long, knee-length, dark red hair out from the tangles that had accumulated in knots the past year and braided it intricately in style meant for a festival. They didn't allow her to cut it, citing that someone who could channel a Divine of love and beauty should look their best. She always shuddered at the feel of their long claw-like fingers raking through her hair.
She picked at a snowberry by her knee from where she sat at the top of the Lost Valley Redoubt. It was a place she had last been to when she was in early adolescence, and she had been enchanted by the old Nordic aqueducts, and the openness of it all—the stunning views of the Reach from the parapets and the tumbling waterfalls surrounding them. It was by far her favorite of the Forsworn strongholds because it was the only one where she felt...free. She often traveled to different encampments to spend time with the inhabitants until the next Day of Dibella. Always closely watched. It never was long enough for her to make lasting relationships—not that she needed or wanted to bond with such loathsome barbarians—but for someone who could channel the Divine of love and beauty, she certainly didn't feel loved nor beautiful.
The snowberry between her fingers popped and its crimson juice trailed into her hand.
A feast had been laid out on the tables below with roasted elk legs, salmon steaks, venison chops and a whole array of smaller smoked meats in between. The hunters had done well in the weeks leading up to this day. There was even mead, which was hard to come by since the Forsworn could only obtain it through raiding. They must have ambushed a merchant cart because there were two whole casks of it.
She watched as the ravagers and warlords filled tankards and toasted together. They were the elite warriors of the Forsworn. She wasn't exposed to much of the fighting but had heard tales of their brutality toward the Nords and the Imperial soldiers that were unfortunate enough to stumble across a Forsworn camp. The human skulls hanging from their belts proved to be enough that she did not doubt the truth of it.
"How will Dibella answer us this year I wonder?" a rough-cut voice inquired from beside her. She looked upward from where she was sitting to see one of the men of the Reach, his skin was pallid and she spotted the unnerving cavity wound before she had sense to avert her eyes.
The Briarheart.
"How she always answers," Fjotra replied, trying not to betray her disgust. She would never be comfortable with the Witchmen; they who sold their humanity to the Hagravens for power.
"She'll never see her precious temple while you live. You belong to the Forsworn, Fireile," his hand cupped her chin, and forced her to look up at him—at the wretched gouge in his chest.
The Hagravens and shaman had their magic.
Fjotra had hers.
She could feel Dibella's rising anger; it formed as a lump in her throat, tightening so hard she could scarcely breath. She bit her tongue from conveying the words Dibella would have her swear at the man. Living with the ability to hold a divine's presence was something few ever got to experience. It was like having a split soul almost—sometimes thoughts and words came from her that she didn't own. Then there were times she swore she could see the manifestation of passion and love—a bright red luminescence that encompassed a human—the epicenter at their heart. Briarhearts never had the glow though, for they held no love, and had no heart—just a piece of a weed acting as one.
Dibella's anger eventually subsided and the young woman could breathe again. Dibella was not entirely trapped in the same way her Sybil was—she wasn't bound to a physical form. However, Dibella could not easily commune with her priestesses without a physical presence, and while Fjotra was still alive, she could not simply choose a new Sybil to voice her will.
The Briarheart made a growl of dismissal when Fjotra didn't honor his taunt with a reaction. He released her chin with an abrupt motion that made her head spin.
A few moments later, a ravager approached her with a wooden plate containing cooked venison. It smelled delicious and Fjorta hadn't eaten anything yet that day besides a handful of juniper berries. She accepted it at once. Often in those first years, she wasn't given as much food as she should have been. Whether it was by choice—somehow to starve the Sybil into cooperating or just a lack of resources—Fjotra became too weak to walk at one point and it was only by the magic of the hagravens that she survived. Since then she had always been quicker to grab foods that were offered to her, afraid the sustenance would be snatched away before she got a bite in.
"Fireile, good day of Dibella to you and your goddess," he said pleasantly, as if she was there by her own accord.
"Good day," she managed to reply, muffled, because of the deer meat shoved to the corner of her mouth.
"You are of age now, yes? I saw you here when I was a younger lad. You came to visit and I'd never seen such red hair before. Your name is well-suited."
Her name. He meant the one they called her. She didn't make it a habit to look Forsworn in the eyes, especially not the warriors, because she feared them more than the Hagravens. She knew of their practices—of how they invoked pain on themselves to ready themselves for battle trances where they would only cause more pain and destruction. However, his question and disarming tone piqued her curiosity and she did dare look at him directly.
She wondered what he meant by his question. Of age. She was an adult now by all intents and purposes, surly he could see that much if that was what he was asking. She no longer had a flat, girlish figure, and though while not the most fed, she wasn't sickly thin either.
He was certainly older than her but not as by as many years most of the Forwsorn clansmen and women were. Like most of the Witchmen of the reach, he had little covering his torso but for a few scars, and despite all that cut muscle—he was still svelte as Bretons were.
She felt a heat rise in her cheeks, hoping that this ravager wasn't asking her such a thing because he intended to claim her in some horrifying mating ritual or whatever these savages did to choose partners. She'd never even kissed anyone before.
Fjotra tensely pulled her knees to her chest to guard herself and merely nodded at the fact she was of age. She was probably that and a bit more. She recalled having a celebration in the spring when the wind was still bitter but plant life began to sprout out of the snow. Back when she celebrated her name day with those who loved her. Here, they didn't even call her by it. She finally looked away and took another bite of venison.
"You don't have much to say do you?" he tried to converse again.
She frowned as she chewed, her blush from earlier fading quickly as she thought, what good is it to say anything if no one listens?
If she'd have been younger she might have let a tear or two slip from her eyes but having been subjected to such harshness, her heart had hardened against those emotions. It would take something entirely overwhelming to make her break now.
"Thank you for the food," she finally said and finished picking off the meat on the deer bone, setting it back on her plate and holding it up to him, "It tasted very good."
He inclined his head with a solemnity that she hadn't detected before while he took it from her, and thought it...odd...but only for a passing moment because the familiar beat of drums started up, signaling the Shaman would be coming soon. The Shaman usually called upon Dibella to speak, using tongues from old Breton languages. Fjorta didn't know what they asked, she only knew Dibella's answer every year: No.
She continued to sit in the ring of flowers and berries, hoping the ritual would commence and be over soon. She didn't like all of their hungry, savage eyes on her. They gathered below on the next stone tier, some still holding their own deer legs or tankards of pillaged mead. The cries of Hagravens sounded above her and she saw their ugly, hunched, feathery forms descend from their nest, down the stairs to Fjotra's perch. The Briarheart had changed into an intricate antlered skull headdress that contained a cascade of smaller bones strung together long enough to reach his shoulders and he held a magical staff, taking his place behind her. Finally, the drumming stopped and the Shaman approached in her equally impressive skeletal accessory adorned over her head. She had reddish marks streaking under her eyes and across her face, probably a mixture of dirt and blood acting as paint. Fjotra always felt especially tense in the presence of the tribes' Shaman—for they held a great deal of magicka and learned directly from the Hagravens. Speaking of which, they had drawn closer and flanked Fjotra on either side of the circle.
The Shaman lifted her hands to call for complete silence and the drumming stopped.
She began to chant in the old tongues.
A prick of panicked alarm rang in Fjotra's head—not her own instincts, but a warning from Dibella. Something was wrong. In past years the Shaman would circle Fjotra, chanting in that specific tongue unique to the Reachmen. The chanting nearly sounded like a song back then. This time, that chanting was more guttural—deep and menacing.
The right-most Hagraven reached out and her talon-fingers snatched Fjotra's wrist. The left Hagraven did the same in turn—effectively restraining her. Fjotra's eyes widened in fear as she felt him approach from behind with a cut of rope, taking her wrists from the Hagravens and secured them together behind her. Fjotra struggled and demanded to know what they were doing, and why it was not the same as years' past, but as usual they chose not to hear her. Dibella's panic surged and combined with Fjotra's into waves of frenzy.
No one helped her. No one said a word while she shouted for aid and then the Shaman began chanting again.
"Dibella, we call you hence from the Aetherius—"
As she heard the lingual switch to common tongue, a familiar sensation of light, warmth, and magnificent power filled the Sybil. Fjotra closed her eyes as her body jerked, accommodating the divine's presence and will. When she opened her eyes, they were brightened and all who surrounded her knew they had Dibella's attention.
"I do not entertain Hircine's directives. I do not bend to Daedric will—your kind will not have the luxury of my blessings!" Fjotra choked out the words that weren't her own in a tone of nasty contempt. She had to take a breath against the unnatural hatred Dibella held.
The Briarheart gave a yank to her braid, causing her neck to arch back and her vision to point skyward. When she lowered her eyes, she could see the Shaman draw closer, a displeased gaze but wicked grin pasted on her face, "Then it is Hircine's will your Sybil be sacrificed to him, a token of your defeat and failure to answer his calling."
The presence in Fjotra vanished almost immediately.
She could feel the edge of the knife, see a piece of sunlight reflecting sharply off of the blade and closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable slaughter. She couldn't beg Dibella to save her, or to do their bidding. It would betray all she had done to avoid giving in. Now she was abandoned, just a play piece between the dark souls of Oblivion and the Divines. Instead of hearing the sick plunge of metal into her flesh, she, and the Forsworn surrounding her heard the startling rattle of bones from down the hill.
Her eyes snapped open as a rush of movement started around her. Ravagers and archers grabbed for their weapons, rushing down the ancient stone stairs calling their war cries while in turn shouts from the intruders below rose up. There sounded to be many. The Hagravens retreated to their nest, and only the Briarheart remained. He stood ready and threw Fjotra to the ground in front of him, while holding his staff which held an elemental enchantment evident by the light at its head.
Speaking of light, it filled her again. She didn't expect that and welcomed it with a gasp of reprieve. Dibella had not abandoned her! She managed to crawl on her shoulders forward and peer of the ledge at the battle below and immediately wished she hadn't.
From behind the light in her eyes, she could see the Forsworn brandishing their crude yet effective horned swords against the silvery steel of the soldiers'.
There was not even the faintest glimpse of love in these men's hearts as they slaughtered one another. Dibella was most displeased the display, Fjotra could feel and taste a cloud of darkness rising within her. She knew sometimes Dibella chose to see the world through her eyes, listen through her ears and speak through her voice, but this should not have been the time. Dibella could not do anything to make them stop this carnage. Fjotra tried to close her eyes, to block Dibella so she could no longer witness this gruesome scene. It was all she could do since her hands were still bound with rope.
It worked; the light faded and Fjotra could see clearer with her own vision when her eyes fluttered open. The ravager from earlier was already down, his body limp only a few feet below with a long red split in his neck that was still spilling red. She gasped and averted her eyes but this time to a fallen soldier, whose helmet was bashed into the side of his head and one of his eyes was out of its socket.
It was the opposite of love and life, the very things her half-soul thrived on and she felt like a shade of a person, with a shadow cast so thoroughly on her that it suffocated. She felt like she was going to be ill and the venison she had quickly consumed would make a return journey up her throat. She couldn't move a muscle, too frightened that her movement would provoke an attack on her. She was able to sit up and curl her face into her knees. Fearful, hopeless, tears started spilling from her eyes—having the feeling that this horror would be her last moments.
The cries and clashing noises became fewer as more bodies fell below her.
A hand grabbed her shoulder and she felt fingers—human ones—yanking at the knot in the rope around one of her wrists. She shrieked and looked up, over her shoulder. It was only a brief second, but she was staring into a pair of eyes with long lashes, above them, a prominent brow raised in concern to the top of where his helmet covered his hairline. It was a face that made her feel a sense of comfort and calm despite the owner being an intruder to the Forsworn lair. She felt one of her wrists become free but before either could speak, his face twisted into excruciating pain and he was suddenly lighted with shock energy.
The Briarhart had targeted him. Probably, because he was halfway to freeing her.
After a moment of the bright blue-white light shining blindingly through his translucent pale skin, the soldier fell backward, his whole body spasaming while lightning continued to course through his veins. Fjorta stared hard at the Briarhart, wishing he would stop. That they all would just stop. Maybe Dibella had heard her wish for suddenly a great sword arced downward and decapitated the horn-decorated head of the Briarhart from behind. The lightning from his staff dissipated and the fallen soldier was finally still.
The Sybil had no idea what was going to happen but before she could find any words, she let out a sharp gasp and this time she did collapse, feeling light-headed as raw power started to overtake her mind and body. The light was coming back to her, filling her; her own sight rolled backward to be the observer and Dibella had taken charge of the Sybil once more. It had never happened so fast, in so much frequency before. Fjotra found herself untying her other bound wrist without trouble and pulling herself to her feet to regard the intruding soldiers, more confidant and less unsure than she had initially felt. They looked at her in wonder and apprehension—swords still raised, unsure of whether or not to attack as she looked like she was a Forsworn the way she was dressed.
"Lay down your weapons or else you will never be blessed with a lover's touch again," Fjotra said sternly gesturing around the area of felled warriors, though it wasn't her speaking—it was the divine goddess of love and beauty and when she spoke through Fjorta it sounded as if there were two voices; the latter had an ethereal property whereas it seemed to project louder and echo against the human one. It looked like most of the Forsworn had been dispatched. The Hagravens were still screaming in fury up the hill in their nest.
"By the Eight," breathed their obvious lead soldier in recognition. He wore more distinguished plated armor than the rest, his voice was gravelly, "It's the Sybil of Dibella."
He lowered his eyes and sword, causing the rest of the soldiers to follow suit. Fjotra's lips quirked up in a pleased smile at the show of respect. Civilized societies of men were known to worship her divinity.
The soldier who had tried to free her lay at her feet and she bent down, running a hand across cheek. He had such a handsome face. She felt Dibella's sadness at the loss of something so aesthetically pleasing to the world. Her fingers traced over his lips and as they did, he made the slightest twitch. Hope soared within her.
She knelt and lifted the young man's head into her lap, taking off his helmet to run her fingers through his hair. It was much cleaner than any of the male Forsworn's hair, shorter too though slightly singed from the shock. She could detect a tiny ember of love burning in his fading heart, but a separation and sadness from that love. She smiled and bent over, pressing her lips to his. Her kiss seemed to breathe new life into him or enhance the little that was left from the Briarheart's attack. The soldier inhaled deeply and his eyes fluttered open, revealing vivid blue.
He blinked a few times, as Fjorta withdrew her kiss with a satisfied smile. She had never kissed anyone before, or rather Dibella had never done it while in control of the Sybil, but she understood a little now why people liked doing it so much. He seemed bewildered before noticing all his comrades standing around and smirking. She stood and pulled him upward with her, maintaining her hold of him so he could balance after being shocked so badly.
"I require escort to the temple of Markarth," Fjotra demanded and she could feel Dibella's annoyance. It had been too long already. The place she belonged was at the temple with the priestesses.
"Of course, my lady," the leader nodded with a slight bow of respect and then motioned one of his men forward, "Lylvieve!"
The man who had slain the Briarheart stepped forward awkwardly from behind them, still in awe of her. He had sheathed the bloodied great sword across his back without bothering to clean it.
He called out another name but Dibella interrupted, tightening Fjotra's hold on the handsome soldier's arm, "I'd like this one to escort me as well."
The Leader gave a grunted chuckle, "As you wish, my lady. Just as right as they were about to go on leave anyhow. Battle-Born and Lylvieve, escort the Sybil if you please and then be on your way."
Battle-Born must have been what they called him. The soldier turned his head slightly and then an adorable blush crossed his cheeks at realizing how much skin she was showing. The Forsworn were known for minimalist dressings of animal furs and bones and she had forgotten the more modest way women of Skyrim society had dressed.
She still had his hand in hers from when she helped him stand, neither of them had made a move to undo this connection. She supposed he gained comfort from her grasp, for nearly being on the doorstep of death. She enjoyed the touch, the warmth of his palm against hers. One of the loneliest aspects of her captivity was the lack of meaningful physical contact. Then there was the fact he was rather handsome—she doubted she would be the first or last being to be so taken with that face.
"One of you lads, offer her some decent covering!" The leader barked, noticing as well, and more than one of the soldiers began to fumble with the belts on their armor. A lad toward the back made a shout of victory as he pulled his tunic over his head and tossed it forward toward the leader. He handed her the garment and apologized for any offense she might have felt from all the male gawking.
The meager politeness was so damn refreshing after years of demands and degrading taunts from her captors. She wasted no time in pulling the tunic over her exposed skin, it fell to the length of her knees, and she belted it up around the middle. Not only was it more modest but a great deal warmer too.
Fjotra smiled and then she felt Dibella's presence wane, tension, power and energy all seemed to dissipate in a large, fateful, sigh of relief. They were finally free.
Fjotra didn't know how to talk to people well but the two men seemed talkative enough. They joked with each other in between asking her questions about what constituted being a Sybil and she tried answering best she could. For once in her life, people were actually listening to her.
"Do you have a name? Or do we just call you 'the Sybil?" the soldier, Lylvieve asked, stopping in the middle of a story about mudcrabs.
"Fir..." She began but then had to pause—realizing she no longer had to answer to that. She bristled with pleasure to say her true name, "Fjotra."
"That's a lovely name," he replied and she shivered with pride while smiling ecstatically because she had finally gotten to say it out loud, to other people.
They were walking the road toward Markarth that followed the Karth River. Fjotra enjoyed the walk and the company of the two men, finding herself laughing at their quips toward each other—before they remembered they were escorting a lady and became a tiny bit more consciousness of their words—they must have been close comrades.
They slowed as they came across a structure to the side of the road adorned with pretty things. Fjorta curiously approached and the soldiers didn't stop her. She picked up a golden necklace with a pretty purple jewel set in the middle, letting it swing from her fist by its chain. There was also a small leather pouch that jingled when she picked it up—she found gold coins inside.
"You probably shouldn't—" Lylvieve started but Battle-Born gave him shove in the arm to quiet him and muttered, "It's Dibella's shrine She has every right."
Fjotra felt another shiver, as if a bout of divine happiness danced up her spine—though Dibella's presence had not returned in full to guide her. She picked up a piece of purple mountain flower lain on the altar, tucked it behind her ear and turned to smile at her traveling escorts.
Both of them blushed as they returned the smile.
Then a rather crude sight interrupted the moment, catching their attentions. An altercation of sorts had tumbled upon the area between a scrawny Nord man and an athletic Redguard woman. She was swearing at him, nearly choking him to death and Fjotra couldn't abide it. She had seen enough violence to last a lifetime that day.
"Release him."
Thankfully, her handsome companion talked the assaulter down from more violence—Fjotra could see the woman, who had no aura of love just a moment of before flare into a bright red luminescence after considering Battle-Born. He was a handsome young man no doubt, but it was startling that Redguard felt so strong of a passion at seeing him. His words though, made it seem as if they were previously acquainted and that made more sense.
She couldn't ponder long on their relationship though, because the disheveled young man who had been attacked was regarding her on his knees in reverence with a look of wild-eyed hope and desperation.
"My Divine, 'O mistress of the heart! I have risked so much in finding you!"
His loud words made all in the vicinity pay attention to the scene. It must have also caught Dibella's attention for the overbearing light filled Fjotra once more.
"Seer," Fjotra gave a shallow nod; she felt a sense of familiarity from Dibella—nonplussed that this had come to pass though she would have never suspected otherwise. The auditory echo of her voices rang against the mountainsides as she said startling words that weren't her own, "I already know what you seek and confirm your suspicions. My Sybil has been captive of the Forwsorn for far too long, and that should have never come to pass. Even Akatosh could not prevent this insidious warp. I believe a point in the past has been altered by nefarious power and thus has created ripples of events that are not just incorrect but can verily destroy Nirn in the process."
The lad seemed to turn around and give a rather searing look to the young woman who had tackled him, as if to prove a point.
Then she continued, "You must find the Elder Scroll to right these wrongs before its too late."