Chapter 25: Winter's Warmth

The morning was grey. As grey as ever, with cold permeating her body despite the many layers she wore under the duvet. Yrith opened an eye, staring at the uniform stone floor. It was so quiet. She looked up, expecting a curtain and Singird's face peeking through it, but this was no Winterhold and there were no curtains. No windows with crows on their sill either. There was only a dormer above her head, smeared by the melted snow. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, trying to remember why her mind felt so hazy. If she'd had any dreams, she had forgotten them. She was still in High Hrothgar… and there was the last night. Cain facing a group of deadly Imperials. The Dragonborn running to his rescue and telling Yrith off. Leyna… the friend she could not trust.

Yrith clasped her head, curling into a ball of muddled feelings. Her chest was so tight. She was afraid to stand and look at the world around. What had she done? What had she said? Everything felt so wrong. Everyone was so ready to put their faith in her. Risk their lives for her. What could she offer in return? Just why in Oblivion had she refused Leyna when she had finally won her affection? Was it truly distrust, or something else?

She kicked the duvet away, inviting the cold to take her. Her knees bent purely by the power of her will. Her body ached and trembled as she forced it to rise. Uncertainty had taken more from her than days and days of shaping her muscles to the Dragonborn's liking. She moved quickly as her limbs allowed, refusing to think any further, burying deep the part of her mind that yearned for that sliver of warmth her bed offered. Draining the jug on the table of its last drop of water, she rushed away, stumbling over the prayer rugs.

She had never been in the parts where Cain spent his nights, but there could only be so many corners she had not seen yet. The alcoves and occasional flowers on the walls went by unnoticed, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. Corridor after corridor, she crossed them without as much as glancing to her sides. A Greybeard whose name she did not know, one of those silent monks who never spared a word to their guests, passed her, stopping with mute curiosity, but she pressed on. Warmth was coming from around the corner. That, and a faint scent of incense amidst a palette of heavy odors, mostly of various animals and herbs. Yrith could discern goat and goose, troll fat, but also dragon's tongue, juniper and jazbay. She picked up her pace, but a voice made her stop dead in her tracks.

"Please… give me more…"

Yrith felt herself pale. The voice was hoarse, unnaturally high and tremulous, and yet, it still had to belong to Cain. She took a tentative step forward, breath seizing up in her throat.

"Pain… will relieve me… I pray… upon my Master… I pray… upon his affliction… I pray… so that he endows me with his gift…"

Instinctively, Yrith's hand raised to her lips to suppress the surging feeling from her stomach. Half rushing, half staggering, she tumbled inside. A view of a vast nook opened before her, with a hearth in its far corner, the path leading to it cushioned by innumerous rags and pelts. Cain lay with his back against a draped wall on Yrith's right, quivering, his limbs twisted in what must have been spasm. Next to him, collapsed among a number of flasks and twigs trussed in thin bundles, was Leyna. Yrith could sense traces of magic on her hands. Healing magic.

Her chest so tight it hurt, she dropped to her knees, seizing Cain's hands. They were stiff, as if he was clutching an invisible target, entwined with veins forming a meandering texture on his skin.

"Cain," she whispered pleadingly.

"I am grateful… for the wounds he inflicts upon this mortal shell…"

"Cain!" Gently as she could, Yrith shook him, imploring his eyes to open in silence. They remained tightly shut, but she could see something glisten in their corners, until two solitary tears rolled down his temples, leaving behind trails of moisture. "Cain!" Yrith cried.

"… for the Master is wise to know…"

"Cain! Wake up!"

"… that only when one suffers can he know true bliss…"

"Cain, please!" She wrapped her arms around him, feeling the immense heat of his body. His back was stiff like his hands, arched deeply inside. She did not want to imagine his pain as her own frame trembled along him. "I am here… you are safe… wake up!"

"Pain will lead us… from misery…"

Feeling her own tears fall into his now lank and matted hair, Yrith strengthened her grip. Only the tips of her fingers were not touching him, instead glowing with magic. She let it fill him, concentrating with all her power on the feeling of ease and comfort. Let it pass, she thought desperately, calling to him. Let the pain go. You are free now.

Cain's words suffocated on their way, becoming a strained rasp. He moaned, the tremor in his body more violent with every moment. Yrith did not let go. Numbness spread through her arms and legs, hazy mist filling her head, but she refused to loosen her grip. You are safe. Magic poured through her and into Cain like glowing, warm water of life.

"Wake up," she whispered, still pressed to him. His voice had faded. She could hear his heartbeat slow from chaotic drumming to a gentle pulse. As his breath steadied, his back sank back into the cushioned layer underneath, his extremities falling limply to his side. The weight of his body dragged Yrith down. She let go, creating distance to take a look.

He still quivered. Heat emanated from him in waves. But his eyes opened ever so slightly, peering at her through the clumps of his glued eyelashes. He lay motionless, his look bleary, as though he did not know where he was. And perhaps he didn't. Yrith drew back, her gaze not leaving him for a moment.

"Cain," she breathed, pulling close some of the pelts to cover him up. She wanted to say she was happy to see him safe, but she could not be sure if that was true. She wanted to give him a smile, but she was too scared and tired. A burning feeling stung her eyes. Her tears dropped softly onto the pelts.

"Yrith…" His voice was a mere rustle. "I… what…"

"Thank gods." She buried her face in the pelt covering his chest, embracing him once more. "Thank gods you're alive and…"

He gave a weak laugh. "That should be my line. There were… Imperials. After you. I tried to stop them… I think I owe my life to the Dragonborn…"

"And Leyna, probably," Yrith muttered, rising to look at the girl sprawled beside Cain. Bending over, she shoved away flask after flask, bundle after bundle, until the space around her was clear, then took another pile of cloth and pelts and spread them over her, carefully moving Leyna's arms and legs to align with her torso. Leyna's chest heaved, she appeared to be sleeping soundly. Yrith closed her eyes, running a finger along the back of Leyna's hand. She should have been there. She shouldn't have fallen asleep and let Leyna almost surrender her life force to Cain. Just how close had she been to death? Was it Yrith's words that had inspired her to overexert herself so?

She shuddered, turning her gaze back to Cain.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I… don't know," he said quietly. With strain, he turned to her fully, his ebony skin shimmering gold in the light of the hearth fire. A fresh gaping wound stretched over his cheek, too close to his eye for Yrith's liking. "Happy that you're safe, and…" He shook his head. Yrith adjusted the pelts underneath it.

"Are you in pain?"

Cain closed his eyes, leaning back, his elbows unable to support him. "Not anymore."

Cold washed over Yrith as she recalled the words that had come out of his mouth. "You had nightmares. You talked… about pain."

He froze momentarily, then gave a slow, weary nod. "I… lost control."

"Lost control?"

"It's…" Struggle reflected in his eyes as they met hers. Yrith had never seen him so lost. So helpless. Her hand closed around the cloth she was holding. "It's nothing."

She bowed her head, letting the silence linger. His breath was heavy, audible even over the crackling of the fire, but steady, as if counting moment after moment, a clock of its own. Yrith did not know how long they spent just gazing at each other, neither wishing to be the one to look away. She grew thirsty, but still, she did not move. And then, he closed his eyes again.

"Yrith," he whispered.

"Yes?"

"Can you… can you sit closer?"

She raised her brows, not expecting the question. Without a word, she moved toward him, leaning against the draped wall. He gave a faint smile. Mustering what seemed to be all his strength, he raised himself enough to put his head in her lap. Her heart skipped a beat and she felt her whole body catch on fire.

"I know what you're thinking," he said, reaching for her hand. "But I'd do it again."

She blinked. "What?"

"Put my life on the line for you." His smile widened slightly. "For moments like this… I'd do it again."

"Cain…" Yrith's mind was blank. Her lips moved soundlessly, but there was no need for words. Cain's head felt heavy on her thighs, his breathing now coming with ease. His slumber was peaceful, and she knew that no cries of pain would follow. Despite herself, she smiled, letting her hand run through his grimy hair.


The wind whipped her face, but the skies were clear like a placid sea of periwinkle blue. Yrith could see all Skyrim from up here, as if she was atop of a flying dragon once more. Snowy mountain caps gaped at her like overgrown gnomes, circled by shadowy valleys and white-gold ribbons of water. The sight calmed her almost like the books that were in such a short supply in High Hrothgar. She did not mind the cold watchtower platform underneath her, having had her share of cold window sills to sit on in Winterhold. She swayed her legs as she sat on the edge. If she fell into the abyss below, there would be no retrieving her. But sitting here, with the world literally at her feet, felt strangely liberating. She leaned against a massive pillar, one of the four that formed the corners of the platform and supported the tower's roof, letting the sunlight caress her face.

"Here you are," a voice issued behind her. She followed it unwillingly, staring into the Dragonborn's face.

"You found me," she said, struggling to not let the accusation surface.

He looked her over, tilting his head to the side. "I've been worried."

"I wouldn't run." She turned back to the glorious sight, studying the pines in the vales and the caravan striding along the road from Falkreath to Riverwood like a group of ants carrying home a thick spruce needle.

"No, you would not. But you look troubled. I've seen little of you the past few days. Mind if I join you?"

She shook her head out of sheer politeness. He sank beside her, following her example with his legs over the edge.

"I once lost a boot here. Taught me to never wear heavy armor up here. It was a foolish thing to do anyway, but I had quarreled with Arngeir and refused to go past him to change into something more reasonable."

"You quarreled with the Greybeards?"

"Surprised?" There was the smile in his voice, the one he always had, as if nothing had happened. As if Cain had not been hurt and he had not Shouted Yrith away from the carnage. Yrith found the comfort it brought almost annoying. "Yes. I'd called them senile old codgers who sit in their warm little cavern and spout wisdoms instead of going out and doing something meaningful."

She looked at him with her eyes wide. "You… did?"

He laughed, his hand shooting up to pat her, but as he glanced toward her dangling feet, he stopped it in midair, inches from her back. "I told you the two of us are too much alike. Oh well. Arngeir was laughing when he told me of your little performance. 'Where have I heard this before?' and 'Maybe I truly ought to get serious before one of you beats me to it.' Those were his words."

Despite herself, Yrith smiled, feeling a heavy weight leave her shoulders. "I thought you'd be angry," she muttered. "That maybe the Greybeards would tell you to take us away for good."

"No, I would not. In essence, you were right, and Arngeir knows it too. But be careful with your words. He may seem strong and unassailable, but deep inside, he wishes to be as free as we are. He, just as the others, had chosen this path, knowing that he would spend the rest of his life locked away in solitude, waiting on an uncertain hope to perhaps train a Dragonborn one day. The Greybeards can't just leave High Hrothgar and join our struggles. They have to carry on the dying tradition. They have to persevere, so that the Dragonborn don't lose their way. So that they can bring hope to the world that has too little of it on its own. Especially now that the Septims are gone."

Yrith stared into her lap. She had never known. She had spoken out of turn, as she had done so many times before, and perhaps hurt someone who was so much more than she would ever be. Her eyes wandered to the monastery, as if expecting a wrinkled face to be glaring at her out of it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"There is no need," he told her kindly. "But he will be happy if you speak to him before we leave."

"So we will be leaving," she said with no question to follow. She had expected as much. The Demon had found her. She could not trouble the Greybeards any longer.

"Yes, it had come to it, it seems. Yrith," he turned her to face him, "I must ask you to stop blaming yourself and trying to carry this burden alone. I am in this willingly. I had the chance to refuse the task and I didn't. Both of your friends, I believe, chose to march into this danger themselves, and both of them wish to protect you with their life. By refusing them, and by throwing yourself into peril when it makes little sense, you reject them. And me. Do you really want to do that?"

"I… I just wanted to help…"

He sighed, ruffling her hair. "I know. But it was reckless, and it put you in more danger. And your friends too."

"I'm…"

"Don't be sorry," he shook his head, pulling himself up and offering her a hand. She took it reluctantly, feeling his muscular arm lift her with ease. He spoke softly, making her feel worse than if he was shouting. "Be brave enough to retreat when needed. You will have enough chance to prove yourself. Come. There is training to be done." He led the way to the entrance and toward the dark stairway back to the courtyard. Yrith hesitated.

A chance to prove herself… perhaps. Reckless she had been, perhaps now was the time to take matters in her own hands. How many more chances would she get with the Dragonborn before they parted? Before it was too late?

"Keneel-La?" she tried, her voice but a quivering rasp.

"Yes?"

"Do you know where I can find an Elder Scroll?"

He froze, turning back to her slowly, as though time had nearly stopped for him. Quite positively, the Dragonborn was taken aback by the sudden question. "An Elder Scroll?" he repeated curiously.

Without daring a word, Yrith gave a nod.

He took a moment to size her up, eyes sliding slowly over her determined face, her stuck out chest and her clenched fists. He gave a smile that was neither warm nor cold, his eyes distant as she had never seen them before, surely gazing at an entirely different scene. She waited, listening to her heartbeat. Behind her, the descending sun burned the nape of her neck.

"Did Paarthurnax tell you to find one?" he asked pensively.

Again, she nodded.

"Why?"

"To… find a name."

"The name lost in time? That thing the ashling mentioned when he expressed his concern for you?"

"Yes."

"But you don't know who the name truly belongs to?"

She shook her head.

He sighed. "That may be a problem."

She gazed at his scales, glistening in the sun, her heart sinking. "So we have no lead at all?"

"Oh we have a lead," he said quietly. "I just hoped I would not have to use it."

"Where do I need to go?"

He wagged his finger at her in a dismissive gesture. "The correct question is, where do we need to go? I will not let you go alone. Not to that place."

"That place?"

Gently, he put his hands on her shoulders, bending over to look into her eyes. His face was troubled, and Yrith shifted her weight instinctively. "I can take you to the one who showed me the way last time. But he is not among the living anymore, and the place where he resides now is not one you'd choose to spend your days. If you thought your journey has been dangerous, then you have seen very little. Certain power-hungry people have tried entering it. Most have lost their minds in the process."

Yrith shuddered. What place could he be talking about? If the man in question was truly dead, then the place could not be on Nirn. What was it? Sovengarde? How in Oblivion could she possibly get there? Nobody even knew if the place existed.

"Where," she said in an almost inaudible whisper, "will you be taking me?"

He gave her a heavy, pained look, and she knew he saw things he'd rather have forgotten. She tried to read in his face, but his lizard features were as impenetrable as ever.

"A library," he breathed, closing his eyes. "The library. The biggest library in Mundus."

Yrith stared at him, but he said no more. A library did not sound too bad. It would sound thrilling to her, if it wasn't for the strange reverence in his voice. And if it was a library outside of Nirn, then there sure had to be a twist she did not know of. She opened her mouth to ask, but before she could utter a word, he turned his back on her, taking the stairs.


Silence reigned between Keneel-La and Yrith. She had caught him a few times, deep in thought, pacing through the corridors or gazing far over the mountain tops to the flocks of birds leaving for the southern lands. But every time she would open her mouth to speak, he would pass her with no words to offer, keeping to his own little world and to the cogs turning in his head.

She tried to recall all the libraries she had read or heard about, but all of them were still in Tamriel. Perhaps except the one in Artaeum, whose location shifted ever so often, and no one really knew where it disappeared to. Was there a library in Sovengarde? But Sovengarde was for the fallen Nords, and they did not seem the type to engulf themselves in the literary arts. But then, who did? Her own people? Arkay sure could have a great library, but she would have heard about it. All in all, any deity could own a library, and Aetherius was vast enough to harbor a number of them, all greater than the wholeness of Nirn. If only there were books in High Hrothgar.

She sighed, watching the multi-prism silhouette of the monastery. The day had gotten past way too quickly. There were few signs of the coming winter up here, but it fed on daylight like a vulture on carcass. Still, Yrith would stay long after dark, training her body while Leyna would exert her powers to heal Cain's scars. Yrith avoided both.

What would Cain say when she told him she was going to chase the Lone Demon? Would he tie her and keep her away from danger? Would he break under the strain?

She could still remember his dream, and the words that had left his mouth when she'd found him.

"I pray upon my Master, upon his affliction, for the Master is wise to know that only when one suffers can he know true bliss."

Was it the Demon's curse that haunted Cain even in his slumber? She did not dare ask. The only thing she could do was to march forward, toward her fate, or whatever it was that bound her to him.

She shuddered. Perhaps it was the dark thoughts that made her hairs stand, or perhaps it was the cold of the night. The sun had fallen, but she had not even returned for dinner. It was easier to keep practicing. Her limbs ached of the running and stretching, but she preferred this soreness to the one that would claim her when she stared into his crimson eyes. The moons would long have traversed the sky when she would return, slipping into her hay-filled bed with no word to anyone. The tips of her fingers touched the hardened snow, feeling its burning before it dulled into senseless haze.

"You'll catch a cold, Yrith."

She jumped up promptly, pivoting to see the very eyes she did not want to look at.

"Cain!" Her voice too high and tense for her liking. "You're outside. Are you… are you feeling well?"

He wended his way to her, reaching down to pick up the coat she had left in the snow. His gait was insecure, wobbly, as he approached her and slung the cold thing over her shoulders.

"I have been walking up and down the monastery for the good part of the last few days, to regain my strength. But you were nowhere to be found." There was no reproach in his voice. She found his eyes again, and they were tired and wistful.

"I was here," she said, wishing to hide the necessity from her tone. He gave a nod.

"I know. I know you've been training." He scanned her arms and legs, eyes resting on the muscle she had built, slight, but firm. "Just like you were back in Winterhold. You've never thought of hiding, have you? Never thought of leaving all this behind."

She weighed his words, concealing her musings by sliding her hands into her coat as slowly and ineptly as possible. He was patient, waiting, motionless, despite his apparent discomfort. She sighed, finally turning to him fully.

"I've thought about it. More times than I can count. But I can't, Cain. This is about more than just me. I am…" In her search for words, she felt a rush of energy. Clenching her fists, she took to walking, pacing from one side of the small clearing formed in the snow for her training to another. "I am angry. And afraid. Afraid that if I let him go any further, I will be sorry. Sorrier than I already am."

"You know, don't you?" he said, the sadness now creeping into his voice.

"Know what?"

"Who he is."

Yrith halted. This was fine, she told herself. At least, there would be no more pretense.

"I'm sorry, Cain. I know he's hurt you too."

He hobbled to her, his face suddenly defiant. "Hurt me? Oh, he's hurt me, he has. The worst of it all being when I had to see you starve, freezing on the ground gods know where, being fed corrupt magic and made to watch and hear things that would hurt you more than any blade could."

She returned his look, rising, slight as she was. "Then help me become strong enough to not fall into that pit again." Her words were braver than she felt, as if some other, unknown part of her spoke them, but she went on, looming from the low of her height. "I won't run away from some nameless ghost. If he has no guts to even show himself, then he's as good as gone, isn't he? Whatever happened in your past," she was now grabbing his shoulders, barely noting her own movements, her mind filled with the image of his dreaming form, "I will smear it away. I don't want to dwell in the past anymore. He wants us to be afraid, Cain. He wants us to cower. And I will not give him the pleasure."

She realized she was panting ever so slightly. Cain stared at her, his eyes wide, their crimson shade emphasized in the light of the deep scarlet Masser traversing the sky in his lazy manner. He was shaking, not for the chill of the night, not for fear or unease. It was something else Yrith saw in his features. Something she had not seen there for a very long time.

"Yrith," he breathed, shaking his head slowly, "I… oh damn it to Oblivion." He pressed his temples, then looked up again, a strange glint in his eyes. "Do you remember how you once stood up for me when I was about to become the outcast and you had just gained fame?"

She nodded.

"You just…" he took a step back, inclining his head to take her in with all his senses, "you have not changed at all. And I was a fool to think so. I was a fool to think you so weak, to not remember that you don't fear losing." He smiled, and it was a face that made all Yrith's worries melt away. She had not seen it on him since Winterhold, this relish at the sole fact that they could share a moment together. Without thinking, she mirrored it, imbibing every inch of that smile. He reached for her hand, pulling her close, and she wondered at his sudden strength. "I think it was that moment," he said, his breath brushing her face, "that made me fall in love with you."

And he aimed for her lips, touching them lightly with his and capering away before she could recoil. He reminded her of a broken marionette, his legs still weak to support him fully, but he did not seem to mind. His lips still quirked up, making the gash on his cheek look almost handsome, he paused briefly to steal a last glance of her.

"Come back," he called to her. "Don't freeze on me now, after all this."

And he was gone, leaving her frozen and gaping after him.

But Yrith did not want to come back. He had not subdued her fears. He had replaced them with new ones, startlingly more overwhelming than any hired killer sent to end her life. All this time, she had been trying to shove these feelings aside. All this time, those memories had lain locked away in the deepest chasms of her mind, just so they would not distract her. All this time, she had forced herself to resist the longing, just so she could forget the temptation to throw it all away and run back to him. Now, Cain had brought it all back.

She fell to the ground, shielding her face with the palms of her hands. She could not accept Cain's gift, precious as it was. She could not return the favor and be rightly grateful. She hated herself for it, and for the thought that now drenched her in cold.

If she were to fail, if she were to die by the Demon's hand, she would never see Singird's face again, and Cain's lips would be the last ones to touch hers.


"Well well, so much for all the brave words you gave him."

A hand landed on her shoulder. She did not raise her head to look at the Dragonborn. Instead, she backed away to throw it off, face throbbing and torn between the desire to shout and hide. He squeezed her, making her stop.

"I know this is hard…"

She glared at him. "You have no idea," she growled.

"Perhaps I don't," he muttered softly, offering her both his hands. She took them gingerly, letting him pull her to her feet. "But let me guess." He drew distance between them, as though offering her space to run. It unsettled her more than if he had her cornered and struggling. "There is something you want to protect, and for the first time in your life, you are truly afraid of loss. You realize that what he said is not entirely true. Don't you?"

She tried to suppress the stinging in her eyes and the feeling of weakness in her legs that had little to do with her training. "Do you enjoy spying on people that much?"

He ruffled her hair. "It is a decent pastime. But at least I am honest about it." He gave her a conspiratorial wink. "So? Was I right?"

"Maybe." She looked away, to the blurry shapes in the dark that were rocks and trees and a lone barrow propped against them.

"Hmm. And does it make a difference?"

She kept staring into the murk, but her brows quirked up at his question. He smiled.

"The only thing you need to do now is live by those words you so gracefully delivered to the ashling, wouldn't you say?"

The ice on the hard, leathery surface of her coat bit into her skin as Yrith rubbed her eyes. She took a breath, but produced no sound. A tacit nod was all she could give in reply.

"Well then." He paused, looking up at the sky, still with the pensive look he had been wearing these days. When he spoke, his voice was an octave deeper and a fair bit quieter. "I think you're ready. Take a good rest for tomorrow. You will need it."

He left her there, alone, still trembling and unable to decide what it was that caused it.


"Arngeir would not like what I am about to teach you," Keneel-La said as he led the three of them along the wall. The day was bright again, yet colder than those before, and even Yrith, used to the harsh winters and wrapped in her fur-padded coat, shivered. The sun was low and blinding, and the shadows long and menacing. She only hoped, despite her aching limbs, that they would move around enough to warm themselves.

"So what is it that you're about to teach us?" Cain asked, and there was an air of interest about him. He was smiling, unconcerned with his limp. When he looked her way, Yrith quickly averted her eyes, retreating behind Leyna. She heard him chuckle, and her heart sank. The deluge of thoughts that overcame her whenever their eyes met clouded all reason. She would not be able to avoid him for long. But what words would she give him when he finally pressed her?

Next to her, Leyna raised her brows, eyes flitting between the two of them.

"Not you, ashling, but the two ladies by your side. I doubt you need to be taught that, given where you came from." The lizard's step was light, but Yrith could notice the imperceptible quiver in his voice. Cain's smile froze on his lips, his marred face a poorly drawn caricature.

"What are you teaching them?"

The Dragonborn came to a halt, and so did the rest. Yrith nearly walked into Leyna, barely keeping her balance. He turned to them, his hand reaching for a handle in the wall that she had not noticed there before.

"Nothing spectacular," he said as he pulled it. A door of the same texture and color as the monastery's granite walls creaked and opened to reveal absolute darkness. "Wait for me, will you?" he added as he entered.

They fell silent. Yrith dared a look at Cain. His carelessness was gone. He was not looking at her, but at the entrance to the unknown place Keneel-La had disappeared to. She could see the thoughts behind his eyes, memories he feared to face. He moved a few steps toward her as if to shield her, still watching the doorway. They heard rustling from the inside, and then, dull, muffled clanking. Yrith paled. She knew that sound. She had almost forgotten it, that ominous ringing, resounding in her ears as she had lain starving on the ground, cuffed in the crimson gaol that was the Imperial tent. Leyna tensed by her side, and so, if nigh imperceptibly, did Cain.

The three of them watched as the Dragonborn emerged, holding an oblong bundle wrapped in tattered, colorless twill, his whole body covered in dust. Yrith stared at the heap in his arms, half frozen to the ground, half wishing to vanish on the spot. She did not want him to uncover it. But she knew he would a heartbeat before he let the cloth slide away. He was holding three daggers tucked in chipping leather-bound scabbards. Cain's brows knit even tighter at the sight.

"What are you teaching them?" he repeated. Leyna put a trembling hand on his, but he shook her away.

Keneel-La smiled.

"What is your guess?"

"I don't know, but I don't like it."

The Dragonborn's smile grew wider. He lifted a dagger, offering it to Cain. "Will you face me?"

Yrith stared at him, incredulous, then shifted her gaze to the unsteady figure of Cain. It was she who now stood between them, spreading her arms to protect her friend, even if her own voice failed her, even if the ground felt uneven, even if her stomach churned. Not again, she would not allow it. "Cain's still recovering!"

She could feel the Dunmer's hand touch hers gently.

"It's fine, Yrith. I can manage."

"But you're barely standing! Surely you can't…"

"Yrith." Keneel-La stepped closer, still smiling. She looked back at him, unable to recoil before his hand. His pat felt mocking, and she felt herself shrink against her will. "Do express some faith. What I am going to show you will not hurt the ashling. Quite the contrary. I want to you to see what a wounded person can do. May I?"

Cain did not wait for her answer. He circled her, taking the dagger from the Dragonborn's hand, but his face remained taut. Still, for a split moment, he managed a soft smile, an attempt to soothe Yrith. She forced herself to look into his eyes.

"I won't get hurt. Promise."

He walked to an empty area between two rusty, frost-covered poles with bars that might have once been used for stretching ropes to hang washed clothes. The Dragonborn followed, gripping a dagger and casting the other one aside. There was silence. Yrith could feel Leyna's held breath beside her, her golden eyes fixed firmly on the lizard. Yrith's followed Cain, resting on his once wobbly legs, but they no longer shook. She had never seen him so tall, his face so determined. His hold on the dagger was all but steady, his feet spread slightly to provide balance, one tip an inch or two before the other. He waited, it seemed, for the Dragonborn to take action. Yrith's nails dug into the palms of her hands.

She turned to the lizard to see him mirroring Cain's stance, his fingers almost relaxed around the hilt of his dagger. Then he moved a single step to his right.

Cain did the same.

The Dragonborn smiled, moving again. And again, Cain followed. They were looking into each other's eyes, unflinching, not sparing a glance to the daggers, and the surrounding world did not exist to them. And then, the Dragonborn moved, becoming a mere blur before Yrith's eyes. Her mouth opened in a silent gasp.

The Dragonborn bolted toward Cain. Somewhere along the way, the dagger was drawn, its sheath hurled away. The blade, spectacularly burnished, gleamed in the sunlight. On the other side, Cain had drawn his own dagger, but his movements were slow, measured. Yrith did not know whether to feel frightened at his lack of speed, or relieved at his composure. The blade sang in the air, and she pressed both of her hands to her chest. She wanted to close her eyes and cover her ears. To forget that image. But she kept her eyes open against their will, glaring with what must have looked like madman's face. Cain danced on the spot like a lady spurning a suitor.

A step to the side to dodge an assault, one backward to avoid another. The third, aiming for his shoulder, was too fast to sidestep. Yrith watched frozen to the ground, holding her own hand to prevent herself from sending magic to shield Cain. He merely turned in his waist to make the tiniest of movements, raising his dagger to parry. The steel rang, the sound of it echoing across the mountains.

Cain flicked his hand down, sending the menacing blade away from his body. He used the momentum to retreat again, making it plain that the speed in his legs could not match his opponent's. Keneel-La followed, plunging himself forward, his dagger meeting Cain's at his hip. Cain used the Dragonborn's own strength to push himself backward, now managing a few steps before Keneel-La gained on him again. Panting, Cain swung himself back before the next attack, latching onto the rusty pillar and spinning around it like a yarn. He fended off another attack, his hand now trembling visibly. Yrith gasped as the Dragonborn's blade flew at his face, but it stopped before making contact, frozen dead in the air. Cain's face glistened with sweat, his chest heaving. He held tight to the pole, the hand with the dagger sinking to his side. Keneel-La nodded, withdrawing his blade.

"Impressive," he said, falling back to retrieve his scabbard. "They have trained you well."

"My brothers outstrip me," Cain uttered quietly, his brows knit again.

"And do they truly outstrip you, or is it just your inability to use their own, rather questionable tactics?"

There was no reply to the Dragonborn's question. Cain followed him silently, collecting his own scabbard and sheathing his dagger. His face was dark, solemn, as he offered the blade back to its owner. The Dragonborn took it, turning back to Yrith and Leyna.

"I take it you're wondering why I challenged the ashling so," he spoke, his smile still in place. "As I said, I wanted to show what a wounded person is capable of. I should also mention that I hardly went easy on him. Those few moments when he simply dodged and parried, those can be the time that separates you from a friend who will save your life. I can hardly expect you to leave this place fully trained. It takes years to master your own weapon, it takes tens of them to master your enemies. But I can teach you to stall and preserve yourselves."

"Defense?" Cain wondered, his features noticeably calmer than moments before. "Is that all?"

Keneel-La put a hand on his shoulder, his jaws widening. "You need to have a little faith too, ashling," he said kindly. "Yes, defense. Just what on Nirn did you expect me to teach them?"

Cain turned away abruptly. Yrith could swear she saw a tint of scarlet under the ebony of his skin.

"Nothing," he muttered.

"If you say so. Yrith, would you please take this?"

Yrith flinched, not ready to be called. Her eyes fell on the blade, now safely tucked in its sheath. She looked up at him, then to the dagger again, as if expecting someone to tell her that this was a bad joke. She with a weapon? Even the sight of it disturbed her. The sound of its clanking even more so. She did not want to take it. But the Dragonborn waited, leaving all the words and action up to her until the silence became unbearable and the stares of Cain and Leyna crushed her from both sides. She took an uncertain step, letting the brunt of the blade sink into the palms of her hands. It was heavy. Much heavier than she had anticipated. And cold to the touch. While the Dragonborn could easily grip it by the scabbard, her hands seemed much too small for the hilt alone. She stared at him, frozen, still hearing the hoarse, drunk laughter from the Imperial camp, the rattling of whetstones, the brushing of steel boots against grass and their squelching in the mud, and the soft, measured gait that brought the smell of mint and flower bath…

What was wrong with her? It was just one dagger, a weapon to defend herself with. It lay in her hands, still, quiet. It would not hurt her. It would not hurt Cain or Leyna. She could control it now. She could decide what it would cut. Or what it wouldn't.

She took a breath, forcing herself to focus on the lizard face before her. His wide, toothy jaws were moving. He was talking to her.

"… have you lift the dagger when I raise mine, like… are you listening, Yrith?"

She blinked, pushing the intrusive images out of her mind. "What? Oh… yes, lift the dagger?"

"Yes. With both hands. No, keep the scabbard on. Grip it on each side and lift it. See? Now, you have control. Holding it like this is not very convenient for actual fighting, but it can save your hide. This is just for demonstration," Keneel-La drew his dagger again with a perfectly smooth gesture of his hand, "but when I come at you like this…"

He raised the blade. Its silhouette was sharp and distinct against the sun, dark, as if warping the light around it, ready to devour her soul. She stared at it, her mouth falling open on its own, and her dagger dropped in the snow with a crunchy thud. Her hand touched her neck, feeling where the ghost blade had ripped her skin. It burnt like white-hot iron, it stung like a shard of ice. Cold spread through her, the sun obscured by the image of cloudy skies. A dragon roared above her…

No.

"Yrith…"

Little Yrith…

No. She was in High Hrothgar now. It was safe. She was stronger now, she would hold up.

"Yrith…"

Abomination… you have no feelings… I have come to relieve you.

"Yrith, it's…"

There are things far worse than death…

"No!" she yelled, panting, hardly noticing she was backing away in a reeling, chaotic motion. The image before her shifted with every heartbeat. The Dragonborn's face in the sunlit courtyard, then a dark-golden-eyed leer amidst an idle battlefield. "No…"

"Yrith!"

There was movement, then stillness. In a flash of lucidity, she could see Keneel-La's arm barring Cain's way.

"Let me…"

"Don't."

"But she's…"

"Give her space, Cain." That was Leyna speaking now, her voice unnaturally soft, almost meek. "You can't reach her there. You'll only chain her."

Chain her… no… breathe, Yrith, breathe…

She felt her legs stop, trembling, hardly supporting her weight. All that muscle she had built, and still, it could not hold her. It felt as if it was built of fresh snow, crumbling away at the touch of the wind, melting in the sun.

The sun…

She would concentrate on the sun. On its warmth. The light in her face, the tiny sparks in the snow, the icicles hanging from the monastery overhangs glimmering in all the colors of the rainbow as they caught its rays. The sun was her guide. There was no sun there… no warmth… but she could feel it here. In the words of her three companions, so distant, yet close. In their faces.

Her breath was heavy, her chest throbbing. She let her knees buckle under her, sliding to the ground.

"I… I…" She what? What was it she wanted to say? She wanted them to understand. But how? Understand what? Her fear? Weakness? She did not understand them herself. She could not put a name on them. No words came to her aid, no thoughts. She was afraid to speak, and she was afraid not to speak. She wanted them to come and touch her, and she wanted them gone. What should she do? She wrapped her arms around herself, the only solid presence in her vicinity. It was over. He would laugh at her, the Dragonborn would. She was hopeless, incapable, powerless. He had given her enough chances. Now he could see her for what she truly was.

She looked up at his slowly approaching figure. He was not laughing. No one was laughing.

He lowered himself into a squat by her side, searching her face, his eyes benign.

"So you still see it," he said softly.

"I…" The words floundered before reaching her mouth, dissipating on their way. Her mind was empty, and if someone pointed at the snow and asked for its name, she could not give it. She shook her head helplessly. He put a hand on it, ruffling her hair. There was no dagger in it, or anywhere near him. She felt relief, like a gust of warm, spring breeze taking the chills away.

"These are words I want you to remember," he continued, his hand sliding to her chin, turning her to face him entirely. "You're not weak. You never were weak. You're just hurt by someone who was very skilled at this craft. You can be rightfully mad at me. I've made you relive a terrible memory. But you should also keep in mind that you are not alone. And as such, you have the means to overcome this. Look."

He stood and moved, and Cain and Leyna came into view, both sinking to her level. Yrith was astonished to see glistening lines trickle down Leyna's slender face. The elf's eyes roved, finding everything but Yrith, but she knew then this was the closest the two of them had ever been. The Dragonborn spoke true. She was not alone. He had tormented them all equally. The thought made her smile through her ache, and the next breath brought back a sliver of her strength. She nodded, extending her hands to both her friends, and they took them. She had debts to pay, words to speak. She would fall down again, quarrel with Leyna and run away from Cain. But still, they were here. They had always been here.

"I suppose so," she said, her voice finally finding its way, even if it was bumpy and left her with a rasp. She stood up, gazing at the three daggers lying abandoned in the snow. The line on her neck burned, but she did not look away. Instead, she carved that image into her mind, along with the Dragonborn's words. The path led forward, not back.


Wow… I can't express how amazing it feels to finally publish a chapter again! Unfortunately, work and covid are merciless. Looking at my other fellow writers, I can see that I am also not alone. So here is wishing you guys are all okay in these hard times. I hope this chapter helps brighten up your day.

Mirwen