A/N: For those who might be wondering – yes, spital is an actual word. :)

Chapter 21: Crossroads

"What have you brought to us, Dovakhiin?"

"She's wounded and needs help."

"This is not a spital."

"It is the only place where she will be safe."

"Once again, you bring conflict to this sacred place."

"No, I bring a person in need."

"A person from the world we renounced."

"Then you are in conflict yourselves."


She was tired. So tired…


"Why isn't she waking up?"

"I don't know."

"But… she's all healed up. She can't be dying, can she?"

"Sometimes, all it takes is a broken spirit."


Shush the voices, so that she could keep sleeping forever. So that the pain would go away, and the burning would fade in the eternal cold and darkness. But they kept coming back, unrelenting, piercing. Why would they not leave her alone?


"Can't you do something?"

"No."

"Please…"

"Why should I?"

"Because you're a good healer."

"I can't heal a person who doesn't want to be healed."

"You don't care, do you?"

"Perhaps I don't."


Fingers laced into hers. They were cold. So cold… like the cursed blade that had been touching her neck. She still felt it on her skin. A whisper in the wind called her name and disturbed her slumber. Away, away with it. But it would not leave.


"You say you hate her, and still, you keep coming here."

"Perhaps I'm just waiting for her to die."

"Regret is not a good thing to part on."


The last touch of breath on her face faded into the void. It had become quiet at last. And yet, she could not find her peace. She could still hear the voices from within. Echoes, reverberating with every passing moment. They would never cease.


"Why?"

The voice was cold and bitter. It stabbed and burned. There was a world in it. And still, it was so empty.

"Why, when things get just within reach, do they dissolve into bare memories? You… you are not fair. You take everything away. Our past seems so distant. Those moments we ran outside and dared defy the Collegium. The only time in my life that I tasted freedom. But you took it all away. Just as you gave it."

The words cut deep. Too deep to listen on. And yet, she could not let them pass.

"Curse you. Curse you to Oblivion."

A single drop of water splashed on the floor, leaving a faint echo. The sound mingled with a hazy memory. Dark red liquid searing her chapped lips. It was so far behind. She could rest now. She could forget. But the voice would not let her. The voice wanted her to live. It assaulted her senses. It could not be chased away, piercing her burning flesh, chafing her parched throat. She was so thirsty…


Yrith opened her eyes, squinting into the moonlit darkness. She felt her every breath, as if she was ill with rattles. It scraped her lungs and hurt on her dry tongue. Water… she needed water.

She tried to raise herself on her elbows, but her arms gave way under her. Her head was spinning, even when she lay prone on a bed.

Bed… there was a real bed under her. Something she had not known for ages. Or had everything been just a dream? Leyna's father, raging battle, a children's song and a blast to the chest? Dripping wine, sweet minty smell, elegant gait, the voice that knew to stab with every word, dragons and their reptilian rider… reality mingled with illusions. She could not tell what part of her life was a dream and what was not. Was she alive?

But she was breathing, and it hurt. She must be. Where was she? Where was everyone?

Inch by inch, her fingers explored the proximity of her body. Furs and linens underneath. A warm quilted duvet on top. A richly stuffed pillow supporting her head. The bed smelled of hay and goose and reminded her of home. Or what used to be her home back in Daggerfall. The smell made her feel safe and serene.

She turned her head, exploring the place. The room she was in was not a true room, but rather the dead end of a corridor. The structure was tall and the stone that formed it coarse. Above her arched a massive vault, slanting toward a humble dormer embedded between two pilasters from which the moonlight poured inside. To her left, more light came into the corridor through a line of alcoves, falling on rugs before each of them. To her right stood a table carrying a flaking clay jug and a goblet of the same quality. She stared at them yearningly. Surely there must be some water inside.

She scrabbled for the goblet, but it was impossible to grab in her position. Inhaling deeply, she gritted her teeth and slung herself up with all her might. The goblet was empty. She gripped the jug with both hands, trying to persuade her mind to forget the strain and aching in her muscles. It almost worked. Almost. All too soon, the jug became too heavy and she felt too tired, dropping it back on the table. Water spilled everywhere. She sank back to the bed, exhausted, shaking. A tremble flashed through her body as the jug hit the floor and shattered. A loud echo resonated through the corridor. She let out a stifled cry.

Chest heaving with exhaustion, she reached for her magic. But when her palms glowed in the familiar pale blue, she heard footsteps in the distance, followed by two voices.

"Please, tell me she's all right." Yrith let the magic fade, relief making her body feel warm and heavy. Cain. He was alive.

"She's all right," another voice muttered with an apparent undertone of amusement. This one she only remembered vaguely. She had heard it firm and hard, back on the battlefield. A crisp, throaty voice that commanded respect.

"I'd like to share your humor."

"Never too late to start."

She saw them coming side by side, the reptilian figure of the Dragonborn with a torch in one hand and a new jug in another, and a slight one next to him, limping on his right leg. A feeling of guilt settled in her. All those times that she could not contain herself were now engraved in Cain's body. She gripped the rim of her duvet, pulling it closer. It had not been a dream after all.

The light of the torch fell on her face and she squinted. Cain's eyes widened that instant. He picked up his pace, ignoring his condition, turning the fall as he tripped over the last rug into a smooth landing by her side.

"Yrith," he breathed. She tried to hint a smile, aware of how long it had been since she had last worn one. He gripped her hand, touching it with his forehead. "You're awake… by the gods, you're awake."

She tried to affirm, but the sound she produced was like a saw on a dry log.

"Well well," the Dragonborn said as he passed them, lighting a patulous candelabrum in the corner. He put the torch in a holder next to it, taking the goblet from the puddle of water it stood in. "I thought I heard something break. Seems my instinct is as infallible as ever. Would you help our guest of honor, ashling?"

Cain scowled at the name, but rose to help Yrith nonetheless. Sliding his hands under her with utmost care, he lifted her into the sitting position.

"You've lost so much weight," he uttered with a frown. She looked at him with apology. The Dragonborn flashed him a meaningful look as he filled the goblet with water.

"Then perhaps we could work on that, hmm? There's soup in the kitchen. Would you be so kind as to bring it? Oh, and while you're at it… a towel would also come in handy." Playful sparks flickered in his eyes, making his reptile face seem almost gentle. Cain rose with a mixture of unspoken protest and eagerness, leaving with a single nod. The Dragonborn took a seat by Yrith's side, holding the goblet to her mouth.

She drank, coughing as the soothing coldness spread inside her. She downed it with her breath held. Then another, and again. The Dragonborn opened his jaws, a sign which Yrith assumed to mean a smile.

"You never know how much you'd miss it, until you do, hmm?"

His voice was so calm, as if he was having a conversation over a cup of tea instead of helping an impaired victim he had recently rescued from the clutches of death. Perhaps he was used to this, after all that time serving as the world's most lauded hero.

"Thank you," she whispered when she released the goblet at last. Her own voice sounded odd to her, like the hum of the sea in the low tide. The Dragonborn nodded solemnly.

"Usually, I get paid for my services," he said. He laid down the cup with a soft splash of the spilled water, tilting his head to the side. Yrith stared at him, opening her mouth but closing it again for lack of words. She tried to guess his thoughts, but his green-gold eyes were unreadable for her. He waited for a heartbeat. Then he laughed, patting her shoulder. "But I suppose I'll let it slide this time."

She let out a breath and contained the urge to purse her lips.

"Worried?" he asked amusedly. "It's not like I'm in the habit of saving random strangers for the sake of extorting the riches they don't have from them. If anything, I may extort it from their families later."

Yrith knit her brows. He responded with a smile.

"Don't worry. For you and your friends, I was paid in advance. And quite handsomely too."

She sized him up, unsure what to make of his answer. Someone had paid for their rescue? Who? Lady Faralda who barely had enough to provide for her? Urag who invested all his resources into his beloved Arcanaeum? Singird? She wondered how well off Singird could be. But surely he would not have enough to pay for the services of the Dragonborn himself. And handsomely at that.

"But who…"

"You have friends in high places and you don't know?"

She shook her head.

"Well then," he said, crossing his legs and leaning over comfortably, "I received a letter from General Tullius. You must be quite some prize. It was dated 8th Hearthfire and arrived on the 10th. The courier must have changed horses at least six times to reach me this fast, and to find me is usually no small feat."

Yrith's eyes widened. The Imperial General himself? What use could he possibly have for her? What in Oblivion had she gotten herself into? Was she that important? Or was it a gesture that had nothing to do with her? Perhaps it was… Toddvar was a Stormcloak general, after all. She shuddered as possible scenarios of her future life flashed before her eyes. None seemed too appealing to hope for.

"General Tullius? But why?"

"Why indeed?" The Dragonborn's face grew softer, almost compassionate. "War is painful, regardless of where you stand. In the end, it doesn't matter if you are a king or a slave. War is still war, and it touches us all. The only thing we can do is to keep walking, whatever path may lie ahead."

A shadow crossed his face. His eyes grew distant, and Yrith wondered if it was her whom he was speaking to. But then, the moment had passed as if it had never happened.

"But for now," he added, lightness returning to his voice, "you may rest. You are in the safest place on Nirn, after all."

Yrith studied the place closer in the light of the candles. The walls were sturdy, made of granite. The room, or, rather, the platform that simulated it was scarcely decorated with flowers, but other than those and the candelabrum in the corner, it gave off an image of sober plainness. The rugs before the alcoves in the corridor were old and worn, each bearing two circles of thinned fabric in the middle. Yrith knew this sight from the old temples of Daggerfall. It was a place of prayer.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"High Hrothgar. The monastery of the Greybeards. The threshold to the Throat of the World. You name it." He spoke with a hint of pride in his voice. Yrith could not blame him.

The fabled High Hrothgar. She had never hoped to see the place. It stood atop the Seven Thousand Steps, alone and detached from the world, and even those who made it to the monastery were never let inside. Just how high were they? Likely if she walked outside, she could see all of Skyrim at the palm of her hand. A dragon had carried her to the tallest mountain on Nirn. The thought made her head spin.

"My friends… were they also carried here on the back of a dragon?"

"Enjoyed the sight, did you? Even though you saw way too little of it." He chuckled. "Yes, they were. Kharjo saw to it, to a great displeasure of my dovah fahdonne."

"What is…" the question died on Yrith's lips. To her surprise, she understood the words. The meaning formed in her mind, as if it had always been there, in deep slumber and now awakened by the sound of the Dragonborn's voice. She stared at him, half startled, half curious. He gave a low chuckle.

"Pardon my passion," he said. "It means…"

"… dragon friends," Yrith finished for him, gaining herself an astonished look.

"You understand the Dragon Language?"

"I…" Yrith hesitated. Did she? No. Upon closing her eyes, she could not recall a single word she would know. What had happened just now? "It was like… magic. As if the meaning of those words just hung in the air, waiting for me to seize it." She shook her head. Her own reasoning sounded ridiculous to her. The Dragonborn's fin-like ears twitched.

"You're a strange one. It seems my sister is not intrigued by you for nothing after all."

"The Arch-Mage is?"

"Perhaps it is time I pass the hero mantle on to someone else, isn't it?" His green-gold eyes glimmered with mirth.

Yrith knit her brows. Hero mantle. In her thoughts, that would be a form covered in blood and grime, and that was not an enticing prospect at all.

"What does it mean to be a hero?" she whispered thoughtfully. He laughed, launching himself onto his feet.

"Aren't you a bit young to be asking these questions?" he returned with a good-natured smirk. She flushed and looked away, but felt warmth spread through her nonetheless. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps echoed through the corridor, carrying with them the smell of fresh vegetable soup. "It seems your friend has returned. Time for me to go then. Try not to overdo it, please. Heroes need their rest too. And the ashling would be sad to see you fall back into that slumber, after those ten days he spent holding your hand."

He gave her a wink as he passed her, landing a pat on her shoulder. Yrith gaped at him. Ten days?


Lilac hue flooded the room as the dawn gave birth to a new morning. The ground shook with a low grumble. Startled, Yrith raised her head, searching for the source as the sound slowly subsided. Cain put the steaming bowl down on the freshly wiped table, seemingly unbothered. Yrith looked up at him in question.

"What was that?"

He flinched, as though her words brought him back from the dreamworld. "What? Oh, you mean the Shouts?"

"Shouts?"

"The Greybeards," he said with a nod. "This is how they meditate. They don't talk at all, but when they do, it is always with these Words of Power. The Dragon Language. They can move with the wind, throw you off the cliff with just the Shout alone, or tear your soul apart. Supposedly."

"With just words?"

"There's some ancient magic involved. I don't understand it." He shrugged, scooping the soup and offering her a spoonful. She gave him a withering look, averting her gaze as her cheeks flushed crimson.

"I can do that myself," she uttered quietly, extending her hand.

"I'm sure you can," he nodded, "but there's no need to strain yourself. Here."

Yrith sighed, looking at the spoon he was holding to her mouth so eagerly. Amidst the flickering shadows in his ebony face, she traced a scar lining his jaw, a remnant of Erinor's torment. He had suffered his own share, yet all he could care for was her. Despite her weakness, she was not feeling up to playing a helpless child. She could take care of herself too. Lifting her hand, she sent her magic to wrap around the spoon, taking the soup from it and delivering it to her mouth. The sweetness of boiled carrot and celery filled her with warmth. Cain shook his head.

"I can never beat your magic, can I?" He dropped the spoon back in the bowl with resignation, seating himself at her side. "It is always there, protecting you… as if you were a part of it, instead of its master. Even these ten days…" he paused to take a breath and remove a stray lock of hair from his face. It was not formed into spikes anymore, and Yrith could hardly deny that it made him look rather handsome. He let his head sink, wearily rubbing his temples. "I'm just glad you're all right. At times you were burning so hot I thought the fever was going to kill you. You stopped sweating, you hardly breathed… but every time I thought this was the end, you… glowed. Your magic refused to let you go."

He fell silent, his breath one with the quiet hum of the candles. Yrith helped herself to another spoonful, retreating to a wordless contemplation. Her magic. The magic that she constantly relied on. Perhaps without it, she would have been long dead. Or perhaps she would have been an entirely different person. She felt as though her magic defined her. As if there was no more to her than that power that dwelled deep inside, waiting to manifest itself. She gazed at her glowing hand, pulling the strand of magicka back in.

"Do you…" she whispered, words feeling heavy on her tongue. He raised his head, tilting it to the side in question. He would care, would he not? Even if there was no magic… he would care. "Do you think I'm an abomination?"

Cain's face twisted in rage and anguish. He straightened his back, taking the hand that had glowed just moments before in his and pressing it to his cheek.

"No. No, you are not, and you have never been. That man was lying to you, Yrith. Hurting you was his only goal. People like him…" he clutched her hand and she suppressed a hiss of pain, "they are scum. They will say anything as long as it serves them. Don't listen, Yrith… you deserve better."

She stared at his trembling frame. He was panting, as though he had run across the entirety of Winterhold. She closed her fingers around his.

"But… suppose he was speaking the truth…"

"Yrith!"

"Hypothetically." She felt her own chest heave. Why was she even saying this? It hurt. An iron hand clasped her chest. "If my parents really… altered me. Would you still think of me as your friend?"

He pierced her with a look so hard it made her freeze inside. She averted her eyes, seeking a way out as if a tunnel were to open for her. He pulled her to his chest, arms wrapping around her, holding her tight to prevent her from falling back.

"You fool of a midget," he breathed. "You damn fool. Why are you doing this to yourself?" He pulled back, forcing her to look into his face. "Of course you are my friend. I don't bloody care what happened in your past. To me, you will never be an abomination. An abomination would never have stood up for me against the whole class. And it would never try to…" He froze, shaking his head as he gently propped her back against the bed headboard. She stared at him, waiting for him to continue, but no words followed.

"Never try to do what?" she asked quietly. He let out a weary sigh.

"Never try to save Leyna in the middle of a raging battle," he growled through gritted teeth.

Yrith watched the unreadable mixture of feelings in his face, trying to make sense of them. It wasn't just the red of his eyes that set it ablaze. The cold spite in his look made her shudder.

"Cain… what happened? Do you… hate me for it?" Perhaps he did. After all, had it not been for her, they wouldn't have had to face Erinor. They could have escaped.

His hands clenched into fists, crumpling the fabric of her duvet. "No… not you. I would never hate you."

He looked so far. Sitting so close, on the same bed, just by her side, yet his eyes were so distant. She raised her hand to touch him, but let it sink again.

"I'm sorry, Cain," she whispered. "Sorry you had to…"

"Why are you sorry?" he spat. Yrith winced, blinking at him in surprised. "Why are you sorry?! You… you would really forgive her anything, wouldn't you? As long as it is you who suffers and no one else… you would just forgive."

Yrith felt her back press against the wood behind her. There was nowhere to back away from his anger. "I don't understand…"

"Of course you don't. You let yourself be dragged away into the night. You risk your life for the one who does this to you. You let that s'wit," his voice dropped to a low tone that sent shivers down her spine, "torture you just so she would not have to suffer. And despite all that… where is she now? Does she spare a single moment of her time? Does she care?"

Yrith stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. "Leyna?"

"Who else?"

"C-Cain… did… did something happen?"

He let out a breath, burying a hand in his hair. "A lot of things happened, Yrith. She is no friend of yours."

Yrith closed her eyes, recalling all those moments in Leyna's company. Her smiles and her tears, the words of plea. Were all of them lies? She could not believe so. No, the smile on her friend's face upon leaving the house of her parents had not been fake, and neither were the tears she had so desperately tried to hide. But then, all of them paled in comparison with the rancor that had filled her eyes in the Imperial camp. How had it come to this?

"What was it like when your mother smiled at you?"

The words from her memory rang in her ears. The stabbing pain in her chest was so familiar. She put both hands over it, taking a breath.

"Perhaps," she told him softly, "she simply does not know how to care."

Cain let out a snort. "Does it make a difference?"

Yrith let the question linger. Weariness weighed heavy upon her. She had been awake for too long. The thought of Leyna hurt. The thought of all that she had left behind hurt. She wished to fall back to sleep and retreat back to her dreams.

It does, she thought in silence. A world of difference. But she kept the words to herself.

"Say, Cain… does Leyna know I'm awake?"

"I didn't tell her, if that's what you're asking."

She gave a slow nod. "Then, do you think you could keep it a secret?"

He frowned in apparent disapproval. There was a lull. He stared thoughtfully into the empty space before him. And then his gaze met hers. "What are you planning?"

"I wonder," she said with a guilty smile.

He shook his head and sighed in resignation. "Fine. But know that I don't want to see you hurt yourself again."

"I know," she uttered quietly, sinking back to the lying position. Cain adjusted the pillow under her, sliding it carefully under her head. "Thank you, Cain. Thank you… for everything."


Light padding of leather boots woke her. It was a female gait, refined and prudent, barely leaving any echo. At times, it was drowned in the howling of the wind carrying through the fissures in the thick stone walls. The visitor was in no hurry to reach Yrith's little corner. Yrith could see from the low of her bed that she stopped now and then, glancing over her shoulder, then picking up her pace again. Always where the alcoves were, Yrith realized. She let her eyes open ajar, enough to see but not be noticed, and waited. Her guest arrived with a soft sigh of relief, scanning the room. As she crossed it, she changed the flowers in the vases, providing them with a humble supply of water from her own magic pool. Then, she took a seat by Yrith's side, carefully sliding up her duvet without touching her body. The winter's song was the only sound filling the air. For a while, the two of them were still. Until Leyna's sigh broke the silence.

"I thought you many things," she said, more to herself than the girl she thought unconscious, "but never a coward. How unfair can you get?"

Yrith's breath died in her throat. There was so much more in Leyna's words than her friend had voiced. Bitter longing for things she could not reach. Hope that had been shattered forever. A wish that she kept just to remind her to look ahead.

Yrith had spent hours planning their encounter. She had prepared so many words. So many answers to so many questions and accusations. And yet, none came to her mind now. She could not pretend. That was… unfair.

She opened her eyes in full. "L-Leyna…" Even the name sounded ridiculous on her tongue. Her mind was blank. She would rather be back in the College surrounded by a circle of people laughing at her. Facing all those sneers suddenly felt easier than facing her own friend. Heat filled her cheeks.

It took Leyna just a few heartbeats to realize the voice was real. She turned to Yrith abruptly, masking her face with a glare.

"Y-you…" she hissed, fingers clenching into fists to prevent herself from pointing. "So all this time… all this time you were playing games with me? Enjoying my talks to myself?"

"No…" Yrith shook her head, sliding the pillow under it. "This is the first time. I… I knew you would come eventually." Her hand shot to her mouth. Too late.

"And Cain and the divine Dragonborn know, I presume?"

"Leyna…"

"So I've been left out, it seems."

"No…"

"Why?" Leyna spat, raising her finger in a silencing gesture. Her golden mane fluttered around her as she shook her head. "Why is it always you who gets what she wants?!"

Yrith stared at her, at a loss for words. Her clouded mind offered none. Whatever she would say would wash over Leyna like the blizzard outside over the monastery towers. "Do I… get what I want?" she managed weakly.

Leyna let out a snort that spoke of white-hot daggers and bloodstained gallows. "Don't you? Cain and Qassir both lying at your feet? Teachers giving you special lessons? Don't look at me like that, I am no fool to not notice. And your… incredible magic that is not even your own? Why is it always you?"

"But I… I never asked for…"

She let out a scoff that cut like a blade. "You know… I only wished for one thing. Only one… in my entire accursed life. Can you imagine? All that you had… it was fine. There was just one thing… something… someone I thought that no one would ever take from me. But now, he's gone. He's gone because of you! Because you were there! And his last words to me? 'There is no place for tears in the eyes of a Travi.' He did not even look at me when he was lying there in the dirt! All he saw was you! It was always you!"

Yrith stared at her friend, unable to utter a word. She knew the pain in her eyes. She knew it all too well. It had haunted her for so long, and despite that, there was no solace she could offer. She had no strength to stand up, but tried nevertheless, failing and falling back to the soft of her furs and linens. Windy with unfulfilled effort, Yrith could feel the hot streaks trickle down her cheeks. Leyna glared at her with utter distaste.

"Yes… cry. Cry yourself to death if you will. I've said what I wanted…" Her own eyes glistened with tears, obscuring the gold with moonlight's pale blue. "I guess I can go rot away in peace now."

She gave Yrith one last look of bitter hate before making for the corridor. Yrith raised her hand helplessly, numb fingers reaching out for her silhouette. She cried her name, but her strangled voice faded on her lips. She buried her face in the pillow, wrapping her arms around it like a loved animal. Too much time passed before sleep finally came to claim her.


"Here."

Yrith stared into the bowl Cain was handing out to her. It was oatmeal porridge. Yrith hated porridge.

She accepted it without a word, taking a sliver of it with the tip of the spoon. Luckily, it had no taste. Nothing had taste these days, as if the food wanted to answer to the greyness around. She ate slowly, cloaking her face with indifference. After all, there was no hurry. There was nothing waiting for her. Nothing but an army of people eager to kill her and break all those that she cared for. Nothing but emptiness and more people giving their life for her. Or resenting her.

Still, she would have preferred the meal to disappear faster. Eating had become a chore. Living had become a chore.

"Do you not like it?" Cain inquired, eyes full of eagerness Yrith could not place.

"It's fine," she mumbled. He stooped his head.

"Sorry if it's bad… the Dragonborn has been teaching me to cook. I'd never cooked something before… aside from the salmon we made before you…" He trailed off, burying his head in his hands. "Sorry… sorry, Yrith."

The salmon. The Spirit Blight. It had been so long. Yrith had almost forgotten about it, even if the history was repeating itself. The fear was the same. The helplessness also. She was tied to her bed, unable to even visit a privy on her own. Only back then, she had ended up in Singird's room. Now she missed his firm voice, and the slender, mildly tanned arms that would lock her in a tight embrace whenever she was lonely or in pain, and his dark eyes, full of silent reproach every time she had done something dangerous and soothing warmth whenever she doubted herself. Cain was gentle and caring, and the Dragonborn was always there to humor her, but the empty space inside her remained, craving to be filled.

Despite herself, she gave a soft smile. "Thank you, Cain."

He raised his gaze to her. "You always say this. But there is nothing to thank me for."

She shook her head. "Thank you for always being here. Don't apologize. You are doing so much for me."

Even under his ebony skin, she could feel the heat rushing into his cheeks. He returned her smile with a hint of sadness mingling with his flush. "What are you thinking of?"

The question took her by surprise. She stared at him, trying to take her mind away from Singird. "Winterhold," she said, choosing the first thing to come to her mind.

He gave a slight nod. "Do you miss it?"

She took a while to assess his question. He waited patiently, watching her chew on the tasteless porridge. At last, she put it away, feeling much too full to take in more.

"Back then," she mused, tilting her head back to have a view of the dormer, "I thought the whole world was against me. Like a little child…" She gave a sad smile. Images kept coming to her. Images of her parents scolding her for stealing A Man of Two Faces for the umpteenth time. Images of her classmates flocking around her and laughing. Of Singird when she first met him, irked at her for flapping her arms instead of showing him proper magic. And Cain, jeering at her with a frostbite spell in his hand. She snorted at her own sentiment. "Now I know there are but a few people against me. Maybe no more than one… and for some reason, it feels so much worse."

"Yrith…"

"And I am only midget for you when you scold me," she laughed cheerlessly. "Things really have changed, haven't they?"

"I-I… do you… like it? When I call you midget?"

Yrith turned back to him. He was not looking at her. His eyes pierced the floor, his arms fallen in his lap.

"I…" She remembered the face of that Dunmer who had turned up his nose at the prospect of seeing her change her garments. And the one making a sour face at Qassir for stealing his Destruction partner. "I like it when it is you…" she whispered at last. He froze, turning to her with a timid question in his eyes.

"What… do you mean?"

"I mean… the Cain who is so sure of himself. The Cain who goes and does as he pleases, not looking at what the others think."

There was a moment of silence before Cain's head sank into his hands. He rubbed his forehead against his palms, as if trying to rid it of dirt.

"Dammit…" he spoke softly. "Dammit, Yrith…"

"I'm sorry…" Yrith said, raising her hands. "I'm sorry if I said something wrong."

"No… you didn't." He only gave her a quick glance, as if afraid to show his face. "I'm happy… you have no idea. It's just… I can't fulfill that wish. Back then, I was… indifferent. I can't do that anymore. This is the first time in my life that I have something to lose. And I almost lost it just half a moon ago."

He met her gaze, sending a wave of heat in her cheeks. She could not look away. Instead, she traced the scar on his jaw, sliding a finger along it.

"But you were hurt too," she breathed.

"Hurt?" he let out a bitter laugh. "No. You were the one getting hurt. I've… lived through worse. Pain is like the cold. You get used to it the longer you face it. Then it only becomes an inconvenience that bites into your skin."

Yrith stared at him. His voice trailed off, eyes distant as if he was looking at a memory long forgotten, drifting off to a place where she could not reach him. Contrary to his words, the wistful tone of his voice made her heart ache. Real pain was never just a slash inflicted on one's body. It was fear and loneliness. It was disappointment, regret. Was she allowed to ask? Or would the question open old wounds?

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

He quirked up his brows. "For what?"

"You… you seem like you still hurt."

Another of those bitter laughs. He stood up, turning his back on her. Inhaling deeply, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up in one swift movement. The view that he offered her froze the blood in Yrith's veins.

"It's not you who should feel sorry," he uttered grimly.

Yrith stared at what looked like a rugged landscape with broad mountain ridges and sharp bands of rivers. There was not an inch of smooth skin on Cain's back, its surface misshaped by infinite slashes and dents. Her breath betrayed her. She did not want to imagine the treatment he had received. How much pain had Cain had to endure before his life in Winterhold? Was it a miracle that he was still alive?

"C-Cain…"

"This is the result of my family's worship. My mother's doing."

"Your mother…" Yrith gaped at him, eyes wide with disbelief, but her hands were clenched tight. All this time he had lived with these scars, inflicted by the very person that should have cherished and nurtured him. Why? She felt a wave of pure hatred surge in her. Why? He deserved better… so much better. So why?

She wanted to jump up and embrace him. To press him close, let him know that he had a place to go.

"I'm sorry…" She tried to suppress the burning in her eyes. "I'm so sorry…"

He was by her side in an instant, wrapping his arms around her, encasing her in the hotness of his body. "No… don't be." He buried a hand in her hair, resting his chin on her head. "Don't cry for me, Yrith. I have learned to live my life without sympathy."

She raised her hand, touching gently the coarseness of his spine. "But…" she muttered into his chest.

"It is what it is." He let go, wiping away her tears with his own shirt. "This is the Lone Demon's creed. Hatred. Strife. Torment. Because 'only when you have truly suffered can you find true happiness.' He's in fact a very nice and thoughtful lad," Cain snorted sardonically. He sat down at the edge of the bed, putting the shirt back on.

"Strife…" Yrith repeated thoughtfully. A memory surfaced within her. It couldn't be…

"Hm?"

"Nothing, just…" she paused for a moment, rubbing her thumbs against each other. Would he hate her for the question? Would she hurt him? He was already hurt. But what if she had the chance to stop it all? She drew in a breath. "Could you… tell me about this Lone Demon?"

A shadow crossed Cain's face. What was it that she suddenly saw in his eyes? Concern? Shame? He looked away, finding interest in one of the crooked table legs.

"Why are you asking about him?"

"Well, because I… I'd like to know more about your past. About what ailed you." A lie so blatant she felt like sinking into the floor that instant. She hated herself the moment those words left her mouth.

In the split moment that he glanced at her, Yrith felt frozen to her bed. He was not the proud Dunmer she had known before. He sat there with his back bent and shoulders slumped, and the agony in his eyes felt more real than any wound Erinor had inflicted upon her. Even before his reply reached her, she knew she had asked the wrong question.

"No," he said, trying to hide the quiver in his voice. "I can't. Not now… maybe later."

He rose to his feet, but even from the bed where Yrith sat, he seemed so small. So fragile, like a vase that has been cracked and glued back, holding together by sheer willpower.

"Cain, I'm…"

He put a finger on her lips. She could feel him trembling, but he stayed long enough for her words to fade into nothingness. She stared up at him in question.

"Rest, Yrith," he told her softly. "You still need your rest."

They spent a while just looking at each other in silence. Cain took a breath, opening his mouth, but he closed it anon. His hand traced her cheekbone. And then, with just a hint of hesitation, he leaned to her, placing a soft kiss on her forehead.

Before she could shake off her surprise and ask a question, he walked away, leaving behind the echo of his footsteps. Yrith stared after him, face flushed with hot, deep red. She put her hands over her cheeks as if trying to chase the heat away. Her breath was stuck somewhere deep in her throat, and her chest aching with stabbing pain. She did not need her magic to deduce. More than ever she wished for a certain dark-haired Nord to sit by her side. She was in trouble. She was in deep, deep trouble. And the empty space inside her grew wider yet.


The mountain shook again, its cry carrying over the land. Very little life remained here at the top of the world where endless blizzards whipped the weathered cliffs. High Hrothgar stood alone amidst layers and layers of snow. Only the mountain summit up the road had a voice of its own. Even when the Greybeards remained quiet, the mountain still spoke. But whatever was up there lay hidden behind a curtain of incessant snowstorm. Yrith was almost certain that magic was involved, as the storm never quietened, unchanging in form or intensity. At night, the voice stayed quiet. During the day, it called to her, shaking the old monastery and sending a soft echo through its walls. She put her hands over her ears, but the sound lingered, pervading her body and mind.

"It speaks to you too," a voice issued above her. Yrith opened her eyes to the jagged silhouette of the Dragonborn looming above her. She had not heard him coming. Her brows quirked up in question. He smiled as he sat beside her. "The mountain," he clarified.

She pulled herself into a sitting position and nodded. "What is up there?"

"Does it matter?" he said. From under his shirt, he pulled an amulet in the shape of daedric O. The symbol of Oblivion. He lifted it against the light from the dormer, studying its silhouette as if his visit to Yrith was an excuse to do just that. Yrith could not help but feel irked by his sudden captivation.

"I suppose not," she muttered. "I was just curious."

His hand froze in the air and he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Were you really?"

His intent gaze sent shivers down her spine. She looked away. "Is that wrong?"

He gave a low chuckle. "Not at all. I am simply wondering. If you are curious enough to ask, are you also curious enough to go?"

"I… I don't understand."

"So you don't. Then let me ask you something else." He let the amulet loose and turned to her entirely to gain a good view of her. Yrith shifted uncomfortably. "Why do you cover your ears when the mountain speaks?"

She blinked and her heart sank. Why indeed? Yrith did not know. That voice bothered her, calling to her with unsettling urgency. It bothered her the same way Cain's constant inquiries about her health did. Why?

"I don't know," she shook her head, looking down at the weathered flowery pattern on her duvet. "I don't know," she repeated quietly, hoping to give her words the gravity she intended. But they felt so weak on her lips. Unconvincing.

"Ah," he purred, and the smile returned to his jaws. He reminded Yrith of the Arch-Mage, with her dreamy face, pretending to be wandering in some distant place while she was well aware of what transpired within her reality. "But you are answering the wrong question, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?"

His smile widened, teeth baring threateningly. "Would you stand up for me?"

She froze. "I'm sorry?"

"Stand up. On your feet." With a content sigh, he leaned back, making himself comfortable on her bed. She stared at him.

"But I…"

"Can't you? After six days… sixteen, if I count the previous ten. Are you still so weak you can't stand up? Should I fly to Whiterun and get you a trained healer?"

She paled, feeling a lump in her throat. "N-no," she breathed.

"Then will you stand up for me?"

She nodded in silence, sliding her feet onto the cold floor. Looking down made her head spin, but she forced herself up nonetheless, propping her hands against the bed. She could feel her legs tremble, but not enough to seize up under her. Taking a shaky breath, she let go of the bed… and stood. The Dragonborn crossed his legs, triumph coloring his face.

"That wasn't so hard," he hummed. "The world looks different from up there, doesn't it?"

Yrith turned around, gazing at the things she had never noticed. A crack in the floor just under her bed. A vase that had stayed hidden behind a pilaster while she had lain there. Tiny caskets lining the alcoves in the corridor. She let out a breath.

"It does," she admitted shyly.

He took her pillow, pulling it out of its cover. Standing up, he made his way behind her.

"Hold still," he told her gently, "and let your magic rest. Trust me."

With a nervous sigh, she shifted from one leg to another but did has he told her. She closed her eyes as the cloth wrapped around her head, obscuring her view. Her magic swirled instinctively, but she shushed it inside. The Dragonborn tied the makeshift blindfold into a tight knot, carefully pulling out her hair. Darkness engulfed her, real darkness, shapeless and threatening. She felt his grip on her shoulders as he turned her around, once, twice, more and again until she lost count, and in reverse, walking in circles as she pivoted in place. After what felt like a small eternity, he finally halted.

"Now," he said, "I will step back. I want you to take a step forward."

She felt his breath recede, and suddenly, she was alone. Uncertainty took over her. What was it that her foot would find? The bed? A wall? A rock over which she could slip?

She took a breath, daring a single step. Her foot landed safe on the empty floor.

"Good," the Dragonborn's voice echoed by her side. "Go on. Take another."

Yrith slid her foot forward, trying the terrain.

"Keep walking," he encouraged. She did. One step after another. Her foot found the edge of a floor tile, then a fallen leaf. And on she went, step after step…

"Stop."

She froze.

"Take off the blindfold."

Untangling the knot, she blinked at the coarse texture before her. She stood inches from the wall. One more step and she would have crashed into it. She turned a questioning look at the Dragonborn. He was sitting on her bed, still smiling, but something had changed. Calmness spread through her and she let out a breath.

"How does it feel," he whispered, tilting his head to the side, "when you are in the dark? When you don't know what awaits you just one step ahead?"

"I…" She shook her head, gaze sinking to the floor. Of course that was the answer. How could it not? What other image than pain and death came to her mind when she thought of stepping outside? "I am afraid."

"That you are," he nodded. Then he patted the empty space beside him. "Come join me again. We don't want you catching a chill when you've just stood on your feet, do we?"

She pattered back in silence, wrapping herself in the warmth of her duvet. The Dragonborn gave a smile of approval.

"Fear is not wrong," he said. "You need fear to survive. But let it take over, and it will be your demise." He moved closer, tapping her hand. "Let me tell you a story. One that I have not shared with anyone before. For you, I will make an exception."

He paused, taking a sip of the fresh air. Then he took the goblet on her table and offered it to her. It was filled with snowberry juice. She nodded her thanks.

"Have you ever been to Morrowind?"

She shook her head.

"Consider yourself fortunate," he said, lifting his gaze in recollection of old memories. "It is a harsh place. Much harsher than Skyrim, or Cyrodiil, or High Rock, for that matter. The ash that covers everything and gets in your eyes and mouth, under your clothes, even under your skin if you let it, that is just the tip of the iceberg. The society lives a different life there. The worship is dark, the rules are strict, and for those exacting them, there is no such thing as mercy. At the beginning of the Fourth Era, slavery has been abolished. Officially, at least. But with the Septim dynasty gone and the Empire in pieces, there is hardly anyone who would make sure the order is kept. There has been little change in the Morrowind lifestyle. And the most favorite among the slaves in Morrowind are…"

"The Khajiit and the Argonians," Yrith concluded slowly, hands rising to her mouth as she realized the meaning of his words.

"Yes," he nodded. "Meena and I were slaves."

"Meena?"

"Meena-La, my sister. And your Arch-Mage." He stared up at the dormer, as if the memories would simply fall from there like the flakes of snow. "The life of a slave does not always have to be bad. Our master was…" he frowned, pausing for a moment. Yrith could spot a slight shiver in his hands, but he quickly chased it away. "He was kind. We had our own beds, a warm place to stay at, we ate regular food and not just rotten leftovers. Of course you had to get used to not having any freedom. The outside world was off limits, and the brand you wore could not be washed away. Only we, the Argonians whose skin tends to heal quite efficiently, had to undergo a painful renewal every now and then."

Yrith gritted her teeth. She did not want to imagine the pain of white-hot iron, imprinting itself on his skin over and over again. She felt cold taking over her body, but his only response was an absent smile and a shake of his head.

"Still, the branding was just the necessary evil."

"But… you said your master was kind. Why didn't he just free you then?"

The Dragonborn gave a mirthless laugh, one that sent shivers down Yrith's spine. "Free us? One can't just free slaves in Morrowind on their own accord. There are… politics in play. Mechanics I don't quite understand myself, but our master did what he could. But then, war came from the outside. Soldiers decimated the land and took all our crops. Our master had connections in the Balmora port and negotiated us a good batch of fish and sea fruits. Little did he know about their true origins. In the toughest of times, he contracted the greenspore."

Yrith's fists clenched by themselves. She knew where he was heading. She had read about the greenspore. A malady that would twist its victim's mind, turning the most generous into lustful monsters and the most gentle into violent beasts.

"You can imagine," he continued, a distant look in his eyes. "Suddenly, all of us knew pain. He forgot… forgot that D'narr brought flowers to the grave of his father every day, and that Janeera made the best ointment for his weary joints out of sheer affection. He forgot… that we too were people. Slowly but surely. First was his raised voice. A surprise to everyone, but at that time, we thought he'd just had a bad day. And so we worked like before, barely taking notice of those bad days and their rising frequency. Then came the outbursts. We would stock up the ash yams and the trama, pile up his wood and hay, only so that he could come and burn it all down, as if war had not done enough of that already. After that was the shoving, then the cane… a whip, and a scourge with hooks." His voice faded into a mere whisper. Yrith felt her body tense as he took time to draw a breath.

"When the change is gradual, you don't even notice it. Only at some point, you suddenly realize that you are… suffering. In pain. Unhappy. And then, there comes the time when you just want everything to stop. You dread every slash of the whip that is waiting for you, you even dread the voice that tells you what a useless creature you are. You dread every morning, and yet, you still wake up, only to relive that nightmare. And you find just what kind of person you are.

"The bravest of us tried to revolt. They fought back. They stood proud when the whip struck them, they looked the master in the eye when he yelled at them. They even smiled when he went on a rampage. And the weaker of us… well, we survived. We cowered under the thongs. We watched as the brave battled. Our eyes got used to the sight of the ground under our feet and blood on our hands. We did nothing.

"I watched my comrades fall. Several died of pain and exhaustion. Some were simply killed. And I bled inside, but still… I did nothing. Meena did what she could with her healing powers. I had no magic in me. I only watched. And then, one day when the master was out, I… I dragged her out. Just like that. We ran, left the place with all those people behind. I never looked back. We did not know anything about the world outside, having been born in slavery. We stumbled through the wilderness, poisoned ourselves with plants we had never seen before, almost starved to death. We still went on, up the ridge of the Velothi Mountains where we learned what cold could do to a person. Especially when all we had was a set of ragged linens. Meena's magic kept us alive, but just barely. And then, without realizing it, we found ourselves in Cyrodiil. Meena was exhausted… and I could hardly do anything without her. She collapsed one day. And I… I despised myself. I could not help her. And I could not help anyone back on our farm. I felt powerless. At that time, I gave up all hope."

He closed his eyes and Yrith wondered if the Argonians could shed tears. His voice trembled as he spoke, even if he tried to disguise it as plain hoarseness.

"It is ironic, isn't it? That when you finally reach freedom, you feel so desperate. I felt more than pain and loss. I did not even try to look for someone to help. At that time, I was so sure no one would even try. And I was wrong.

"I passed out a few hours later, just by her body. When I came to, I was in the house of a local alchemist. He gave us food and a warm bed. He did not ask questions, nor did he tell us to leave. The nights became pleasant and quiet. We were finally allowed to rest. And yet… I was unhappy. And angry, and bitter. The poor man did not deserve the treatment I gave him. Still, he never scolded me. He never had an ill word for me. Peace and remedies, those were his only gifts. Occasionally, he pointed to a flower outside, or to the cloudy halos crowning the mountains in the distance. Or the thick pines on their slopes. He showed me life and beauty. And I did not understand.

"There was much anguish in me, pain from the past, but also something far more overwhelming. Something had ended, a great suffering. Meena and I had healed, or our bodies had at least. But we stood at a crossroad. Now the question was – what next?

"You may think it silly. There was this whole world to explore, so many opportunities we had. The old man gave us books and taught us how to read them. We learned how to do arithmetic. He told us about herbs and various plants, about the world's history and politics. He spoke about how the Septims had reigned for centuries, how Saint Alessia had lit the Dragonfires and how the Tongues had cast Alduin the World Eater out of their time. I feel like even then, long before the return of the dragons, he knew who I was. Long before I knew it myself. But he was wise enough not to tell. Wise enough to let me wander endlessly, with no aim and no purpose. I hated every moment of that free life. I could not stand the peace, the empty space that had formed inside me. And so, one day, I took Meena and left. Again, I escaped. We sold ourselves as cheap healers on the road, still with no purpose, going from one place to another, never stopping for more than a few nights. But I felt more at ease. Finally, we were at least moving."

He let out bitter laugh.

"How foolish I was. Even with all that knowledge we had gained, we still knew nothing about the world's inner machinery. We could not understand that there was war and what it entailed. So one day, we ended up on Skyrim's border, and before we knew it, we were mistaken for the rebels and captured by the Imperials. The folly of the whole situation. Ulfric hates the beastfolk. He hates everything that does not carry Nordic blood. But that didn't stop them. We didn't realize back then that it was about much more than just the rebellion. We did not matter. But our death did. We would die as mere symbols.

"It was a strange experience. One moment, my head lay on the block and the only view I had was that of the bucket's moldered wood, stained in fresh blood. The smell was repugnant, I thought I would throw up, and I felt the wind in my back when the headsman lifted his axe. It moved so slowly. I thought it was never going to fall. And you know those stories of how you see all of your life laid out in front of you just before you die? Well…"

He chuckled, but the sound made Yrith's heart freeze. She sat there, motionless. He let the silence linger for a bit longer before speaking again.

"My mind was void. All the thoughts had disappeared, replaced by one that took the entire space. 'I am going to die now.' I did not want to accept it. After all those months of wandering with no purpose, I finally realized how dear my life was to me.

"Still, there was nothing I could do. What can you do, surrounded by tens of Imperial archers? Not much, I tell you. One of us tried. He did not make it past the open gate. So I was at least determined to die as painlessly as possible. But the next moment, I was looking into the eyes of a black-winged dragon. The one you know as Alduin. The devourer of worlds.

"How ironic that in the end, the one who saved me later turned out to be my mortal enemy. Everyone's enemy. The creature I was destined to face and defeat." He let out a heavy sigh. "What a hero I am. If only they knew. But on that day, I learned an important lesson."

He fell silent, straightening from his comfortable, yet straining position. Yrith could see in his eyes that he was back in the present, somewhat calmer, relieved even, and smiling lightly at her. He stood up, stretching his limbs with a soft groan of satisfaction. She raised her brows, but he paid them no heed.

"But… what was the lesson?" she voiced her thoughts.

He cracked his knuckles, following with a scratch on his head. At last, he leaned closer to her, letting her feel his breath. "I learned," he whispered in her ear, "that the story does not end until it is truly over."

Yrith stared at him, opening her mouth to ask what it meant, but the answer formed in her mind by itself. A burden fell off her shoulders. Light flush warmed her cheeks. She smiled, giving a slight nod. He would not need words to understand.

He replied in kind, regaling her with a pat on the back on his leave.