Just a Formality II

The sound of the Soittaj echoed in the air. Falrielle breathed in, then out. The horn wailed again, this time long and insistent.

Falrielle opened her eyes and sighed. The day just had to begin when she was falling asleep.

The Vigilants rose. Some stretched, some yawned, some had to be prodded by their fellows but all the same, the time for slumber was over. Falrielle leapt of her bed, slipped on her boots, and made for the washing bowl. She cupped the water in her hands and splashed it on her face. The combination of the cold and the chamomile roused her awake. A cup of coffee would be better, even better was a cup of Elsweyr Dark, but coffee was expensive and breakfast was hours away.

The first order of the day was the matins, the morning liturgy. Falrielle was never too good at them – she had a tendency to mix-up the words and prayers. Fortunately for her, Gideon will be leading; it was his turn anyway. Gideon began by reciting with the thirty-psalms followed by the hymns:

O Stendarr, God O Mercy,

We pray to be sober, to be vigilant,

For the Daedra prowls,

And seeks the fools to feed their hunger.

The morning liturgy concluded itself when the Soittaj sounded again, marking the crack of dawn. Now it was Falrielle's turn. As Master of Combat, it was her duty to ensure the Vigilants remain hale and hearty for service and that training, the never-ending training and the Gods only knew how much she loved the training.

'Reach for your toes!' she barked. 'And dinnae you dare give me lip. How do you expect to fight Daedra if you can't even touch your toes? Ciara, keep your knees straight and have a go again. Aye, Vilken that's the way to do it – you're betterin'. Julian! If you're nae doing this properly, then the fuck you even here? Fuck off back to Cyrodiil!'

'Aight,' she said, stretching her back. 'First platoon…' she held, watching as they squirmed. 'You're on cleaning duty. Make sure the shitter is clean enough for Stuhnnar to eat out of. Tarkus, you're in charge. Second platoon, I hope you've taken a piss before prayers; we're hitting Thür. Vigilants, on me!'

If there were any objectors to Thür, they most certainly kept to themselves. Thür was the mountain that shadowed the Hall of the Vigil and in the winter, shielded them from the wrath of the Northern Winds. For most the year, Thür gleamed pure and white, and trying to overcome the mountain on foot was treacherous. However now in the summer when the snows have melted into streams, Thür revealed secret trail, half-a-dozen miles from the base to its peak. Not as grand as the Seven-Thousand Steps of High Hrothgar but Thür did serve its purpose.

Falrielle ran at the fore while Sven kept at the rear, keeping stragglers in formation. It had almost been three years since the lad's Proving yet he carried himself like a veteran of at least ten – he even looked the part with that grisly scar on his temple. Looking at the lad filled Falrielle with a sense of pride though she never dared to say that to his face.

Hardy evergreens flanked the sides of the Vigilants like the grasping claws of a cat. Bushes sat beneath the trees, cowering beneath its shades. Falrielle took in a deep breath, savouring the aroma of bluebells, honeysuckles, and pine. It would've been a pleasant walk, she noted if it weren't for the ground. Now that the ice and snow have melted away, the ground turned thick and muddy, and climbing uphill in these conditions made for fantastic exercise.

'Pain is an illusion of the body,' Falrielle said. 'Despair, a weakness of the mind. Through training you will learn to overcome them. If you fail and die though, I'll at least burn your corpse,' she added.

Thür, while their guardian, was not a very pleasant one. Sometimes the path climbed uphill only to force a sudden drop, making progress feel like a dog who's had his chain yanked. Sometimes the muddy road was peppered with bits of sharp rocks that tore boots apart. In one occasion, a tree had fallen in the way, demanding a detour of nimble feet.

Falrielle could hear the desperate pants of the Initiates while their more experienced brethren have yet to break a sweat. Overcoming the trail needed more than just raw fitness – it also required precise control of their breathing and a sharp mind. Vigilants were expected to fight creatures that no mortal could ever match in strength or speed. To even survive, a Vigilant has to rely on guile and preparation.

She lightened her footsteps, forcing those behind to pick up the pace.

'What's that Kollr?' Falrielle said, pouting. 'You sound fair puckled, do you need us to take a break?'

'No, Mentor!' Kollr huffed.

'Sounds like Styrbjorn's done in, aren't we Styrbjorn?'

'No, Mentor!' Styrbjorn said. 'I can still fight!'

'That's right, Serra. Slow down some more. Mind that First Platoon will be eating breakfast without us. That means if they finish before we return, no scran for us till' dinner. That means I'll be training you wee lot while me tummy be hee-hawin' and you dinnae want that to happen, do you?'

'No, Mentor,' the Vigilants answered in unison.

'What was that?'

'No, Mentor!' they answered louder.

'Show me!'

The Vigilants let out a roar and surged forward with newfound power. Falrielle caught her breath steaming and frowned. To say the Pale was cold was like saying that fire is hot or that Southerners were mollies. Up here in the true North, snow fell at the end of summer and it didn't stop till the mid of spring. But now was the Ides of Midyear, the first month of summer. Something was affecting the weather; she just knew it. But what, she could not say.

'Initiate Serra!' her ordered dragged out. 'Step out the formation. Now.'

Serra hesitated and obeyed.

'Sven, you have the lead.'

Sven sprinted to the front and waved the formation onwards. 'Vigilants, on me!'

The formation grunted and disappeared after making a turn. Falrielle was now alone with the Initiate. She turned and the girl yelped then saluted.

'Initiate,' Falrielle said, sternly. 'Did you think I didnae notice you limping?'

The girl grew stiff. Falrielle regarded the her with a frown. Mud stained; Serra was a scrawny thing at about Falrielle's height – short for a Nord. From beneath her shaggy fire-kissed hair were a pair of pale eyes and a flat nose. Her skin was pinkish and if it were freckled, Serra would've had the classic features of a Paleman Nord.

'Have a seat,' Falrielle's expression softened. 'Take your boots off, let me see what's wrong. Mmm… that's a sprained ankle. When did you get it?'

'With the tree,' Serra said. 'I fell when I tried to climb over.'

'I see. Well, looks like you're done for today; nae physicals for you. Aye, you'd be an idiot to put pressure on that foot. Come, up with you and lean on me. We'll get you back to the Hall.'

Falrielle threw Serra's arm over her shoulder and pulled the Initiate to her feet. 'Don't stand on that foot or it'll-'

'Sorry, Mentor,' Serra said glumly. 'I'm so sorry.'

'Nah. What are ye saying sorry for? Shite happens.' She shrugged. 'Stubbornness is a virtue but even the trees know to sway when the squall hits.'

Serra nodded. 'I'm sorry,' she repeated. 'I dinnae wantae be a wee scunner but I know I'm better than this.'

Falrielle didn't answer.

'I'm going home, aren't I?' She sniffed. 'I'm packing me bags, aren't I?'

There was a silence between the two, a long, unsettling peace. The peace broke when Falrielle finally said, 'How old are you?'

The girl hesitated. 'Almost twenty winters,' she said quietly.

'Young to be so far away from home.'

Serra sniffed again. 'What do you mean? Didn't you sell your sword at eighteen?'

Falrielle smiled nastily. 'And where did you hear that? Who gabbed?'

'The others,' Serra said. 'We sometimes talk about…' she trailed off, realising that she had spoken too much.

'You know, Thür is a big place, and I've seen bears and wolves roaming about.' She grinned, showing off a full set of teeth. 'I hope you understand my meaning?'

The Initiate gulped.

'Speak,' Falrielle continued. 'Who talked?'

'Senior-Vigilant Gideon,' Serra whispered. Falrielle could see the girl's face growing redder. 'He told us before you joined the Vigil, you were working for…' She paused and glanced over the shoulder, making sure that there wasn't anyone to eavesdrop. 'The Saemling.'

'Is that so?' Falrielle felt a stab at her heart. She made a note to have a talk with Gideon the Gabber later, a very long talk. 'Did he also tell you what I did for the Saemling?'

'No,' Serra answered. 'But I dinnae care about any of that. Mentor,' she continued as a light, one of admiration lit behind her eyes. 'You're the reason why I'm even here – why most of us are even here.'

'Oh?'

'Aye,' she said. 'I mean who hasn't heard of the tale of how the Pale Elf defeated monsters like the Bàs'du, the Grimm, and the Rot Knight? The first time I've heard of you was when I was a wee lass. Mist the Edda came to our village and told us of your adventures.'

Falrielle shook her head. 'Which one?'

'Lots of them. With puppets! My favourite was the one when you were hunting the Svartlings in Falkreath. You were so brave, Mentor, and a hero! Ever since then, I've always wanted to be a Vigilant.'

Falrielle laughed. She laughed hard and ruefully.