A/N: Yeah, this was supposed to be a short chapter, really. You have to believe me!
Chapter 24: Abecean Steamed Dates
The fallen leaves and pine needles crunched underneath Singird's feet. The air smelled of fresh pine sap and moist earth. Raindrops from the passed deluge glittered on the branches in the midday sun. The brook on his right gurgled fiercely, flooded with water from the surrounding scarps. Up in the treetops, a pair of sparrows played a game of tag. The Falkreath hold, Singird's home, seemed peaceful enough if one could disregard the dark plume rising from amidst the woods ahead. Singird could not disregard it. He was afraid to pick up his pace, but even more afraid to stop. He felt the familiar buzzing in his ears, a sound that had last dulled his senses upon hearing of the death of his parents. That, and the sensation of floating on the water that would not support him had his body decided to buckle. A fire in the middle of the flood season could only mean one thing.
Instinctively, he summoned a storm atronach and a dremora to fend off any potential assault from a spriggan. If the woods were burning, these usually shy creatures would charge at the softest crackle of a fallen twig.
There were no sudden surprises waiting for him on the road. The song of the thrushes and tapping of woodpeckers faded slowly as he walked further. Even the rustle of the leaves seemed to recede, giving way to strange, heavy quiet. The air ahead was hot and dry, the smell of pine and fresh soil replaced by one of burning and carcass. Singird slowed, treading cautiously over each rock or depression. He held his hands up, turning branch after branch to create passage. His own breath formed a lump in his throat and eyes fixed on the last couple of trees in his way. He hesitated. The fumes were now turning the scenery around him into a colorless haze. If only this could be just a dream. But the smell in his nostrils and the burning in his eyes felt too real for that. Singird forced his legs to step forward. The trees opened before him to reveal a view of what once had been his family farm. Despite all his expectations, his eyes widened at the sight.
Amidst the ravaged fields, grey with ashes and deprived of all harvest, smoldering cinders and debris lay littered around a crumbling structure of scorched timberwork. An occasional beam stood tall as a silent witness to the atrocities that must have taken place here. The cattle, or what was left of it, lay around, felled, some slit, some charred. The air above it all still quivered in the heat, making the whole image seem like a ghastly mirage. Singird felt his legs turn into stone. The buzzing in his head became one with the crackling of the embers. He prodded his feet to move, hand pressed to his face to keep the stench away. Avoiding the falling pieces of the structures, he crawled through the ruins.
It was nearly impossible to recognize the buildings' plans and distinguish where one room ended and another began. By sheer instinct, he found the pile that might have once been one of the walls of his father's study. The entrance was blocked by a scorched bookcase door wedged between the remnants of the masonry. Singird kicked it out of his way with little resistance. Ashes from what he assumed to have been books fought their way into his boots. He gave up all attempts to beat the ash off his robes, proceeding past the fallen rest of the bookcase. The image that appeared before him made him turn away in an instant.
He gasped. The stench had become unbearable, finding its way through his fingers, but that was the least of Singird's worries. He let the hand slide down, gripping the edge of the bookcase for support. He had to turn back. This was the reason he had decided to take a detour. The reason he had hidden in the hollows to let the Forsworn pass him before he would continue his journey, and why a thunderstorm had almost taken his life. He had not expected to end in the clutches of the Deadlands. But here he was. He had to turn back.
He did.
He stared into the disfigured faces of his housemaid and groom whose bodies lay over a turned desk. Their clothes were nowhere to be seen. It was clear to Singird's eyes that they had still been alive long after all else had fallen. Alive and made to watch. Alive and made to suffer, both on the surface and within. The maid's stiff legs were covered in dried blood. Singird's hand sank, leaving him to inhale the burn and decay. He took a step back and fell to his knees, feeling the cold tickle of tears on his face.
"Damn it," he breathed, his voice raspy and alien to him as though he had not used it in days. "Gods damn it…"
He would cry out, but all strength had left him. He let his head sink into the palms of his hands, smudging the grime over his face. Suddenly, life did not seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. He let the feelings flow.
He did not know how much time had passed when he finally stood. His conjured guardians had long returned to their home plane. His knees were numb and wobbly, his mind covered in crimson daze. The sky was barely visible through the smoke screen still hovering over the farm. Only the distorted shapes around told him that the sun was descending to the western horizon. Wearily, he summoned his magic, steering both bodies away from the blazing carnage, into the quiet of the surrounding woods.
A great aspen tree stood where he stopped, its golden boughs plunging the area in their shade. He lay the deceased on the carpet of grass, sending his magic deep under the roots. The soil rose and poured onto a pile at the side of the newly dug hole. Gently, he sent the bodies down. He finished his work with his hands, aware that he needed to preserve whatever bit of magic was left in him. It was long past midnight when he managed to find a stone fit for a grave and light enough to carry. Still, it took him all his power to deliver it.
Sweat dripped from his face when stood again, scanning the perimeter. Moving his legs by force of habit, he stumbled around in search of a flint. But the more he looked, the less he saw, and the darkness of the night only laughed in his face. He gritted his teeth.
"To Oblivion with magic," he hissed quietly to himself. "To Oblivion with everything."
His fingers crackled with magicka as he sent it into the stone, engraving an inscription.
Here lie Gred and Inga of Falkreath whose hearts were true and dumplings the sweetest. May their death remind us of dark times and help us cherish the good ones.
Crudely, he jabbed the stone in the ground, helping himself with his feet. It had been long since he had to use brute force. He was out of practice, huffing when he finished. With the last bit of strength, he plucked a single deathbell flower and lay it on the mound. Then he slid down by the tree, letting tears mix with the sweat and trickle down to his chin. It had also been long since he had last truly cried. But there was no one to watch. No one to ridicule him for his display of weakness.
He was so tired. People died because of him. Manors were burnt, animals killed, trees taken down. Just what in Oblivion had his parents discovered? What in Oblivion had their grandfather known? It was no use going back to the study now. Whatever had been there had either been burnt or stolen. Someone had known this would be the first place Singird would visit. The two dead people on the desk were a message for him. A cruel warning to not go any further. He wondered how many other residents had perished. How many escaped. And how many of them had assisted in the bloodshed.
The ground was cold and rough under him. He buried his hands in the soil, grabbing a handful and kneading it between his fingers. He was a mess. Filthy, reeking of sweat and soot, with his boots stained beyond repair and robes torn on their rims. He could clean himself with magic. If only he had the strength. He closed his eyes. The forest smelled so fresh here, away from the burning estate. A few years before, it would have made him feel safe. Now, he only wondered how long the quiet would last.
He drew in the air with a long sip. He could not die here. There was too much to do. A dear person waiting for him, perhaps tormented herself. In every spare moment, her face filled the space before him. The rock-solid resolve with which she faced every challenge. The smile that would shine through her tears. Even now, she was his strength.
A sigh escaped his lips. He missed her. He truly did.
Singird did not remember Falkreath to be so dreary. The sun reflected in the receding flood blinded him. The city had always been quiet, but now, not even the usual handful of people walked the streets. A pair of Imperial soldiers standing by the gate stole sidelong glances of him as he passed them. He could have sworn he saw them exchange silent signs. Almost as if he had been expected.
He was sure the guard flexing his muscles before the Jarl's longhouse recognized him. But the man kept his thoughts to himself, as well as any signs of a greeting. Not once did his eyes meet Singird's. Not once did he utter a word. Singird was almost afraid to breathe. The Jarl must have known about the arson. He must have seen the smoke, and the riders that had surely passed the city on their way. His men must have known too. And yet, no patrol had been dispatched. No soldiers to make order. No inquisitor to investigate. No healer to help.
He treaded lightly over the cobbled road, hands clenching unwittingly in the depths of his robes. He almost felt envious of the guards carrying a sword. Now would be the time for a loving squeeze of its hilt, just to give him a semblance of security.
The inn, his destination, was closed. He sighed. No guests graced this land with a visit in these times, apparently. He would have to wait till late afternoon when the locals decided to strengthen their spirits with a tankard or two. Chances that he would find a courier slimmed. But still, he would wait, gazing at the inn's sign as he sat on the wooden steps before the entrance.
Dead Man's Drink, the sign said. Strange how quickly perception changed. Never before had the name unsettled him. Now, it had gained a new meaning.
He turned away, fixing his eyes on a large snail lazily crossing the street. His chin fell to his knees. He waited.
A single look at the approaching men told him he was not welcome. The inn was still closed. It would be for a couple more hours, but he would not be allowed to enter. The men grinned, but their eyes did not smile. Singird knew that look well. These two were either bought or afraid. He could not choose which was worse. He rose in absolute silence, walking away as if he had been merely taking a rest. They followed. He walked on, his pace calm, unchanging. Past the first corner, he made a quick gesture and disappeared. He could almost hear their breaths when he broke into a run, swiping the path behind with magic to cover his tracks.
At last, he had lost them. It had taken him a day. He felt hunger and thirst like never before, kneeling at the first spring as soon as he crossed the border of the Whiterun hold to ease the heartburn. He sat there for what felt like hours, pouring more and more ice-cold water onto his face, slurping and drenching his robes. As the sun rose to light the new day, his own mind sank into darkness.
The road was peaceful and quiet. Hares hopped merrily through the grasses, nibbling on twigs and leaves on their way. Larks and swallows gathered in the skies, watching over the still land. There was no threat nearby. No missiles in the air, no predators on the hunt. And yet, Singird had no faith. He forced his tired legs to press on. Every step hurt, making the blisters on his feet burst. These boots had never been made for rough terrain. None of his footwear ever was. None of his garbs either. What a fool he had been to care more for appearances than practicality. Now he knew. Now that his skin was scraped, his muscles sore and his body shivered with hot and cold, he knew.
His step was unsteady, but he walked on. He forced himself to look at the path ahead.
As the road took a sharp turn toward a slope descending along the cascading White River, a gate emerged before him. Two men in yellow stood guard by its side, their shields adorned with the Whiterun horse. They were caught in a quiet debate but raised their heads as soon as Singird appeared in their sight. He did not miss the silent looks they exchanged or the change in their posture as he approached. But when he passed with his eyes looking elsewhere, they did not move or utter a word. He felt no hostility from them, only the much expected wariness.
His eyes rested on the sign hanging on a pole a few buildings away. The Sleeping Giant. Perhaps he could at least afford himself some breadcrumbs before the last of his coin went to the courier. Pushing his weariness away, he made for the entrance.
The inn was rather placid, with only a handful of locals gathered around one table, listening to the gentle tones of a bard's lute. When Singird made his way to the counter, the innkeeper raised his head to meet the guest. He froze as his eyes fell on Singird, pointing a finger at him.
"Well, by the Nine above. No. Don't say anything. Follow me."
Singird blinked, hurrying along as the man scurried out, around the building and to the backyard. There, he suddenly stopped, pointing to the ground.
"Stand there."
Despite himself, Singird did as he asked, too tired to protest.
Pulling up the sleeves of his stained shirt, the man grabbed the tub standing on a wide bench by his side. The liquid inside splashed as he lifted it. Singird raised his brows. The tub must have been at least half of this man's weight, yet he held it like feather-filled cushion. Exposing his dazzlingly white smile, he poured all of its contents onto Singird, making him nearly crash into the ground.
"What in Oblivion…!"
Sputtering, he gathered himself, shivering with cold. The scent of soap and herbs filled his nostrils. He fought not to gasp or cough, closing his eyes despite the urge to stare at the man. In one swing of his hand, his magic blew the moisture away, leaving him ridiculously unkempt. Then, he pointed a shaky finger at the man.
"Is this how you treat all your guests?"
"There, that's more like it. Feeling any better?" the man hinted a grin. "Never expected a Larkwing to show up again on my doorstep. And what's more, he's filthy and cussing. Next will be a lovable troll maiden asking for my hand. It is I who should be asking what in Oblivion is happening here."
Singird knit his brows. From people in his own hometown treating him like a stranger to strangers treating him like an old friend. Perhaps he had entered some strange dimension where things ceased to make sense. "Sir, have we met?"
"Hah, at least the insufferable formality is still there," the man beamed. "You may call me Orgnar and no, we haven't met. But I know a Larkwing when I see one. Singird, is it? Heard about you from your old man when he came for a visit. Military uniform and all, but a mage in his heart with no love for war. You are his spitting image. Except for the filth and…" he gestured to Singird's torn robes, "this. You, my boy, you look terrible. What, for the love of Talos, has the road served you, pray tell?"
Singird averted his eyes, pinning them into the nearest thicket. "A lot," he muttered. The man waited, but no words were said to sate his curiosity. He sighed.
"All right. Not my place to pry, I know. Your story is your own. Do make yourself comfortable. We have a whole boar for dinner, courtesy of our very own Faendal, and the beer is fine and cold. I don't like seeing my guests languish."
Singird shook his head. "I don't have coin. I need a courier. Do you have one?"
He felt the man's eyes bore into him. Orgnar threw the tub aside, putting both of his soaked hands on Singird's freshly dried shoulders. Singird did not even have the strength to glare.
"Things have really gone that bad, eh? Then be my guest tonight, and leech off any friend you meet until your life is all set. Hard times, these are. Come, I'll see what we can do about that courier."
He walked away, waving for Singird to follow. His back was bent and his gait heavy, a feature Singird had not noticed before over the haze of his own misery. This man had known hardship. Singird could feel Orgnar's distaste for war, much like his own. He too must have lost someone. He too must have felt this pain. But if this was what made him a friend, then fate had a very cruel way of binding people together.
The sun was long past its peak when the proud roofs of Whiterun finally appeared in Singird's sight. Their yellowish tiles turned a crimson tint in the light of the coming dusk, making it seem as if the whole city was on fire. Strange. Everything seemed to remind him of fire lately, and in it, he always saw the same two faces. Until all turned to ashes.
He stared absentmindedly at the surrounding farms. The serene sight of the locals tending to their cattle and fields felt so surreal. There was war raging in Skyrim. Battles took place and houses burned. But the Whiterun hold lived its own life, as though the struggles of the outer world could not touch it. The wind caressed the golden crops and steered the flocks of birds on their journey to the south, carrying the scent of the coming winter. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, save for the unusual number of guards marching about. But under surface, things were slowly changing.
The swinging sign of the local meadery wailed a quiet welcome. Its Honningbrew beehive had been replaced recently by the Black-Briar wild rose, causing the proud mead-loving Nords to suddenly leave their tankards half full. The Black-Briar swill reeked of Riften and its filthy thief-filled burrows. Wartime was an era of swindlers and brigands. If Jarl Balgruuf did not allow the Imperial and Stormcloak troops into his hold, thieves took it from within. The careless days of his childhood that he had spent in this land seemed like a fading memory of a past dream. Now, not only had he lost his home. He was losing his homeland, all thanks to a single person who found it amusing to trifle with the political and military forces of all Tamriel.
He felt his fists clench again. Ever since he had left Solitude, there wasn't a night he would not feel the urge to go and shove a blade through his neck. Where was Yrith now? Could she escape his grasp? There had been no word of her, save for a rumor that Toddvar had clashed with the Imperials halfway from Windhelm to Darkwater Crossing, and that there had been dragons involved. He could only hope that it meant she was safe now. He had dreamt of those silver eyes far too many times to only find her corpse. If he was to find any information on her, the neutral Whiterun would be the place.
The road led him up a gentle slope, around the motte where the city was built. From down here, he could see the small houses scattered outside the crumbling outer fortification. To the left of the now reconstructed gate, a caravan of Khajiit had settled for the night. Sacks and crates with wares lay piled up in stacks, sheltered by makeshift roofs made of leather and wax. His favorite caravan with his favorite tea. He gazed toward it wistfully. Yrith loved the sweet, flowery flavor as much as he did. He could not buy it for her anymore. Nor could he toss a coin to the pauper children in his way, dressed in rags as they ran back and forth in a game of tag, as he always had. They turned their pleading eyes to him for a moment, then set off again when he would not oblige. With a sigh, he pressed on.
The shadows grew long and blurry as he approached the caravan. A cat man sat in front of a tent on a seat of furs, puffing away at his old pipe whose polish had long flaked off. He was ancient, with a coat of greyed fur and eyes like two slits in shape of crescent moons. When Singird neared the camp, he looked up to him, whiskers quivering in a feline grin.
"Singird," he said with no apparent surprise, as if they had seen each other just the night before. And perhaps for the old Khajiit, it might have truly felt that way. "Ri'saad is happy to see you visit again."
Singird nodded, forcing his lips to quirk up. "Likewise, my friend. How fares the business in these times?"
"Well for the able, poorly for others." The smile in those words told Singird exactly on which side Ri'saad stood. "How fares yours? Something tells this one that you have not come for tea today."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Ri'saad can always hear the waifs' cheers when you drop a coin or two, and your grouching when they take and not give back. But not this time. He can smell change in the air."
"Your sense of smell is as good as ever," Singird hinted a bow.
"So what would it be this time? If it is moonsugar you seek, that is all reserved for a special shipment this time."
Singird frowned. Moonsugar, the legendary narcotic substance from the Tenmar Forest far in the south of Elsweyr. Not only the catfolk found pleasure in its consumption. It was the only thing he did not approve of in Ri'saad's trade. Likely the one thing that still kept the Khajiit alive in this land. Was it really the fate of all who wanted to survive to resort to acts of crime?
"You know I do not deal in these things," he muttered.
Ri'saad twitched his ears, letting out a perfect circle of smoke. "These things? You do Ri'saad great injustice. It is good to slow down the effects of potions. It lets you see and forget at once. But the Khajiit seem to be the only ones to appreciate the true qualities of the je'm'ath." He shrugged, adjusting his pipe. Singird wondered if this was the usual Khajiit excuse. He vaguely remembered J'zargo saying something of the sort back in the College.
"I am no alchemist either. But perhaps if you had some Abecean Steamed Dates, that could sate my desires." He waited. Ri'saad puffed a milk-white cloudlet into the cold, narrowing his eyes in slow, thoughtful motion until the crescent moons became but thin lines.
"What an unusual request. The Khajiit do not get many of those." He closed an eye and opened it again. "Ri'saad is afraid his supplier struck a deal with the city traders. Apparently, our methods are too… unsafe."
Singird's eyes wandered to the towering yellow roofs. So the Khajiit knew the passphrase. But they also knew someone was listening. He suppressed the urge to scan the surrounding corners. If he would find an informant in the city, that was enough for him. Someone knew of Yrith. Now, it was only a matter of time before Singird would locate them. He nodded his thanks.
"Then I suppose I need to head there."
The cat man tilted his head. "Ri'saad will send for you if the deal changes."
"For how much?"
He chuckled, smoke rising from both his pipe and mouth in fluffed-up shreds. "Ri'saad does not rob paupers."
"That is a quite a bold thing to say," Singird remarked dryly. Ri'saad rose, the furs covering his body rippling in the wind. He gave Singird a playful look, but beneath it was the depth of bitter understanding.
"Ri'saad knows many things. He has eyes in the sky and ears hidden in the swaying branches of the willows. Times are not kind. But you have shown me kindness before. Ri'saad trades fairly." He turned away, opening two crates. From them, he withdrew two pouches. A familiar smell reached Singird's nostrils, of far southern lands with rays of sun shining through the moist, thick greenery of jungles and forests, and blooming flowers weighing on the vines of the bushropes. Ri'saad pressed the sacks in the palm of Singird's hand. One of them soft, with the dry, rustling leaves of tea, and the other hard, the rock-solid biscuits from Yrith's homeland.
"For old time's sake," he purred. Singird shook his head.
"I cannot…"
"Do take them. They may be the last thing you can savor for a while."
Singird would have smiled at the recollection of his childhood days, begging the Khajiit for a treat. But what he could forgive a child, he could not condone the grown man that he had become. He stared at the contents of his hand. They had traveled across the whole of Tamriel to reach him at the cost of sweat and blood of many. And now he was given them for free. If he could, he would have embraced the Khajiit right then and there. But pride, both his and his friend's, did not allow him. He turned his gaze to the ground.
"I could have paid," he whispered.
"The Khajiit travel many roads and see many liars," Ri'saad said as he sank back to his furs. "You are by far the worst."
"And you are by far the worst smuggler of them all."
"A fair assessment," he nodded his acknowledgement. Then he looked up to the skies, clear and greyed blue with a tint of red and gold at their western hem. "The night will be cold. You better find some warm fire to stay by."
"I will do." Singird pocketed the two pouches at last. "Thank you, Ri'saad. I am in your debt."
"Ri'saad does not believe in debts." The Khajiit took a pensive smoke from his pipe. "Word has it that you deal in the College business now. This one will call upon you when the road takes him to the north. Unlike the rest, the Winterhold mages seem to be particularly open to our trade." Somewhere in the slits of his eyes, a pair of sparks danced in a merry twirl. "May the sands stay warm under your feet."
"And yours too," Singird returned.
He watched Ri'saad blow off another circle before walking away. The guard said nothing as he passed through the gate, but his glowering stare spoke clearly of what he thought of the unannounced visitor. He could feel the sentries' eyes on himself as he walked up to the city entrance, observing him from the archery towers with hands ready on their bows. Not even Whiterun welcomed its guests with open arms, it seemed.
"We sing to our youth, to the days come and gone, for the Age of Obsession is just about done! Heeey!"
The tankards clashed with a metallic clank. Mead and ale spilled into the fire, producing curly ribbons of smoke rising with a feral hiss. The Bannered Mare was packed this time of the day, and surely the local Nord veterans would sing to their youth till early morning when they would fall where they stood and wreathe around the central hearth in jumbled piles. Singird looked at their vigor with amazement. There was something to be promised when a Nord decided to march with the troops. Every young man in Skyrim wanted to become a warrior. Of those who did, few made it to this age. Some of the figures dancing around the fire missed an eye or several fingers. Some of them were marred with scars across half of their face. Some missed a whole arm. And still, no tears were shed.
He smiled. The Age of Obsession. That was a new one.
A ginger woman at her prime stood by the counter, a sharp look in her eyes as a sturdy wheat-haired man with more muscle than tact wooed her with feigned fervor. She pressed a tankard into his hands without a word, sending him in one practiced gesture back to the group of revelers. He reeled away with a powerful belch, earning himself more than a few laughs.
"Ah, that's a… fine woman," he beamed, caught in his fall by a pair of hand like two furry shovels. "If only my… Berti was still alive to meet her."
Singird frowned. There were stories to be told in the taverns if one listened closely. But it was not their stories he wanted to hear. He used the moment to wade silently to the counter. He pressed half of his remaining coins to the burnished wood, avoiding the booze stains that littered it.
"Excuse me…"
"Well yes, excuse you," the woman bellowed, "if you would kindly not sneak up on people here before someone draws a dagger. And speak to the point sir, this is not the High Council. What would you like? You don't look the mead type to me, hardly an ale one and definitely not a rum one. So, wine? Or some Cyrodilic brandy?"
And this was the more cultivated of the two taverns in Whiterun's Plain District. Perhaps he would have preferred the somber quiet of the Drunken Huntsman, but sleeping in that place would make him fear a sudden death from poison sneakily dripped into his own drink. This place, at least, had proper guards, even if they were now tapping their feet to the uneven rhythm of Ragnar the Red, simpering at the wobbly figures of the local drunks. But their hands were steady on the hilts of their weapons and their armor firm enough to protect them from the first blow.
"A room for the night and a bowl of Abecean steamed dates," he said to the innkeeper. She took a while for a cautions scrutiny, scanning the whole of his person long enough to deprive him of all comfort. He returned her look, resisting the urge to shift his weight. She caught his meaning, he was certain of it. Hulda of Whiterun had a reputation for her ability to catch whatever whispers carried on the wind.
"Abecean steamed dates, eh? Not in our supply, I'm afraid." She propped her arms against the counter, closing the distance. "But stay for a while. Things can be arranged." She gave him a mysterious wink.
Singird nodded wordlessly. Ri'saad knew his trade well and so did she. He glanced over his shoulder. He would have never guessed that singing drunks could be a blessing.
"And the room?"
Hulda smiled. A few heads turned their way. Of course, for Nord standards, she was a beauty that would leave men staring at her tracks long after she was gone. A ripe woman with a strong jaw and a spark of grit in her eye. She was also not one to give her smile for free. Singird found himself under more than just a few resentful looks.
"Saadia will show you the way." Hulda waved toward a slight Redguard maid who promptly jumped to her feet, beckoning for Singird to follow. He bowed his thanks as he left, scrambling through the buoyant tangle of bodies while his petite guide managed to slip through entirely untouched. She led him up the stairs, to a gallery and further into a rather fancy looking room. A roof window offered the view of a great snowy mountain, its summit covered in a halo of clouds. Somewhere up there stood the ancient monastery of High Hrothgar, the pride of all Nords. Singird could not have hoped for a better room.
"The privy is down the stairs and to the right. The bath is closed for the night but there is a well in the courtyard. If you need anything delivered, you need just call." The maid bowed her head, backing out of the room and closing the door in almost ghostly silence. Singird took a guess about what her life had been like before she'd settled here.
He stared out of the window, lost in thought. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw the mountain shake, almost as if it had spoken. He could hear words, and in them, Yrith's name. Was he delirious? Had solitude deprived him of the last bits of his sanity?
He rubbed his temples. It may have as well been the case. He laughed at his own folly, thinking about the amounts of books and diagrams he had read and understood. But the world did not work in numbers. It worked in feelings. It littered him with wounds, the biggest of them being his own affection. He looked up again. Now, more than ever, he felt truly alone.
"Waiting for that mountain to shed its snow, Master Larkwing?"
He turned around abruptly. There in his room, sprawling comfortably over Singird's bed, with a smile playing on his lips, sat Qassir Tahlrah. Tiny flames danced in his sapphire eyes, reflections of the candle before him. He held his chin clipped between his fingers, like a king watching his servant with a critical eye. Singird fought hard not to gasp and not to extend his fists to wipe that grin away.
"You better have a very good explanation of why I am seeing you in my room, unexpected, unnoticed and uninvited," he growled quietly.
The Redguard let out a groan of satisfaction, leaning back and cushioning his head with his arms. "Angry at me already? For all the hard work I did for you, you sure do not waste any time."
"Perhaps. I will decide whether you did something for me when I hear your reasons."
"Ah, so I am not clear of suspicion just yet." He scratched his chin, a mere gesture with no meaning to stall for time. Singird did not know whether to be relieved or worried that his least favorite student was as irritable as ever. "Let's see. Any resemblance to an actual act of good will is purely coincidental. But it just so happens that you and I share the same objective. Perhaps it is even a reason for me to give you my respect."
Singird snorted. "That makes me all the more worried."
Qassir pulled a long face in feigned sadness. "You hurt my feelings, Master Larkwing."
"My pleasure." Singird made sure to pour all his feelings toward the Redguard into that one sentence. "So? Why are you here?"
"Just observing the situation." The boy wriggled on the bed, creasing the blankets underneath. Rage stirred within Singird, more so for the sole fact that his unwelcome guest seemed to enjoy watching him struggle to keep his face straight. He let out a long-held breath.
"Very well. If you have nothing to tell me, then I suggest you be on your way. I am tired and not in the mood for conversation."
The boy's smile widened. "If you must know, had I wanted to kill you, I could have done so already while you were so unsuspectingly watching that pile of rocks over there. I did not. Now with just a little less hostility, perhaps we could ruminate on the taste of the Abecean steamed dates. You have quite the strange desires, Master Larkwing."
"Just how long have you been following me?"
Qassir shrugged. "Long enough to know you don't carry the same scent anymore."
Singird shuddered. Whatever that meant in the speech of a Redguard, the thought that came to his mind was far from comfortable. "And just how do you expect me to show less hostility when all you do is speaking in riddles? I want a solid proof. A proof I can trust you for all that secrecy and sneaking around. I am warning you, Mister Tahlrah. You have given me enough reason for doubt. My patience is not endless and now is not a good time to try it."
The boy raised his hands, palms in as mages often do to show they mean no harm. His face grew darker, gaining a shade Singird had never seen there before, and all his mirth wilted like the autumn leaves. "I have no proof," he said, his voice nearly drowned by the cheers from the outside. "But let's put it like this. There is a burden on my shoulders. To rid myself of it, nothing would have been easier than to kill Yrith Ravencroft. That too I could have done many times before, but I didn't."
Singird pierced him with a look. "Except her magic residue would have torn you to pieces."
"Not when she was poisoned with the Spirit Blight. It would have been enough to simply let her die. None of you knew how to brew the antidote."
"None of us knew how to spellbrew it, you mean."
Qassir let out a heavy sigh. "So the little urchin knew."
"She knows more than you could ever fathom. At least thanks to her, I am not completely in the dark. You could help shed some more light, though."
The boy's eyes drifted to the door, then to the window. Then he returned to Singird. "Sit down, Master Larkwing."
Singird let out a laugh of disbelief. "My student is ordering me around?"
"You hardly see me as your student. And no, I am not ordering around." For a split moment, the smile returned to the Redguard's lips. "But I will take a while."
"I'll sit when I want to," Singird hissed through gritted teeth. He felt his whole body ache with the distance he had walked that day, but pride still won over his weariness.
"Very well." Qassir waggled on his bed, adjusting his legs and sighing with comfort. Singird put his hands behind his back, covering the fists that clenched and loosened with every passing moment.
There was a momentary lull. The people from the outside now sang three different songs together, making their little performance literally painful to listen to. And then, their voices died with Qassir's magic, cast almost nonchalantly from the warmth of his seat. Singird could only recognize a few spells, the standard detection ones and a few barriers. When those were done, the air sizzled with unfamiliar forces and Singird felt an acrid gust of wind bite into his skin. For a while, it looked as if the Redguard boy was reforming the air into something more tangible, a matter that would reveal secrets which would have stayed hidden forever under normal circumstances. The darkness turned into liquid light, glistening before it dispersed into a myriad of dust particles and faded away once more. All the while, the boy's face remained a stiff mask of feigned indifference. He was not doing it to swagger. Qassir Tahlrah meant business. And sure enough, the sudden silence felt heavy on Singird.
"So," Qassir said, still sending out strands of magicka to examine his work, "my reason, you say. Let me start with the urchin and her parents. By now, you must have heard of the AWA."
Singird gave a short nod.
"They are…" the boy gave a long glance to the timbered ceiling, his eyes suddenly full of unforeseen pain, "more than just an institution. I am not officially a part of the AWA. I've learned to use their seal and I spent days listening to my parents' conversations just to grasp the basics of spellbrewing. And their politics." He snorted. "I don't think the AWA knows up to this day. If they had an idea, we probably wouldn't be having this conversation."
"So you are an impostor."
Qassir laughed. "That sounds magnificent. I like it. Impostor? Hardly. Just one of the many children of the AWA. The trouble with the AWA is that once you are involved, your whole family is involved. They are put on record and never let go. If your parents are in the AWA, then you will be a member too, want it or not. For this reason, the families often arrange marriages for their children to make sure the magic, as well as the knowledge, stays where it should. We are the nobles of the arcane, so to speak. You are betrothed as soon as you are born into this world, and the institution decides what path your life is going to take."
Singird paled. "And Yrith is…"
"… betrothed to me."
The Redguard was right. Singird should have sat down, only so he could jump up at this very moment. There was nowhere to jump. He took a breath, bolting forward only to stop himself after the first step. He could not even see Qassir's face over his own frantic thoughts. No, she couldn't be… he would not give her up. Not for a reason like this.
"She never told me…" The rasp of his voice sounded pathetic to him.
"I doubt she knows. Her parents were opposed to it. In the end, they did it to protect her, or so I've heard. Yrith Ravencroft is a special case. Her magic is one of a kind, even within the AWA circles. All the families fought over her. The members of the AWA spent centuries experimenting on their own children to create a magical prodigy. Altering their bodies to hold more magic, only to see them…" the boy shivered visibly, "decompose shortly after. But Yrith is genuine. The Ravencrofts were among those who strongly opposed the movement. Everyone knew they would never experiment with their own child. And so, she was desired. She… still is desired.
"Usually, a child's magical talents are directly inherited from the parents. To have Yrith's blood in the family would mean becoming indispensable. It would give you a secure place in the AWA, no one would dare oppose you then." Qassir gave a bitter smile, shaking his head. "The AWA told her parents they would take her away if she wasn't betrothed. So they did. They chose the least influential family of them all, a son of two Redguard scholars with close to no magical talent at all, in hopes she would be able to unbind that relationship one day."
"So you came to Winterhold to take her away?"
There was something bestial in the Redguard's eyes. It was more than rage that shaped that handsome face into a dark, twisted glare. Even through his own fear and anger, Singird could notice the boy's clenched fists and the sudden stiffness taking over his body.
"Take her away?" he laughed and there was not a hint of joy in the sound. "I could, couldn't I? Having spent every day of my life casting spell after spell, with my fingers bleeding of magical overcharge, just so I could appease the parents that had never been meant to become wizards. Just so I could eschew the assassins that came ever so often to revoke the contract. Ever thought I was talented? Wrong… Redguards don't have magic in them. We are no elves, nor Bretons with elven blood in their veins." He raised his head, pinning a sharp look at Singird. "In a way, I was relieved to see her struggling when I first saw her. I expected a prodigy who would use magic to even breathe. I was ready to despise her, the person who had made my life a nightmare. But I couldn't. In the end, she was the only one in Winterhold I couldn't truly hate."
Singird paced from one wall to another and back. He took three breaths before he found the courage to voice the question that scorched him from within. Qassir watched him out of the corner of his eye, his eyes clouded with his own worries.
"Do you love her then?"
The boy snorted. "Love her? I don't know what that word means."
Singird frowned. "I don't think this is a good time for your jests."
"I don't hate her." Qassir's gaze fixed somewhere past Singird's back, on the now dark, starry sky. His face was distant, as if all he wished for was to hide it somewhere deep in the shadows where he could take off the mask that had grown to be a part of him. He let out a breath, and to Singird's surprise, his next words were shaky, uncertain. "Have you ever felt elated at the sight of someone struggling, defying all that has been imposed on them, antagonizing everyone in their way? This is what I feel when I see her. I want her to keep on fighting. Forever. I want her," his voice turned into a dark growl, "to destroy the one who has turned her life into misery. I want him to suffer for all that he has done. I want him to squirm, and I want her to walk free. Do you understand, Master Larkwing?" He rose, teeth gritted in a savage sneer. "We are no one's puppets, she and I. We shall not be controlled."
Singird would have taken a step back if there was anywhere to back away to. The wall was coarse behind his back and the chipped splinters chafed his worn-out robes with a sound that made his hairs stand. So did the boy's words.
"Say, Mister Tahlrah. Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because you are who she chose."
Singird took good notice that the word trust had not been used. These were not words of a young lad who had barely crawled out of his nest. He had seen things. Too many, too much. They stood on the same side, he and the boy. Singird understood his wrath. And yet, it frightened him. This was not who he wished to become. It was not who he wished for Yrith to become. But for these children to bear the curse of their families, he too wished for someone to pay.
"How old are you?"
Qassir's eyes pinned into Singird. "That is a very personal question. What would you gain if I answered it?"
Singird gave a bitter laugh. "You do not speak like the boy I see before my eyes. Yet, you are still my student, want it or not. How old are you?"
"Patronizing me?" The Redguard let out a snort. "Old enough to take care of myself according to the Redguard tradition. Likely not old enough for a Nord. It does not matter. I did not come to gain your sympathy."
"Then why did you come?"
He turned away, pivoting in place. There was a lull before he finally spoke in a strangled voice. "Because we share the same goal."
Singird gave a slow nod, but his eyes remained cold and doubtful. "Tell me. What are you going to do once this is all over?"
The boy shrugged. "That remains to be seen."
"And by the time it is seen, it may already be too late."
"What if I tell you to mind your own business?"
A smile spread over Singird's face, now genuine and bright in the night. "Then I will reply that now you certainly remind me of Miss Ravencroft back when we met."
"So she is Miss Ravencroft to you yet? Not Yrith?"
"I stand corrected. You are still way more impudent than her."
Qassir laughed. "That is reassuring. You are also still the same man of principle as back then."
"Reassuring indeed," Singird seconded. There was truth in those words. Perhaps it did not matter that the world was changing. There was something to hold onto in himself. Even this boy knew it. Had he now become dependent on the encouragement of his own students? Despite the irony, he felt sudden lightness. "I owe you my thanks."
"Oh?" The boy raised his brows, face forming into a triumphant smirk. "So you've finally realized?"
Singird fought not to knit his brows. Just why did this person always have to spoil every moment of peace? "I take it back," he muttered.
"I see. And here I thought you'd appreciate that I have coin to offer. And that I may happen to be acquainted to certain silver-furred Khajiit who knows where to find some Abecean steamed dates."
Singird's lips pressed into a thin line in a desperate attempt to contain a curse. Sure as Oblivion, when it came to making fools out of people, there was no person on Nirn who could compare to Qassir Tahlrah. He straightened his back, pinning his eyes into the boy's angelic face. This night would be long.
This chapter was not really planned. I did plan these events, but they were supposed to be told later in the story in retrospect. But I realized it would be a lot to squeeze into a few dialogues, so I made it a new chapter. Originally, I planned to have 35 chapters. As some of the things in this story shift and change places, I will not change this number yet, but it may happen that the story will be a chapter or two longer than planned originally. So don't stone me, please. :)
Mirwen
