Chapter VII: Shadows in the Moonlight
A strong wind was blowing. She felt it slashing at her skin while small splinters of ice hit her. The gusts came from her left, and they were colder than she remembered anything to be. It had to be the North, the way they came. The light of the moons was faint ad diffused, coming from a generic point in front of her. She strongly suspected that, without her empowered vision in the dark, she wouldn't have seen anything. The bank of clouds was thick and covered the whole sky, in every direction. The black of the firmament merged with the leaden color of the peaks, which stood out because of the white snow coating their tops. The trees shook, the gales howled and the pine-needles rustled above and around her.
It was snowing. A few large flakes slowly fell down and lay on the ground, fitting the weave of crystalline frozen water that coated the terrain like a white mantle. Some flakes fell on her hair, blocking and forming a translucid crown on her head. The warmth of a mortal body melts away the snow, but her cool flesh didn't. The snow fell on her head, her face and her armor, barely wetting the parts made of cloth. Some were simply carried further and whistled beside her leaving only a trail of cold air behind.
She looked down. Nowhere in particular. The only things she saw were her own crossed legs, a bundle of frozen snow flowers and her own footprints, which she had left when sitting. Her armor was incredibly well-preserved, for an object that had been closed away for centuries. Or millennia? She still didn't now. I'll ask him when he wakes. Nevertheless, it was quite remarkable. Either the monolith was sealed with very powerful magic, or there was some sort of stasis applied to the stone itself. In all those years, some humid air was bound to have entered from the cracks in the stony prison, air that would corrode the metal. Nothing of the sort had happened. The bundle of snow flowers was dry and grey, grown in a couple of days without wind but killed off by the freezing gale that was blowing in that very moment. Some shades of red were still visible in the shriveled petals. Her footprints were light and relatively small, even if the boots made the small size of her feet slightly larger. The marks were already fading away, made unclear by the wind. Soon, they'd disappear completely as more snow filled them and the breeze leveled the ground.
Her gaze went from her prints, to her boots and legs and then her attention came back to her body. She raised her gaze, noticing that snowflakes were hitting her face and falling on her lap. The sky beyond the small rise in the terrain that obstructed the view in the wind's opposite direction was completely black and even. She remembered those moments, where the clouds were so dense and thick that everything disappeared. The first thing someone would do was walk over and see what was beyond the elevation, but not her. Before sorting out what was happening outside her, she needed to cope with everything going on inside her. She had forgotten for how long she had sat there, completely still, with thoughts racing through her mind.
Unsurprisingly, most of them revolved around the mystery man.
She had laid him down at the side of the pine-tree standing in front of her, the only thing breaking the monotonous color pattern of whites and greys which dominated the landscape. The green of the needles, although broken by the white snow, and the dark brown of the bark brought some change to her surroundings. The mystery man lay precisely on the snowless shadow under the tree, his longsword resting just by his side, where she had carefully put it. Thankfully, there was a small boulder just beside the pine-tree that extended the area not touched by the white. The man's head was reclined against the trunk, his shoulders suspended just above the ground. He lied there, motionless and quiet, his face still hidden under the dark shadow of the cowl and his armored hands open just beyond the waistline.
A hundred thousands thoughts rushed through her head. Now that he's unconscious, I should take a look at what he looks like. There something strange about him and maybe that would tell me something. Other voices spoke. He saved me and I owe him some loyalty. But someone else seemed to disagree, and the mental chatter kept going. I know nothing about him and he isn't willing to give up anything about who he is or what he wants. He's just a danger. I should dispatch of him as soon as I can. Her dagger was attached to her belt, her hand was entwined with the other one's fingers around her knees. He was sleeping, unconscious. She could almost envision it, her grabbing the blade and stabbing him into the throat. It would be so easy… But someone else seemed to halt her. If I wanted to, I should have done it in the chamber, where he gave me the option. Why do it now? Despite her trying, her mind didn't stop.
None of those sounds was her own voice. She was the observer, it was up to her to sort all of those out and find a solution. It was a constant chaos, almost like a court meeting, but where there was no etiquette and no limitations. A village gathering was probably more similar, but she had never witnessed one. Some were the voices of people she knew, some of what she liked to recognize as alternative selves that had never come to light and some other mute but powerful impulses that came from somewhere deeper, more savage. It was unrelenting. Those moments absorbed so much of her mental energies that she felt completely paralyzed. She closed her eyes, trying to shut down her mind along with her sight and reset the intense discussion in her head. The dark fell softly and gently before her, enveloping the white of the snow, the grey of the rock and the green of the pine-tree. A barely shimmering black veiled the world, for as long as she liked.
Her eyelids rose. The images slowly crawled their way back into her vision, becoming clearer and clearer with every passing moment. There was a little more order in her mind. The questions hadn't gone away, but the false answers had. She looked at the mystery man from under her eyebrows, shifting a wet lock of black hair that had fallen on her cheek. She could hear his deep breaths every time his chest rose or lowered; it sounded like the breathing of a sleeping person and it was clearly uncontrolled. He was still out, and the utter motionlessness of the body proved it. His head had fallen over to the side a tiny bit since she had put him down, in the opposite direction of the wound. That wasn't a thing a normal man, or even elf, would be able to do. React unconsciously to the pain and shift mechanically to avoid the pain while sleeping.
She shook her head, half in disbelief and half in irony. He's a mystery made up of a weave of enigmas. She focused and tried to remember everything that had accidentally slipped him during their conversation, but there wasn't much to go on. Now, at least, she knew his name. Azrael. Whether that was his true name or not, that remained to be seen, but if he had told her to refer to him as such then someone had to know him by that name. That was something. It might have helped her in the future, in some way currently unknown to her. She could imagine that man being known everywhere throughout the land or not even having being seen by the vast majority of its inhabitants. Maybe both. It could have been possible. He hadn't died, that was sure enough by then, and she was a little calmer. The thought of going somewhere on her own, in a world potentially different from the one she'd left and meeting people while trying to hide her identity and not knowing anything about current events or other small talk subjects was a hard prospect. Plus, she didn't know the people the mystery man had ordered her to visit. A group named Dawnguard didn't sound like someone friendly to the vampires, unless it was an undead with a remarkable sense of humor. I would have gone there, she realized. I trust him this much.
And that wasn't good. Years spent at my father's court, and I still know close to nothing. For one, her mother had always been there to give her some advice, and second she always knew what others wanted from her. Her strength had always been her ability to deduce other people's motives thanks to her understanding of them supported by some records of what they did in a day. She had never been a gut person. If she had in the past, she didn't remember. She trusted other people and objective, reliable facts. Not herself, not her intuition. Those had led her to disappointment many times. But without a good degree of insight, she couldn't understand anything about the man that had saved her, who was actively shielding away his motives and his intentions to her. Not too subtly, either. He had never said it out loud, but he didn't try to hide his need, or wish, for secrecy. He was doing his own thing. He was playing his own game.
There was once a man at her father's court who had given her a piece of advice she would never forget, and that came to her mind when she thought once more about the things he knew of the mystery man. Inconsequential things, to her. 'Any amount of knowledge you possess, however meager, is immense if given its right frame and context', the man had said. He was an alchemist, and he was a genius. He had the ability to predict events way before they happened, but not thanks to any magical tricks, and that was the thing he was most precious for to anyone. He had found a field of expertise, alchemy, and lived his days doing what he loved while also sharing his insights on the place where they lived. Serana had never in her life met someone more purely intellectual than him, but he was a good man. He hated ignorant people, didn't back off when faced with a challenge and he easily antagonized everyone he considered inferior, but it was easy to get along with him. The only thing needed was a sound and sincere will to learn something new, every day. She wanted to and he had taught her that. Any amount of knowledge you possess, however meager, is immense if given its right frame and context.
The few things she knew about her savior, about Azrael, had no frame and no context whatsoever. There were things about him, like his accent, that with the necessary background would have proven invaluable. But she didn't know anything. She knew he spoke the Dragon Tongue, but how? Had things changed since she was in the world? What had happened? And how much time had passed. A lot, she thought, but it wasn't enough. She needed precise information, and currently her only source of knowledge was the man himself. But knowledge is power, and he knew how to guard it. He knew that, in the very moment when she had enough, she'd have the upper hand. There were things about him that reminded her of the alchemist, back in the days. That reluctance to give, that kind of intellectual avarice that allowed both of them to have an advantage. Their knowledge had a price. And anything with a price can be stolen, she said to herself. Without him I'll never survive, but he doesn't trust me. And neither will I trust him.
She brought her hands to her forehead and drew away the hair falling over her face. When her mother had locked her away, she had recently fed. Her hair had grown a little before her body had returned to its utterly inert state. They reached the tailbone now and the locks were heavy. She had to pull them behind her ears, with a gesture that was firm and emphatic to the point of being theatrical. She stopped for a moment, catching herself in the act, but suppressed the thought. Later, she said to herself. There'll be plenty of time.
She bent forward and crawled onward. The wind had stopped blowing and the snow had stopped falling. Her hands and feet made very little noise in the snow, but there was little else to hide the sound. The pine-tree shook at times, under the weak gusts following the gale, and its needles rustled. She moved close, but she waited for one of those moments to approach his sword from the side of the rock where she had put it. I could have grabbed it immediately. My mind wasn't clear when I went out of that cave, it seems. She sat again with her legs crossed and kept her head down, casting a glance at the hollow visage of the mystery man. No movement. His eyes were still a bit higher than hers because of the way he leant against the trunk. His head was turned away from where she was sitting, and the breath seemed exactly like it sounded before. The calm, deep breath of someone unconscious.
With careful movements and without letting the mystery man out of her sight for a single moment, she extended her arm and closed her fingers on the grip of the longsword. She raised it gently from the ground, wary of not touching the stone with the blade to avoid any sounds. The edges glimmered for a moment when they reflected the weak rays of moonlight, barely visible in the clouds. The weapon was surprisingly light in comparison to many other weapons of the same length. She was unnaturally strong, but she could still judge weight by mortal standards. Her vampiric strength didn't come to her unless required, and in that moment it was dormant. She could tell the blade was light, thought certainly not light enough to be held with one hand as easily as the figure had made it look to be. He had seized it easily while keeping a spell in his other palm. He must be strong, she thought, stealing a glance at him. No movements. Something flashed through her mind. The dagger's by his side, I can't take it without him noticing. I'll leave it there, but if he wakes and I'm distracted, I could be dead.
She quieted her mind and went back to the sword. Even in the dark, she could see everything without fail. The night vision of a pureblooded vampire is one of its most effective tools. The blade was long, straight and slender, with the length of a northern greatsword but not the width of one. Tilting the tip, she moved her head and looked at the cross-section. It was strange, with a curved dip on both sides. A hollow ground, she remembered from her years of training. That wasn't something found often in Skyrim. The vast majority of the good blades had a diamond-shaped section. The concave central ridge was also of a darker color. The ridge of the blade was of a different material, a bony white that melded with the light grey of the sword's other parts so well that she hadn't noticed from a distance. The blade alone was quite incredible. It looked like a combination of the crafts of Skyrim and of somewhere foreign, and that weapon was the best of both worlds. Her hands slid down, towards the grip and guard. They were the things that had most attracted her attention, upon seeing the weapon. The crossguard was very slightly curved towards the tip of the sword, and that was a normal design, but its wasn't just two bars. It was molded with stunning perfection to resemble the wings of a Dragon. They were made of dark grey metal, with a reinforcement of a lighter color on the side facing the blade, where the hits were taken. It was the same material that hardened the edge of the blade. It had to be a very strong, and very sharp, material. The grip was even and cylindrical, covered in smooth and lucid black strap that was probably made from a very fine kind of leather, dyed black afterwards. The pommel, following the same theme of the crossguard, had the shape of a Dragon's head with its maws closed. The detail was incredible. I'd expect it on a sword built for show, not one that's brought in a fight. She looked for a moment at the mystery man. Whoever crafted you this was skilled. If it was meant for you, that is, she told the mystery man in her could easily picture him killing for a weapon of that kind, but that was something that advised her against it. She didn't trust her intuition, but she still felt a strange hunch, deep down. This blade is too much alike its wielder to have been forged for someone else.
With the utmost care, she raised the weapon and put it back where it was. Everything had to be exactly the same as she had left it. If I'm not trusting him, I shouldn't assume he's kept his eyes closed this whole time. Just in case, everything needed to be where she had left it. She put down first the tip and then, gently, lay the handle on the ground. On the man's opposite side. You're not grabbing it quickly, this way, she told him in her mind. During the inspection, she hadn't made any noise that she could perceive. It was important to know, because she wanted to step up her search significantly. In my time, they said killers always carry their orders on themselves. Let's see if it's true for you, too.
There were pockets and pouches attached to his belt and also the bandoliers on his chest. They were all, without any exception, made of opaque black leather. It was probably dyed, the same way the strap around the sword's grip was. The color was slightly less dark and more rough, a sign that it had received less treatment. Logical, she thought with a grin, the strap on the handle needs to never slip. These can. They were all closed with a black twine, knotted in a very strange way. It wasn't a tie she had seen used before, not by the knights of her time nor by the members of her father's court. Maybe it's popular now, although it wouldn't surprise me if he had invented it by himself. She hadn't saw him untie any of them, and she had no idea as to how she could. Slowly and watchfully, she reached for one of the pouches with one hand and raised the knot. She couldn't figure out a way to undo it or even loosen it. Damn… Something else…
There was indeed. Her eyes fell on the Elder Scroll, fastened to the back portion of his belt. Those ties were easier, she recognized them. She slipped two fingers of both hands near them and loosed them enough just enough for the Scroll to fall down a little bit. She took the roller and pulled gently towards her, enough for the roll of paper to slide off the man's belt but far enough from the armor to avoid sounds and bumps. My mother gave it to me and it shall remain with me. Pulling her strap across her shoulders so that the parts holding the scroll were all on her chest, she took the roll and positioned it where it was supposed to stay, on the right hangers and the right knots. I'm sorry, but this… her own thoughts trailed off. She had caught herself mocking and underestimating the mystery man. It was a normal thing for her, but in that moment she couldn't allow it to happen. Letting the mind work during a social contact was fine, but that might have been a matter of life and death. She had stolen something from him. She had to be ready to confront him, not mock him.
She looked for other things. There was a larger, rectangular pouch that seemed to contain something. By the shape, it was presumably a book. That one wasn't knotted. The leather was strained, and whatever was inside was stuck there. It wouldn't fall off even if it was turned upside down, which was reason enough for why it wasn't tied. Although I suspect he would have anyway, so whatever that is it must be something he'd be okay losing. She extended a hand, but then she heard a sound. A very soft sound.
The figure turned his head towards her.
'I…' she whispered, withdrawing her hands as quickly as she could. She could almost see him grab the dagger and hack both her hands off at the height of the wrist. She almost heard the screech of the short blade being pulled from its sheath and its hiss and it descended on her. She felt paralyzed, and nothing could save her from that. There wasn't any vampiric speed to save her, when her mind didn't answer. Likewise, no power on Nirn could have given her hands back to her, vampire or not. The screech didn't come though, and neither did the hiss. She had imagined them. She noticed that she had moved her eyes away from him, and she brought them back again at once.
The figure was still, completely immobile. Are you telling me he just moved unconsciously? she thought, leaning right to get a better view of his invisible face. Not that she would have seen anything, but in the unlikely case that he was conscious and had his eyes open, she could have made eye contact and perhaps incite him to say something. As if he'd react… she said to herself, sighing softly. The more she spent in the world again, the more her usual skeptical, doubting side began to emerge again. There were many ways to deal with reality and her way was distrust. The more reality she was exposed to, the more the mistrust grew and took control of her decisions. It had saved her so many times that she couldn't count, and it was a useful ally to have. Right now, her doubting side was questioning the nature of the man's, Azrael's, sudden and unexplainable movement. He hadn't done anything afterwards, he still lay there motionless, but she knew him for a smart and cunning one. Just as quickly as he had thought of a plan to dispatch of the Draugrs and then of the vampires, it was just as likely that he had moved that way and then return silent, feigning helplessness. He probably knew she'd be too cautious to awake him. But if his movements could lie, his breath couldn't. It was still slow and deep, as if he was sleeping.
She bent her head on the opposite side, cocked her eyebrows suspiciously and extended her hand towards the book. There seemed to be nothing to fear, for the time being. She seized the tome on both sides with her fingers and drew up. The strained leather posed some resistance, but it was mostly due to the direction. She couldn't pull it exactly upwards because the man's back was there and she was careful not to touch him with anything. The tome did come loose after two more pulls, after which she curved it horizontally and slipped it in the tiny space between the mystery man's belt and the tree. With wary motions she backed away, putting one step after another with maximum caution and getting back to her previous place. The snow had covered her older prints, the ones she made laying him under the tree, and the ones she was leaving now could have easily been mistaken for those original ones. It all worked, in pure theory.
She reached the spot where she had previously sat, before going to explore the mystery man's property. She wasn't too content with her findings, she had hoped better, but any knowledge was good knowledge. And I might still have some time, after I skim through this book. He was in the exact same position he had ended up in when moving his head. She looked in the sky, where the wind had blown away some of the clouds. In the holes, shafts of moonlight pierced the haze and illumined the ground. She didn't need any light, but what she saw was very beautiful. She had quickly been reminded of how cruel the world can be, and now she remembered how delightful it can, at other times, be. She gave a quiet, airless sigh and looked at the book. On Slaying Vampires, the tile read. Well, well… He might have wanted to hide that away from me, but…
'Are you done scouring about?'
The first thing she felt, or rather heard, was the book tumbling on her legs and then falling into the snow. She didn't remember letting go of it, but it was out of her hands and so it must had. It was as if she had failed to experience a short moment of time. For a brief laps of time her senses, every one of them, had completely ceased to work because of the fear that had crept up her whole body and froze it solid. Her gaze was locked against the terrain, she felt as if her neck had suddenly turned into stone and refused to move. Categorically.
There was a sound of something scratching the ground, given the strident nature of the noise it was safe it assume that it was the man's armor producing it. A raspy growl came too. 'Are you concerned with the title?' asked the figure, in between the snarl and a heavy breath. 'I slew some, did I not?'
She managed to raise her gaze and look at the black nothingness framed by the edges of his hood. She hadn't understood the exact subtext of his sentence. She rolled out the idea of it being a justification, but she was also hesitant to consider it being a casual, almost playful comment. If you're not clear with me, I will. She straightened her head. 'You did,' she said, 'not before trapping me into a cage of indestructible ice.'
Her expectation of an immediate reaction such as a cold or a sharp reply were immediately proven wrong by the silence that fell around them. Not even the wind blew. A silence of that kind wouldn't have been heard anywhere outside of a cemetery. She looked more intensely as him, but it was quite discouraging. He wasn't flinching, and even if he was she wouldn't have seen it. She wasn't even sure she had his eyes open, but she suspected he had. 'Am I supposed to explain myself?' he asked, his tone marked by a faint note of droll exasperation.
'You are,' she said, and it came out slightly harder than she would have liked. 'One moment I fought by your side and the next you seal me away from the fight. I didn't know who those vampires were and they were a threat to me as much as they were to you. So why?'
Again, he let a little moment pass before he started talking. It gave her some time to think over the things she said and it what way she might have said those better. Or if it had been wise to tell it in the first place. She couldn't tell if he did it on purpose or not, but she knew that precise question was the one that she'd constantly ask when trying to understand him.
'You fought the Draugr,' he said, after a deep breath, 'and you were beaten. I wouldn't have risked both our lives just to give you the temporary satisfaction to fight. Furthermore, to fight your own kin. It seemed to me those vampires weren't a threat to you. They'd have done the same thing I intent to do, and I didn't know which side you would take.'
'So I was nothing more to you than a incapable and untrustworthy fighter?'
A grim laughter came from the man. From Azrael, that was his name. Or whatever it was. The laughter that was already his, and so eerily familiar to her. 'Why does everybody,' he whispered, more to himself than her, 'reframe everything said to them in the worst way imaginable? I suppose we give voice to our inner doubts thanks to the voices of others, don't we?' He stopped and exhaled harshly. 'No,' he said, giving that fearsome monosyllable an incommensurable meaning. 'I see much more in you than an incapable, untrustworthy fighter. You had returned to our world for no more than a few minutes. How could anyone demand from you the fighting skills needed for that fight? I trapped you because of a variety of reasons. I didn't trust you, I won't deny it. You don't trust me either I presume, since you were looking around my possessions.'
Two trains of thought began to roll around her head independently. She was trying to find a suitable response to his sentence, which carried a clear taunt in its subtext, and simultaneously attempting to decipher his tone. She was getting gradually better at reading the hidden cues and signs in his voice, and she could guess that his last phrase wasn't at all hostile. Quite the opposite, it was both approving and somewhat ironic. There seem to be a lot of trust issues surrounding him. That would put him almost on my same page, she thought, suppressing a grin. When around people, she smiled a lot. Perhaps not beaming, radiant smiles, but she grinned and sometimes leered quite often, but she felt like she couldn't afford to do it. Repressing the smirks creeping into the shape of her lips was difficult and required some concentration, but it was the only way to protect herself. The man, for the moment, had seemed to have lowered his guard a little bit and wouldn't have pried on her every reaction, but she couldn't be so sure. Her experience told her to control herself, and even he himself had referenced it being a wise thing. We're still enemies, that was a euphemistic way of admitting it.
While she still rearranged her thoughts, she brought together all the knowledge she had on that enigmatic, cold and calculating killer. There seemed to be different things about him that mixed to create a complicated and, possibly, troubled individual. He mixed and acute and alert observation of the environment with an intense absorption into his own mind. An artificial trust, derived by the vast amount of knowledge he seemed to possess, clashed with his general mistrust of everything around him. His ability to cut right through lies and half truths oddly blended with his aloof and unproductive style of communication. A sudden realization struck her. He's used to being alone, isn't he? Someone this cool must have steely restraint, and he uses with others the same means of communications he uses with himself. She didn't really trust that insight on its own, but it was a good starting point for later observations. If that was true, it was a definite weak spot. In court, one of the first lessons she had to learn was that the only way to get others to agree with you was to speak using their symbols and their vocabulary, not forcing them to adopt your perspective. Azrael not only didn't do it, but she doubted he even could if he tried.
She couldn't even consider trying to manipulate him. Her powers were alive and pulsing now that she had fed, but she doubted they'd have worked successfully on him. For the moment, conventional means were her best bet. Conversation, for instance. 'Well, I suppose I had my doubts,' she said, this time letting her grin take its shape on her lips. 'I was most curious about your blade. It seems masterfully crafted and designed, so I took a look. By the way, who forged it?'
'I did,' he replied, coolly. Immediately after saying it, he brought his hands closer to his sides and pressed them flat on the ground to rise straighter, as if to give her time to come back from the startle. Her surprise and his movement were completely unrelated of course, but it almost felt that way. He pushed and rose to a sitting position, exhaling heavily, and laid his back on the truck in a way that was more comfortable. In the meantime she thought of something. She had planned the discussion to continue following the history of whomever had crafted the longsword, but unfortunately the world seemed to begin and end in the mystery man, for all she knew.
Furthermore, there hadn't even been a trace of pride or satisfaction in his tone. I'd certainly feel blissful if I could tell someone I'd created something like that, she thought, stealing a glance at the longsword. Its Dragon head-shaped pommel almost seemed to stare at her for a moment. She rose her gaze, bringing it once again to the empty void covering Azrael's face. 'Did you?' she asked, without having to feign one bit of surprise. 'It is very well made. I know a little bit of sword designing from my education, back when I was a girl, and I trained with bladed weapons for a long time. That's where all my knowledge comes from.'
'Nevertheless, you've seen what I can do with it. With your knowhow, you understand how. The blade is fourty-three inches long and the grip eleven, which makes it valid for both one and two hands on top of giving me a range and swiftness advantage on almost anyone.'
She nodded, gazing away from him. She was a bit lost in thought, busy creating a list of the things she wanted to ask. He seemed up for some questions back and forth, but there was no telling how long his disposition would last. Breaking the boundaries one time might have signaled the end of the conversation altogether, so she had to play it careful and smart. His race's a problem, but the most logically connected seems to be the why he didn't kill the bald man back in the cave. By keeping the flow, she hoped he'd have tolerated the exchange of information. I still refuse to think I'm dealing with a volatile and unstable person. Maybe the opposite is true. He uses pure rationality and assumes that always works. She suppressed a gloomy grin. It works, but not always.
'By the way,' she said, bringing her eyes in the general trajectory of his gaze, 'I noticed something during the fight. When you attacked the bald man, you missed him.' She waited for confirmation, and although he didn't give any signs that were commonly recognized as thus, she interpreted his silence as validation enough. 'I was under the impression that you actually aimed to miss. Well, more precisely, you thought ahead that his parry would throw your strike off target. Almost as if you didn't want to kill him on the spot.'
'You're right,' he said, moving his head in a way that might resemble a nod. He couldn't do more, with the wound he had on the throat. 'My intention was to wound him, kill his friend and then question him. The miscalculation was, as I think you'll have picked up, the other one's aggression.'
'I did notice. Generally, the further away from the blood patron the more unpredictable a vampire becomes when his or her life is on the line.' She didn't feel too sure about sharing that concept, but considering he was a man, and a man so logical at that, she'd probably soften him more by connecting over more impersonal matters, like problem-solving and general knowledge. Thus far, it seemed to work. While she fed him the superficial side of the discussion, she looked for more hidden cues. To his credit, she had to admit that they were remarkably hard to pick up.
Nevertheless, he did seem interested. 'And how far away were they from the blood patron?'
She shook her head, looking at the sky and thinking for a moment. 'I can tell you that the bald one was a quarter-breed. Of that I'm absolutely positive. I don't know about the others. Maybe three, four infections away. In my time, there were some with ten infections of distance from the original blood patron. More beast than vampire, but still.'
'Speaking of your time, how long were you sealed away?
He's helping me, at least… she thought, once again eating right back her smile. Although she suspected he couldn't see much of her in that darkness, she never felt sure. I can totally see him having drank a potion to augment his sight in the darkness along with the healing mixture he probably ingested. Aside from her precautions, she was glad that he had moved on with the subject. Not because the previous was a dangerous or uncomfortable one to go down, but because it hinted at the possibility that he'd actually contribute, instead of merely defending himself. Man or Mer, mortal or immortal, we're all the same deep inside, she thought, as if to remind herself that he was still, at his core, a part of her world. A world that, despite the time passed, hadn't changed much apparently. It was still cold, snowy and sometimes windy. But if the sky, the stone and the dirt remain the same, the people rarely do. Ironically, Azrael's question was probably going to help her more than him.
'Good question. Hard to say.' She took some more time to think, but nothing was there to help her. She dragged her legs close to her chest and encircled them with her arms, dangling back and forth slowly and trying to find anything. 'I feel like it was a long time,' she said, and immediately after she came up with something that could have given her a reference point. 'Who's Skyrim's High King, as of now?'
A scornful scoff came from the mystery man, along with a sinister laughter. 'Next question?' he said in a subtly ironic tone.
That was clearly a jest. 'Why? What's the matter?'
'Diplomatically put, the position of High King is at the center of a debate. Realistically put, everything's a bloody mess.'
The passing of time does nothing. As he said, centuries don't make anyone smarter, she mused, rolling her eyes to the sky briefly. 'Wonderful, a war of succession,' she exhaled. 'Good to see the world didn't get so boring, however long I was away. Try and tell me the name of the contenders, perhaps I can trace them to some of my time.' She said it, but she doubted it very much.
'There's a side fighting for the independence of Skyrim, led by Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Eastmarch.' The first metal check was partially successful, since she didn't know anyone named Stormcloak, but the Jarl of Windhelm was a very well known position to her and it seemed logical he'd try to claim the throne. She kept listening. 'On the other side of the barricade stands Elisif the Fair, Jarl of Solitude and widow of the previous High King, Torygg. She's backed up by the Cyrodillic Empire.'
That didn't go as well as the previous one. Not only she was utterly unfamiliar with the names and titles, aside from Jarl of Solitude which she knew, but the mention of a Cyrodillic Empire completely clouded her thoughts. She tried to remember something, anything that could even allude to a state having its center in Cyrodill and expanding into Skyrim, but she didn't remember anything at all. Maybe I'm missing something… No, there has never been any realm large enough to be called an Empire in Cyrodill in recent memory. That simply didn't seem to make sense. 'A Cyrodillic Empire?' she asked, still quite startled. 'As in… A kingdom with its center in Cyrodill?'
'Yes,' rejoined the man, very coolly in spite of the awkwardness of the situation. He could have laughed at her and she wouldn't have had any reason to deny him the pleasure, but instead he retained his icy tone. He was probably deeply involved in his own calculations and thoughts, too. 'Currently, the Mede dynasty rules. It succeeded the Septim line, although I doubt you've heard of them.'
'No, I never heard of someone named Septim.' She bit her lower lip, almost grazing it with her fang. She lowered her gaze and tried to make some order of all of it, but in vain. Nothing of those things was known to her. She knew one thing of Cyrodill, and raised her head. 'The Ayleids? What of them?'
She felt his gaze in her eyes, piercing them. If he could see anything at all of her, it was the eyes. Two red lights glowing weakly in the almost utter darkness. The moonlight was there, but it didn't help much. Azrael bent his head imperceptibly, letting a heavy and meaningful silence hang in the air for a few moments. The absence of words alone gave her the feeling that what she'd asked had no answer, or an answer she wouldn't like to hear. 'The Ayleids,' said the man, extremely slowly and utterly unemotionally, 'are extinct.'
'Oh…' was the only thing that managed to come out of her mouth. She wanted to say so many things, half questions and half impulsive expressions of her disbelief, that her mouth repeatedly opened and shut immediately after as she gaped rather blankly in the general direction of Azrael.
'And since you didn't know the Aelyds disappeared,' he continued, unperturbed, 'I should think you know nothing of the Dunmer.'
'The what now?'
'Of course.' The sardonic remark was followed by a low titter, which mirrored very well the feeling of amused exasperation that was starting to take over Serana's mind, cutting down her hopes one by one. That brief, shared laugh proved that they were both amused by the sheer absurdity of the situation. Azrael's voice cooled very quickly however. 'You know of the Chimer, then.'
'Yes,' she said, a bit loud. The chuckle had carried her away a little. 'Remarkable, there's something that I know. I know the Chimer, there was talk of them even at the court many times.' She stole a glance at his hooded face and something unclear made her grimace. 'You're going to tell me they've met some horrible end, aren't you? Like the Ayleids.'
'They became what I am.' The cryptic explanation woke Serana's attention, and Azrael obviously caught her questioning glance. 'I'm a Dunmer,' he clarified, 'more commonly known as Dark Elf. We're the descendants, in a manner of speaking, of the Chimer.' His voice ended on a strange note, and Serana withheld her desire to speak for a moment. He had something more to say. 'Since they're closely related, you should know that the Dwemer have completely disappeared.'
'You mean… they're all dead?'
'No. I mean disappeared. A story too long for now, though.'
Her eyes fell to the ground no lighter than her head into confused thoughts. She was confused and disoriented. She had difficulties reading through and following one single thread of her thoughts, since there seemed to be a chaos with multiple voice going on in her head. She heard some of them accusing Azrael of having been cruel beyond measure to mention the Dwemer too. That last addition in particular had surprised her, both because she hadn't asked for it and because she had no way of suspecting it. It had left her at odds with herself, while she unraveled the impossibly complex weave of information, small cues and hints gathered from his words. I know he's a… Dunmer, Dark Elf, whatever… Not that it helps, either way. He was related to the Chimer, so it was possible that he comes from Morrowind. If anything, he must have some kind of roots there, whether cultural, religious or family-related. But traditions change, and something like a whole race changing its name was enough to shake the roots of any culture, however strong it might be. And besides, he doesn't strike me as someone that sticks to traditions. It could be just me, but I don't think so.
What he told her was incredibly relevant on a historical level as well. Cyrodill being the seat of an Empire meant a few things. She could imagine the human races having conquered a large portion of Tamriel at some point in the past, since taking and holding that central position was a difficult feat. Surely, many more relevant things had happened, and only a handful, the ones immediately following her locking away, shared the context she knew. 'In which year are we?' she asked, sighing deeply. She felt as if the ground could swallow her as a result of the answer she got.
'Fourth Era, year two hundred and two.' He probably expected her to react strongly to such in information, which was probably why he hurried his question. 'Do you know how long you were sealed away now?'
She laughed, and it was her turn to do so mirthlessly and gloomily. 'If only I knew how many years the other Eras lasted, than maybe yes.' It was at least, at the very least, more than two hundred years. But it was a lot more. 'And before you say it, no, I don't want to know how long they lasted,' she cleared out. It came out naturally, exposing her suspect that unlike her, Azrael was someone to whom there's not a truth that's worth fearing. She wasn't like that. His way of speaking and saying things straight and to the point hinted at it, while her softer style mirrored remarkably well her preference for a beautiful lie than a cruel truth. Or at least that's what she always told herself. Sometimes she had the feeling of it being the complete opposite. And anyhow, this isn't the moment. If I can't cope with what happens outside of me I don't even want to think to what might happen inside me.
Unexpectedly, it was Azrael's deep and vibrant laughter that brought her back to the present world, to the snow drenching the leather laces of her boots and to the Moons casting their weak light down from the sky. 'I suppose that's quite enough for one night,' he said, his chortle wearing off and his tone returning to its usual note.
'Definitely,' she concurred, a lot more emphatically than he had been. I'm reacting strongly, she realized. She felt extremely tense, and was looking for what exactly was making her tense. Which in turn made her become even more anxious. She felt like she did this too often. She felt nervous and then tried to figure out what was rendering her such. They have said that I sometimes look a bit fidgety and nervous. This time, she let the grinning smile surface on her lips. But they don't know the half of it. Her jaws were tense. At once her mind identified part of her anxiety's reason the fear of leaving the conversation there. 'I want to talk, I do,' she thus clarified, 'just not about this. You can ask me anything, if you like.'
'Do you need some time alone?'
Are you… Toying with me or what? That looked like a catch. Something to trip her into saying or doing something she didn't want. She didn't need any time alone, and as a matter of fact she didn't want it either. 'No. Why do you ask? And aren't you afraid I'll just run away?'
'And where would you go? Enlighten me.' His voice dripped sarcasm. Everything from the tone, which was slightly different from his icy one, to the choice of words, was meant to expose the nonsensical side of the situation. She realized only then that even his brief moments of apparent hilarity had something that could chill you right to the bone. That joke, or the idea behind it, was able to make something funny almost as much as it was able to seize one's idea or action and annihilate it. He hadn't done that now. 'You've got no idea of where, and when, we are. Furthermore, you had the chance to kill me not too long ago. Thus far, you've done everything to present yourself as a rational, reliable person.' After his arguments had been laid out, he made his final point. 'No, I wouldn't see you running away from me.'
She furrowed her eyebrows. 'You're a head person, aren't you?'
'You too,' he swiftly, but unhurriedly, redirected. His tone was unreadable.
That little attempt at making him talk about himself hadn't worked too well. It looked and sounded very innocent, merely a natural continuation of his previous sentences, but she had hoped for more. He hadn't taken the chance to retort or say something defensive, which was a something. Of course he didn't, she thought, letting some air ran down into her lungs. It was useless, but relaxing. He's benefitting as much as I am from letting this flow. We're both giving away information that isn't dangerous in some other's hand and getting important knowledge in return. He had of course gotten a head start by pointing a sharp blade at her throat, but she couldn't have imagined a different situation.
'How come you have an Elder Scroll with you?'
Once again, his voice brought her away from her mind and into reality. She tried to piece together something neither too revealing nor too elusive. 'Well, it's… complicated,' she said, taking some time. There was an escape route from the answer, and a rather easy one. 'There's a way for you to learn exactly why the Scroll is with me. And if you really intend on bringing me home, then you'll get more accurate explanation than I can give you right now.'
'Of the two things sealed away, which was more important?' His voice, though cold, had a clever and somewhat sly feel to it. She was getting better at deciphering the infinitesimal changes in his tone. 'You or the Scroll?'
She felt herself shake from her very core. Why did you have to be like this? she said to him in her mind, but the humor was only there to push further away the strong feelings that had made her shiver. Out of context, it could have sounded like a rhetoric question or a mock-serious one. In that moment though, not only was it perfectly on point but it was also sharp and, to an extent, cruel. Azrael has said to her that she too was a head type, and Serana would have very much liked to believe that, but her heart always felt the strikes thrown at it. She had no idea if that question was meant to hurt, but her instinct said otherwise.
'Do you know?' she asked, smiling sadly. 'If you do, tell me. I certainly don't.'
'Is your home the place across the sea that we mentioned earlier?'
That didn't quite come out of the blue, but it was a very quick change of subject. It clearly wasn't such a far-fetched one, because the Scroll went back to the people that had locked her away, her own mother, and her mother traced back to the castle, of which he still knew nothing about. She chose to tell whatever came to mind. It wasn't as if he wasn't going to discover anything on his own once there. 'Yes,' she said, breaking eye contact for a moment, 'Castle Volkihar.'
'Where is it?'
'It's on an island North-West of Solitude, quite far into the sea of the North Coast.' She caught herself mental checking if everything she had said was still true in the present day. Since there was a Jarl of Solitude, there were reasons enough to believe the city was still standing and doing so in the exact same place where it had in her time. 'The quickest way is through the mountains, but depending on the period of the year it might be safer and faster to go following the shoreline. There's usually a boat on the beach which can get us to the Castle.'
'What, and who, will we find?'
She cocked her eyebrows and smiled faintly, still somewhat mocking. 'Your guess is as good as mine. We'll find a very big castle, unless its in ruins after all these years. I wouldn't think so, though.' If my father still has his hands on the place, he'd be killed before the very symbol of his status gets destroyed, she mused as she spoke. 'As to who, I don't know. I guess it depends on what went down after I was locked away. And, in turn depending on how that went, I'll be safe there.'
From the moment she closed her mouth, she could swear she felt the penetrating gaze Azrael cast at her. 'Give me some context,' he said.
'Well, let's just say my father, Harkon, and my mother, Valerica, had a bit of a falling out. As a consequence of that, I was sealed away in that stone. I don't know what happened between them after.' And yet she still felt his penetrating gaze on her. It was making her a bit nervous. 'Don't worry,' she continued, searching for a way to satisfy his curiosity. 'I'm not in any danger or anything like that, and neither will you most likely. It would, however,' she admitted, 'be a bit more unpleasant if we run into my father, for both of us.'
'Any vampire isn't exactly pleasant to run into,' Azrael sighed deeply. 'I have to make the exception for you,' he said, leaving enough time between this sentence and the next to leave her waiting with slightly bated breath. 'You're the first that didn't jump to my throat as you saw me.'
'My father's court has many flaws and endless vices, but they're civilized people by many standards,' she rejoined, replying to him but also trying to escape the mixed feeling his previous statement had caused. She wanted to believe it was genuine, but she found herself doubting her motives using a thousand different reasons, options and perspectives. 'You'll meet them. They plot, scheme and talk exactly like the bald man we encountered earlier. Their courtesy is overwhelming and their good will not even remotely so, but they'll behave. From what I've seen, I've reasons to believe the old structure has endured in that castle.'
'Your grew up there.'
It wasn't a question, but a simple statement of fact. He had understood it. Many memories came to her mind, so many that for a brief moment she felt overcome and drawn out of the world and into her own memories. That wasn't the right moment to recollect moments and mistakes, joys and hurts. That place was part of her almost as much as she was part of it, if not more. There was no time to think over the rainbow-colored flowers of her mother's garden and of the murky corridors where she'd play alone, hidden from her parents and the court. 'Yes, I did.' In her first years, her father was rarely there. She stayed with her mother. He was always in the mainland, dealing with whatever matters his subjects brought to him. Afterwards, though, when they all retired on the island, things changed. I was nearly fifty. 'I spent most of my childhood and adolescence there, and my whole life afterwards. Only later on I began to spend longer periods away from home.'
'You said your father was a king,' he said, almost the very moment she finished her sentence. Despite the cool tone, there was an inquisitive, curious note to his words. 'I suppose that makes you a princess. At heart, if not in name.'
'Truthfully, I was never too comfortable with my position. I remember from an early age being weary with the demands of everyone, but at the same time worrying I might not be able to live up to everyone's requests. My position as princess only made me escape further away, somewhere there would be no once to put more obligations and expectations on me.' Throughout her life, she had almost never had the chance to say those things to anyone. Inside the court, she couldn't afford to let anyone know how she felt, with one exception. Outside, she felt the people she dealt with would take advantage of that knowledge faster than she could blink. Azrael appeared so distant from anyone else that she, paradoxically, felt safe telling those things to him. The risk that he'd use that information was real, but not as present as anyone she'd ever met. 'I never really felt secure. My whole life I've searched for something that could give me the safety I desired, but I never found it. And later, well…' She trailed off. He didn't know about her parents, but maybe it was high time he did. 'As I said, my mother and father didn't have the best relationship, especially going forward. I was thrown around between them, afraid of disappointing one by satisfying the other. I don't know if you can relate, maybe nothing like this has never happened to you…' she concluded hesitantly, realizing she had taken much and told things which were probably uninteresting to him.
'Quite the opposite.'
She raised her gaze on his hooded face. The sides of the cowl had shifted and weren't pointing in her exact direction, so it was safe to assume that he was looking away. If she had to guess, he was staring at the emptiness of the night right behind her. His words had sounded remarkably strange. Though impassive, they had felt softer. Though cool, they had felt calmer. And though hardened by his raspy, rough voice, they could have been defined strangely warm. That tone seemed eerily familiar, and that was because it was similar to the one she had heard immediately after he had put her to sleep, after she had fed. This doesn't clarify your persona in any way, she thought, but even that felt somewhat distant. She was focused on hearing what came right after that simple, three-worded, lapidary preamble.
'A story too long for now, mine,' he continued, his voice deepening and its vibrations decreasing in frequency. 'Yet, it resembles yours in some ways. Many placed their expectations on me, and many of them I defied.' His tone was absent, but there was a lingering hardness in it. A hatred for those who had made that mistake, probably. 'I can concur that it's a difficult thing.'
There was something that vacillated for a long moment, as if floating in the air like a leave falling from a tree or a shaft of moonlight piercing the night and illumining them, casting deep shadows behind them. It hung there for quite a while. Serana's eyes were fixed on the blacker than night hollow of her redeemer's face, while he was looking absent at the horizon while probably contemplating the cerebral landscape of his own mind. For a short moment, she caught herself finding very few things she wouldn't have given the Daedra in exchange for the ability to read his mind. If she had learned something, anything, about him, it had to be that there was a hidden Azrael that very few people knew. She could sense a strange intensity in him. There's something about him I haven't quite been able to figure out, she realized. It was quite a feat, to transcend the understanding of a woman who, for her many years of life, had been understanding some of the cleverest and guiltiest people born on Tamriel. And yet, he was different. Harder to grasp. Every time she had thought she had made everything out, something would immediately make her think over it again. No matter how many times she tried, there was always something missing. Some people she'd define as mysterious weren't like him. They handed you the foreword to the book they were. Azrael gave you the whole book, but it was all written in an unknown language, from start to finish.
When he moved, a powerful spell seemed to snap and break simultaneously. He dragged his hands again to his sides and once again clenched them into a fist, the metal scratching itself and making a strange and chilling sound. He bent his legs, which were both laid limply on the ground, and pressed his back against the truck. Extending a hand to his right and grabbing the longsword and the bow, he rose standing with a deep and heavy breath. His shadow lengthened alongside him until he loomed over the ground, casting a very long shade. Either the Chimer grew in height, or he's oddly tall for his kind, she thought. His figure was impending and he towered over her as he had done already inside the cavern. Aside from the heavy breathing, the wound on the throat didn't look to bother or hinder him in the slightest. He's either very resistant to pain or the potion he drank was immensely powerful. I wouldn't discard either, honestly. He shook his boots to clean them of the snow that had fallen on them previously and cracked his neck, shifting his gaze to the horizon behind her.
'Fine,' he said. She locked every muscle up tight when she heard his tone. Every warmth was gone from it, and it was again his cold and emotionless voice. Only then she realized that she feared it, for some reason that was unknown to her. 'We've had out moment. Time to go, now.' It felt as if everything that had occurred, from when he woke up to ten seconds before, had never happened.
She swallowed everything, from her fear to her shame to her anger. 'We should be going North,' she pointed out, and she was quite sure he was looking at the wrong direction if not the opposite. It was somewhat heavy to be able to discuss only that meaningless, logistical detail, but it was everything she could think of. And I care about my own skin, so I should be watchful that he doesn't mess anything up. He had seen mistrustful people getting tricked in the easiest of ways and experts in seemingly everything stumbling on mundane matters. 'And, while I don't really tire easily walking, it would take us a lot of time on foot if the morphology of the area hasn't changed.'
Azrael folded his arms behind his back and gradually let his weight drag him backwards, against the tree trunk. 'We're not going by foot,' he said, keeping his gaze fixedly focused on the blackness behind her. 'My mare will take us to where you need to go.'
She felt two different reactions going off at once. She felt her heart sink and from there a caustic thought emerging. A mare, really? And this Elf fancies himself the vampire expert. Everyone knows animals are afraid of vampires, or don't they in this era? On the other hand, there was nothing in her that trusted the Elf's knowledge, if not his motives, and was inclined to discard the option that he hadn't considered that very simple and known fact. Still, the problem with him was that there was no guessing to the amount of things he had thought about and not yet uttered in word. 'You're aware animals get restless and hysterical in the presence of undead, right?' she asked, making sure. But then, what kind of animal would bare and accept the presence of a vampire? A trained beast maybe, or something so dark that it rivaled her in corruption of its very essence.
'Mine does tolerate undead,' he replied, with an unperturbed calm. He had seen the question coming, but hadn't cleared the missing link earlier. 'You'll be seeing soon. It'll be easier to show than to explain. I'm positive you might understand something more than I do about her, even.'
No choice but to wait. The situation was his to control, and that was the route it was taking. It felt like she had been following orders her entire life, and even the faint voice inside her telling her to stand up for herself was quickly put to silence without her making any effort. She was calmer with silently complying than questioning authority. She didn't overly like that about herself, but it was the way she was. Unhurriedly, she uncrossed her legs and raised standing. Bringing her head back, she shook it to make the snow fall from her hair. She was reminded again that they were a little longer. They had grown until utter undeath had claimed her and the dark energies were everything that kept her form from falling apart. She turned around with a low hum, which was as much instinctive as it was aimed to attract Azrael's attention, even for a moment. A solemn and somber oath constantly replicated in her head like a mantra. You can do whatever you like, Elf, but you won't forget about me. And then, the pledge. I swear it.
In the past, everyone around her had the tendency to forget she existed or mattered. She could still see her mother, disappearing in the thin space between the rising panel of stone and the top of the monolith. I will come back for you, she had said, and those words echoed back in her mind. A broken promise. With everything going on with Azrael and her father's servants, she hadn't had any time to think at all. I will come back for you. The hollow sound of the stone scratching the sides of her prison, which closed on her like the jaws of an animal, trapping her. My mother didn't trust me, she realized with absolute certainty. If she had, she'd left me free with the order to never again return to Castle Volkihar. She reminded herself of the Elder Scroll. It's wasn't her life her mother was afraid for her, but for the Scroll. I will come back for you. Where was she now? Eras, eons later and she hadn't graced her with her presence. She didn't care what she had endured. She was her daughter, her only daughter, her sole child, and she had forgotten her. She had betrayed her. Who can I trust, when my own mother betrays me? When my own father may have other uses for me, outside of the now obsolete one of continuing his lineage? Her head turned ever so slightly in Azrael's direction. Whether fortune or doom, luck or chance, that was the first person she had encountered upon escaping her prison, upon starting what could be a different chapter of her life entirely. In a different world, in a different time. He was what he was, but he felt invaluably precious to her, because it was all she had. You came when my mother didn't. There was a bitterness and a rage in her thoughts that was almost afraid it might at some point explode without control. But it gave her the strength to carry on. She looked at the rims of Azrael's hood, barely moving in the dying breeze. You will not forget about me. I swear it.
Repeating the promise once more after having sorted all the reasons why she felt that was had the ultimate effect of giving her a little tranquility back. She breathed in once again, feeling the chilly air in her lungs and feeling calmer still. The blood of the man she had fed on, even if somehow tainted and decayed, gave her body new life. The air she breathed was minimally touched, and she could feel the blood she had ingested renewing her body and flowing in her veins. The crueler and stronger instincts, the darkest and most violent ones, were asleep. They grunted in their slumber, reminding her that they'd come again. And while they slept, her more subtle powers were all at her fingers. Despite her choice of not using any magic, it was remarkably strange that her more subtle influence had sorted no effect whatsoever on Azrael. Or maybe that brief moment when he opened up was the result, and when he realized it he thought I was trying to lure him with my powers. It was unlikely, but she had to be careful. Vampires were often the talk of every place they got to even if no one knew their true nature. It was virtually impossible to ignore them. Their presence, when their crueler instincts are suppressed, is more magnetic than any mortal's on Mundus.
She shook her head and looked forward. The landscape when facing South wasn't overly different from the one when facing North. If anything, it was just barely less deserted and desolate and a little more hostile. High mountains and peaks covered by snow and split by gorges stood in the darkness of the night as opposed to the endless expanses of the other side. Only a few firs had the resilience to endure the frigid climate and the cold winds, channeled through the valleys. It could be the breezes coming directly from the Sea of Ghosts, she thought. She roughly remembered where the crypt that had been her prison for so many years was, and there were only low hills and forests in between them and the cold ocean separating Skyrim from Atmora. Azrael hadn't been too clear about it, but their brief exchange led her to presume the mysterious, unconcerned-by-undead mare was due to come from there. Considering he hadn't done anything to call said steed, she could assume the animal either had magical capabilities or had been instructed to follow a certain route. Both were impressive and equally strange options. Furthermore, she was slightly troubled by the fact that it was a single horse. She understood only too well that it was the only option, but she'd rather stayed a little further away from Azrael that riding a horse together would allow. I don't mind him near me, I just don't trust him.
She was actually beginning to doubt anything would appear at all, when a shrill and loud neigh tore the silent veil of the night.
Out of a corner in the mountainside, a fair distance away from them, a lone silhouette came galloping in the snow, raising clouds of pulverized sleet as it careered and leaving a shallow trail behind. Even from afar, she could see the beast's eyes glowing in the darkness of a red fire like the one of burning coals. The creature's hide was black, but of a black that had bordered with dark brown instead of the sky's deep blue. The hair and the tail too were black, but those had shades of dark red. What kind of monster is that? she wondered. Only in Coldharbour she had seen things as monstrous as this, but she didn't like to recall any of those events. This doesn't seem like a creature born from Oblivion, she realized. As the mare got closer, she could take a closer look at the pieces of worked metal protecting certain parts of her body, like the neck, the abdomen and the back. The saddle was leathery and black too, with pouches and bags attached to it. There were larger bags in correspondence of the rear legs, as well. It was only after a moment that she realized that, despite those protections, the muzzle had no bite and no reigns. A wild beast, beyond taming, but maybe so faithful to its master that it didn't need any restrains or so intuitive to his commands that it didn't need any more directions than his words and possibly pulls on the hair. An evil spawned somewhere the light doesn't even exist. She took a last, focused look at the creature before turning her gaze back over to Azrael. What seemed like a normal warrior and rogue, well versed and experienced in his arts and crafts, was beginning to look like something far more sinister. Not remotely as sinister as the people presumably waiting for me home, but still. After all, there would be two reasons to concern oneself with vampires. You were either disgusted by them or had an interest in them, and for anybody to have an interest in vampires a certain familiarity with shady and sinister matters was almost a requirement.
The beast ran beside a tree, showering it with powdered snow. Serana had a chance to confront the trunk's size with the creature's, and what she saw managed to startle her for a moment. She could see that the steed was big, but it was bigger than she had calculated at first glance. Its shoulder seems higher than my temple. It has to be. That's a fiendishly large horse. That in turn convinced of a few things she had previously only deemed possible. The armor and the saddle bore clear marks of daedric forging, not overly different from the red scars on Azrael's armor. It wasn't such a jump to think of those plates as work of the same person who had crafted the cuirass, and there was a hunch worth listening to that suggested he was the smith. Just as he had crafted his sword, he had his armor and his mare's armor. This is someone who does things alone, she thought, taking the mental note to be used for another time. Meanwhile, the creature had continued to dash through the snow at breakneck speed and was getting closer and closer to them.
Serana saw Azrael walking up to her and positioning right behind her. She felt his warm breath on her neck as he leaned in closer. 'This is Shadowmere,' he said, surpassing the racing horse's noise. He slowly withdrew and stepped to the side, putting a single pace between him and her. She didn't look back at him, for once because she was slightly nervous of having him so near and also because she was still intently looking at the steed as it nearly reached them. A twenty yards away from them, the creature began to shorten its leaps. That only increased the size of the snowy clouds raised by its advance. The moment the soft pounding of the hooves sounded closer than even and the beast was clearly slowing to a halt, a misty wall of congealed water half-hid the mare's figure. It reared up and neighed again, as it had done when emerging from the side of the mountain. The whine was very similar to the one of a normal stallion, but strangely shrill and penetrating. After that though, the animal landed on its hooves and snorted calmly.
The mare's red, flaring eyes shifted to Serana. She felt slightly taken off by the unsuspected intensity of its gaze, a stare that clearly wasn't human but was wild and fierce in ways she could hardly define. She held the beast's gaze resolutely, pleasantly surprised that what Azrael had said was indeed true. This monster doesn't dislike nor fear the undead. It does sense them, the opposite would be impossible, but it doesn't react erratically to them. The rhythmically widening nostrils of the mare blew some steam out, which led her to disregard the option of the animal being a reanimated carcass. There were no signs of reanimation and no signs of scars or wounds, from what she could see. There were portions of the cuirass large enough to hide the mark of an old wound, but those eyes alone were proof enough that the creature wasn't kept alive using normal necromancy. Death Hounds were probably the finest example of necromancy on animals, and their gazes weren't even remotely as aware and awake as the mare's.
Azrael stepped forward and the horse's eyes immediately moved on him and their light seemed to diminish and loose intensity. His gauntlet reached for the beast's neck, and Shadowmere seemed to move it closer to the armored hand. He touched her and caressed her before giving her a gentle pat. 'Good girl,' he whispered lowly. The horse snorted and moved her head away. Azrael moved towards the saddle, grabbing a lace with his left hand while putting against the black leather something he held in his right hand. That something looked disturbingly familiar to her.
How is… A wave of panic surged through her body so strongly that she felt paralyzed again for a few seconds. How is the… She struggled even to finish the thought, while her mouth gaped helpless and unable to breathe out anything. She clenched her jaw, making her teeth scratch one another and bit her lower lip so strongly that she pierced her own skin. The substance that flowed out had the same, if a bit watered-down, taste of the burned corpse she'd drank from. The pain cleared her mind just the tiny bit necessary to put some order in her head. How, in all the existing Daedra's names, does he have the Elder Scroll? It's here with me… she thought, but her musing trailed off as her left hand darted at her back and scratched only the armor's cape.
It wasn't just that he had the Scroll. He had taken it from her. Taken it back, a voice in her head pointed out. Stole it from me, another one rejoined. Her hand was still grasping the nothingness where once was the thing that she had so jealously guarded, because it was the very thing her life had been almost sacrificed for. And now he had taken it from her. Her mind wasn't yet calm enough to address the external issue, because much of her concentration was focused on how he had done it. I took it from him before, she remembered, and I fastened it on my back again, where it was before. It was safe to assume that she had kept it for the entire duration of their discussion, but that left very few windows of opportunity for him. She had almost forgotten about it. The strange thing was that she hadn't felt anything. Not even a clue. Although… she reasoned, he did come up to me at one point. When he whispered in my ear. The anger that crept up her body in the form of a strange vibration half-confirmed her suspicion. He distracted me and stole it. Probably a rogue and a murderer, why not a thief too. A very good thief, at that. That last note of irony allowed her to release some tension.
She clenched both hands into a fist, feeling her long and sharp nails grazing her own flesh. 'Why did you steal the Scroll away from me?' she asked, her tone a little harder than she'd intended.
Azrael was seemingly unperturbed. By the time she had made her mind up and spoke up, he had finished tying the roll to the saddle with four unused laces. 'I did tell you the Scroll stays with me, did I not?' he said, stepping back and examining his bonds.
The strange and disturbing feeling she sensed was of dealing with both an obstinate elderly man and a whining child at the same time. Fine, fine, stealing it from me was faster and easier than getting it back from me fairly, but that doesn't change anything. She didn't know what exactly to say to that. He did tell her and he had done what it was required to keep everything as he had decided it should be. She slowly brought her hands up to her hips. There could be a very rough retort coming, but she was ready for that. I'm Serana of Clan Volkihar. Daughter of Coldharbour. I've endured far worse than this. 'What do you want, Azrael? If you're so interested in me or what I have to say, it means there is something bigger going on, right? I could help you find out what that is, if you were so kind as to not steal from me or lie to me.'
'Yes, not everything's clear,' he said absently, as if lost in thought. 'One thing, in particular. As far as I can understand,' he continued, 'of the two things sealed away from this world, you and the Scroll, the latter is the more important. It sounds logical. You told me precisely that when I asked you.' His voice slowed down, his gaze rose towards the sky. 'And yet, I don't believe it.' At that, his head turned tersely in her direction. Despite his cool tone, she felt a penetrating and magnetic gaze wandering over her eyes. 'You were locked away so that someone couldn't find you. They didn't just lock the Scroll away, they entombed you in stone, too. There is someone in this world to whom a highbred vampire was as important as an Elder Scroll. But that doesn't make any sense to me. There's something you haven't told me, is there?'
There was nothing she could do to hide the locking of her muscles and the stiffness that pervaded her whole body. The monstrous instinct of the vampire rose faintly in her thighs, and if it had been stronger it'd have made her step backwards and prepare for a jump. Her jaws snapped weakly, but if she hadn't held the movement off they'd have closed with enough strength to rip open the Elf's throat. She considered attacking him for a moment while he was turned away and vulnerable, but she didn't trust him. He probably had ways to repel her, and at that point there wouldn't be too many reasons to keep her alive in the first place. And anyhow, her head was lost in its own musings, as usual. If he always nails logical leaps like this, I don't see a way of fooling him. He's always a step ahead, but it seems like he isn't. No wonder he's so cold. She couldn't give up that knowledge now. Knowing that she was a Daughter of Coldharbour would give him more advantage than he already had. The risk of allowing him to understand the whole context was too high. I have to give in for now. If anything, the Scroll is safe with him. She remained silent.
Azrael put his hands on the mare's saddle and pulled himself up, breathing out quite heavily. The wound hadn't recovered fully yet. He stabilized on top of the mare's back and looked at her, even higher than he normally was. 'Until you tell me, the Scroll stays with me.' The frost in his tone signaled the end of the negotiation. Both the obstinate elder and the whining child had died, chilled by the ice. They were masks, sides of him that emerged from time to time. Only winter remained now, the ruthless survivor steeled by the harshness of a long, hard life. She felt his cold inside her. 'Come,' he said, his voice unperceivably softer. 'You'll be home in less than a week.' He held out a hand to her.
She took it and climbed on Shadowmere's back.
A/N: With this, the part concerning the freeing of Serana is over. There's a quick thing I wanted to address. I decided to follow the "First Era" interpretation, which places the whole sequence of events concerning the locking away of Serana in the First Era, before the Dragon War. However, you'll probably remember me saying in The Winterborn's Flame that Serana remembered Alduin's Fall, which isn't the case if we follow this route. I don't know what was on with me, but either way, that's been changed. If you notice any more lore inconsistencies, let me know. Something can always slip.
Now, as I promised in the last chapter, onto Azrael for a moment. The moment up until A Princess in the Wrong Castle where the POV change occurs was all given to have a glance at his "normal" attitudes and thought process. The closest thing I can think of that summarizes him is the concept of the "chess player". I didn't think some would come to hate him this much this quickly prior to this chapter, but it means I've done my job well. Too well, probably, because there's such as thing as exasperating some things. Maybe there's a lesson to be learned here, but for the moment – answering Guest's review on Chapter IV – everything's going according to plan and is intentional.