Disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim or Bethesda's Elder Scrolls Series. All original content is my own.
Vorstag flexes and un-flexes his hand as he sits in his chair. He has pulled it from its position near the fire and has slid it closer to the Breton woman's room. A constant vigil, he is unmoving from his place at the base of the stone steps. Like a hound who guards the door of its owner, he stands watch. His stare is solid, like how he himself is built, and it dares anyone to pass by without his express permission.
Why does he care so much? He has been asking himself that same question quietly for the past two hours. Why does he wait here? Guard her door like inside is the White-Gold Concordat itself?
He thinks of her eyes, how utterly lost they were as they stared into his own. Those eyes, he has seen them before, a long, long time ago. Her eyes, he thinks, make him stay there, in that chair, outside her door like a permanent fixture, a stalwart sentinel.
An image flashes in his mind, an unwanted phantom appears from his memories. A hand pushing, forcing, straining to claw its way out of ash and rivulets of silver. There is a voice that swirls around in his mind, but he refuses to listen, refuses to hear it. He cannot bear it. Not anymore. He pushes the memory deep down like he always does, prays that it will not weasel its way back up to torment him again.
Her eyes must be why he stays.
He has seen them before. And the familiarity he finds from them awakens something in him that he has tried to forget for many, many years.
This time she wills herself not to faint.
"You cannot find her if you keep fainting," she chastises herself quietly as she swings her legs over the stone bed and onto the cold floor below. Her boots have been removed by someone and they are nowhere to be found. She reaches her bare toes forward, touches them onto the frayed and faded rug that lies a few inches away. It has clearly been there to add character to the room, take away some of the harshness of the stone, but it falls woefully short of its goal in her opinion.
She misses the blazing fires of Whiterun, the wooden beams everywhere, the high gables and thatched rooves of the homes in the city. Though the room she is currently in has an impressively high ceiling, she cannot help but feel shut in, enclosed.
She misses Whiterun and she misses-
The air that rushes from her lungs forms a gasp that she cannot control. It rushes out in a quick spurt and causes her to grab at her abdomen as if she has just been punched in the gut. She thinks it is low enough to go unnoticed, but somehow that tower of a man from before has heard her and he comes barreling into her room again. As she blinks at him, she wonders if he knows how to knock.
"Are you…" he stares at her eyes for longer than she thinks is appropriate, "alright?"
"My fr-" she corrects herself, squints her eyes, does not trust this man in front of her, "my companion. Where is she?"
Dead, he wants to tell her, but instead he answers, "With Brother Verulus."
She nods, brings a hand up to swipe a stray hair behind her ear. When she pulls her hand away she notices it is tinged with red, stained a dark crimson still. Vorstag notices her hand begin to shake and he speaks quickly to avert her attention. He has never met a woman as prone to bouts of hysteria as she.
"Frabbi has run a bath for you," he speaks to her softly, in a way of which she did not know such a huge man was capable. It was as if he was calming a caged animal which, in truth, she was acting as if she were.
"She removed as much of the stain as she could but," he gestures at her attire and exposed skin, "couldn't…clean it all. I could take you there, if that would please you."
"What does it matter if I am pleased?" She mumbles to herself. "They have taken everything already."
Vorstag stands still and stares at her with that unwavering gaze of his. She knows he has heard her because he had somehow heard her small gasp all the way from wherever he had been previously. He says nothing and she finds herself thankful for his tact. A man who knows when it is appropriate to speak? She has met few of those in her lifetime.
She continues, louder this time, "I would speak with this Brother Verulus now."
The warrior in front of her glances at her grimy and bloodstained attire warily.
"You really should wash first."
The woman rolls her eyes. Big, turbulent pools of green go sailing towards the heavens before leveling themselves on him again. She gives him an unimpressed look.
"Am I a prisoner here or something?"
Frabbi's voice floats into the room as she pushes past Vorstag who moves over only a fraction of an inch to let her pass by. "No, you're not, miss. But you are covered in blood, so it's best if you clean yourself up and make yourself presentable before you go trotting through the city. Come. I'll take you to where I've drawn your bath."
She stands rooted to her spot and Frabbi rolls her eyes slightly.
"I made Kleppr heave those buckets all the way up here from Riverside and if you let that bath go cold, I'll never hear the end of his incessant complaining. If you won't do it for yourself, at least have some pity on a woman trapped in a marriage to a complete clothead."
Vorstag's lips quirk into a small smile. The relationship between Frabbi and Kleppr is a source of never ending entertainment. He watches the Breton woman weigh her (very limited) options. Eventually she relents and follows Frabbi out of the room. She gives Vorstag one last parting glance, her eyes the color of freshly sprouted leaves as they throw him a wary look.
As she slips by him, makes sure not to brush against his imposing figure, she sizes him up. He stands impossibly large, towering over her small frame. She knows she is small, has known it all her life. Her body was not built for combat and it is a fact that she now knows all too well. A warrior she is not, unlike this man whose muscles ripple out from underneath the scales and leather that crisscross his chest. His skin is tanned, puckered with crooked scar lines and puncture marks. As she walks away from him she thinks of his face. Strong. Angular. His forehead seems permanently creased. Underneath thick eyebrows sit two twin pools of blue. His face tapers off into an impressive jawline with a stout chin.
But his scar.
She ignores the stares of the other patrons who ogle her bloodied robes with interest as Frabbi leads her down across the inn. Her mind fixates on the patch of skin below his right eye. A raised swell of skin sits there, swirled around and around like a seared whirlpool. The mark looks angry, old and long scabbed over, but a constant reminder of something painful. It is not a warrior marking that she has seen before – not a purposeful inking of the skin like so many other men have done to signify something or other. No, she shakes her head as Frabbi opens a door and shows her into another high-ceilinged, stone room.
Someone did that to him.
The bath Frabbi has run for her is a simple basin filled with steaming water. Some has sloshed over the side already, no doubt from Kleppr haphazardly dumping the buckets in. There is a fire roaring in a small hearth near the tub. Someone has dragged over a wooden table, the knotted wood rough, not sanded down, and the legs slightly uneven. Several glass bottles stand on it. A small sliver of what she assumes is soap lies on a curved metal dish.
"Thank you," she whispers quietly, distractedly, to Frabbi. Her mind is preoccupied with the scar on the tall man's face.
"Take all the time you need, miss." Frabbi hands her a pile of material she has produced from somewhere. "These are Hroki's, my daughter. You can wear them for now, though I don't know how well they'll fit. They were the only things I could find. Your boots are here, by the door."
Before she leaves the Breton to her bath, the innkeeper turns and stares at her guest for a moment, then sighs.
"Whatever happened out there," Frabbi says, "know that you are in good company here in Markarth."
A confused stare is the woman's reply, so Frabbi continues sadly, shaking her head and sighing.
"People don't often leave The Reach with everything they came in with. The Reach takes what it wants." She shrugs, "We don't get a say, dear."
Frabbi quietly closes the door behind her, leaves the woman stewing in her own thoughts. Before the urge to pass out overtakes her again, she eases herself into the basin after stripping off her bloodied and soiled robes. The water is warm against her skin, and she realizes just how cold she has felt ever since waking up in that stone room. Her muscles are sore from running all the way to Markarth, and even more so because of the events of the past two days. She examines some blisters on her palms before reaching for the soap. A few have burst open and she is just now feeling the stinging pain in her exposed, raw skin.
When she has finished thoroughly washing her skin once, twice, three times, scrubbing her tanned limbs so hard they began to turn red, the water is a murky, disgusting brown. Her hair has been washed clean as well, and it smells better than it has in days now that it is free of the clumps of blood and dirt. She quickly leaves the tub, unwilling to sit in her own filth any longer than necessary, not even for the warmth of the water.
We don't get a say, dear.
She thinks of Frabbi's words as she slips on the borrowed barmaid's dress and combs through her honey colored hair with her fingers.
"I will have a say," she declares lowly, resolutely. "And no one can tell me otherwise."
"You will take me to Brother Verulus now."
The demand startles him in his chair. Vorstag turns and looks behind him at the Breton woman who had, he hates to admit, consumed his thoughts for the better part of the day. He stops short when he sees her. With all the grime and gore removed from her, and wearing fresh clothes, she looks worlds different from the woman who had ran here from wherever carrying a dead woman in her arms. He almost doesn't recognize her.
He swallows, hard, and stands. "You are sure? You know she will be-"
"Take me there," her voice is unwavering, and it is clear she will not relent on the command. He nods and turns on his heel, expecting her to follow him. Her tone has bristled him. She hadn't needed to be so rude.
Once they have begun ascending the stairs to the keep, Vorstag finds it in him to speak to her again. His annoyance at her tone has dissipated and he is left with curiosity.
"What is your name, traveler?"
She is silent for a few moments as they climb the winding stone steps, gazing up at the Dwemer masonry all around. After contemplating giving him a false name, she decides against it. She does not trust this man, but her name means nothing here. It would not hurt to be truthful.
"Mira." Goodness. Peace. Vorstag frowns. There is no room for goodness and peace in The Reach these days. Her name is as fitting to her situation as any name could be. The closest she will get to peace out here in Markarth is her name.
"I am Vorstag," he supplies for her in case she did not remember. Frabbi had only said it twice.
She wants to ask him about his scar, where he got it, who gave it to him, but she knows it is impolite and she is already on thin ice with the man. Her actions and words have not been kind, despite the meaning of her name, but she needed to see Brother Verulus, and she would not have taken 'no' for an answer. Forcefulness in her speech had been necessary. At least, she is under the impression that it had been.
Before she is able to ask him anything, or bring herself to apologize, they arrive at the Hall of the Dead, its dwarven door adjacent to the main doors of the keep. Vorstag pushes open the huge hunk of Dwemer metal for her, allows her to step around him into the dimly lit entryway. Sconces hanging along the walls give off low, flickering light. The air sits heavy with the scent of dust and rot.
She sneaks a glance at Vorstag's scar. In the eerie light of the hall the mark looks angrier than it does underneath the sun's rays. Mira feels it bubbling up in her throat, the need to ask how he got it. She parts her lips and -
"My apologies, but the Hall is closed. I was just coming through to lock this door." A figure appears around one of the corners garbed in the burnt orange and gold robes of a priest of Arkay.
Vorstag makes to speak, but Mira beats him to it. She slips her small body around his much larger frame and comes to stand in between the two men.
"That is unacceptable. I must see my companion who was just brought to you. Where is she?"
Verulus pauses as he looks at the Breton woman. There is a fire within her spirit as well as a deep pool of Magika. He thinks she is certainly not a maiden to be trifled with, despite having such a slight frame. The low light from the lanterns bathes her features in a warm glow, but the shadows cast along her face make her stare seem all the more severe. It is clear she will not back down from this, though he has only been in her presence for all of a few moments.
"There have been…incidents, recently, concerning some of the…bodies."
Mira's light brows furrow, "Incidents? Elaborate, priest."
Verulus ignores her tone as he answers her with a tired sigh, "I cannot say at this time, but your companion will stay in our preparation room until the matter is resolved. If you would follow me, please, and, um, do try to keep up with me. You should not linger here…"
He pivots on his heel and briskly walks down the hallway of catacombs in a flourish of gold and orange, unwilling to be in the Hall any longer than necessary, it seems. Mira barely spares Vorstag a glance before she takes off after the priest, and the hardened soldier has to roll his eyes. He truly is a guard dog.
The pair is led to a room just outside of the Hall within the great keep of Markarth. The door is nearly invisible, no doubt a product of Dwemer ingenuity. Verulus briefly tells them that they treat all manner of bodies here in the crypts - upstanding citizens and criminals alike. Some of the inhabitants of Markarth do not always agree that a particular body should be embalmed and treated, he informs them. The secrecy is for the protection of the bodies that have yet to be properly prepared for entombment. Both Mira and Vorstag hear him mumble under his breath that it has done no good for the recently plundered and…devoured? bodies already laid to rest.
Mira's emerald eyes cut over to Vorstag. She sees that he has become worried over something. He continuously looks back over his shoulder at the now closed door to the Hall of the Dead. She wonders what, or who, could be in there causing him so much distress. Perhaps it is related to how he got that scar…
"Here we are," Brother Verulus alerts them quietly and offers an outstretched hand as an invitation to step forward. There is a stone bier in front of them, laden with cloth, covering the unmistakable shape of a body. Mira steps up slowly, feels her hands begin to tremble, her legs begin to shake.
"This is…her?" Her voice is quiet, small, and it causes Vorstag to take a step towards her. He does not trust her not to faint again.
"Yes," the priest nods, "she has not yet been prepared for her last rites. There have been…setbacks, here at the Hall."
Mira ignores him, instead choosing to reach out towards the drape covering her companion's immobile form. Her breaths are coming out in jagged, painful spurts as she gently lifts the cover off the body's face. Vorstag hears a small gasp escape her throat. It sounds like it had physically hurt her on its way out.
The Breton woman looks down at the face beneath the covers. Brown hair frames the woman's temples and cheeks; a single braid trails over her left ear. Brows that Mira is used to seeing furrowed at her own careless and stupid actions now lie straight above closed eyes. Mira knows those eyes are brown. She remembers, vividly remembers, how much care and strength there was inside of them. This woman will never raise a solitary brow again at something Mira suggests or does.
Mira feels her knees hit the stone floor beneath her. Her hand dives underneath the covers and seeks out the woman's cold, lifeless fingers. She clutches them in her own, feels the emptiness of her touch. Ignores the blisters on her hand that protest being squeezed against the dead woman's skin.
Vorstag hears her begin to cry, sees her shoulders start to heave. He steps up to be next to her, and he cannot help but to look down at the body laid out before them. Briefly, he wonders if Mira has ever had someone close to her die before. It is indeed a profoundly emptying feeling. It's a type of hollowness that is never quite filled again.
His eyes drift down to the drape covering the body's lower half. Immediately, Vorstag turns to Brother Verulus and nods his head harshly one time towards the fallen woman's corpse. The priest steps up, looks where Vorstag is looking, and then casts his eyes downward.
"I did not think they could get in here," he says quietly. Not quietly enough.
Mira looks up, "What are you-?" Then she sees. She sees what they are looking at. Her eyes, burning with the threat of tears, now well with the hot sting of anger. Mira stands quickly, still holding the woman's hand, and glares over her shoulder at Verulus. Her eyes are enraged, and her free hand begins to crackle with the unmistakable sparks of electricity.
"Who did this?" When Verulus is silent she bellows even louder, "Tell me who did this!"
She turns back to the body, looks down at the covers, sees the deep stain of crimson all along the body's right side. When she lifts the sheet fully, there is nothing there. The entire right side of the body has been…eaten.
Vorstag barely has time to catch the woman before she collapses again to the floor with a grief stricken cry. His strong arms hold her up, wrapped underneath her own. He squeezes her to his chest. Her arms reach up to grasp at his own, anywhere she can latch on. She feels his forearms flex underneath her palms as she suddenly lurches forward, her body betraying her, and vomits. Her sick hits the floor beneath her as she lets out another cry, this time of anguish mixed with disgust.
"Who did this!" She shrieks again and then feels the blood rush around in her head. If she were in the right state of mind she may have chastised herself for what she knows is about to happen. How she has made it this far with this weak constitution, well, she cannot truly say. She is certain, however, that it is partly, mostly, because of the half-eaten woman lying on the table in front of her. Her stomach heaves again, but there is nothing left to expel. The emptiness inside of her is overwhelming. A faint shadow of black dances around the edges of her vision.
Barely able to wipe her mouth clean before she slumps back into Vorstag's arms, she manages to say one last thing before she loses consciousness for the third time that day.
"I'm so sorry…Lydia."
A/N: Lots of things happening. Our mystery woman finally has a name, Vorstag's strange scar comes into play, and the dead body is none other than our precious Housecarl Lydia.
It's fun yet challenging to write a character like Mira, who cannot seem to stay awake for more than a few hours and isn't exactly...heroic just yet. Don't worry...that annoying fainting trait will not be exhausted. She has much more to her than a weak constitution.
Let me know what ya'll think. Thank you for reading! If you see any mistakes, please let me know so I can fix them right away. Even seasoned writers' eyes gloss over when editing. Reviews are welcome and appreciated.
Stay tuned xx