The Shrine of Namira resided east of Bruma, and the weather seemed aware they were headed somewhere grave. Ominous dark clouds shielded the sun from view the whole way there, casting dimness across the land, and occasionally spitting an unfriendly rain. The temperature was cool, albeit nowhere was unforgiving as Skyrim's tundra, but Lynette found herself shivering even with the fur cloak.
Nerves. She wasn't sure if they'd be less frayed if it were sunny and cloudless, but the gloomy atmosphere wasn't improving them by any means either. Nor was the damnable silence.
Though their good moods were sustained during breakfast, as soon as they set off Farengar dipped into a morose quietude. And Vilkas was even more sullen. He hummed no tune, not so much as a whistle, and any attempt at conversation was given minimal response, leaving it to die before it could ever begin.
Minline wasn't the talkative sort, Lynette was learning, but even she gave off of a dispirited vibe. The angsty mood was affecting Folkvar as well. He dragged behind them with his head a little lower and his tail to the dirt. She frowned at her pitiful pup, but could think of no way to cheer him up. Not with what was to come.
At least her apprentice robes were clean. It was the small silver linings, right? Plus she was sharing her horse with Farengar for once. With no more need of maintaining the spell on their charge, it didn't make sense for them to share anymore. Especially not after last night.
Lynette turned a rosy red at the memory, as if she was having hot flashes. But she was glad for their company. She would need them.
They arrived quickly, too quickly, climbing the hill where the shrine was nestled. The surrounding area seemed to darken as they at last reached it.
"This is it," Farengar announced. His voice carried and never settled, as if the nature of this place alone rejected his presence.
The statue depicted a woman. The stone was once pale, but age darkened it and moss had grown over it in places. An abundance of cracks and chips riddled it in excess, leaving Lynette to believe it wasn't well cared for.
The woman could have been pretty; her shoulder length hair was pinned back from her face, while her dress was open at the breasts and abdomen, barely covering, and not leaving much of her body to the imagination. But she scowled, and the way her hands were clasped together made Lynette think she was behaving better than everyone else. At her side, partially hiding behind the skirt of her dress, was the likeness of an imp.
The offerings were old; stems of dead flowers, bits of what must've been dead bugs, and bone fragments.
It was too soon—she wasn't ready. She started to hyperventilate.
Hearing her bubbling over distress, Farengar's hands seized hers and brought them to his lips so he could kiss each of her fingers. Her skin buzzed where his mouth touched and a shiver tranced down her spine as she leaned forward and rested her head against his back, searching for his heartbeat. It glanced her ear, steady and fast.
Since he was at the front, his act was hidden from the others—not that they discussed whether their relationship was a secret or not. They hadn't even discussed what they were, but she supposed that was for the best. They loved each other, they made love, and whatever came of today, those treasured memories would be at the forefront of her mind.
They dismounted the ethereal horses and removed their packs so that Farengar could de-summon them. The atmosphere was soundless and eerie, and Lynette jumped at every small noise, even ones she herself made. The very fiber of her being screamed to be anywhere else, so she stuck to Farengar's hip for some sense of safety.
There wasn't much space for their small group and belongings, but pack-in-hand, Farengar took her by the arm and guided to the farthest rock, and the closest thing to the 'edge' of the small shrine area.
The others paid no attention to them, and Vilkas distracted Folkvar from following them by offering him a chicken leg. Lynette had the sneaking suspicion this was part of the plan and her anxiety doubled its efforts to send her into a panic attack.
"You'll need to lie down," he told her, but with the gravity of his tone, it sounded like a command.
"What? Why?" She sounded nigh-shrill and unconsciously tried to move away from him.
His grip on her arm kept her from leaving his side farther than a pace, but he wasn't forceful about it. "I'm going to use a sleep spell on you."
"Like with Minline? Why!?"
"I can't tell you that, love. I just need you to trust me."
He gazed at her with softness and love, and the term of endearment should have delighted her, but it only troubled her more. She did trust him, of course she did, but her hysteria didn't care.
Still, she nodded to him, throat knotted, stomach churning, heart throbbing.
He took her by the shoulders and together they lowered to the ground, which was mostly dirt with dead or dying grass. No flowers in sight.
Clearly he knew giving her time to panic was worse, because the arm that helped her sit came around her shoulders and cradled her to his chest. His body heat snuggled her, better than any blanket.
"Close your eyes." His voice caressed her ears, his breath tickled her hair. "And picture an ambience that comforts you."
He stroked her cheek with the pads of his fingers, and she obeyed, doing her best to do as he said and construct it in her mind, using the sound of his breathing as a shield to keep away from bad thoughts.
She pictured a comfy bed, plush with the finest feathers near a crackling warm fire. It was as soft as silk in appearance alone, but the touch of it would make her wish to burrow beneath the furs and never leave. The heat would waft from the fire, orbiting her like a shawl. Folkvar would be curled up near the fire, dozing on a cushion, his snores encompassing the room, cozy and content.
And of course Farengar would be there. Their bellies would be full from a warm meal, and they would be a touch tipsy from delicious mead. The both of them would be unclothed and he'd climb into bed with her. He would embrace her, kiss her deeply, and the kisses would escalate until he made her his all over again.
She felt when Farengar's fingers traced the shape of her jawline, touched her lips, and she was convinced it was the dream. Realization that this was not the case only came to her when there was a flash of something bright behind her eyelids, but she was out before she could question it.
The sequence was dream-like for Lynette. Barefoot, she found herself in a dead forest. The trees were barren and ashen, with roots jabbing out of the earth like skeletal fingers. The ground bore no grass, only dirt and dust, and the sky was in mourning, cloudy and dark and alarming. No noise permeated the area, only abysmal silence. The air was chilly and thick with the scent of sulfur.
There was a singular dirt path leading through the forest of death, and though Lynette's teeth chattered at the prospect of braving it, there was no way to go but forward, so she followed it.
Small, sharp rocks dug into her feet, and though she was aware of the sensation, it didn't hurt.
At the end of the path she found a gaunt woman, her bony back against a tall, dead tree with a trunk that curled like a corkscrew. The flesh that clung to her bones resembled fleshy paper, thin and stretched over, and her whole spine and the outline of every single rib could be distinguished. Her shoulder-length hair was stringy and uneven, looking like straw and was likely the same color as it once too, except now it was discolored and dirty from the ash. Patches of it were missing from her scalp, revealing flesh that oozed pus and blood. Her only source of clothing was a wrap around her waist, concealing her bottom half but leaving her sunken breasts exposed.
The tree itself was just as grotesque; the ashen bark was drenched in clear slime, with slugs and spiders writhing along the branches and trunk. Any leaves were long gone, likely having rotted away from the foul presence.
Lynette could practically feel the bugs crawling on her skin and hugged herself.
The woman-creature revolved her head to stare straight into Lynette's soul. Her bones creaked, echoing through the clearing as if they were being crunched by something heavy. It set her teeth on edge.
"Come, my child."
She recognized her voice and instantly wished to flee. Namira.
"No!"
She tried to turn and run, but her feet were glued. At least they were until she no longer commanded her body, and instead of bolting, they carried her forward into the arms of her greatest nightmare.
Tears tracked down her cheeks by the time she stopped. Namira stretched her hands out and latched onto both of her arms, digging her talons in so roughly that they tore the fabric of Lynette's robes, but not flesh. She still couldn't feel pain, not even when Namira jerked her to her knees and hauled her close to her face.
Her breath was putrid, some horrid combination of rotting corpse and sulfur.
"Let me go," she whispered, a half-sob. "Please."
"Mmmmmh," the Daedric Prince hummed, burying her face in Lynette's hair, despite her resistance. "You smell delicious."
Lynette couldn't even try to pull away. She held no power here, not even over her own body.
"Perhaps I will consume your flesh instead."
A ball of fire squarely slammed into the side of Namira's face, setting her alight as soon as it made contact, eating at what flesh remained and charring it straight to the bone.
Lynette was shoved away as a banshee screech erupted from her throat and she clawed violently at the flames, trying to douse them. When Lynette rolled her head to see who attacked the Daedra, she almost burst into tears from joy.
There stood Farengar Secret-Fire, one hand brimming with the element of fire, the other crackling with electricity. His stance was rigid and confident, and his visage was draped in righteous anger, his slit brown eyes like daggers.
"Farengar," she breathed, knowing he couldn't hear her. The eyes that met hers seemed to shine, and it gave her confidence.
"You will not touch her again." His voice reverberated, strong and airy. "This ends here, Daedra."
Namira's deep-throated cackle turned Lynette's veins to ice.
"You think you can stop me? Think again, little wizard."
The Daedric Prince rose, dragging her feet under like they were broken, the cloth barely hanging onto her hips. The flesh his spell burned away was already healing; stretching and knitting back together with some grotesque snapping sound. She bent her neck and it popped like a bone being disconnected.
Lynette knew she was in danger then and jumped into action, crawling away as fast as she could, but talons latched on her hair anyway, hauling her back. She screamed and kicked, ramming her elbows backward in a solid motion, hoping to connect. Some hits did and Namira grunted, but none were victorious in loosening her grip.
In the corner of her eye she saw Farengar zooming for them, fingers curling towards his palms, igniting more spells.
He was several yards from them and she wanted to give him time, so with all her might she dug her heels into the ground and squirmed, hoping to stall Namira from towing her to only Divines knew where.
"Let. Me. GO!" she screamed.
Though it didn't stop her completely, there was a horrifying growl that kissed her ears as the Daedric Prince grabbed her face and tried to smother her, shaking her whole body like a ragdoll.
Again, it didn't hurt, but she was aware of the sensation and her stunted breathing. How she spluttered and clawed at Namira's hands, screaming to be let go.
A force that packed a punch connected with Namira's back; even Lynette felt it vibrate through her bones. She grunted and wheezed, and Lynette smelled the scorched flesh before she saw the wound oozing foul fluid down her arm.
She threw Lynette away like an unwanted piece of garbage, so much power from her Daedric strength that Lynette landed harshly on her side, air knocked clean from her lungs and head spinning. She saw stars, but through the film of them she also saw Namira angle to face Farengar, who was now only a few feet away.
"I'm going to kill you," she snarled, lowering to a crouch and baring an array of needle teeth.
"You can try, and fail."
Farengar was at a natural disadvantage; close quarters were not a mage's specialty, and he did what he could to put distance between them. But Namira, or whatever form of her this was, was fast.
Every time she got close he had a spell readied; a stream of flames to lick at her flesh, an arc of lightning to send her flying backwards. They slowed her, made her screech in agony, but they never stopped her.
They became a whirl of flying sparks and slashing claws, and it was difficult to keep track of them with her spinning head.
Lynette tried to orient herself, dragging herself up by the elbows, but she was so sluggish, so weak. Get up! She screamed at her disobedient body. Farengar needed her help!
As he backed up, Farengar stumbled on uneven ground, betrayed by his footing, and that gave the Daedra an opening. She raked her claws across the front of his torso, tearing through his robes and flesh like they were butter.
He cried out in pure anguish and Lynette's heart stopped. Strings of blood and flesh were ripped away, threads of it stuck to her claws, leaving behind a gory underlayer of angry pink flesh. Blood pooled like a faucet on full blast.
"FARENGAR!"
His eyes were wide, shocked. He fell to a knee, then both as a line of blood drizzled from the corner of his mouth, and though he tried to block the rivulets of crimson with his hands, it slipped through the spaces of his fingers, useless.
Rage-birthed adrenaline pumped her bloodstream like a drug and Lynette leaped to her feet, sprinting for Namira with a battle cry. Tears blinded her, but she didn't need to see to go berserk.
With the force of her whole body she hit the Daedric Prince, knocking them both to the ground as she pummeled her with her fists. They rolled.
She ripped her clothes, shredded flesh that left behind profuse bleeding, but Lynette didn't fucking care. She could hear, feel, think nothing but fury. This monstrosity was going to die.
Namira laughed, said something, but her throat was full of so much fluid that it was unintelligible. Lynette rolled both of them so that Namira was on her back and Lynette sat on top of her. Namira was fighting back less and less, and it pissed her off, not knowing if it was because she was tired from Farengar's onslaught, or if she was letting Lynette win.
She punched her over, and over, and over. Her knuckles bloodied down to the knuckle bones, but Namira fared worse. Lynette beat the skin clean off, showing only the face of a skull. The whole time Namira stayed there without any resistance, solely staring into her face with admiration and acceptance.
Lynette craved her demise, but the monster's chest rose and fell with haphazard breathing. Her eyes burned from the frenzy that ached to burst forth from them and incinerate Namira. Die, die, die.
When she spoke, it wasn't verbal; instead her voice gyrated through brain like tentacles.
"Follow me. Join me… Consume me, my child."
Something in her snapped. Lynette pulled a fist back, bent her fingers against her palm, and summoned every drop of magic from her bloodstream. Funneled into a single fire spell, she punched it into her face with all of her remaining strength. There was so much power behind it that it split the skull down the middle with a giant crack!
"Fuck. You," she hissed.
There was gurgling noise from Namira as she tried to draw breath—or say something, Lynette didn't know—but her lungs would not fill and scarlet foamed her lips.
The end didn't come with bang. There was no hooting and hollering, no fanfare, no epic send-off; life left Namira's frame like a dead leaf stolen by a frail breeze from an already-deceased tree.
The carcass caved in on itself, turning to dust bit by bit, but Lynette didn't remain to watch. Farengar needed her.
She used all fours to crawl over to him, battered and bruised, soreness and pain throbbing through her every inch of her skin. At the sight of his dreadfully colorless complexion, she began to weep.
She would think him gone, but his eyes cracked open and met hers, glazed over. Scarcely heard was his wheezing as she hauled his upper body into her lap and applied pressure to the wound.
"It's…useless…love…" He coughed and blood spattered his lips. She cried harder.
"Stop, be quiet. Save your strength."
She lifted the hand not staunching his wound, fingers trembling as she tried to draft a healing spell. The pale golden light lit weakly in her palm, the size of a grape, before going out again completely.
She tried again, and again, and again, sobs racking her frame. Eventually his hand closed over hers and brought to his chest, pressed to his heart.
"I…t'ssss… o…k…ay…" he spluttered, choking on his own blood.
"No. You're not dying on me!"
He smiled at that, so fragile it didn't touch his eyes. How could he, at a time like this?
"Ki…sssss… me…" he gasped. His eyes flickered closed and his chest did not rise with another breath.
It was so hard. Tears soaked her face and fluid exuded her nostrils, but she did as he wished. She leaned down and covered his cold blue lips with her warm mouth, but he didn't return it. So she kissed him again, and then again, over and over, hysterical as he did not kiss her back.
Shaking so bad she had to clench her teeth to keep them from chattering, she jerked back. Her heart was in her throat and she felt herself break in two.
"FARENGAR!" she screamed, sobbed, shook him violently, begged and blubbered for him to come back to her.
But he was dead.
She beat his chest with her fists. "No… Nonono. You promised!"
But he did not stir.
With a scream she fell on top of him, latching onto his tattered robes and burying her face against his chest, knowing it would never beat again. Her tears soaked through the fabric, mixing the blood and sweat. He was so cold and already stiffened.
If Farengar was dead, then she would die here with him, she decided. She lifted off of him, her tear-blinded eyes scanning for anything sharp or that could be used as a weapon—
And then, like some delirium-fueled hallucination, arms weakly encircled her and secured her to his chest. He was warm again, and his heartbeat caressed her ear—the most beautiful sound she ever heard.
She choked on a sob, not daring to believe it was real as she turned her head and met the eyes of an alive and safe Farengar. Brown and silky and lovely, they squinted with pleasure at the sight of her.
"Hello there," he said softly.
She burst into fresh tears, blubbering as she wiggled around to check him over for injuries, thinking he must still be bleeding out. There was a ton of blood that made him wet and slippery, but her fingers found only smooth unblemished skin beneath as they roamed his torso.
His wounds were gone. Healed. There wasn't even a scar. There was no explanation for it other than a miracle.
"How!?"
Perhaps the Divines had mercy on them, or… Lynette didn't care! He was alive, and she gave no shits on the how, actually. Only that he was in her arms again.
"I told you, Lynette. I've got you."
She laughed, bloody laughed, before grabbing fistfuls of his hair and yanking his head down so she could smother his face in kisses.
According to Farengar, it was their magic-induced connection that allowed him to enter her mind. Because he cast a sleeping spell on her, he was able to enter on his terms, with full control and power of himself through their fortified connection. And then, because they were at Namira's shrine, it weakened the wall separating her and Lynette.
That also meant if Farengar died in her mind, he would have died in the waking world as well, which terrified Lynette so badly her chest felt as if it might cave in on itself. So she couldn't think about it.
The version of Namira they encountered was no more than a shadow, and killing it meant they exterminated the influence Namira planted in Lynette's mind. Needless to say, considering how deadly a mere shadow of her was, she didn't want to know what Namira's full power was capable of. But at least she was free.
Farengar suspected it was Lynette herself that healed him; her untapped magic potential coming to the surface when she was most broken. It made sense. Sometimes one had to crash to rock bottom to find that power within them to move mountains, but ultimately Lynette didn't care for the hows and whys. Farengar was safe and sound, and that's all that mattered to her.
When they returned to the waking world, they found sunshine and the rest of their ragged troupe licking their wounds, but just as alive and well. Namira sent minions to attack them, but they were victorious.
Vilkas sustained several lacerations on his face and limped, but that didn't stop him from grinning at their success with an obnoxious holler. Minline's gown was soaked with blood that was not her own, and she already healed the brunt of any wounds that were inflicted.
As for Folkvar, he drowned her with lots of doggy kisses as soon as she woke. He was clearly tired and there was blood matted in his fur that scared Lynette for a brief moment—flashes of the battle with Minline and injuries inflicted upon him then flooded her mind—but a rapid check showed her that he was unharmed. Lynette suspected Minline healed him first.
Lynette had to help Farengar sit up and support him, but she didn't mind. She never wanted to stop touching him ever.
"It's over, then?" Minline asked.
Farengar nodded. "So it is."
The Altmer smiled wryly and playfully offered her wrists. "Should you bind me then? Or would you prefer another spell."
Farengar shook his head, a flash of mischief in the depths of his eyes that made Lynette's mouth quirk.
"As you can see, me and my company are in no shape to pursue you…if you chose to flee," he said nonchalantly. "And in that situation I would be forced to tell the Jarl that you died in battle."
"You would…let me go?"
"Absolutely not. I am only saying if you wished to flee, we would be helpless to stop you."
And so she did, but not without proper goodbyes and endless thank you's. Lynette may not have known her long, but she would miss her and told her to visit. Minline promised she would.
And when they returned to Whiterun, with no reason to doubt him, the Jarl believed the story Farengar told.
