Chapter 26: Descent from Home
The light of the fire flickered upon Arngeir's kneeling figure. He was still, sitting on his heels in a position Yrith would have assumed painful had she not known the old Greybeard chose it frequently. The man seemed to be deep in meditation, undisturbed by her presence. She made to leave when she heard him call her.
"Something on your mind, Zulvahzen?"
She froze, turning back. "Does everyone around here know me by this name now?" she asked.
He gave a light smile as he stood. "Word travels quickly around here. But you need not worry. It will not leave this mountain unless you will it yourself."
She nodded, stepping down, onto the familiar map of cracks formed on the floor. She could hear the whispers coming from there, inviting her to extend her magic and listen. She ignored them this time, walking straight to him.
"I wanted to speak to you. I am…"
"Do not say it. I know what the Dragonborn told you. It was unnecessary. I too have had time to think." He paused, casting a longing glance at the brass gate leading into the great vastness of the outer world. "I am old, and the world surely isn't what it used to be. Before the Dragonborn, I have trained Ulfric."
"Ulfric… Ulfric Stormcloak?"
He lowered his head. "That's what he calls himself now, hmm? A fine young man, and a talented one too. He was all you could wish for an apprentice. Until his lust came. Until… the war came. I used to think that he brought the war here. That he misused the Way of the Voice to bring about death and destruction."
Yrith closed her eyes. Before her stood Toddvar, Ulfric's general. Toddvar, the man with a giant axe. Toddvar, the man who had been ready to let her die. Toddvar who had slain hundreds, maybe thousands, in the name of a foolish rebellion. She had never thought of him this way. Until she saw him with a blade on her throat, with his cold, dispassionate eyes, almost waiting for her to fall. He had not feared for her, nor had he tried to comfort her. What was war to this man? What was war to Ulfric, whom he served?
She opened her eyes again, setting them on Arngeir's parchment-like skin. "Didn't he?"
"Ulfric did not bring war. It is war that had taken Ulfric. It had taken everything from him, while he was here, studying, meditating, learning of peace. He did not stray from his path. He was torn away from it, blinded. I should have known. I should have set him free. But I tried to chain him, and this is what my efforts made him. A man who wages war with the whole world. A man who wages war with himself.
"Do not follow his example, Zulvahzen. You still have a choice."
He looked tired, ancient. But the grey eyes in his wrinkled face shone with expectation. Hope, perhaps. Yrith returned his smile.
"I don't like war. It took too much from me too, but…" she glanced over her shoulder, to where Cain and Leyna were. To where Keneel-La was. Then she thought of Winterhold, and the solitary cat figure bringing her life amidst the despair she had known in the Imperial camp. "I've known kindness."
"Then remember it in the dark times. We will be watching. I wonder…" he trailed off, looking more through her, rather than at her, then shook his head. "I suppose the Dragonborn will be my last."
Yrith raised a brow. "Hmm?"
"Nothing you should worry your young mind with," he told her kindly. "Go now. He is waiting."
Yrith turned to leave, but then she stopped, giving Arngeir one last inquisitive look. "May I just ask one thing?"
"Ask away, child."
She opened her mouth, hesitant. Perhaps it was too bold of her, but then again, she was Zulvahzen. Arngeir himself had called her so. In the end, unpleasant truths were also truths.
"Why do you never use the Dragonborn's name?"
He took a moment to consider her question. His eyes were distant, as if there was more than just a few paces of granite tiles separating him from her. When he spoke, his words were soft, a whisper lost in the fire's crackle. "Names are a powerful tool. I suppose I never thought I had the right."
There was comfort in his voice. Yrith's smile widened. She did not need words to make him understand as she walked away.
The monastery seemed small in the distance, veiled by the pervading mist. It was no more than a hundred paces away, but they were filled with a feeling of finality, increasing with every inch of distance they covered.
Yrith turned back to the road ahead, and the two figures walking before her, loaded with heavy luggage on their backs and daggers by their waists, surely just as hard and cold as her own. They walked bent against the wind, cautious on their every step not to sink deep into a drift or slip on an icy surface. Only the Dragonborn at the front, whose rucksack was larger than any of the others, and whose dagger was accompanied by a sword which must have been many times as heavy, seemed to walk with ease, leading them onward in a steady pace.
Every new brush in their way, every new rock or a clump of snow Yrith stepped over made her want to look back. She could not. The large rucksack on her back hindered her sight. She suspected the Dragonborn to have chosen them on purpose. To have made Yrith, Cain and Leyna top them off with vast bedrolls, so that all the glances cast over their shoulders would stop at the rough canvas fabric and the reeled-up furs strapped tightly with thick belts.
Back there, a part of herself remained hanging in the granite corridors, slithering under the prayer rugs and wallowing in the plump duvet smelling of hay and goose. She had not realized when that smell had become the scent of home. Only now she knew that it had, and that she was going to carry a piece of it with herself wherever the road took her. The thought warmed her a little. She looked at the people before her. Perhaps, in spite of leaving, she was still taking her home with her.
They took a turn along a stone tablet engraved with a part of the Greybeards' history. Soon, the monastery was lost to the sight, becoming no more than a memory. A crooked pine loomed above their heads, as if forming a gateway, a final threshold of High Hrothgar.
The path slithered down, around the mountain side, meandering its way in treacherous curves. Somewhere beneath the layers of snow were the infamous seven thousand steps. Yrith was only vaguely aware of their existence, wondering when they had last felt the touch of feet on their surface. Perhaps when the daedra still walked the surface of Nirn. Perhaps even before their time.
"This brings back memories," Cain's voice tore Yrith from her ruminations, making her look ahead. Down the slope, on a patch of levelled ground littered with broken tiles stood the ancient well. Somewhere deep inside, the two stones Leyna and Yrith had dropped on their training must have stayed jammed against its walls, frozen in their fall.
"This is where we raced," Yrith said. It felt so long ago, as if it had been years since that day. Even Cain's scars had become thin lines of rippled skin, and his gait had lost the limp it once had.
Next to Yrith, Leyna studied the well, tracing with her eyes the path she had run side by side with Yrith, their steps matching as if they had been made for each other.
"This is where I dragged you off a battle," she commented quietly.
"And I suppose that a little past that grove, we'll be the furthest away from High Hrothgar we've ever been since we arrived, won't we?" Cain added.
Before them, Keneel-La turned to peek from behind his rucksack, his eyes wearing their usual merry spark. "Aren't you three too young to brood in nostalgia? You know what they say. Look forward to the bright future and all."
They all stared at him in silent assessment, letting the trees pass them. Snow had long covered traces from the battle, washing away the blood and burying the tracks. The bodies of the Imperials had been removed, as if they had never lain there. Yet, Yrith could smell all of it in the air, the echo of the Dragonborn's Thu'um still ringing in her ears. When she looked at the path they walked, she felt far from prepared. All the training she had received, all the muscle she had built, how much would it serve in the face of an enemy? She did not know.
"It just feels… strange, leaving after all this time," Cain muttered, mirroring her thoughts.
Leyna looked at him curiously. Her eyes slid over the ground, stopping at the stump where Keneel-La had lain his head. "Does it?" she asked.
"Doesn't it?" he returned.
Leyna did not reply, turning her eyes to her feet. Yrith wondered what it was that Leyna saw in this place. What images passed before her, that made her so distant from Cain and herself. Perhaps all she could see were empty granite walls and the people that had chased the three of them up this mountain, and all she could feel was the ever-present cold and the wind in her face. But the same could have been said of Winterhold. One day, Yrith would like to see the place Leyna called home.
Yrith's body was numb after the first night. She would have never guessed how much difference a solid set of walls and a roof could make. The bedroll had felt cold. The wind had seemed to enjoy blowing all sorts of things in her face, be it stray pines, dry leaves from who knows where or sprinklings of ice and snow which bit into her skin like a myriad of tiny white-hot needles. Just how the Dragonborn could take these things with such unwavering poise, she could not understand.
As she walked, trying to level her pace with Leyna before her, she wished for fire. She wished for Singird's warm tea. She wished for her bed. She had thought herself used to Skyrim's cold. She had been wrong.
They had been walking for what felt like days, but Yrith knew it had just been a few hours since she had forced her stiff body to bind up her bedroll and don her heavy rucksack. The greyness of the day seemed to wash time away, dissolving it into dull, uneventful passing. She stopped looking at the sky. There was no point in looking down into the ravine on their right either, as everything was drowned deep in the mist. Walking hurt as she fought the gravity of her own body, sinking a little lower with every step she took. She could feel every inch they had conquered the previous day in her legs. She searched the area for something, anything to distract herself, but aside from an occasional stone tablet, she found naught but rock and snow and shrubbery. Somewhere up the slope on her left, a stray animal seemed to shake the snow off a branch. Yrith tried to guess what it was. A squirrel, or a fox, perhaps. It gave her the strange feeling of being watched. There had been quiet for too long. Her mind was already playing tricks on her.
She scanned the perimeter as far as her rucksack allowed her. The wind had ceased for the moment, but the dead grasses around the edge of the grove above moved as if breathed upon. A shadow seemed to flash across the road ahead where it spread into a levelled clearing. Yrith rubbed her eyes, blaming her exhaustion, but at the same moment, Keneel-La spoke, his tone quiet and cautious.
"Ready your magic. We are surrounded."
Yrith stared at his rucksack-covered back. Her eyes had not been fooling her then.
"Is it the Imperials?" she asked.
"No. Just wolves, a full pack. Keep your pace, we want to seem undisturbed."
"Will they attack though?" Cain's hand slid to the hilt of his dagger.
"I'm afraid they will, there's something off about them. Leave that blade alone. You'll need fire."
Yrith raised her hands the same moment Cain and Leyna did. Their fingertips flared with tiny flames, dying their cheeks blood red. She felt the movement around waver for the slightest of moments, before footsteps rustled in the snow and grass all around. She gave an inaudible gasp.
"Keep walking, don't fret," Keneel-La said. His voice was soft and calm, his gait steady and fearless. Yrith stopped looking around, keeping her eyes on him. His silhouette, tall and collected, felt like a pillar to lean on. She could only hope she'd react quick enough to protect herself if the wolves decided to attack. They walked on. The moment seemed to stretch into infinity.
The patter around them became faster. Yrith could now hear quick and shallow breathing as a number of beasts circled them. Her eyes wandered up the glade on her right. She spotted one of them, its fur brownish grey, matted and covered in a mixture of snow and grime. It would look magnificent, were it not gaunt with apparent starvation. She stared at it, for a moment feeling almost sorry for its wretched state. A chill ran down her spine. This beast was desperate. It would know no limits, it would forget pain, if only it could get a single bite of whatever flesh there was to glean.
She felt the fire in her hand, the magic coursing through her fingertips. She was too scared to close her eyes and let it soothe her. Sword fights with the Dragonborn had taught her not to sacrifice the power of her sight. Instead, she only spread her magic, touching the beasts. She counted seven… no, eight of them, spread evenly around, close to the road. That meant two for each of them. She almost wished for them to attack. To do something, so that she would not have to wait. They were patient. Slowly but surely, the circle tightened around them.
The Dragonborn stopped at last. The rest of them followed, staring into the yellow eyes of two canines blocking their way. For a moment, everything was still. The breaths of the beasts and people alike, their figures, the wind. Then, Keneel-La drew his sword. The wolves leapt forward.
"Yrith, rear! Leyna right, Cain left!" Keneel-La's voice carried over the growls and howls, just in time before they struck. They stood with their back to each other. Yrith fired three flaming balls in quick succession, managing a ward before the jaws could reach her. The wolves halted, then backed away, one of them attempting to circle her. It was stopped by Cain's fire bolt, howling as its fur singed and smoldered. Leyna was holding up a ward of her own, lighting the grasses before her to create a wall of fire.
"YOL TOOR SHUL!" words echoed behind Yrith, followed by a wave of heat. Cries of the wolves mingled with the hum of a firestorm and gasps from Cain and Leyna. Yrith tried to look over her shoulder, but her rucksack obstructed her view and movement. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a wolf charge. She shot another ball of fire. It hit the animal square in the face. It yowled in pain, retreating into a snow drift. And lunged at her again, this time faster, frenzied, deadly. Yrith was too slow to react. Her body broke under the brunt of its weight. She could feel every stone step under the snow, every branch that had ever been buried there. For a while, she saw nothing but a myriad of lights and colors. Something tore the furs on her coat, leaving her cold and vulnerable.
"Yrith!"
Someone in the distance was calling her name. She struggled and wriggled out of reach, only to be buried under a load of flesh and fur. When her sight cleared, the breath of the beast suffocated her. It was close. So close to her throat. Like the dark blade…
The blade.
With all the strength she could muster, Yrith tore her dagger from its sheath, forcing it up. It plunged into the wolf's belly with a sound freezing the blood in her veins. The fur tore, releasing its contents, filling the air with an acrid smell that made Yrith's stomach turn. She sent her rucksack rolling away, following suit and leaving a crimson trail in the snow. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Cain firing flames over her body, his face twisted in blind rage.
Two more wolves circled them. Yrith let her magic flow, shooting more fire to scare the beasts, but they simply jumped aside, letting the bolts pass them. Protection… she needed protection. Her hand shook visibly as she buried it into the snow, raising it and hardening it into a barrier. Then, she sent her mind away, knowing she was taking a risk. She called. She prayed. She had to be quick.
The answer came immediately. One, two, three… four creatures heard her call. They rushed to her, across all Oblivion, dashing through Aetherius. The link whirled deep violet, then crackled until blazing figures sprung about her, each bolting in a different direction, taking on a different beast. The wolves cried. Yrith dared a look, watching them scurry with atronachs on their heels, some still burning, some hurt and limping.
A deep trench in the snow told her that one wolf had fallen over the edge of the ravine. Three furry corpses lay scattered across the road, the one Yrith had slain a short distance from her, with the dagger still jabbed in its body. Yrith's eyes found the pile next to it. The pungent smell flooded her nostrils. She felt something surge inside her. Quickly as she could, she staggered to her feet, trudging to the side to empty herself into a thicket. Heavy feet shuffled behind her. She closed her eyes and waited. Her body shook and retched. She gave it all the time it needed, heedless of the people gathering around her. She was alive. They were alive. It was enough to know.
With her breath strangled and legs trembling, she turned to face the Dragonborn. His brows were knit with worry.
"Are you hurt, hatchling?"
She shook her head, unable to find the right word for an answer. All words seemed to dissipate from her mind. She was all too aware she was covered in grime and goo. All too aware they were staring at her, thinking uncomfortable truths, commenting in their thoughts on the way she had fought, on her display of weakness, and how she had allowed herself to be distracted. She stepped away, sinking into the snow. Keneel-La extended his hand to her.
"Don't," he said. "You'll catch a chill. Come on, up you go, that's it."
"I'm… sorry…"
He sighed. "Why are you sorry again? You might have just saved our lives."
"I thought…"
"Save it. I wouldn't say that after single-handedly ridding us of four beasts at once, there's anything to apologize for. Your magic really is something. I've never seen anything like that. Tell me, elflings, is summoning four atronachs at once common in your circles?"
Cain shook his head, keeping his eyes on Yrith. His face was unreadable, but he reached for Yrith instinctively, squeezing her forearm. If they had been alone, Yrith was sure he would have pulled her close. "Not to my knowledge," he muttered.
"Or to mine," Leyna seconded. She was watching the gutted beast and the icy shell Yrith had formed beside it, as if the sight brought her pleasure. Neither she nor Cain seemed impressed. Yrith found herself wishing for solitude.
She looked up as Keneel-La adjusted her coat, tying the loose threads on its torn edges as tightly as his rough hands allowed. Then, he lifted Yrith's rucksack to examine it.
"Seems like this didn't suffer as much damage as you did. You'll have to endure a bit, I'm afraid. We don't have any means to clean that off," he waved to the wolf as he circled Yrith's ice shield. "But this," he pulled the dagger out with a squelching sound, making Yrith's stomach knot again, "might come in handy."
He wiped the blade in the snow, handing it to Yrith. She frowned at its dulled shine, summoning first fire, then water to clean it to perfection. Singird would have surely praised her for her work. The Dragonborn simply stared with his brows quirked in a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
"You told us to keep our blades clean," she shrugged as she sheathed it. He laughed.
"Points for unwavering focus and the ability to put it to practice. Now," he turned to scan the scene, "I think we better go. We have left a very clear mark here, and a decent amount of magical residue as well. If someone was ever wondering when we were going to leave High Hrothgar, now they will know. They will also know we are exhausted. The sooner we leave the mountain the better."
"How much further?" Cain asked, watching the abyss on their side. Yrith had stopped looking that way a long while ago. The infinite depth seemed to only grow darker as they went, offering no solace.
"Let's see… I think that's the third emblem down this bend. That means it'll be dark when we reach Ivarstead if all goes well. If not, then maybe in the morning. From there, we can take multiple ways, so it will get harder to track us down."
"Not if someone follows us from there," Leyna muttered.
"True, but I've taken that into account." His eyes glimmered merrily as he waved at them. "Now let's be on our way."
They nodded. Yrith bent down to put on her rucksack, finding it twice as heavy as it had used to be. With a grunt, she flung it over her back, nearly losing her balance. She caught Cain's look and forced a grin on her face.
"Nothing like a real-life training," she said, feeling the sting of pretense in her own words. Cain held out his hand, opening his mouth to speak, but she passed him, leveling her pace with Leyna. The Dragonborn seemed to move even faster than before, ploughing the way through the drifts with so much force he sent snow sprinkling in every direction. Or maybe it was simply an illusion, a figment of Yrith's tired mind.
The town of Ivarstead flickered with scarce lights from its windows and torches carried by the guards. As Yrith's foot left the last step, she turned back, watching the path upward with reverence. This was the highest mountain on Nirn. Now she had seen its top, as well as its foot. She had learned more about life up there, more about herself and her place in the world, than she had ever learned elsewhere. She owed it much.
Bowing her head, she turned back to the settlement ahead. They stepped on a bridge arching its way over a wide river. If there was any sound of life coming from the town, it was muffled by the hum of water rushing down the white-capped rapids until it fell over the edge of a small plateau, into unseen depths. Ivarstead stretched just past the river with a humble number of abodes to form its perimeter. Several houses on the outskirts seemed burnt down or torn apart, at least from what Yrith could tell by their faint silhouettes. The closest one, windowless and with only half its roof, still seemed inhabited by some unfortunate soul.
A guard stood on the other side of the bridge, his stance wide as he spotted the newcomers. Yrith tensed as they approached him, noticing the Imperial red on his uniform, but the man only raised his torch for a quick inspection. When his eyes rested on the Dragonborn, he relaxed, stepping aside to let them pass. As they reached him, he leaned forward, whispering in the lizard's direction.
"Fellow has been asking for you. Some new commander or whatnot, all high and important, but he doesn't seem to have made his way up like the rest of us did, and no one knows him 'round these parts. Gotta be careful, 'Neel, there's something fishy going on."
Keneel-La stopped, lowering his head and pretending to be shaking his rucksack to obedience. "I figured as much. Many thanks, Jorgen. You too. It may get rowdy tonight."
The man nodded gravely, bowing low. He returned to his original position, gazing at the mountain across the river, but Yrith could notice the occasional glance he cast their way. She would have liked to ask what their little exchange meant, but perhaps the time was not right. By the looks of it, Cain and Leyna assumed the same, eyeing the Dragonborn with curiosity, yet keeping all the questions to themselves.
They proceeded past the deserted sawmill, into the heart of the town. Not a soul walked the streets, save for a handful of guards. Keneel-La led them in a swift pace, up to the largest building of them all. Despite that, Yrith would still call it humble at best. It gave her the impression of a ragged sage amid a crowd of beggars. Tall and old, but still just a plain shack with only its splintered wooden walls and bristled thatch roof for its protection. Before it stood a pole holding a sign as battered as the building itself, carrying marks of numerous repairs. Lit by a misshapen lantern, it swung in the wind ever so slightly, announcing to the visitors that they have just reached the Vilemyr Inn.
A short flight of stairs led to a wooden platform before the inn's entrance. Keneel-La beckoned for them to follow, opening the door. A gust of warm air smelling of furs and firewood poured out, filling Yrith with a sliver of hope. She hurried up, trailing the Dragonborn inside.
The room they entered would best be described as cozy, and yet, that was not the word Yrith would have used. A fireplace sat in its middle, filling it with warmth that bordered hotness. A handful of tables were scattered at its sides in no orderly fashion, each holding a goat horn with a lit candle. At its far end, between two sets of doors leading elsewhere, stood a counter, strikingly in the middle of nowhere, the space behind it open from both sides. Propped against the counter was a balding man, wiping it with lazy gestures, apparently out of habit. Yrith could spot a thick blanched line where the cloth had repeatedly swept the wood. Aside from this man, only one other person occupied the inn. In the corner across from the counter sat a young wheat-haired bard, an old lute in her lap. She was plucking its strings, producing a series of deep, long-drawn growls which interrupted the otherwise eerie silence. When the door snapped shut behind their group, both the innkeeper and the bard raised their heads, staring at them as though they were a procession of apparitions.
"Well I'll be damned," the man said, wiping his forehead with the very cloth he had been using on his counter. "If it isn't the great Dragonborn. And with company as well."
Keneel-La dropped a curtsy, elegant despite the giant rucksack on his back and the steel boots on his feet. "Pleasure's all mine, Wil." He made to cross the room, and the rest followed.
"And here I thought I wouldn't see a customer till the end of my days. So what will it be today? Firebrand whisky? Cyrodilic brandy? The finest Black-Briar Reserve, or perhaps a bit of Argonian ale from your homeland?"
The lizard shook his head. "Kind of you to ask, Wil, but we're not here to indulge. I would ask for a bath and a bite of chow, and we'll be on our way."
"Nonsense," the innkeeper waved his cloth, then stashed it inside the counter as he started coughing. "You look beat. Bad beat, my friend, and the young one here could use a good bit of rest." His eyes found Yrith, studying every inch of her bloody coat, then landing on her face. If the wind had not whipped her face red already, she would have been flushing furiously, wishing again for a place to hide. She was again too aware of how she smelled and looked, averting her eyes.
"She needs a bath," Keneel-La repeated, his voice hardening. Burying his hand in a pouch by his waist, he withdrew several coins, depositing them on the counter. "And a meal." Out of the corner of her eye, Yrith could see the bard coming to attention at the sound of gold against wood, throwing a hungry look at its source.
The man sighed, scooping the coins into his pocket. "Right then. A bath and a meal. Lynly, if you could heat the water."
The bard tore her eyes from his hand, nodding. "Right away, Wilhelm. Dragonborn, sir." With a bow, she excused herself, scuttling into one of the doors behind the counter. The innkeeper scampered off to another one, leaving his guests to themselves.
They took a seat by the farthest table. Keneel-La sat with his back to the wall, having all the doors in clear view. Yrith took the closest chair, sinking into it as she tossed her rucksack aside. She could hear Cain asking questions, addressing the Dragonborn's local nickname, but she could care less. Laying her head on the table, she let the exhaustion take her. How long had it been since they had last taken a break? She did not know. It felt like days instead of hours. Now, her mind was filled with colorless fog, comfortable in its shapeless state. She would not know the difference if Sithis himself had dragged her into the Void that instant.
She did not know how long she had spent just sitting there, mindless of everything around. A pat on her shoulder woke her from her semi-slumber. Vaguely, she could hear Keneel-La's voice.
"And for some reason, humans and elves find my Saxhleel name too complicated. Curious, I never had a problem with the Khajiit. But at least I am the only Keneel-La around, not like every other Astrid here. Ah, good morning, hatchling."
Yrith blinked, raising her head. All three of her companions were grinning, looking at the steaming bowls before them. Another one landed before Yrith. Wilhelm the innkeeper hurried off again. A new smell filled Yrith's nostrils, one that she would at that moment describe as heavenly. Her bowl was filled with bronze-tinted soup, an egg resting in its middle, atop of cut carrots, onions and shreds of meat like a crown jewel. A feast she had not seen in months. Years by her feeling.
"Morning," she nodded feebly, despite knowing it must have only been minutes since she had fallen into her daze. And then, before anyone responded, she grabbed the spoon laid by the plate, helping herself to the liquid bliss. She slurped, gobbled, devoured, feeling warmth fill her. If she died now, they would lay her to rest with the happiest of smiles she could ever conjure. But the soup poured life into her, restoring her energy like no magic on Nirn could. She closed her eyes, not listening, not wishing to sacrifice any of that feeling. It made her remember Daggerfall and her mother's cooking. The smell of rosemary in their house. If Adine Ravencroft had still been alive, if Yrith could see her one more time, she would have jumped to embrace her right then and there. But now, she could only embrace her memory.
When Yrith finished her soup, there was not a single drop remaining in her bowl.
A door opened, revealing the bard. She was red in the face, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead.
"Your bath is ready," she informed them, extending her hand. "This way. But you better hurry before the water gets cold. I can't keep up the fire, wind is rising out there. It'll be a cold night."
Keneel-La put down his spoon, his jaws widening into a smile. "Thank you, Lynly. Ladies first." He gestured to Yrith and Leyna. They nodded, lifting their rucksacks. Once more, Yrith staggered under the weight, wondering how she could have carried all of it so far. She hurried into the open room, struck by the hotness of the air the moment she crossed the threshold. Behind her, Leyna closed the door.
"Finally a decent temperature," she commented as she let her rucksack slide off her back. "This reminds me of Alinor. I don't suppose the water here is like the sea though." She patted one of the two large wooden tubs filling most of the round room they had found themselves in. But as she made to unwind her shawl, she froze, her eyes turning up.
Yrith smiled. "No, I don't suppo—"
She was silenced by Leyna's hand, landing firmly on her mouth. Yrith made to remove it, but caught Leyna's look. The elf shook her head, placing a finger on her lips. Then, she slowly pointed it up to where she was looking. Yrith followed the direction to find a small window high up on the wall, covered by a gently billowing curtain of colorless linen. And through the small gap between the glass an its frame, voices came in, faint, but still audible.
"… just till the captain arrives. Shouldn't be long, I reckon."
"That's mad business I tell ya. Wilhelm can say all he wants, but the girl survived through Kynesgrove. It'll take more than that to…"
"Shhh, not so loud! That's why Wilhelm got them cooped up nice, he has. And…"
Yrith caught herself staring wide-eyed at the window when she felt a tug on her sleeve. Leyna had donned her rucksack again, pointing to the door. Yrith nodded silently, reaching for the handle. In a single breath, they gripped it and turned, nearly tripping on their way out. The sound of their feet echoed through the washroom. Yrith paled.
By his table, Keneel-La jumped up, catching their look. He did not need to ask. He did not need any signs. With a single gesture, he prompted Cain to follow, turning to the bard.
She was already on her feet, the lute she had been tuning just moments before forgotten on the table beside her.
"Brother…" she breathed. Keneel-La shook his head, raising his hand to silence her. Yrith looked from one to the other, trying to make sense of what was happening. The Dragonborn withdrew a purse from his pocket, tossing it over to the bard. She caught it with a more than practiced movement, weighing it in her hand.
"Give my regards to Wilhelm, will you?"
She stared at him for a split moment, then nodded with a grim look in her eyes.
"Eyes open," she whispered.
"And walk with the shadows," he finished, swinging his rucksack over his back. Then he turned to leave, beckoning the rest of them outside.
He found the door locked.
Cursing under his breath, he lifted one of his heavy boots, kicking with all his might. The door shook and chipped. A shower of dust landed on the floor.
"Let me," Cain offered, not waiting for an answer. He fired several bolts of ice at the lock, covering it with a myriad of frosty fractals. The Dragonborn nodded his thanks, smashing it with the hilt of his sword. The mechanism gave way, breaking into three parts, two of which hung loosely by the third. Keneel-La kicked again. The door flew open.
They managed no more than a single step when the innkeeper appeared in their sight, a torch in his hand. His face widened at the sight of them, surprise battling fear.
"'Neel," he laughed, a touch of hysteria in his voice. "The bath…"
"Necessity calls," Keneel-La said matter-of-factly, but his voice harbored an unspoken threat. "Take care, Wil."
"Y-you… broke my door…"
"Wilhelm." The Dragonborn's voice took the innkeeper's breath away. "You will let us pass."
"You broke my door!" he yelled. His voice carried through the town and beyond. A flock of birds rose from a nearby tree, disturbed from their sleep.
Keneel-La's face twisted, bearing nothing of the kindness Yrith knew from him. His eyes flared, his nostrils widened. His teeth shone white in the moonlight. He drew his sword, but did not swing it. Instead, he breathed a single word.
"FUS!"
The word thundered through the dark, its echo bouncing off the mountains like a bat that has lost its mind. The innkeeper flew away until he hit the pole of a fence on the other side of the road with a nasty crack. He cried out, but his voice came out as mere rasp. Before his body could hit the ground, an arrow flew from nowhere, piercing him to the wood. His eyes opened for the last time, bulging in disbelief.
"But I thought…"
The words took his life away. The arrow broke under his weight. He slid down, leaving a dark, glistening trail in its wake. The torch, its flame smothered by the Shout, fell from his hand, rolling away.
"And don't call me 'Neel," the Dragonborn hissed, breaking into a run. On his way, he grabbed Yrith's hand, gripping it so tight she lost all feeling in it. He pushed her forward, then let go, standing with his back to her. Cain and Leyna followed suit. They surrounded her, acting as her living shield. All around, people approached them, the Imperial dragon glinting on their chests. Weapons glistened in their hands, swords at the front, arrows nocked in bows just behind them.
"No!" Yrith yelled. "NO!"
She wanted out. She wanted to fight. They must have planned this, discussed this when she was not around, a way to protect her with their bodies. She saw both Leyna and Cain raise their wards, deflecting a wave of spells and arrows. A missile ricocheted from Cain's barrier, landing on one of the roofs. The straw making its covering caught on fire. Somewhere amidst the flood of bodies, a voice rose above all the clamor.
"Don't kill the girl! We want her alive!"
Yrith could not struggle. She could not distract Cain or Leyna. She could not get in the way of the Dragonborn, clashing blade against blade, stabbing, slicing, parrying. Even if she could, she saw no way through the mass of enemies. The only way would be to give herself away. To save her friends.
They knew. They had always known. She cussed aloud, knowing she was the only one to hear it.
Her hands flared green, then released a flash of light so bright everyone stopped their movements momentarily. The light enveloped her and the three figures around her, soaking into their skin, hardening it into a protective shell. Yrith gritted her teeth. If she could not fight, she would at least return the favor.
"OD AH VIING!" Keneel-La shouted. The men surrounding them backed away instinctively, waiting with their breaths held for whatever was to come. Yrith waited too. Archers froze with their arrows nocked, mages with their hands in the air. A moment of stillness passed.
Nothing happened.
Yrith felt the blood retreat from her face. Had the Dragonborn made a mistake? Had he confused the words? Had the Shout not worked?
The silence was broken by an outburst of clashes and yells. As if someone had set the time back into motion, everything moved again. Spells shot in every direction. Houses burned, their inhabitants making their escape into the woods, leaving their farms and animals behind.
Amidst the cacophony of screams, jangles, twangs and flares, Yrith could hear the thudding of hooves. Riders. Just like back then…
Come, little children…
Yrith tensed, a wave of cold surging in her. She turned it into resolve. No. Not this time. Not anymore.
They moved an inch forward. She could almost feel the Dragonborn's will to break through. His blade hummed in the air, emitting crimson sparks of magic. He plunged it into the closest man in Imperial red, and the blade fed on his life like a hungry beast. The man screamed, dropping his own weapon and sinking to his knees. Cain still kept up his protection. So did Leyna.
Yrith searched with her mind again. She needed something stronger than a flame atronach. Something to stand up to a rider. Something to withstand a blow in the chest. Something solid.
She made her call. Oblivion answered.
Several figures burst into existence on their sides. They were dark like the Dunmer, with vermillion smeared all over their face, clad in jagged armor that seemed to be made of scorching magma. As they swung their blades, emitting the same fiery glow as the plates on their body, the men around them pulled back, dread reflected in their eyes. But they were not looking at the figures before them. Their eyes were turned upward, to the sky. A shadow seemed to block the stars. Then, an earsplitting roar shook the ground.
"Now!" the Dragonborn called. "FUS RO DAH!"
His breath blew the men before him away, clearing the road. A wooden bridge opened before them. In the rear lines, riders fell off their horses, some falling into the river with a wild splash, some stomped upon by their own steeds.
Keneel-La bolted out, his blade held up and ready to strike. Yrith, Cain and Leyna followed, maintaining their spells, hitting the startled soldiers like a hurricane. They cowered before them, groveling out of their reach or pressing themselves to the edges of the bridge. The four of them rushed through the aisle of bodies, onward, into the dark of the woods. As their feet touched the solid ground, it quaked under them with a resonating thud. The wood of the bridge cracked and gave way as something heavy landed upon it. The trees in their vicinity shed their remaining leaves. Yrith could not turn to look. She could only imagine the huge, winged beast taking their place, answering the Dragonborn's call. His Shout had not failed after all.
"Keep running!" Keneel-La yelled after them. "Don't stop now! And cease your spells!"
They ran, finally letting their magic rest. Yrith could hardly see the road before her in the dark of the night, putting full trust in the Dragonborn's leadership. The canopy of branches above their heads obscured the sky. The wind rustled in the treetops, muffling all other sounds. Only scarcely a dragon roar drowned the wind, a steady reminder of the battle they had left behind.
The snow had given way to dirt and a layer of crunching leaves. At times, Yrith nearly tripped over protruding cobblestones, sparse as if the road under their feet had long been abandoned. Weariness was gaining on her again, making her breath strained and her eyelids heavy. She wondered how long they had been running. The warmth from her meal had long been exhausted. She fixed her eyes upon the silhouette ahead, clearing her mind of all thoughts but one. She had to keep going.
The eastern horizon was accentuated with a frill of red gold when the Dragonborn finally slowed. The world was cast in a greyish haze, revealing a number of shapes. The trees parted before them, revealing a set of structures. Pillars and angular arches were flocked around a massive watchtower crowned by what seemed to be a gilded astrolabe. It watched over the land, its stone slowly chipping away by the tooth of time. They stared at it, all but the Dragonborn awestruck with its imposing beauty. It must have been old as time itself.
"Is that…" Leyna breathed, her eyes wide as she traced the joints in the stone, forming lines so perfect that Singird's neatly arranged books would pale in comparison.
Cain nodded before she finished the question. "Dwemer architecture," he said.
"Correct," the Dragonborn affirmed. "We have finally arrived."
Yrith looked at him in question, not daring to hope again. Then, instinctively, she glanced back. There was no figure pursuing them. Nothing seemed to disturb the morning. The Dragonborn had slackened into a gentle walking pace, as if the battle they had left behind had never happened. She let out a breath.
"Arrived where?" she asked.
Keneel-La smiled. "You'll see."
A little late, but Happy New Year!
Well, what a fun chapter to write. It is funny when you have to look up the stone tablets on the way to High Hrothgar, only to discard most of the content that features them anyway, or when you're trying to calculate how long it will take from High Hrothgar to Ivarstead when you only know that the actual number of steps in the game is a little over 700 instead of the said 7000 and the height is 613 meters above the sea level, but the developers purposely made all the distances in the game many times shorter. :D I did in the end manage to estimate how high above Ivarstead the monastery is, but then I had to take into consideration that the road goes along the contour line and that they were carrying heavy luggage and struggled against the snow drifts. And they got some distractions as well. So I ended up with a little less than two days of traveling from the highest mountain on Nirn to the town at its foot (which is actually still standing on a plateau, so you can imagine that they progressed very slowly). Oh the writing struggles. But I do enjoy these little details.
Skyrim fans! Yes, you're right, I killed a canon character. The audacity!
And whoever figured that I made Lynly a member of a certain guild, you also guessed right. In the end, given her personal history, I find it a perfect background for her. I do hope you enjoyed the tiny twists I made!
Also, you can guess where the Dragonborn took them, and you can probably argue with me that it makes no sense to go there. Well, it doesn't, as long as I only stick to what you can find in the game. I didn't, so there's going to be a surprise for all of you.
With that, I will excuse myself. I wish everyone all the best in the upcoming year, and may it be better and brighter than the last one. Stay strong!
Mirwen
P.S. Work is rather overwhelming right now, so I'm not sure when the next chapter is going to come out. But you're probably used to it already. :D
