The freezing arms of the river pummeled Veria's weak body downstream. She was powerless to fight against it. Her frame was torn back and forth so violently she quickly lost all sense of direction. Her arms and legs burned as she struggled to keep her head above water. At most, she won a breath or two before being pulled beneath the waves again. Her lungs screamed, her mind clouded, and her body fought with an insatiable will to live that her conscious mind had somehow forgotten.
But it was for naught. The will was there in her flesh but the flesh itself failed her. Exhaustion made her muscles go limp. Her leg cramped and the current pulled her so far under she lost sight of the light. The river bent suddenly and she collided with a large boulder, which knocked whatever breath she had out of her in a cloud of bubbles. Her vision darkened, and just as she lost consciousness her thoughts wandered to the Void.
The smooth, glassy surface of Lake Honrich reflected the moons and stars above as perfectly as the finest mirrors found in the bedchambers of nobles. The shores of the Rift were shrouded in midnight fog, and the city of Riften slept hidden in its grasp.
A full day had passed since Veria muscled her way into the city. Upon entering she had collapsed, and almost wished the rats would devour her as she slept.
Dreams and nightmares washed over her like fog, indistinct and vague with no real form. Her mind made her remember the fall. She chased someone up the bridge as it rose into the clouds. She reached out to grab him but he kept slipping away. She tried shouting at him, but her voice made no sound.
The clouds parted as she reached the top of the bridge, upon which an orc, as large as a troll, took her in his fist and hurled her over the edge. As Veria fell away, she looked up and glimpsed Tulian standing at the top of bridge, growing ever farther away as she fell, fell, fell...
Shadows danced in front of her eyes. Darkness pressed in on all sides. She felt Oblivion itself staring into her back with its fiery eyes, but she could not turn to look back at it. A tiny point of light appeared in the back of her vision. There is work to be done.
Veria's eyes snapped open. She was on a bed, looking up at the rafters of some warmly lit room. She tried to move, but her body felt like lead. What place is this, she wondered. She tilted her head to the side, and was met with a wall. With some effort, she tilted her head the opposite direction.
The room was small and lit by three candles dispersed here and there. There were no windows, and in the gloom she could make out sparse scatterings of objects. Whoever owned the place liked flowers; bushels of dried foxglove, mountain flowers, and other blooms adorned the walls, as well as fresh bunches resting in steins filled with water.
It seemed a pleasant enough place, but it was unfamiliar, and that was enough to make Veria uneasy.
The door was in view, cracked open and casting warm, flickering light from the room beyond. A shadow passed over it, and with a creak of rusty door hinges a figure entered the bedchamber.
She was robed in soft, warm-colored fabric with long dark hair that cascaded from inside the hood that covered her head. She was holding something metallic in her hand. Instinctively, Veria tried to sit up and defend herself, but her body was still weak and exhausted from her trip down the river.
The woman raised her hand and rushed to Veria's side. "Oh, dear child," she said. "You're finally awake! We were beginning to fear the worst..."
Veria tried to push herself away from the woman.
"Where am I?" she demanded.
The woman took two steps back and said gently, "The Temple of Mara, in Riften. You're in no danger here. We found you collapsed on the street and brought you in before the thieves could pick you clean. Thank Mara, you've finally recovered."
"Temple of Mara?" Veria said absently as she slowly forced herself into a sitting position. "How long have I been asleep?"
The woman placed a basin of water with a rag on the bedside table. "A full day. The sun is about to rise." She soaked the rag in water and tried to clean Veria's face, but Veria pushed her away. The woman replaced the rag and did not try again.
She lowered her hood, and Veria saw her aged but still-beautiful face. Soft wrinkles around her eyes and mouth marked her as at least twice Veria's age, but her eyes where bright and unburdened, as if she lived content in all the things she has done.
"My name is Macara," she said. "They call me Macara the Soft, but I prefer simply Macara." She waited for Veria to respond, but the silence stretched on. Finally she rose, saying, "You must be starving. I'll get you a bit of food."
Veria was able to get her feet on the ground but didn't get around to standing before Macara returned with a plate of bread, cheese, and a bit of meat. She offered the plate, but Veria pushed it away. "No," she said curtly. "I don't need your food. I'm leaving."
"Don't be silly," Macara said, pushing the plate into Veria's hands. "You haven't eaten in at least a day, and you need your strength." She took a seat nearby and waited.
At the thought of it, Veria's stomach suddenly felt painfully empty. Without thinking, she devoured the bread in three mouthfuls. The cheese and meat were consumed just as fast. Her appetite, which had eluded her for months, had returned. The simple food before her tasted like it was prepared the halls Sovngarde itself. Her body sang with joy as she filled herself with it.
As she ate, a strange sense came over her. She felt wrong, like something was missing. She of course had been without supplies for ages, and had long since stopped missing them. After the last bit of food had disappeared, she realized that the return of her hunger for food had been at the expense of her thirst for skooma.
The thirst, the insatiable itch in the back of her head, was gone. Her limbs felt steady, and she felt her muscles waking with every passing moment. What could have done this, she wondered. The cold water? The day of rest? Walking on the brink of the Void?
She looked up to Macara, and it was as if she knew exactly what Veria was thinking.
She bowed her head and said, "By the blessing of my lady Mara, I've cured you of your addiction." Veria raised her arm as if in defense, and suddenly found herself unsure of what to say. Macara continued, "Forgive me...when tending your wounds the signs of skooma poisoning were everywhere. I felt it necessary to properly revive you-"
Veria rather suddenly struggled to her feet and stood before her. Macara, surprised at such a quick recovery, was struck silent. She was further surprised when Veria sank to her knees at her feet. She was still weak after all.
Veria's head slumped, and her forehead rested on Marcara's knees. Macara's hand hovered over Veria's head. She was unsure if the girl was still awake. "My dear?" she said.
Veria's voice came so softly that Macara almost didn't hear it. She bent over and heard a tiny, whispered thanks, then silence. After a moment, Macara realized that the girl had indeed fallen back to sleep. She rested her hand gently on Veria's reddish-brown hair. "You are very welcome, child."
Veria slept for only a few hours. Macara was preparing a midday meal when Veria came out of the bedchamber where she had been laid.
"My dear," Macara greeted her warmly. "Has your strength returned already?"
Veria stood taller than she had in ages. Her shoulders were squared and her eyes set harshly. She was unsmiling, and had a steely presence in the doorway. Half hidden in shadow, she looked almost sinister. Macara ignored the caution that suddenly fluttered in her chest.
"Thank you for all that you've done for me," Veria said politely. "But I must be on my way."
Macara nodded and offered a smile as Veria walked past her towards the main hall. "May Mara light your path, child," she said.
At this, Veria paused. She turned and addressed Macara cleanly, "I'm afraid your blessings are wasted, priestess. My path is shrouded in darkness, where Mara and her kind don't dare tread. You will not see me in this temple again. I do not subscribe to the guidance of divine light."
At these words Macara did not frown or scowl. Her face remained content, and her warm, inviting smile was unwavering. "Mara touches all of us, child. Even those living in darkness."
Veria turned and continued towards the door. "Not me," she said.
Before Veria shut the door behind her, she heard Macara say gently, "You'd be surprised."
The door latched shut, and Veria sighed heavily. The air was crisp and stale. It carried with it the faint scent of fish, mead, and excrement. Riften was a filthy place, everyone in Skyrim knew that. Filthy with dirt, crime, and corruption, or so the stories went. It seemed like the perfect place for Veria to find her center again. Her muscles were weak from neglect, but her fingers itched for action. So, her first order of business was to find an easy target.
She descended the steps of the temple and walked along the streets, taking stock of the town. The road was old, worn, and dark with grime so old and hardened that rain failed to wash it clean. A beggar or two was always in sight, rummaging through piles of discarded waste or sitting by the market, fishing for free coin. Veria knew they were not to be underestimated. In exchange for a few coins it was likely they could tell her a good deal of secrets about the city.
The guards were rough and impolite. The citizens were mostly just as negligent. They went about their work without really noticing Veria, just as she liked it. She was rusty, but even in the daylight she was able to elude the notice of most people, especially the guards. It was a lot of hiding in plain sight, body language, and glancing to the side at just the right moment. All this was important in her first task.
The meal Macara gave her was reviving, but was still hungry. She'd need new gear soon, and somewhere to stay. All this required gold, which she had none of. This minor setback was the perfect opportunity to polish her pickpocketing skills.
She started on the docks where the fishermen were loading and unloading the boats. They were focused on their work and wouldn't notice much. Veria made like she was looking for work, asking small questions here and there. She was rejected everywhere, as she expected, but by the time she returned to the main street she had a pocketful of septims.
Fighting the urge to whistle as she went, Veria strolled through the marketplace to the Bee and Barb inn for a meal. As she entered, an Imperial-looking woman bumped into her. They exchanged apologies, and Veria continued on her way with a few extra coins in her pocket.
The motions were returning faster than she hoped. The thought of her life so quickly returning to her made her meal of mead and horker loaf taste all the sweeter.
She ate her fill of mead and meat, and was quietly merry for what felt like the first time in her life. If only the innkeeper wasn't Argonian, she thought while watching him from behind her mug. It wasn't quite painful to see an Argonian in front of her, but it was enough to dampen her spirits.
Suddenly bored of the crowded, warm atmosphere of the inn, Veria decided to further explore the town before settling in for the night. She still had a bit of coin in her pocket, and wondered if she should try to haggle a dagger out of the blacksmith.
The sun was low in the sky, but it wasn't quite dark enough to be evening. The marketplace was still open and people still bustled about their business in the streets. As she walked, Veria's mind wandered. She thought back to last few months, and couldn't bring herself to count how long she'd been adrift. She didn't want to think about it at all, and instead focused on the street ahead of her.
Someone meandered in front of her, and almost out of habit she flicked her wrist towards his pocket as they passed each other. When she leaned away, she felt her wrist suddenly catch in the grip of a strong fist. The memory of the orc flickered in her mind, and she tried once to break the man's grasp.
His hold didn't falter, and he instead held her hand upwards. She still clenched two coins from his pocket. "Hmm," he said. It was a curious, almost contemplative sound. Veria, surprised, looked up at him and saw not an ounce outrage. The man held his index finger to his chin and looked down at Veria through eyes that almost looked happy. A smile played on the corner of his mouth, and he plucked the coins from Veria's fingers.
"Say, lass," he said. His tone was bewilderingly light and inviting, almost playful. "I'd be willing to bet that you didn't earn a single one of these septims."
He held up his free hand and displayed a small stack of coins. Veria's hand flew to her pocket, which she found empty. "I..." she began. "I don't know what you're talking about. Let go of me!" She tried again to break free of his grasp, but it was unyielding.
"Now, now," he said. "Don't get upset..." He pushed the stolen money into her palm and lowered his tone slightly. His eyes glinted with a mischievous light.
"How'd you like to make a bit more coin?"