Blood and Silver II

It was not the pain but a fervent muttering that woke her.

Falrielle opened her eyes and flinched. An oil lamp burned like a miniature sun on the tabletop, and its light was blinding. Still, she could see a humanoid figure, rocking back and forth on a chair with something clutched in its hand.

'Forgive us for our wicked excesses,' the figure chanted, it was the woman from earlier. 'Forgive us for our unrighteous hubris and grant us the strength to forgive others.' The woman then made a strange gesture, touching her chest then her head and then declared, 'I pray it be so.' She then continued her chanting.

Lit with an orange glow, Falrielle saw that the woman had a light, narrow face. Her cheekbones were high and she had a large, aquiline nose – Very typical Breton features. More specifically, very aristocratic features.

The elf scrutinised the woman. This couldn't be a nun, could she? The disposition was what she expected of a nun but her clothes told her otherwise. The woman wore a set of grey robes typical of the mendicant faithfuls Falrielle saw from time to time. However, over her robes, Falrielle could also see the glimmer of metal – plate armour to be exact. What kind of nun wears armour, let alone plate?

When Falrielle opened her mouth to say something, a horrid croaking noise sounded out.

The woman jumped.

'Finally awake!' she hurriedly said. 'You have been asleep for almost a week.'

The woman stared at her with large hazel eyes peeking under strands of sun-kissed hair.

'How are you feeling?' She continued and smiled, a little too widely at Falrielle. 'Do you need something?'

Falrielle tried to wet her lips, but her throat was as dry as the sands of Hammerfell. 'Wa-' she managed before her voice trailed into a groan.

'My apologies,' she said. 'I understand not that which you require.'

'Wa- wa-' she continued and then groaned again.

'Whiterun?' she guessed. 'No, we are not in the Hold of Whiterun.'

Falrielle felt a surge of anger when she tried to speak again. Was this woman an idiot? Water, that was the answer. What was so difficult about that? Oh right, she told herself. These fanatical sorts also drew their numbers from the foolish. 'Wa….'

'Waaa…' the woman imitated. She repeated the words before a light lit behind her eyes. 'Water? Is that what you are in need of?' She continued chirpily, as she fiddled with her fingers.

Falrielle nodded weakly.

The woman poured a drink and pressed it against Falrielle's lips. Water, which had never tasted so sweet, flowed down her throat and the sides of her face.

'Whit happened?' Falrielle rasped. 'Whare… whare am ah?'

The woman didn't answer immediately. Instead, she took the time to fold a piece of cloth into a neat square, dab Falrielle's face dry, and refolded the cloth again. Falrielle glared icy daggers at her.

'Whit the fuck happened?' Falrielle said, a rage smouldering within. 'Whare the fuck am ah?'

The woman placed the cloth on the tabletop, then clasped her hands and played with her fingers.

'You had been attacked,' she began sombrely. 'By wretched heathens. By Reachmen who called themselves the Forsworn. They have been making raids at travellers – looting them for precious supplies, gold coins, and victims as sacrifices for their gods.'

If that was so, did it mean that she was the only survivor? Before she could muster the courage to ask, the woman continued.

'And where? You are in the Silent Stone Inn,' she said, her tone annoyingly chirpy again. 'You should give the fried pork belly a try. Bollin serves them with lots of potatoes and sauce of parsley.' She clapped her hands. 'And forget not the porridge of barley – it is especially delectable with honey, blueberries, and raspberries.'

Falrielle feared the woman would start blabbering and she would've have shut her up if she had the strength to. The woman gabbered on and on about porridge with the passion of a skald regaling of tales of heroes long past. When the woman started to talk about the virtues of mixing grains for porridge while flapping her hands like a deranged bird, Falrielle felt an itch. She squirmed and then realised something.

'Whai the fuck am ah bound?'

'Ah,' the woman said, face wincing. 'You rolled off the bed and fell on your tongue. I will unbind you,' she continued and loosened the knots. 'Try not to move much lest the wounds open. Stitched closed they are with a clean thread of hemp, and on them I have smothered an unguent of willow tree bark. It will bear an itch, possibly a swell but you need not fear an infection of your vitae humours.'

Falrielle reached over and scratched her leg. A sense of relief washed over her. She had often heard tales of amputees whose minds are in such denial that they still felt their missing limbs.

'You are a tough one.' The woman waved her hands. 'The others said that death had all but earned its ghastly birthright though you clung to life.' She nodded. 'You did die under the knife but I brought you back with magic.' She paused and then said, 'That is also why we are still around. Using healing spells greatly saps much of my vitality.' She smiled brightly with a hint of sickness to her eyes. 'But you are alive and that is a sacrifice I will make again and again.'

Magic. Falrielle sneered at that thought. Magic was for the weak and the wicked. Magic nearly brought upon the end of the world in the Oblivion Crisis almost two hundred years ago. And as proof that mages in all their pompous 'wisdom' never learnt, it was magic that condemned the great city of Winterhold to the seas fifty years ago.

'Whare the fuck is-' she said when her stomach growled.

'I see that you have worked up a hunger – you need not worry,' The woman rose and clapped her hands, sounding a little too relieved. 'Please wait here. I will return with hot food.'

Before Falrielle could utter a protest, the woman had already closed the door behind her.

'Fucking caew!' she swore though her voice was no louder than a whisper. She stamped at the post of the bed and the bed barely rattled. Falrielle felt a storm of emotions building in her. She felt weak. She felt cheated. She felt angry. It just didn't make sense.

Here she was. The coward who lived while the others had their met their glorious end. Why was she still alive? Why did the Gods spare her? What kind of cruel joke are they playing at? If they were having their fun, they should've just taken her arms or legs with it then.

Footsteps at the door.

'I have returned,' the woman sang. 'With a bowl of porridge! It is of barley with some sliced peaches! Open up and-'

'Ah wull fucking feed meself,' Falrielle said. 'Eat shite if ya think ah wull let ye treat me like a cripple.'

'Oh. I apologise.'

Despite the peaches, the gruel was a tasteless slop. Falrielle felt a rage boiling inside of her. Even the task of lifting the wooden spoon required an embarrassing amount of effort for her. Were the things weighted? They felt like they were as if two or three pounds. She also didn't so much as eat the porridge but slurp it, trailing lines of drool down her chin like she was some mewling infant. It was humiliating. The worse of it was that the woman stared at her like she was some sort of freak.

'The fuck ye peepin at?' she growled.

'What? No!' The woman stammered. 'It is just that.' She paused and then looked away. 'I have never seen an elf of your like in my life before.'

'A mutant?' Falrielle held out her arms and scowled. 'Gimme yer best joke. Five Septims tae ye if ah hivnae heard it afore.'

'I apologise.'

'Fuck yer apology. Say whit ye mean.'

'It is just,' she answered after moments of silence. 'Your skin, your hair, and your eyes…'

Falrielle braced herself for the punch. She remembered in her childhood that the others in the hamlet had called her a bad omen for her white hair, pale skin, and cold blue eyes and she also remembered the cruel games the other children liked to play like 'Melt the snow' and 'Throw rocks at the ghost'. She also remembered that after Ma and Da disappeared and little Leif was taken by the wolves, the hamlet had enough and drove them out of their own home.

From then on, life just been the same thing. Wherever she went, someone always had something to say about her. Though her skin was thickened with scars, words still hurt.

'Weel? Dinnae tell me ye'v gaen dumb.'

The woman bit her lip as her faced turned cherry red. 'They-they look so pretty,' she finally forced out, voice anguished.

Falrielle felt a strange kick in her stomach. She scooped a mouthful of gruel and swallowed without a word. 'Ye earned yer five Septims,' she said. 'Just take it fae me purse.'

The woman studied Falrielle's face before widening her eyes. 'I- no!' she said, flapping her arms. 'That was not a jest. I was speaking true. I really do think you look beautiful. Have I said something I should not have said? I apologise. When I meet people, I get so nervous. And that makes me talk- She covered her mouth and drew in a sharp breath. 'I apologise,' she enunciated slowly.

Nobody said anything for a long time. The woman stared at the details of the floorboards and fiddled with her fingers. Falrielle finished eating and laid down on the bed. They were stuffed with straw, she only now realised.

'Yer the second body tae tell me that,' Falrielle said and the woman perked up. 'Me ma wis the first. Made sense, Pa tellt me she chose me name: Falrielle.'

'Falrielle,' the woman repeated. 'Snow Beauty. A good name, one that I will remember. I am called Carcette. Vigilant of Stendarr.'

Another silence.

'Carcette,' Falrielle began. 'Whit happened tae the lads?'

Carcette when she suddenly stood up. 'Your chamber pot is full; I will clear it!'

'Leave me piss alone and fuck aff with that! Speak proper with me,' Falrielle said with ice in her voice. 'Whit happened tae the lads?'

Carcette gave her answer. Not in words, for she said nothing. Her crestfallen expression however was answer enough.

'Aye, aye,' Falrielle said evenly. 'Whai did ah think anything else? Whit a fool, ah will be, eh? Eh?' She leaned her head back started a laugh that just wouldn't stop. Was it something she said that she found funny? She wasn't sure – Carcette wasn't laughing.

She strained her eyes and noticed that her laughs sounded strange. Faerin had always compared her laughs to a braying ass but now she heard something different. They sounded short and terrible. Like sobs.

Something warm streamed down the sides of her face. Falrielle wiped her face and found tears. Crying? Was she actually crying? That was impossible, she told herself. She wasn't that weak. She was strong. She had the heart of a Nord, not that of a High Rock milk drinker and every Nord knew that the passing of a friend is to be met with drink and song, not tears.

'We gave them their rites,' Carcette added. 'We even buried-'

'Buried? You buried them?' The sellsword stared at the woman, aghast. 'Whai wid ye dae that?

'Because the Gods command us to-' she managed to stutter.

And Falrielle spat.

'Fuck yer gods and that Southerner shite. Whare dae ya think yer? Yer in Skyrim. The North. The real North. Mibbie ye Southerners loue tae lea yer honoured deid in the ground so that the dugs, the worms, and the vermin kin feast. Ye lea thain tae the mercy of the Auld Knocker? We Northerners piss on that! We burn thaim with fire sae that Kyne may carry thaim tae Sovngarde upon the winds.'

Carcette reached out to Falrielle but the sellsword swatted her hand away. She shrank a bit, no longer looking like a woman but a timid girl. 'I-' she paused and drew in a deep breath. 'I was only trying to be helpful but it seems I have poured vinegar over nitre. Again.' She shook her head. 'Useless, am I not?'

First, Carcette's expression made Falrielle feel satisfied then foolish and guilty. The sellsword turned to face the wall. 'It wid be better if we never see ilk ither again.' She waved her saviour away. 'Just fuck aff.'

Falrielle heard a sniff, then the sound of boots stomping away. A door opened and before it clicked close, the woman took one final breath. 'We have left your things in that corner there,' she said in a shaky voice. 'We could not save your cart, but your cargo is in the stables. Farewell,' she added after a moment of hesitation.

It was only a dozen heartbeats when the elf felt the needles driving into her heart. Falrielle made a prayer, the first in many years for the strength to endure.

And as always, the Gods ignored her.

…Vigilant Stendarrism, like its orthodox counterpart holds Caritas to its highest regard as commanded by the first of Stendarr's Precepts. Vigilant Stendarrites however go further than acts of charity or healing. As previously mentioned, Vigilant Stendarrites espouse Praeveni-Impetum, which demands that adherents to the faith must actively prevent harm against an innocent and should this action be an act of violence which would condemn their eternal souls, then so be it. This in-grained culture of martyrdom, enforced by the adoption of the Song of the Faithful as a canonised scripture have given Vigilant Stendarrites a reputation of suicidal tendencies. To simplify, Vigilant Stendarrites will willingly commit acts of sin that will either tarnish their souls and do so not for a divine reward, but because they believe it is the right thing to do to help their fellow man, so to speak.

~ Excerpt from Cults and Religions of Tamriel by Thelonius Finn, Imperial Scholar