Like a whip the wintry breeze lashes at the assembled entourage with all the fury of a scorned lover eliciting a chorus of displeased grumbles from the soldiers and soft whinnies from the troubled horses. Myrimae pulls his thick woolen cloak closer around his form with a huff, shivering as the wind claws at him again pelting his face with kisses of knife sharp cold despite his fur-trimmed hood and despite all of his efforts to keep warm the tempest is content to howl onwards, it's shrill screams almost like teasing laughter. Nobody could have predicted a storm on such a fair and clear morning but a storm they had, slowing their trek into the sheltered woodlands waiting below, their boughs like quaking arms outstretched for an embrace. Auri-El curse this wretched mountain and the fools who decided to camp upon it for there can be no greater pain than being cold. The trek down was already predicted to take hours on the slippery stony path at the absolute least even without an oncoming blizzard nipping at their heels. How annoying! The great sheer cliffs stand like silent sentinels on either side of the pass, their tops white with freshly fallen snow and they do naught to shelter them only look on, judgemental and distant, scorning their slow passage. They are strangers in this land, unwelcome and ill equipped to tackle the native weather and even the land itself knows of this. One misplaced step, one careless move and they'll all tumble down the mountain into the waiting jaws of the sharp pines at the pass' mouth waiting like verdant fangs, hungry and darkened by ephemeral shadows. It helps his boredom to think of the land as if living and capable of thought rather than just large and exceedingly dull, rocks and the occasional dismal little tree the only decoration that adorns an otherwise bleak landscape. Another gust of furious wind slaps the Altmer from the side, his horse swaying from the force an unhappy neigh leaving the old nag at the same time a pained hiss leaves him. Blasted Skyrim and blasted snow and blasted storm! Oh what he'd do to crawl back into bed, a proper bed not some threadbare roll laid upon hard ground, and sleep for the rest of the day in a cocoon of warmth with a raging fire but feet away. Myrimae is not made for the winter, his heart is summer warm and scented like the cherry blossoms of spring, he can barely handle a chilled drink in hand and here he is, dragging himself through some icy mountain pass in the waning days of autumn.
A glance to the side, a break in this abysmal boredom and brooding. Aetherian rides at his side black cloaks and long silvery hair billowing in the wind, the older mer wearing splashes of snow and ice like medals of honor a perfectly neutral mask blessing his fair features. He has always been the coldest one in their family, pale skin the colour of a watery winter sunrise and chartreuse eyes sharp as ice, this wintery scene suits him well. Bastard has the sheer audacity to look regal next to the rest of them, focus not wavering from the road even as the storm reaches a fervent pitch, the general's voice carrying over the howl of the fitful wind, begging for a retreat. But Aetherian outranks him, they both know it, silencing the man with a glare that could kill nations if he so desired. There would be no retreat, no return, the path they've left behind will be far too treacherous, too troublesome to navigate, they will not abandon their cause so far into their journey. Press on, he urges, they will break through the treeline soon and then there shall be a reprieve from the blizzard, the boughs of the forest shielding them from the worst of the pelting snow. His words carry a promise of rest and Myrimae does hope that's the case, dearly so because at this rate half the foot soldiers will have frostbite or the shakes and he'll be tending to their fevers all night rather than cashing in on Yvonril's promise of a home cooked dinner and an early retire to bed together . Not that he's going to make that public knowledge of course, not if he doesn't want to be tending to Yvonril's wounds and his own after the inevitable backlash. He understands, of course, both of them hail from wealthy families with powerful and prestigious bloodlines, thus it's important that both of them settle down with pretty ladies from equally as important families and have plenty of little children who they can raise to do the same. Curses upon his ancestor for bedding some royal twit and bearing a bastard into the world because apparently that's their claim to their noble rank! Myrimae does not think sleeping with another person's husband and having his child is something to be bragging about and he's more than certain his ancestor would not think so either. Nether-the-less that was what his father raised him to be proud of so that is what he must think about it all. The howling wind grows quiet as they dip below the boughs of the waiting trees, an eerie darkness sweeping over the assembled as the twittering of birds whispers through the canopy. Aetherian raises a hand in silence, a call for them to stop, rest well earned. Myrimae practically sags in the saddle his disgruntled horse huffing.
"She will throw you off if you don't treat her right dear." A glance at his brother sat upon his noble looking steed makes Myrimae just roll his eyes at the older mer, as if he were having any problems with such a finely bred beast.
"You picked the worst possible nag for me out of all of them, I doubt this old lady could buck me off even if she wanted to. She should be plowing a field somewhere and I should be riding something more-"
" Regal ? Befitting of those descending from royal stock? Well, my dear Myrimae, if you didn't wait for me to come collect you instead of meeting me for the debriefing and delaying us you wouldn't have to ride, oh what was it that dimwitted Nord called her…? Batty, Betty?" A dismissive wave of the hand, he obviously cares little, "It matters not, only that I gave you time to collect yourself and you took liberties with my kindness and patience holding us back and missing half the brief."
A scoff and a roll of the eyes, "I know what the mission is, Aetherian. We ride down a mountain, you meet with Elenwen and our general meets with the Imperial general and then we go on our merry way back to warmer weather in Cyrodiil after we stand there and watch a few Nords get their heads cut off."
"And this is why I was so insistent that you be on time for our briefing this morning. You'd be aware that we will not be returning to the Imperial City for quite some time. Months at the very least, perhaps a full year if strictly necessary! Honestly Myrimae you'd know this if you took your job more seriously!"
But Myrimae isn't listening, he's much too preoccupied burying his face in his hands and screaming silently, lamenting his own foolishness. A year ? Months at the very least? May the Divines save him from this frozen wasteland of naught but storms and stone, where the forests sigh in the wind and everything is so dreary and harsh, and that's just the natives! A gust of wind claws at him, cold fingers probing for the weaknesses in his defence, their death-like chill creeping into his bones, blood turning to ice. Already, too soon, he craves to return to his post in the Imperial City, and he knows once he returns there he'll crave to return to Alinor, perhaps even drag his sorry state all the way back to Firsthold to cling to mother's skirts like he did when he was a babe. Oh how his heart yearns to return to that land of eternal summer, where the flowers always bloom and the sky is clear. No matter how damaged he is, no matter how large the fractures in his mind grow he'll always be able to find peace there, sweet drink in hand, feet propped up and ocean breeze gently kissing his face. It's so far away it feels like a fleeting dream, tinted rose and beyond his meager reach, so much so that some days he questions if that sense of peace was ever real to begin with. But he mustn't dwell on such things lest his imagination wander down the dark alleyways in his mind, curiosity finding all the little secrets he hides away like a maddened hoarder. Regardless of where he is in the world he is still sick but there's not much the gentle lap of the waves upon the shore and watery first dregs of sunlight that kiss away the night can't fix, it'll just take time and a lot of care. And he is not getting the care he desperately needs here . No, not here, being dragged along to work, not here where the people he's been made to entrust with his well being must focus their attention elsewhere on things deemed more important than the health of their agents. A breath, a breeze, a flurry of snowflakes flittering through the trees. It's all well, he tells himself, they'll be done with this mission within a couple of hours and, even if there is more work to be done, he'll be able to sit back and relax, at least for a little while, even if he's away from all his homely comforts. Yes, Myrimae decides, all will be well. Yvonril gives him a smile from the ground as he along with the other soldiers rub warmth back into their frozen fingers, Aetherian huffs as the general prattles on about some nonsense and everything feels as it should be. There is no need to be so upset and Aetherian is right he does dearly need to be more serious about his work, not that he'll return to his days of assassinations and spy work but if he doesn't start actually doing his job soon somebody is going to get hurt.
It's not long before the order to move out once more is called, their horses weary from the trek huffing as they urge them onwards even though the screaming winds have died down to gentle sighs and the snowflakes only flutter past in a silent dance nobody really wishes to move on from this scant comfort. Despite the chill and his running nose Myrimae begrudgingly admits that yes this snow covered woodland with it's sharp pines and bleak rocks is at least somewhat pretty, almost like a frosted cake with a powdering of sugar. Little colourful flowers peep through the layers of white, their tiny yet hardy blooms not perturbed by the foul weather just like the berry bushes that thrive by the side of the long cobbled road and the dank moss that clings on to the fallen boulders with admirable tenacity. Straight back he allows his cloaks to fall away, his own coating of frost to dispersing, a couple of strained sunbeams streaking through the high boughs of the trees, snow quickly fleeing from its gleaming presence. Today will be good, it will be better than a costly storm and a bloody execution and acting as an ear for any of their people who are troubled by watching heretic heads meet the dirt. Sooner than he thought the village gates loom into view, simple wood that has seen many a year of use and stone walls, rough and weathered mark the entrance to the quaint Nordic town. Beyond the walls blue eyes can spy the towers of the Imperial keep and the watchtower's red flags waving in the breeze, the Imperial dragon taking flight over the sleepy little village. And out front, waiting for them by the gates wearing a sneer with her own sorry looking contingent of High Mages and golden soldiers is Skyrim's very own Thalmor Ambassador, Elenwen. He can almost feel Aetherian's own haughty glare of distaste down to the exact second he lays eyes on her. The two go way back, back to the Great War and then even before that, apparently apprenticing under the same wizard and spending years together as childhood friends. Myrimae knows not what happened to sour their relationship but he does know they were already drifting apart when he was still toddling around finding his feet and by the time he was old enough to understand what was happening they were at each other's throats. After the Great War whatever they'd shared was gone forever, but Myrimae can't help but feel that he had a hand in all of this. It matters little now, they're professionals and both value their careers along with the overall ideals the Dominion stands for and neither is willing to jeopardize decades of hard work over a petty falling out.
"Ambassador, a pleasure to see you again. I am so utterly honoured that you'd invite my goodself and my assembled dignitaries to this splendid land on such a… lovely day." He'd make a convincing case if not for the sharp look he sends the lady's way meeting her own sneer head on.
"Ah, Inquisitor Syellan I was not aware that you would be accompanied by the general," A nod in his direction and one in response but then her intense gaze settles on Myrimae, the sudden feeling of being scrutinised settling around him heavy as his sodden cloak, "Nor was I aware of your… brother. A pleasure to see you again." It's as if she thinks he can't taste the lies rolling from her tongue.
"The general's business is not with the Thalmor but with the Legion and is in his own interests, General Voriel is simply accompanying us for ease. And, for your consideration Ambassador, my brother goes where I go regardless of his use to us." Aetherian's reply is swift and sharp, snappish even, his emerald gaze daring Elenwen to speak further on the matter, when she removes her focus from him and instead returns it to the matter at hand the mer's quick anger dissipates and he continues in a much more cheery tone, "Now we can stand here all day and discuss whom should and should not be attending this fiasco or you can most kindly escort us inside and we'll get this all over with."
A nod to the Imperial guards and the gates swing open with a weary creak, their old hinges protesting under the strain, Myrimae wonders how the villagers even manage to leave or return to the village with such a sad broken thing as their defenses. The village bleeds into existence as he urges his horse onwards, filing his brothers words away to hurl at him later in what will most likely be a blazing row. A gentle waft of smoke curls around them, the scent of cooking heavy in the air, the inn preparing for what they expect to be a rush of activity after the execution. How barbaric! For such a quaint village with rather charming little thatched collages and youths playing in the dirt where scruffy half dead mountain flowers bloom the populace sure is eager to whet their lips with fresh blood. Soon the cobbles will be dirtied with the stain of heretic filth, it'll take months for the Imperials to get their servants to scrub them clean not that they're overly pristine at the moment sullied by dirt of all kinds. Ah Imperials , the Legion is full of bastards who care for nothing but the sound of coin in their purses, no honour, no discipline at all! They'll enforce the Concordant if it means they'll get paid well but beyond that they care little for this holy war. And it is holy. Myrimae has been told that it is so and he finds no reason to question those above him, it is not his place to do so. But the Empire is always at odds with itself, the races of men snapping at one another like mongrel dogs fighting over the last bone of a carcass already picked clean, their betters looking on from the metaphorical dinner table with both mirth and distaste in equal parts. And this foolish civil war is one of these carcasses. General against rebel, one man calling himself king and the other denying his claim. Idiots . And speaking of them there sits the general upon his steed, the aging man barely even acknowledging their presence merely speaking in hushed tones with the ambassador, pausing but a moment to greet their own general. Aetherian wears an open expression of displeasure at being so easily brushed to the side, it's almost satisfying to see. Myrimae smirks to himself, serves him right for once.
A barbed insult lingers in his mouth, bitter and sharp but Myrimae finds it interrupted by a parade of clattering hooves as several rickety looking horse drawn carts roll into town carrying a collection of men and women, all streaked with dirt and blood and, despite their impending deaths, still wearing glares bearing the sharp fury of a summer storm, their hate clear and oozing. One by one the carts pass on creaking wheels, one, two, three… five in total, the last one carrying the rebel leader himself, Ulfric Stormcloak, bound and gagged like fat game waiting for the hunter's blade to steal away his miserable life. A wry smile crosses his face watching them meander forward to greet their ends. How satisfying it is to see such a troublesome fool captured so easily and so quickly before any real lasting damage could be done, he can't even begin to imagine how difficult the clean up efforts would be if they'd allowed this man to continue to run rampant like a feral hound. He's ruffled quite a few feathers including Aetherian's and while it has been rather satisfying to see the Legion in such a panic over it all it's high time it ended, at least in Myrimae's humble opinion. If the stories are true, and he very much doubts that they are, Ulfric marched into the Blue Palace in Solitude without invite or letter preceding him and tore the High King apart with his voice alone, right in front of the whole court including the poor thing's little wife. Unprovoked, just in and out. One dead man later and he's starting a war, proclaiming a false god as true while spitting in the face of all mer everywhere, calling more close-minded bigots to his banner like wasps to sweet honey wine and, in response to such, spurring the Empire to call more of their own to deal with the apparent ' threat '. It's already a hopeless mess, thank the Eight that he doesn't have to deal with it on a more personal level. Blue eyes roam over the rebel's rugged features. Such a shame he's the enemy he is rather handsome in his own way. Not that any of them meet his exceptionally high standards after all they're just small a selection of Nords and one singular Dunmer tossed into rotting wooden carts. Wait. His heart jumps and Mryimae swerves his stare on to the singular mer sat amongst the men. An oddity. Out of place. They feel wrong . Pale ashen skin, leaning back without a care in the world eyes closed, hair as white as the snow on the peaks above spilling around their singular elf doesn't care. Doesn't give a damn that their head is about to meet dirt, doesn't give a damn that everyone around them despise anything that isn't a Nord, especially those born with pointed ears. It's arrogance, pure simple arrogance.
For a moment he simply stares, this other person of mer blood a curiosity despite the twisting feeling in his guts, the hammering of his heart. It feels wrong to see them there, squashed up against three large Nordic brutes and bound like a common thug. Wrong wrong wrong. And Myrimae doesn't know why. Why does it feel so bad to see them there, this stranger he's never met before? Is it because he can't believe that any mer, despite their heritage, could join the Stormcloaks , a foolish rebel cause cemented in the beliefs of men whose rallying cry supports the claims of a false god. Shouldn't a Dunmer know better than that? Isn't the destruction of their homeland a testament to how mortal lips should never dare speak as if divine? But he doesn't know much about that, he's only read the books, not lived it and it's not his story to tell. Myrimae stares, and then, suddenly, the other stares back. Eyes a vivid purple, not red like they should be like any other of his kind, gazing back sleepily as if they just woke up from a long slumber. The Dunmer sits up straight as if shocked, alert and wild, and still staring. Like they've been hit with a sparks spell. It's as if they're connected by invisible chains, the weight too heavy to ignore but nobody else, not a single person in this whole world, can see their link except them. And Myrimae is shaking. Shaking atop his old nag even as Aetherian guides the beast closer to his own, his voice calm yet sounding as if it comes from a great distance as he explains with great that sometimes his dear brother does this, that he is still in the process of healing and it will not affect his duties. Competent, is a word he tosses to the ambassador as if it holds weight. Competent but distracted, this is, after all, his first major mission after the accident and, well, his services are not presently required. But Myrimae barely hears him over the pounding of his heartbeat that thunders in his head. The carts have stopped, the prisoners being unloaded like cargo, their names called out before they're lined up neatly ready for the headsman's axe. One man, a blubbering fool covered in dirt and bruises breaks from the group refusing to be shephered towards his doom but only meets his end in the dirt, arrows sticking out of his flesh like a macabre pincushion. He looks away quickly, back to where a Legionnaire addresses the strange elf. Still unconcerned, almost leisurely the Dunmer joins the hoard.
Aetherian's hand comes to rest on his shoulder, "Mae darling, Mae you don't have to watch this, why don't you go rest inside the Inn. I'll join yo-"
"No." The force of his conviction surprises them both, neither Altmer even noticing the swish of the axe or the thud of a head dropping to the crate.
"Next... get rid of that Dark Elf!"
Time suddenly feels slow as if everyone is wading through the depths of the sea, the weight and pressure slowing their limbs and even as he watches before his very eyes as the Imperials lay down the strange elf on the soiled block, blood covering the side of their face that meets the stone his insides twist with wrongness. Something cuts through the murk, clear as a scream ravaging through a silent night, clean as a blade parting flesh. A roll of thunder to those who turn a deaf ear out of fear and ignorance but Myrimae knows it for what it is; a rumbling roar of rage, of murderous intent. His heart pounds in his chest, mouth dry he tries to call out for them to stop, for that axe to be lowered not to neck but to the side, to let this mystery person live. But those screams come again, the sky churns above, clouds parting and there! Darting through the grey expanse, black as moonless midnight, a shadow crosses the sun's weak rays. A ripple of unbridled horror passes through the crowd, their gasps and shouts not enough to deter the headsman for his only focus is bloodshed even as another terrible roar sunders the uneasy tension. The horses whinny and fret, his own horse nervously swaying as a rush of wind blasts the village, ratting the gates like how a prisoner shakes their cell doors for a freedom that will never come. Aetherian reaches over to him, hand a burning pressure on his shaking hand, fingers like shackles. Something wants in. And it is angry . A crash and the terror arrives, a great beast with a maw of teeth the length of swords and eyes so red they set the late autumn skies and earth ablaze with their malice alone. The horse bucks in a wild panic throwing him from it's back to the cold ground below pain exploding in his left shoulder when he makes impact with the dirt but there is little time to think, little time to heal himself when that… that thing stands above them all like an eager predator ready for the kill. Slowly he stands, body throbbing like a giant bruise, shaking from the tips of his ears to his toes, from shock or from fear he can't say for certain but as the beast shows its fangs once again a great pressure builds with a rumble of thunder everything a whisper away from chaos. They wait with baited breath, watching. And then it speaks. To the skies it howls out a wretched wail that sounds like a thousand storms crashing down upon the village, a great wind lashing out in a ceaseless fury that shakes the cobbles free from the dirt. Another crash of thunderous might and Myrimae finds himself back on the ground, curled into a ball in a pathetic attempt to shield himself from debris.
He lays there a while, listening to the rumble of buildings collapse and the terrible screams of those around him as their already short lives are ended in a snap. He dares to peek, one eye then the other. Fire and smoke are all that surround him, a great veil of disaster bore from a maw of razor teeth cloaks the village in a haze of black and grey, flame leaping from one crude wooden cottage to the next, what were once people's homes now serving as kindling. The great beast perches on the high tower, weathered stone crumbling neath its scythe like talons as it unleashes only devastation, that great maw speaking words Myrimae has never heard before, if one can call the ear splitting sound that pours forth words. Words . From a beast . He's sure they're words, it sounds like speaking if he cares to listen more closely. It's more like shouting, rage bringing forth the heat of fell flames with a breath and tearing the earth asunder in the next. Everything is aflame. The rubble, the trees, people of all banners and even the sky is burning. It is wreathed in orange, like a sunset and the only thing Myrimae can see beyond the layers of smoke and churning oppressive grey clouds. By the Divines, the sky is burning ! Fire rains down upon the accursed world like thousands of bolts of lightning, thunderous crashes filling the air like a never ending storm of stone and embers. It's too loud, his poor sensitive ears are ringing, his head pounding, and gods his shoulder feels like someone has driven a knife right into the joint! Hurts. It hurts so much but he is rooted to the spot, fear crushing his heart, stealing his breath as surely as the smoke does. And the screams . Oh Divines the screams! People; civilians, Imperials, Stormcloaks and Thalmor alike are falling to the ground in sad bloodied heaps, their shouts of terror cut short by that thing . They're like toys! Discarded broken things, no longer needed, no longer wanted and simply left in the dirt to gather dust. Some of them he knows by name, may whatever force watches them all shield his brother and lover, may they be allowed to escape this, even if he cannot follow. But he can't move. He should be helping! He should be healing people, aiding the wounded as is his job but he can't . That great beast, with scales as black as moonless midnight, stares at him with those eyes so red they hurt. For a moment he's back there, in that terrible dream where the visions torment him like a sweet game, where blood soaks the floor and crawls up his nostrils suffocating the life from his failing form. All Myrimae can do is stare back at the monster, captivated. Smoke catches in his lungs, burns his eyes, tears dripping down dirty cheeks but he can't look away. It's like he's been suspended in time, splayed on the ground from where his horse threw him when it bolted. A whisper. A name.
Dragon.
Someone had called it a Dragon, like from one of those Nord myths he forced himself to pour over before the trek, the study well worth it it seems. It's more terrible than he could possibly imagine even after committing the little information he gleaned from those countless dusty old tomes to memory. It's teeth drip crimson as if it had just feasted upon living flesh, it's breath as hot as the flames around them and putrid, stinking like an infected wound. Not even his own twisted broken mind could imagine a monster so terrible, so wicked, not even in his nightmares where he dreams of death could such a being dance. It's evil , without any shadow of a doubt. This ancient beast of legend reeks of sin, of horrors committed in days long lost to the world, so old that nobody remembers them except in old tales told around the fire on a cold wintery night. It perches atop the watchtower like a little songbird might a tree branch surveying the wake of its destruction with what Myrimae can only describe as pride . Can… can it feel? Does this thing have a glimmer of intelligence in it's dark scaled body? Thoughts of its own? If it does, if it truly does, then it chose this. It chose to awaken from its slumber and take flight upon great wings that blot of the sun just to kill them all, one by one, like farmers culling their herds of the weak. Myrimae hears the distant rumble of thunder again and dares to stumble up onto unsteady feet. The dragon raises its head, horns grazing the clouds and like a songbird the dragon sings. Not gentle melodies that calm the soul, inviting an image of the lady Kynareth whispering to all of nature, oh no this is a requiem, a song for a mournful funeral, both terrible and grand. From the few moments Mae has laid on the cobbled street he has learnt that when the beast raises its head all that spews from that maw is more death. Blood fills the streets of Helgen like rain water, running in rivlets between the cobbles while bodies lay crumpled on the cold ground, ashes beginning to entomb their corpses in sheets of grey. Myrimae can't move, can't feel, can't even think straight. Frantically, he looks around, trying to see if there's anyone yet lingering in the smoke, anyone he can call out to. He's not the only one transfixed it seems, the dragon has another captive soul in it's claws. A single prisoner remains, eyes facing the sky, almost challenging the dragon with their gaze alone, long white hair billowing in the wind. It's… it's that one. The one who stared him down as they passed in the wagons, the single mer in a sea of men.
The dragon opens its jaws wide, preparing for what is to come. It screams to the heavens, long and furious, the sky beginning to churn faster and faster, a great whirlpool of grey clouds wheeling above, trying to suck them all up into the vortex. Myrimae clings to whatever he can certain he's going to be swept up into the sky as everything suddenly grows silent. It never comes. The ground shudders in anticipation a great rumble sounding from way up above. The Altmer's breathing suddenly picks up, heart hammering, panic mode setting in. This is it, this is how he dies. Where's Aetherian, where is he? Did he escape, is he hurt, gods is he dead ? Like a lost small child all he wants is his big brother to hold him and tell him everything is going to be alright. Another part of him begs to see Yvonril, begs for the knight to swoop in at the last moment and spirit him away. Perhaps it's for the best. Perhaps if they're not here they'll survive to live on and remember, to be haunted by nightmares for the rest of their lives. Myrimae suddenly bursts into tears as a horrible crashing sound rips the sky asunder, his feeble hands clinging to what appears to be the remains of one of the carts for support. He doesn't want to see anymore, doesn't want to hear, eyes scrunched shut, shivering and shaking from the terror, hiccups popping from him as he weeps alone. When nothing happens suddenly a thought hits him. The dragon, it hasn't moved. It hasn't come for him! He… he can escape! He can run. Myrimae detaches himself from the pitiful stakes of wood forcing his shaking legs to push him forwards, one step, two steps, then running as fast as he can to where he knows the gates lay. So close, just a few more meters… then the world breaks around him. For one dreadful second he's suspended in midair eyes wide open, everything upside down, spinning in every direction as if someone scooped the world up and started to shake it violently. Myrimae can't comprehend it, can't understand. Why is he... why? He returns to the embrace of cold cobbles with a sickening crunch, stone meeting soft flesh, head meeting ground, pain finally registering with a ferocious intensity. Silence for a fleeting moment, the rush of wings overhead and cracking of flame the only sounds he can hear through the blackness. Silence. Then a pitiful, mournful wail pierces the quiet.
Everything is black, as if somebody pulled the veil of night over the early morning sky, stealing the sunlight and hiding it behind the gloom. Ebony tones is all he can see through the pain that pounds in his head, the shadows moving like a deep dark fluid, his viscous consciousness barely able to comprehend. The shadows are moving, alive almost. And it hurts, oh gods it hurts, why does it hurt? He wants it to stop, he needs it to stop, the pain is like lightning lancing through his body every time he dares to twitch. Small heaving breaths shake his battered form and he tries not to think about how terrible he must look laid in the dirt and… and the… well he just can't remember right now, it's not important. He does need to wake up though, how long has he been left abandoned in the cold? Slowly the darkness ebbs away like the night being kissed by a rosy dawn except day is not what greets him on the other side. A single blue eye opens, tears blurring all it can see and he slowly blinks them away. The world comes back into focus, flames of orange licking at the decrepit wooden ruins all around him, the stone walls not faring much better either laying in piles of rubble. Is that how it should be? Should the village be burning like this? It doesn't feel normal but it's so hard to think as if someone shoved bushels of cotton into his head and he just can't pull it all out. He… he can't think, everything hurts too much. He doesn't panic in fact he's sure he doesn't even know what panicking means anymore. He can't move, limbs sore and aching not obeying his commands, numb fingers scraping the dirt betwixt the cobbles dirtying his already grubby gloves further. His left arm twitches involuntarily an agonized wail tearing it's way from bruised lips when the pain cascades from where it's bent at a wrong angle, bone sticking out through soft flesh and shredded black robe. Oh gods, oh gods he can see the bone ! Lungs that already struggle with the foul air can barely breathe through the panic, each breath searing white hot pain, stabbing in his throat and burning in the depths of his chest. Weakly he uses his other arm, the one not snapped in half, to press at his heaving chest a vain attempt to calm a frantic heart that hammers away like an over eager miner digging for gold but by Auri-El it hurts . Why does it hurt? He only touched his chest why does it hurt so bad ? Think think, how did this happen, where does it hurt the most? It's useless. It's as if he's blundering through sheets of thick fog with nowhere to turn, only empty space in all directions. He...he can't remember anything. Oh by the Gods why can't he remember anything? What's his name? The youth whimpers as a thick trickle of blood dribbles down his face and with his uninjured arm he shakily attempts to wipe it away but pain flares up across his back as he reaches like a cold shock slamming into his body, overriding the other aches and pains. Not good, not good . He needs to roll over, needs to find a more comfortable position, that's what his mind tells him, why, who knows but if that's what his instincts tell him that's what he'll do. Small movements, sharp breaths, everything feels so far away suddenly but at least his legs feel only bruised, thank the gods for small mercies. Using his right arm to brace himself, he tries to go up , standing is a bad idea but he needs to get somewhere safer and out of the dirt . Slowly… slowly… then something snaps. Hot blood splatters onto the ground when he tears the burnt and oozing flesh of his back and back onto the ground he goes, dropping like a pebble in a deep lake to the cobbles feeling the cold stones scrape against abused skin.
The world is caught in a fuzzy haze. Warm, like a soft blanket but not nearly as comforting. But he doesn't feel warm, even if the steadily growing pool of blood around him bears the same heat as smouldering embers he still remains chilled to his very bones, body shivering despite the flames burning around him like a merry parade of heat mocking his fall. Every tiny twitch, every laboured breath is laced with pain, it's all he knows. He's dying, that much is clear even in the fog. Yet through the murk, through the smoke and nipping cold someone is shouting, voice carrying over distant rumbles and anguished cries of others sharing his fate. They're shouting, close by, and much too loud for such a mournful scene. Gently he cradles his snapped arm to his heaving chest and lays in the ashes of a ruined town. But that shouting is closer now, heavy footfalls cutting through the foggy quiet like thunderbolts, closer and closer.
"Mae? Oh Mae there you are thank the Go-oh… oh fuck. "
Ah, so that's his name. Weakly he cracks open a single eye, deep blue staring out into the smoke, an empty feeling filling his being. He knows this voice from somewhere as it swims through the emptiness to reach him, he's sure he does but Mae can't think, everything is too much of a mess. Too empty, too quiet, too loud, too painful, too everything ! But none of that matters right now, not a scrap of it. What does matter is that something has awakened within him, something stirs in the depths of his being willing to fight and thoroughly disgusted that he's just accepted death like this! This great bubbling fury that snarls and hisses tells him to get off his wounded back and on to his front, screw the pain in his chest that makes him wheeze and choke, the need to stop rubbing more dirt into open and bleeding wounds is greater, the risk of infection high. His back is soaked in sticky red, the ground is too. It drips all down his injured arm and down his face like ribbons of elegant ruby velvet, each flek and splatter adorning him like polished garnets. Surely all of this isn't from his body, surely . He's losing too much blood, has lost too much blood, he needs to do something quickly or he's dead. He can almost feel it crawling down his neck and squeezing at his struggling throat, he is quite literally dying . And if he's going like this, if this is how he passes from this world, Mae at least wants to be in as little pain as possible and that means front down and getting off his back as soon as possible. It won't be painless by any means, might even kill him faster actually but what does he know? Mae's willing to take his chances. His dry lips mumble something that sounds like help me, tired eye staring at the owner of the voice, wincing as the flames glint off golden armour. It's a man and he looks terribly worried, fretting as he searches his knapsack for potions, coming up with nothing but empty space. He's in a real state, Divines know what he looks to the outside eye, Mae knows because this man is crying . He's weeping like a small lost child because of him . Why? Why cry over… over this ? Over the pains he has to suffer. Shards of rock, still smouldering, lay littered around them both, the offending article that struck him down. Ha, what a way to go! Struck by an object streaking from the sky, called down by a dragon, a beast of myth and while the world is throwing it's punches let's set it one fire too! How did he even survive in the first place? Thinking is just making him feel nauseous so he doesn't.
"I need your help." It comes out a mumble and slurred but it gets the man's attention.
"W-what… Mae you, what do…" He takes a deep calming breath, raising an arm to wipe away his dripping tears but only able to smear dirt across one cheek, "What do you need?"
"Front. Help me roll." A wheeze but he seems to understand.
The man does not look pleased about that but when Mae uses both arms, broken and otherwise, to brace himself even though he cries out through the pain he is quick to change his mind quickly supporting the wounded in a frantic panic. Slowly, but surely, he helps him turn. Finally, finally , Mae's able to roll on to his front, blood almost spurting from the wound on his head now there's nothing there to stem the flow and he groans rubbing his face into the dirt. Everything hurts so bad, this was not a good idea, he thinks bitterly to himself. The ground starts to sickeningly sway again his body feeling like it's afloat down a turbulent river as fresh tears find their way onto his cheeks. Mae openly begins to sob into the ground, wheezing and gagging and heaving with the effort of it, pathetic mumbles spewing from his mouth. The person who came to his rescue doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what comfort to give but he tries anyway. Armoured hands grasp onto the injured's right arm, the one that isn't broken, crooning soft words as the world falls apart around them both, dragonfire burning those who dare to defy their wretched fates to naught but cinders. Mae turns his head, only very slightly, to look at the stranger, wanting to at least see one last friendly face but it feels like his head is glued to the ground, blood now smeared all over his pale face from where he lays in it. He manages, eyes able to take in gold and copper, blurred by watery tears. His heart skips a beat. This is a whole new kind of pain, welling up from inside, spilling out of every crack in his failed defences like a broken vase. Yearning, desperate and confusing. Gold is filling his vision. Gold eyes, gold skin, gold armour and hair the colour of the setting sun. Mae knows this man, knows him deeply even if his mind is as clear as the skies during a summer storm. Why can't he remember him? Heart aching, Mae grasps back, a name he can't remember dancing out of reach, lips forming it anyway, without his bidding.
"Mae…" The man speaks softly to him, voice barely above a whisper as if afraid that anything louder may shatter him, "Can you, uh, can you use magic?"
Mae lifts a shaking hand but all he's able to conjure is a pitiful fizzle of flame before it dies out and he lets his arm drop limply to the ground. His companion, this golden man, gives him a sad look for his efforts, sympathy twisting that handsome ash smeared face of his, and he holds out a single tiny blue potion bottle. It's all they have, he says, their last hope but it'll help. Nothing red and bitter on the tongue, nothing to heal with, to soothe his aches, nothing to brush away his bruises or seal his wounds shut. He's not sure he can drink that, he's barely able to swallow his own spit, throat so sore that even breathing stings. But he aches . Mae is in pain and whatever the wretched being that is buried neath the mountains of suffering is it tells him to drink deep and try another spell. Will it help? Will it kill him faster? He doesn't care so long as this is over soon. The man knelt by his side, seems to understand Mae's thoughts without needing more spluttered words and oh so gently supports him as they both attempt to pull his injured frame into a sitting position. For a moment Mae just sits, looking around, eyes no longer blurred by tears. Those less fortunate lay covered in ashes only a few short steps away, some crushed by rubble, some still aflame. Strong walls have crumbled, houses smashed into splinters and a great black shadow circles the ruins from above. There's no time to waste with observations as the man holding him up holds the blue potion to his lips and gently begins to dribble the sour potion into Mae's mouth. He sputters at first, the blue tingling fluid dripping down his chin but the two of them settle into a rhythm despite his insistent need to choke on it. Slowly he can feel some strength return to him, wounds still oozing blood and body still abused but now he feels like he can do something about it, like he can conjure more than just weak sparks. It is not going to be pretty. One uninjured arm is raised, as if begging for judgement from above and he tries to cast the spell he's thinking of, something to wish away all his hurts but focusing on what he wants to do is excruciating. Mae finds his mind empty, an abyss filled only with echos. He knows the spell as deeply as he knows… nothing. He knows nothing save fragments of fragments, sharp, elusive, and so very difficult for his wheeling consciousness to grasp. This spell is one such fragment, begging to be cast. His arm shakes from the effort.
Focus . Teeth grit, body shaking, he needs to focus or else nothing will happen. Those strong arms hold him, failing form relaxing into the comfort there even if the sharp points of the armour digs into already abused flesh. Mae ponders not on why this man's embrace offers reprieve, ponders not on why it feels so right to be held so tenderly by the stranger. He simply focuses, using the sensation as an anchor, using the man's soft words, gentle like song, as a conduit. Stay , his heart cries, a terrible painful wail, stay like this . The need to give up, to lay down and let the cold take him raises its ugly head but determination wins in the end. Laying down, closing his eyes and giving in means death, it means the end so Mae focuses as hard as he can, trembling like a dry leaf caught in a gale. Gold light and a soft humming shimmers around him, broken bones snapping back into place with the same vile crunch they made when he slammed into the cobbles. Whimpers, both from pain and horror, tumble from him, he nearly stops, gagging and heaving but he can't. He can't force himself to stop this, it's helping, despite the horrible sensation of flesh stiching closed, of bruises ebbing away. Mae keeps the spell going for as long as he can, head wound slowly scabbing up then suddenly, his strength fails, collapsing back into those waiting arms like a sack of potatoes hurled from a wagon. Once again he's wheezing for air, this time against the man's armoured chest where his heart hammers in anticipation. It it the smoke? Probably. He hopes so at least. That can be fixed with ease, a potion of healing may clear it up, then bed rest and clean air will do the rest but any more extensive damage is going to be problematic . Broken ribs, internal wounds, all big problems Mae hopes he won't be dealing with. He sucks in a deep breath, lungs spurring him into a rattling, shaking cough that shakes his whole body head to toe the taste of coppery blood on his tongue. It's still a threat, better than it was but he's still a torn up mess, his back no better than it was before his little spell. Now he can rest little, gather some strength before they move.
Everything shakes, a great rush of wings battering them with furious winds from above, the dragon bearing down upon them, ruby eyes blazing like fires from the deep.
Mae wants to weep again, head throbbing hands covering his blood splattered face, body sluggish now he's finished casting his magic. That something inside him, the part that spurred him into action, won't let him slip away, won't give up without a fight and it won't let him rest, not while that beast is circling the village like a ravenous wolf on the prowl. He is not allowed to slip, not into blissful rest nor into coldest sleep. There's something important he needs to do, what was it again? He settles for wiping the blood from his face with a soiled sleeve, clearing it from his eye so he can finally see properly . The golden man who came to his aid watches the sky through the columns of smoke, the sun no longer shining down upon the world, covered in an ebony shroud. Everything is bathed in darkness, bodies laid in the street bloodied and charred monuments to all the grief caused by the monster in the skies above. They have to move, have to get out of here and into shelter away from the open sky or the dragon will come back for them, to finish what it started! Or this, this struggle, his injuries, will be for nothing! Now the worst of the pain has passed, the panic sets in in short heart stopping bursts and bubbling anxiety forcing his headache to worsen into furious pounding once again, insides attempting to claw their way free of this feeble prison. His arms wrap around his companion unconsciously, like they belong there. He's still so weak, he can't possibly walk. But they need too, they need to leave.
"Help me stand." Mae's words are little more than a croak, parched throat barely able to make a sound.
" What ? Mae, we… we can't just- you're injured." The reply is a splutter, tainted by horror and shock, "If I move you all that we've done- that you've done- it's going to just- I don't…"
Mae shakes his head, ears ringing, " Please . We have to." Divines he sounds so pitiful, like a lost child.
"No… No I can't… no, no."
Very well then. Mae places both arms, still shaking, on the man's shoulders and pushes himself up with the wan strength he has in his legs, swaying unsteadily and immediately falling back down with a pained grunt. He fails, of course he does, it does not stop a second attempt where he finds his feet shaking and panting with the effort, sweat rolling down his skin, back oozing slowly but he does not give up. Suddenly, there's a pair of hands on his hips, holding him still, supporting his valiant efforts. The man oh so very carefully keeps him on his feet, prepared in case Mae simply drops down to the floor like a pebble in a puddle once again. It is not allowed, he's up now and it'll take an army to bring him back down. At least, this is a victory, he's convinced his...friend? It strikes Mae again that he knows this man, somewhere in his being but he just can't recall his name. Despite being as empty as a the void itself, a little light shines through, a pinprick in the darkness. Yes, they know one another, those golden eyes tell him so, reflecting his own fear, his own suffering back at him like a well polished shield of moonstone. How many times have they gazed at one another in situations so different than this? He knows not, only that they have. His name. What is his name? The dragon passes by again, leathery wings beating the sky, it's jaws snapping a soldier in half with one singular motion.
"If we're moving, if you really want this then we're going to get to that tower there, okay Mae? We're… we're gonna get over there and then we're sorting out that back good and proper. We're… we're gonna make it out, yes?" Soothing, if a little hoarse, Mae agrees all the same, the tower seems to be the safest place, damaged but still standing, a silent sentinel watching the chaos unfold.
"I don't know if I can walk…" It sounds silly now he's on his feet, now that's he's struggled just to stand but the world is spinning in a myriad of colours and sounds and his legs feel like they're as weak as sticks.
"I'll carry you if I have to, we'll get there, I know we will! Just… just trust in me, Mae, trust in me. I'll be with you."
Through the fire and the flames, the two gaze at the looming lonely tower, it's bleak walls casting dark shadows over the scene, it's shattered top sharp as the beast's fangs. Walking, the thought of walking, makes his anxious heart flutter. He's going to have to actually, physically use his legs for more than standing and they already shake from the effort of simply being upright, feeling as solid as water. This wasn't the best of his ideas actually, probably the worst but what choice do they have? Stay long enough and they're both dead as dead can be, more casualties to add to the pyres. They're here now, stood in the ashes and gods that's a lot of blood . Mae doesn't look, doesn't try to think about how all of has come out of him. They start moving, the man guiding his weary bones around the piles of corpses and debris. Legs aching, body shuddering, but they go ever onwards, inch by inch they move towards the lone tower where the dragon once perched atop. Now it's filled with fleeing soldiers under the banner of the Bear, blue and silver, escaping a kinder death on the block, the headsman's axe seems a far more merciful death than this. Slowly, so slowly, they make their way forward and that damned prisoner is still stood there amongst the carnage staring them down, as if waiting for them to fail. Mae knows he's seen him there before. Before he was hit, before the pain descended upon him, before the world was plunged into a never ending nightmare. Ashen skin and white hair caught in the wind like a cloud of pale smoke and a pair burning eyes, flame tinted, and as purple as the sweet wisteria trees his fractured memories tells him he knows. Mae stares at the strange man, garbed in rags and looking as if he belongs here, surrounded by death, feet buried in the warm ashes. Mae stares, the prisoner stares back, those eyes piercing right through his soul, unblinking and terrible.
Great wings rend the air, a voice like rolling thunder breaks the moment, all eyes turn to the sky. Mae realises, with a sudden grim horror that he...can understand those words. They are words, yes? He's not lost his mind, he knows he hasn't, head injury or not. Perfectly coherent and not touched by Sheogorath's madness but the dragon is spewing words. Words that make the fire come, that shake the sky and stone below. Mae's own eyes scour the sky, the dragon circling overhead, bearing down upon them, an almost frenzied fear seizes him. The sight spurs the prisoner into action, light feet dancing over the ground as if he's weightless, dodging the meteors with practiced ease like he's been doing this all his life. He's suddenly at Mae's side, supporting him as the other man does. Lithe but strong, he helps them move forward, faster than he'd like. Please more slowly. The words don't make it out, catching in his throat. His legs ache from the strain, his back complains, the burns and lacerations numbing his mind with pain.
"Best move faster lest you become as burnt as my homeland, Altmer." He hears the Dunmer say, low and meaningful. He's right but Mae sorely wants to not do that.
All Mae can do is nod, and focus on putting on foot in front of the other, trying to ignore how the Dark Elf's hand presses into his injured back, how his legs wobble when the dragon touches down. He ignores the screams of the dying all around him and just focuses on stumbling towards relative safety, a single soldier in blue urging them join him, blond hair a halo illuminated by the embers. The three tumble through the door, flames licking at their heels spewn from the beast's maw just before the weathered wooden door is slammed shut. A moment of baited breath follows, nobody in the small room dares to move, each dirty soldier looking from one to the other. The beating of wings once again fills the silence as the dragon takes to the sky and the whole contingent of people sigh in unison, muttering prayers and thanks to too many gods to count. Mae's legs finally buckle with the relief, the ground a welcome rest, head lolling back to rest against the stone wall, he closes his eyes to the argument that already seems to be brewing between the others. Almost tells them to shut up, to leave it for later but, even in this weakened state, weary as can be, he knows he won't be heard. For now, he leans against the wall, it's cold stone a comfot. Blue eyes slip shut and he rests.
"Don't sleep, tis far too dangerous for you to slip into rest lest you leave us entirely."
Mae cracks open his weary eyes to gaze up at the Dunmer with a huff, "Tired. I jus' want to-"
"Yes child, I know, but you can't. Sit up you're not doing your wounds any favors." His voice is smooth as silk even as he cuts Mae off, violet eyes looking down upon the broken boy at his feet, "Tis not a good thing to feel this way when one has been so terribly wounded."
The Dunmer has a nasty scowl on his face, eyebrows drawn and lips pursed, he looks ready to launch into a lecture but he doesn't, he just stands there dwelling on his foolish mistake that was offering aid to two struggling Altmer. The tiny tower is packed with at least several furious looking Nords, each with their own injuries and each staring him down with varying degrees of disgust. Mae can feel their glares crawling all over him like he's some form of vile curiosity but he knows that the armoured man and the Dark Elf linger nearby both with hard stares of their own. What now? They're here, in this dimly lit room packed in with filthy unwashed Nords waiting for the already assaulted tower to crumble further while a beast from legend scours the skies spewing flame from its maw. It's as if they're waiting for death. Now they've stopped running, now he's back on the ground, everything seems so cold, so dreamlike and fluid, just out of grasp but still there. And by the Divines it hurts. More than anything he's ever felt. It's as if his blood has been laced with burning poison, every twitch sending jolts of white hot pain through his back and arms, his head throbbing as it lolls to the side a strained groan finding its way from him. At least, he thinks dimly, he's more fortunate than the two dead soldiers laid unceremoniously on the ground. One has his throat slit, a quick easy death to keep the suffering at bay, they'll tell his family he died a hero and the girl curled by his side still has wet tears on her cheeks, hands clasping an amulet to her chest, her final prayers still lingering on her lips. The tower shudders and groans, in the distance a roar of fury. For a moment nobody breathes and as the sound of beating wings passes over head each and every one of them exhales sharply. Even in the state he's in Mae knows they can't stay here much longer lest the dragon come for them or, gods forbid, the stones tumble down upon their waiting heads. He looks from face to face, two very cross looking blonds in a quiet discussion, his armoured friend leaning against the wall, arms crossed and body Dunmer stares into nothing, eyes soft and distant, as if he's not really with them, as if he's as far away from here as Mae feels. Distant, spinning, even as one of the brutes steps forwards a hideous sneer on his dark haired Nords turns to whom Mae assumes is his leader, a large man garbed in finery too nice for such a disastrous day.
" They're not welcome here!" He spits, gesturing wildly at the injured mage and soldier by his side, "Them two are Dominion dogs . An' that other one's a shady lookin' wench too!"
"Mind your tongue lest I cut it loose from that gaping howler you have. What would you have me do? Leave them out into the ashes and let the dragon chew them up for a quick breakfast? I think not, tis not your choice. Ah, and before you call me a wench again, think a little, I may be without weapon but I am a child born of ash and pain and me and my kin are well known for being hot headed , so to speak. " The Dunmer suddenly snaps back looking as if he's almost itching to take the sod by the shoulders and forcibly shake sense into his dense head. Mae watches him takes a breath, before continuing with a more reasonable outlook, "If you didn't notice, that beast cares not which banner you fly, only that you're in its way. Corpses of all factions lay in the dirt so why not suck it up and focus on getting out of here alive ? It takes but one person to err and that one person dooms everyone!"
The man looks less than thrilled but he backs down, cowed by the fury the small elf spits at him and, hopefully, by the sense he's spewing as well. The world blinks in and out of focus, a hazy mist hugging the corners of his vision and Mae can feel himself grapple with his consciousness like trying to catch water with an open palm, letting it trickle past down into a shadowy abyss. A cold hand presses at his sweat covered brow, unconcerned by the blood staining his skin or the dirt streaking his face. Blue eyes gaze wearily into concerned violet, the Dunmer wearing a small frown and eerily quiet, worrying his lip. He can only imagine how terrible he looks to those around him, like a poor discarded broken doll a child no longer wishes to play with, stuffing falling out and button eyes hanging on by a thread. He can feel his ragged black robes cling to his back like eagar clammy fingers, stuck to the wound where the blood has begun to dry, pulling sharply every time he twitches from the pain. He probably looks as if he's been savagely mauled by a bear. Jagged cuts and torn skin, he'll definitely scar if he comes out of this ordeal alive but what worries Mae the most, even if his head is stuffed with fog and it becomes harder and harder to hold a coherent thought in his mind, is that he can still feel himself bleeding. Or perhaps his burns have begun to blister, the run here staining the injuries making them pop and leak foul pus down his lower back. He almost heaves at the thought. Every breath is a knife between the ribs. Each exhale feels like touture, like someone has poured molten iron down his parched throat and straight into his veins. Every heartbeat feels slower and slower, the fog that clouds his vision deepening, words simply washing over him as his fellow Altmer mutters meaningless comfort to him. Mae whines when those chilly fingers are pulled away, that violet stare hard as stone when the strange man turns back to the group of blue and grey blurs. Even without full lucidity he can taste the bitter fear in the air as the tower shakes, a lonesome cry echoing in the tiny space like a funeral song, their chances of escape growing more and more slim by the moment.
Someone is shouting nearby, nothing but a smudge of black and gold, their words hardly making any sense. Something about moving, something about going up? Mae's not sure, the words sound jumbled and distant, his harsh breathing drowning out the snapped reply as a mass of grey steps forward into the frey, voice smooth and calming, even when wielding anger like an axe. More words, more senseless yelling then silence, the only thing stopping him from floating away is a strong hand wrapped around his shoulders, his head resting against cool metal. He's not sure how, or even when, he moved into this position but he has no qualms about it, it's more comfortable than the unforgiving stone wall. More words, calmer this time, discussion, a parlay betwixt the grey and black shadowy figures who dance in his blurry vision mingles with the soft words of his companion at his side. Mae blinks, only once but he can feel those hands return to his face and he graces the world again with his dull blue eyes. He can hear the worry in their tone, sense the urgency of the situation but he feels like lead, heavy and unable to even lift a finger, body slowly becoming numb even to the searing pain of his wounds. Something warm trickles down his face onto the person shaped blur's fingers, their hand quickly pulled away with a gasp and a curse. The world spins sickeningly as he's tilted forward without warning, his body heaving with the sudden motion a vile bitterness bursting onto his tongue. Those hands ever so gently probe at his wound but it feels like he's being slapped, voice weakly crying out, body only able to shudder not twist away from those prying fingers like he wants to. Again the probling retreats only to cruelly pull at his scalp, scratching nails attempting to claw their way to the weeping wound there too. Blindly he swats at the unknown person as that calming voice picks up a verbal battle with another, his hands only finding air before someone else's hand grasps it, the metal of their ring an almost burning cold, almost an electric shock. The tower groans and shivers once again, their doom edging ever closer. An order is snapped out, a chorus of footsteps assaulting the stairs. A moment of bated breath before a thunderous crash, stones coming loose showering the wounded in light debris, Mae dumbly raising his aching hands to his ears whining like beast in a beartrap. He tries to breathe but he can't, choking on each shallow breath.
Suddenly he's going up, metal jabbing into his wounds a terrible scream clawing its way from him between laboured gasps, eyes rolling back into his skull, the world goes black.
It's the voices that bring him back, the sky covered in swirling grey clouds, columns of jet black smoke billowing high enough to touch the stars, the flames licking at the twin moons if they showed their pale faces. Outside… a stiff breeze blows ashes into his face as the scenery passes by in a blur, only two sets of footsteps registering. A great shadow blots out the wan sunlight, someone's screams cut short, a thump to their left. There's shouting and swearing, an exasperated sigh then darkness. For a moment he thinks he's gone at last, slipped away into the quiet gloom, embraced by the void but then, in the distance, candlelight flickers. Golden, amber, warm. The arms that scrape his raw skin, weeping wounds and burns gently lower him to a soft welcoming surface, the smoke that clogs the air gone, his lungs finally able to gulp down clean air. He must look like a gutted fish splayed on a kitchen counter, crimson soaking what he's been laid upon, eyes dead and glassy. Mae slumps, allowing his body to go limp before a vile feeling twists deep inside of him and within seconds he's hanging off the bed retching weakly. It leaves him shaking all over, wide-eyed, horribly pained panting spewing from his gaping mouth as someone rubs the upper part of his back where the wounds don't reach. Gods… gods why this? Gentle hands lay him back on his side once his feeble gagging subsides, fluffing up a pillow and clinging to his hand for some form of meager comfort as he pants and gasps, eyes rolling back into his head once again as he struggles to stay awake. It's a losing battle, Mae can feel everything slipping away again and he squeezes that hand as hard as he can trying to anchor himself down from being swept away.
"What's his name?" A soft smooth voice, quiet and eerily calm but something to grasp, something to think about. If he thinks he can stay awake. Focus… he needs to focus.
A second voice stammers out a reply, just as quiet, "It's Mae… well uh, M-Myrimae really. I'm Yvon and uh-"
"Be still, child, I'm going to talk to him for a moment." A quick interruption, clearly someone has no time for a nervous breakdown. This is good, thinking is helping calm his nerves, helping him stop worrying about everything. The first voice continues in the same gentle tone, voice like honey, "Yvon then, can you help sit him up, we'll need him on his back first I'm afraid we have little choice. I'll need you to support his head he's not going to be able to drink these potions on his own, he'll choke. Well… he can but we hardly want him to be sick again do we?"
"His back ? I… I can't lay him back on that! He's been on it enough I don't even… I can't…"
"Tis a wound and you can, you must. Look at him, pale as snow and covered in bruises, he's already suffering. Pressure on the wound will help, especially if those furs soak up some of the blood. Yes it will hurt, yes he may cry but sometimes to heal we must hurt. Do you understand? Roll him on his back, get behind him to stop him falling and make him sit or else he'll drown on the potion that's going to save him." Firm, commanding but encouraging, Mae braces for what's to come.
He doesn't scream, doesn't cry out when the scratchy furs tickle his wounds, he only whimpers and groans. Then he's going up a fresh wave of sickness assaulting every one of his senses. Eyes tightly shut breathing harshly through his nose it passes, armoured hand tracing comforting circles on the back of his own. When he opens his eyes his vision is still clogged and misty, candles flickering slowly in the gloom but he knows now it'll be over soon. Sitting is more tiring than he remembers though and he slumps back against the man behind him, mindful of his wounds but sorely sick and tired of caring. He is weary of the struggle, weary of this place, of the dragon and the emptiness in his head. Mae is sick of this, and that and everything! He wants to sleep, wants to rest!
"Hello, Mae is it?" Blue eyes crack open, acknowledging the violet pair that stare back, that calming voice brushing away all his anger in an instant as it begins to gently croon at him, "Ah, there we are! Tis nice to see you awake. I'm Nerelyn, call me Lyn, everyone does. You're in a pretty bad shape hmm, been knocked about all over the place, doesn't feel too good does it? Got hit by the dragon," He lets out a frightened whimper, "Don't worry, we're safe now, don't cry. See your friend is right behind you stopping you from falling over so you just keep those eyes open for me…"
The person continues to speak softly, the clinking of bottles weaving in with the hypnotic sound luring him into a relaxed, almost dreamy reverie. Something cold is pressed to lips and he is bidden to drink deep as a burning potion is dribbled into his waiting mouth, only sluggishly as he splutters and struggles to swallow it all down, the hand feeding him shaking as if they wish to stop. Suddenly his throat opens up and he's gulping down the scorching liquid as fast as he can, the crushing pain in his chest lessening as bones knit back together, a horrible crunch sounding out. Mae is unable to stop the cry that pours from his open mouth, eyes blown wide as he gasps for air like he's drowning. His companions almost panic but as his breathing deepens, wheezing turning to soft breaths as a second potion is lifted to his lips, the wound on his head sealing shut, the fog in his head finally lifting, vision clearing to reveal a dimly lit room lined with several beds and merry candles. A Dunmer garbed in strange armour sits in front of him, two empty bottles at his side and busy uncorking a third, two blue potions still sat in his lap. Behind him he assumes is his hero, the other Altmer in brilliant moonstone with the flaming hair and strong hands that hold him steady as he reaches for the next bottle drinking it down in one swift gulp. Divines that's good stuff. Mae lets out a breathy laugh that turns into a deep sigh. He goes to lean upon his friend's front but as soon as his exposed back touches the metal he yelps, almost leaping forward. His back! Gods how could he forget his back! Without even being asked the Dunmer bends him forwards and inspects the injury, hissing at what he finds there fingers barely able to touch without making Mae twitch. Mara's mercy what now? They're out of healing potions, only magicka ones remain. He… he's going to have to heal himself again, isn't he? A small tickle of anxiety blooms in his chest at the mere thought, last time he left himself a shivering mess barely able to stand. But his back…
"Give me a potion." His voice is raw but he manages to croak out the words with at least some conviction.
A singular blue bottle is passed into his trembling hands, uncorked and ready. Like the last potion he drinks it in one, wincing at the bitterness but feeling energized, blood throbbing with power. A moment passes while he braces himself before raising both bloodied arms the soft song of healing filling the near empty room as a sweet summer-like golden glow wraps him in a warm embrace. Slowly, he can feel his wounds begin to close, burns fading back to normal healthy skin as bruises are brushes away like simple dirt. Minutes pass all occupants of the room watching his display of magic when suddenly he spell is cut short as he drops back into his saviours waiting arms pleased that no pain interrupts his rest this time.
"I did it!" He beams up at the two worried looking men, tears gathering in the corners of his blue eyes, "I did it, I'm okay. I'm okay!"
"You did… I…" His hero wipes his own tears from his face, "Welcome back Mae."
And Mae, too preoccupied with his little victory doesn't take note of the empty void that fills his head.